His face had been at rest, and resisted the impulse to move, but the force of the fist had overcome inertia. His brain, inside his skull, had also been reluctant to move, even after his skull had shifted its spatial location. His brain had no choice but to follow.
Do thoughts have inertia?
he wondered.
A kick caught him in the middle of his back, right under the shoulder blades. More laws burst into his mind—force equals mass times acceleration. A heavy boot has more mass than a shoe. A fast jab has more acceleration than a looping hook. A whole lot of force was coming his way.
Cheater curled into a ball and tried to protect himself. A sphere had the least surface area of any geometric solid. But any surface at all was far too much right now. Thoughts rained on him, too, along with the punches and kicks. They hated him for a thousand reasons. He was smart, he talked too much, he looked different, and he was cleaning them outat a game they thought they were good at. They even hated him because he was short.
Something stomped down hard on his side. He let out a whimper, but clamped his teeth together. He knew anything he said would just provide more fuel for their rage.
After the next kick rocked his head, the sharp pains faded, replaced by numbness. He heard a conversation from far away.
“Oh great, I think you killed him.”
“No way. He’s still breathing. We’d better get out of here.”
“What if he tells on us?”
“You’re right. Maybe we should make sure he can’t talk.”
“Why bother? It would be his word against ours. Nobody would believe him. We can say we were at a movie or something. Let’s just get out of here.”
Cheater waited, not really caring what they did next. Though he was curious what they would decide. It was an interesting ethical problem. Commit a greater crime to eliminate the risk of being accused of a lesser crime? Maybe he could solve it using a game-theory matrix. First, he’d have to quantify the parameters …
He was still thinking about situational ethics when he passed out.
flinch kills his audience
“ THANK YOU. IT’S good to be here.” Flinch scanned the crowd, wondering who’d be the first to take a shot at him. Probably someone at the table in the second row that was filled with college kids.
I’ll find out soon enough.
This was his first time at The Laughing Gherkin—one of dozens of comedy clubs in the area that filled their evenings with local acts. The clubs were all the same—small spaces jammed with tiny tables charging large prices for miniature beverages.
He took a deep breath and launched into his routine. Before he could get two words out, a guy in the rear shouted, “Why don’t you come back when you’re old enough to shave?”
The instant the last word cleared the heckler’s mouth, Flinch shot back at him with, “I’m old enough to shave right now.” He jammed his hand in his pocket, gave the guy an exaggerated glare, and added, “Come on up and I’ll shave a bunch of years off your life.”
The crowd loved it. Flinch knew it wasn’t the best comeback in the world. Even as he spoke, several better onespopped into his mind.
Yeah, I don’t need to shave, but you really need to bathe. Why don’t you go home until they find a cure for ugly?
But it didn’t matter if the line wasn’t the best. Not when it was the fastest. His mind was already fast. He could almost always come up with a good line to cut down a heckler. His brain was wired for comedy. That was his gift. His true talent. But his other talent—his supernatural one—gave him an edge no other comedian had. He really was faster than lightning.
Flinch waited for the perfect moment, just long enough so his comeback still lingered in the air, and not so long that his next words would seem like an afterthought. “Sorry, man. I saw
that
coming.”
I saw
that
coming.
It was quickly becoming his catch phrase. The sweet part was that he really had seen it coming. Heard it,
Do thoughts have inertia?
he wondered.
A kick caught him in the middle of his back, right under the shoulder blades. More laws burst into his mind—force equals mass times acceleration. A heavy boot has more mass than a shoe. A fast jab has more acceleration than a looping hook. A whole lot of force was coming his way.
Cheater curled into a ball and tried to protect himself. A sphere had the least surface area of any geometric solid. But any surface at all was far too much right now. Thoughts rained on him, too, along with the punches and kicks. They hated him for a thousand reasons. He was smart, he talked too much, he looked different, and he was cleaning them outat a game they thought they were good at. They even hated him because he was short.
Something stomped down hard on his side. He let out a whimper, but clamped his teeth together. He knew anything he said would just provide more fuel for their rage.
After the next kick rocked his head, the sharp pains faded, replaced by numbness. He heard a conversation from far away.
“Oh great, I think you killed him.”
“No way. He’s still breathing. We’d better get out of here.”
“What if he tells on us?”
“You’re right. Maybe we should make sure he can’t talk.”
“Why bother? It would be his word against ours. Nobody would believe him. We can say we were at a movie or something. Let’s just get out of here.”
Cheater waited, not really caring what they did next. Though he was curious what they would decide. It was an interesting ethical problem. Commit a greater crime to eliminate the risk of being accused of a lesser crime? Maybe he could solve it using a game-theory matrix. First, he’d have to quantify the parameters …
He was still thinking about situational ethics when he passed out.
flinch kills his audience
“ THANK YOU. IT’S good to be here.” Flinch scanned the crowd, wondering who’d be the first to take a shot at him. Probably someone at the table in the second row that was filled with college kids.
I’ll find out soon enough.
This was his first time at The Laughing Gherkin—one of dozens of comedy clubs in the area that filled their evenings with local acts. The clubs were all the same—small spaces jammed with tiny tables charging large prices for miniature beverages.
He took a deep breath and launched into his routine. Before he could get two words out, a guy in the rear shouted, “Why don’t you come back when you’re old enough to shave?”
The instant the last word cleared the heckler’s mouth, Flinch shot back at him with, “I’m old enough to shave right now.” He jammed his hand in his pocket, gave the guy an exaggerated glare, and added, “Come on up and I’ll shave a bunch of years off your life.”
The crowd loved it. Flinch knew it wasn’t the best comeback in the world. Even as he spoke, several better onespopped into his mind.
Yeah, I don’t need to shave, but you really need to bathe. Why don’t you go home until they find a cure for ugly?
But it didn’t matter if the line wasn’t the best. Not when it was the fastest. His mind was already fast. He could almost always come up with a good line to cut down a heckler. His brain was wired for comedy. That was his gift. His true talent. But his other talent—his supernatural one—gave him an edge no other comedian had. He really was faster than lightning.
Flinch waited for the perfect moment, just long enough so his comeback still lingered in the air, and not so long that his next words would seem like an afterthought. “Sorry, man. I saw
that
coming.”
I saw
that
coming.
It was quickly becoming his catch phrase. The sweet part was that he really had seen it coming. Heard it,
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