up?"
"Yeah." I struggle to sit up again; one of the
straps under the sofa cushions has failed and it's trying to swallow
me. "Just what was that thing in the kitchen?"
Brains stands up: "Behold"—he hiccups—"I am in
the process of disproving a law of nature; to wit, that it is
impossible to make an omelette without breaking eggs! I have a punning
clan—"
Pinky throws the (somewhat squashed, but
definitely formerly spherical) omelette at his
head and he ducks; it hits the video stack and bounces off.
"I have a cunning plan," Brains continues, "which if you'll let me
finish—"
I nod. Pinky stops looking for things to throw.
"That's better. The question is how to churn up
an egg without breaking the shell, then cook it from the inside out,
correct? The latter problem was solved by the microwave oven, but we
still have to whisk it up properly. This usually means breaking it
open, but what I figured out was that if I inject it with magnetised
iron filings in a lecithin emulsion, then stick it in a rotating
magnetic field, I can churn it up quite effectively. The next step is
to do it without breaking the shell at all—immerse the egg in a
suspension of some really tiny ferromagnetic particles then use
electrophoresis to draw them into it, then figure out some way of
making them clump together into long, magnetised chains inside it. With
me so far?"
"Mad, mad I say!" Pinky is bouncing up
and down. "What are we going to do tonight, Brains?"
"What we do every night, Pinky: try to take over
the world!" (Of haute cuisine.)
"But I've got to buy a couple of books before
the shops close," says Pinky, and the spell is broken. "Hope you feel
better, Bob. See you guys later." And he's gone.
"Well that was useless," sighs Brains. "The
lad's got no staying power. One of these days he'll settle down and
turn all normal."
I look at my flatmate gloomily and wonder why I
put up with this shit. It's a glimpse of my life, resplendent in
two-dimensional glory, from an angle that I don't normally catch—and I
don't like it. I'm just about to say so when the phone chirrups.
Brains picks it up and all expression drains
from his face. "It's for you," he says, and hands me the phone.
"Bob?"
My free hand starts to shake because I really
don't need to hear this, even though part of me wants to. "Yes?"
"It's me, Bob. How are you? I heard the news—"
"I feel like shit," I hear myself saying, even
though a small corner of my mind is screaming at me. I close my eyes to
shut out the real world. "It was horrible. How did you hear?"
"Word gets around." She's being disingenuous, of
course. Mhari has more tentacles than a squid, and they're all plugged
into the Laundry grapevine. "Look, are you okay? Is there anything you
need?"
I open my eyes. Brains is staring at me blankly,
pessimistically. "I'm getting as drunk as possible," I say. "Then I
plan to sleep for a week."
"Oh," she says in a small voice, sounding about
as cute and appealing as she ever did. "You're in a bad state. May I
come round?"
"Yes." In an abstract sort of way I notice
Brains choking on his drain fluid. "The more the merrier," I say,
hollow-voiced. "Party on."
"Party on," she echoes, and hangs up.
Brains glares at me. "Have you taken leave of
your senses?" he demands.
"Very probably." I toss back what's left in my
cup and reach for the bottle.
"That woman's a psychopath."
"So I keep telling myself. But after the tearful
reconciliation, hot passionate bunny fucks on the bedroom floor,
screaming pentacle-throwing tantrum, and final walkout number four, at
least she'll give me something concrete and personal to feel really depressed about, instead of this gotta-save-'em-all shit I'm kicking my
own arse over."
"Just keep her out of the cellar this time." He
stands up unsteadily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some omelettes
to nuke … "
A week later:
"This is an M11/9 machine pistol, manufactured
by SW Daniels in the States. In case you hadn't figured
"Yeah." I struggle to sit up again; one of the
straps under the sofa cushions has failed and it's trying to swallow
me. "Just what was that thing in the kitchen?"
Brains stands up: "Behold"—he hiccups—"I am in
the process of disproving a law of nature; to wit, that it is
impossible to make an omelette without breaking eggs! I have a punning
clan—"
Pinky throws the (somewhat squashed, but
definitely formerly spherical) omelette at his
head and he ducks; it hits the video stack and bounces off.
"I have a cunning plan," Brains continues, "which if you'll let me
finish—"
I nod. Pinky stops looking for things to throw.
"That's better. The question is how to churn up
an egg without breaking the shell, then cook it from the inside out,
correct? The latter problem was solved by the microwave oven, but we
still have to whisk it up properly. This usually means breaking it
open, but what I figured out was that if I inject it with magnetised
iron filings in a lecithin emulsion, then stick it in a rotating
magnetic field, I can churn it up quite effectively. The next step is
to do it without breaking the shell at all—immerse the egg in a
suspension of some really tiny ferromagnetic particles then use
electrophoresis to draw them into it, then figure out some way of
making them clump together into long, magnetised chains inside it. With
me so far?"
"Mad, mad I say!" Pinky is bouncing up
and down. "What are we going to do tonight, Brains?"
"What we do every night, Pinky: try to take over
the world!" (Of haute cuisine.)
"But I've got to buy a couple of books before
the shops close," says Pinky, and the spell is broken. "Hope you feel
better, Bob. See you guys later." And he's gone.
"Well that was useless," sighs Brains. "The
lad's got no staying power. One of these days he'll settle down and
turn all normal."
I look at my flatmate gloomily and wonder why I
put up with this shit. It's a glimpse of my life, resplendent in
two-dimensional glory, from an angle that I don't normally catch—and I
don't like it. I'm just about to say so when the phone chirrups.
Brains picks it up and all expression drains
from his face. "It's for you," he says, and hands me the phone.
"Bob?"
My free hand starts to shake because I really
don't need to hear this, even though part of me wants to. "Yes?"
"It's me, Bob. How are you? I heard the news—"
"I feel like shit," I hear myself saying, even
though a small corner of my mind is screaming at me. I close my eyes to
shut out the real world. "It was horrible. How did you hear?"
"Word gets around." She's being disingenuous, of
course. Mhari has more tentacles than a squid, and they're all plugged
into the Laundry grapevine. "Look, are you okay? Is there anything you
need?"
I open my eyes. Brains is staring at me blankly,
pessimistically. "I'm getting as drunk as possible," I say. "Then I
plan to sleep for a week."
"Oh," she says in a small voice, sounding about
as cute and appealing as she ever did. "You're in a bad state. May I
come round?"
"Yes." In an abstract sort of way I notice
Brains choking on his drain fluid. "The more the merrier," I say,
hollow-voiced. "Party on."
"Party on," she echoes, and hangs up.
Brains glares at me. "Have you taken leave of
your senses?" he demands.
"Very probably." I toss back what's left in my
cup and reach for the bottle.
"That woman's a psychopath."
"So I keep telling myself. But after the tearful
reconciliation, hot passionate bunny fucks on the bedroom floor,
screaming pentacle-throwing tantrum, and final walkout number four, at
least she'll give me something concrete and personal to feel really depressed about, instead of this gotta-save-'em-all shit I'm kicking my
own arse over."
"Just keep her out of the cellar this time." He
stands up unsteadily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some omelettes
to nuke … "
A week later:
"This is an M11/9 machine pistol, manufactured
by SW Daniels in the States. In case you hadn't figured
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