Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters by James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron
Authors: James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron
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humans. We’re bedtime stories. We’re ingrained fears. We’re punch lines. We’re gods, more wrathful than any Old Testament exercising of disapproval, but we’re not real.
And what if we were to become real?
You think a studio is going to turn down a movie—everything real, mind you—with Sweetgrass as a star? Like maybe it’s an alien movie, and the humans are doomed, completely fucked. They call a special professor who’s a little crazy, some dude who smokes joints and talks conspiracies, and they say, “Are your theories real?” This professor laughs, tells them we’ve been real since Pangaea. He shows them where to find me. I’m all swimming around looking like utter destruction. Favors are asked. I’m tough, like what’s in it for me? And then the President of the United States says, “Our eternal gratitude.” Boom, that’s all I need, Sweetgrass morphing from angry-misunderstood-loner to team player, savior, but fuck that cross because there’s no need for a martyr when I’m angry.
The answer is no studio would turn that down.
Which is why right now, at six-thirty a.m. I’m balling up my fists, ready to crack through the thin layer of crust separating me from Hollywood. Me from greatness. Me from the undying love of Gema.
Yeah, I’m nervous, just like any Midwestern milkmaid who’s boarding a Greyhound to chase her dreams of seeing herself on the silver screen, but fuck it. Fuck my friends who tell me it’s impossible. Fuck Diablo with his oral calisthenics. Fuck my race with their cowardly fear. Fuck movies and their CGI. Fuck them all, because this motherfucker’s coming up.
~
I’ll pay them back for the fifty-foot crater I’ve just put on North Hollywood Way. I’m thinking opening night of Sweetgrass! alone, will be enough to cover any damages ten times over.
I stroll down the street. I chose this early time for two reasons: I wanted to pitch myself first thing to Warner Brothers, and I didn’t want there to be a scene. The last thing I want is to become a spectacle before I ink that dotted line.
But maybe people have that shit wrong about New York being the city that never sleeps, because LA’s not too far behind. There’s a decent amount of traffic. A brown UPS truck is coming right at me, then veers right, skidding before it flips. I reach down and rescue this what can brown do for you? (And honestly, am I the only one who thinks that slogan is either a reference to heroin or anal sex?). I snatch the truck mid-flip. I bring it up to my face. A small Hispanic man holds onto the steering wheel. He’s screaming, nearly as loud as Gema had been while Diablo got his slurp on. Then the man stops. His eyes are milky quartz. I wink. He’s feeling me. He’s got to be. He’s got to be realizing there is greatness in this world. That there’s wonder and myths and creatures and gods. He’s realizing it all in his moment of speechlessness.
But maybe he’s not, because he lets go of the steering wheel and dives a hundred and twenty feet to his death.
I stare at the little splat of his body. I look around for who may have seen. There are a few other cars on the road, most of them crashed into one another. I stealthily slide my foot over his mushed body and shrug like don’t know what you’re talking about .
I know I need to get a move on to Warner Brothers. I don’t have time to be messing around with awestruck civilians. I cruise down the street, a little more careful this time not to squash the dented vans of migrant workers and SUVs of the penile-insecure real estate brokers. My heart nearly kicks through my chest when I see Warner Boulevard. I turn left. Then I see that water tower. I’m going faster. I’m stepping over the literal gates to my destiny. I’m ignoring the brother manning the guard booth, who’s obviously ecstatic at my entrance, shouting into the walkie-talkie strapped to his shoulder.
The sun’s coming up and it feels right ; the sun and the
And what if we were to become real?
You think a studio is going to turn down a movie—everything real, mind you—with Sweetgrass as a star? Like maybe it’s an alien movie, and the humans are doomed, completely fucked. They call a special professor who’s a little crazy, some dude who smokes joints and talks conspiracies, and they say, “Are your theories real?” This professor laughs, tells them we’ve been real since Pangaea. He shows them where to find me. I’m all swimming around looking like utter destruction. Favors are asked. I’m tough, like what’s in it for me? And then the President of the United States says, “Our eternal gratitude.” Boom, that’s all I need, Sweetgrass morphing from angry-misunderstood-loner to team player, savior, but fuck that cross because there’s no need for a martyr when I’m angry.
The answer is no studio would turn that down.
Which is why right now, at six-thirty a.m. I’m balling up my fists, ready to crack through the thin layer of crust separating me from Hollywood. Me from greatness. Me from the undying love of Gema.
Yeah, I’m nervous, just like any Midwestern milkmaid who’s boarding a Greyhound to chase her dreams of seeing herself on the silver screen, but fuck it. Fuck my friends who tell me it’s impossible. Fuck Diablo with his oral calisthenics. Fuck my race with their cowardly fear. Fuck movies and their CGI. Fuck them all, because this motherfucker’s coming up.
~
I’ll pay them back for the fifty-foot crater I’ve just put on North Hollywood Way. I’m thinking opening night of Sweetgrass! alone, will be enough to cover any damages ten times over.
I stroll down the street. I chose this early time for two reasons: I wanted to pitch myself first thing to Warner Brothers, and I didn’t want there to be a scene. The last thing I want is to become a spectacle before I ink that dotted line.
But maybe people have that shit wrong about New York being the city that never sleeps, because LA’s not too far behind. There’s a decent amount of traffic. A brown UPS truck is coming right at me, then veers right, skidding before it flips. I reach down and rescue this what can brown do for you? (And honestly, am I the only one who thinks that slogan is either a reference to heroin or anal sex?). I snatch the truck mid-flip. I bring it up to my face. A small Hispanic man holds onto the steering wheel. He’s screaming, nearly as loud as Gema had been while Diablo got his slurp on. Then the man stops. His eyes are milky quartz. I wink. He’s feeling me. He’s got to be. He’s got to be realizing there is greatness in this world. That there’s wonder and myths and creatures and gods. He’s realizing it all in his moment of speechlessness.
But maybe he’s not, because he lets go of the steering wheel and dives a hundred and twenty feet to his death.
I stare at the little splat of his body. I look around for who may have seen. There are a few other cars on the road, most of them crashed into one another. I stealthily slide my foot over his mushed body and shrug like don’t know what you’re talking about .
I know I need to get a move on to Warner Brothers. I don’t have time to be messing around with awestruck civilians. I cruise down the street, a little more careful this time not to squash the dented vans of migrant workers and SUVs of the penile-insecure real estate brokers. My heart nearly kicks through my chest when I see Warner Boulevard. I turn left. Then I see that water tower. I’m going faster. I’m stepping over the literal gates to my destiny. I’m ignoring the brother manning the guard booth, who’s obviously ecstatic at my entrance, shouting into the walkie-talkie strapped to his shoulder.
The sun’s coming up and it feels right ; the sun and the
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