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About Deviant Premium Member Jake Ristic-PetrovicMale/Canada Groups :iconkavkagoghandsuperman: KavkaGoghandSuperman
 
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Computer died, stuck with typewriter. What do i do now, man?! 

53%
8 deviants said He sells homunculi, grimoires most foul, voodoo dolls, and 8-tracks.
27%
4 deviants said There are eyes and ears everywhere, but no goddamn brains!
13%
2 deviants said She is left alone with a lot of strange creatures on a starship very far from home.
7%
1 deviant said In a strange city, a man must choose between his family and eternal life.

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Go figure: I stop getting shitfaced every couple days and my productivity goes way up. Why, why can't I combine the two things I most enjoy? Oh, right, because the point of alcohol abuse is to dull oneself into a stupor.

Another publication by Dreamscape Press is forthcoming: I have a story in their anthology Zombies in Japan, which I'm told will be out sometime around the new year. It's unpaid, naturally, but I wrote the tale in fifteen minutes so what the hell do I care?

Recently I got myself a new job at a warehouse, picking orders from nine in the evening to five in the morning. While that may sound grueling, I've actually adapted my sleep schedule pretty handily and I'm enjoying it thoroughly. Soon I'll have enough cash to go out and buy cheap booze and overpriced books by Penguin again. Seriously, why does a single Philip K. Dick novel of less than two hundred pages cost just as much as one that's twice as long and a hundred times more well-known? I go to used book stores a lot, of course, but sometimes you just can't find what you're after in those places. Great locations to just shop around, though.

My writing life is pretty aimless as of late. I'm compiling my own anthology, with plans to put it on Amazon, out of stories that have either appeared on here or that I couldn't get published professionally. Be sure to hurl your hard-earned paycheck at me when it comes out.

So what the hell are you all up to? Seriously, why are all of you standing around my kitchen, drinking my ginger ale and eating my green onion cakes? That shit costs money!
Held in place by enormous steel couplers, the General Esteban Navarro dwarfed every explorer, medical transport, and freight slinger on the station docks. It was big enough, Ramon Galvez figured looking up at its nose from a port bar, that oncoming traffic could see it from a thousand miles away. He puffed on a cigarette and drank overpriced beer from one of those odd hourglass pints that were so popular in these places.

It was a hell of a ship, yessir. A little less than a kilometer long, though to be fair most of that length was made up by the strange matter drive. Bristling with laser cannons and rail guns and missile launchers and mine layers that weren't a hell of a lot of use unless you had somewhere real nice to hide. Ramon stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray, with more force than he intended.

The strange character who sat across the table noted Ramon's frustration. A tall, rugged human in his forties, the man had sat watching the Navarro's captain wordlessly and with obvious amusement. He was waiting for the right time to speak, waiting for Galvez to blurt something desperate and foolish. The man's name was Oswald, and unlike Ramon his sense of humor was palpable; it beamed from the small movements of his eyes when he cocked a brow or cracked a smile.

The two had met many times before. Sometimes it had been on friendly terms, other times they had been sworn enemies, always they had met to mediate a dispute or start a fresh one. Today, however, Ramon had come in with a problem and he couldn't be sure if it was Oswald's doing or something far more mysterious. If it wasn't the older man's fault, Galvez didn't know who else to blame.

"All right." Ramon said, exasperated, "Enough of the waiting game. Did you put the fucking cats in our storage bay?"

"Storage bay?"

"Most people would ask what I meant by cats."

"That ship of yours is an old warfighter from the days when Kal'selyn was a guest of the empire. It should have more than one storage bay."

"It has ten. One of them is full of cats."

"That sounds like the exact opposite of a problem to me."

"Did you do it? Did Kal'selyn order someone else to do it?"

"If I did, or she did, why would I tell you?"

"Obviously you want something. You must want something. Otherwise you've got a sick sense of humor."

"Again, I don't see why this is such a problem for you. My crew has some issues with cats--Jyscil over there is very allergic." Oswald nodded to one of the two goons he had brought along with him, a Mustellite with red eyes that seemed to glow from beneath her hood. "But since the human hystemic system is pretty much controlled by nanopills, I don't see how you couldn't just shut that sort of reaction off."

"Don't pretend you don't get the point. You dumped forty cats in one of my storage bays while we were moored at Iakammis. Why?"

"I didn't dump forty cats on you."

"What, they just spontaneously appeared?"

"Maybe. My ship's full of the cute little fuckers."

"What?"

"It's full of them. And the number fluctuates a lot. Any time we land we're bound to lose or gain a few. I don't know how they get there, I don't know how they feed themselves. I let them roam free. Free range kitties."

"Listen to me you son of a bitch--"

"Cats are a fact of the universe. There were cats on Ori Prime before the first human colonists arrived. Cats run around under the catwalks of hermetically-sealed colonies on Titan. Cats hitch rides from one end of the galaxy to the other, sometimes aboard ships where they shouldn't even be able to breathe.

"There are a few fundamental rules of the universe, Skipper Galvez. You can't get something from nothing. You can't hit absolute zero. Every ten-thousandth ship disappears into hyperspace and nobody knows why. And cats are everywhere."

Ramon didn't know how to come back from that one. He stared across the table at Oswald, the good-humored psychopath who had once, rumor has it, killed a crew that had risen up against Kal'selyn by kidnapping their children and demanding their suicide or else. Oswald, the man who mapped stars and explored distant planets when he didn't have any banks to rob, ships to pirate, or people to kill. Oswald, the man who had probably put forty fucking cats in Ramon's storage bay and said it was just physics, quit whining.

He didn't know how to come back from it. So he paid for their drinks, got up, and walked away. He had seventy-five crewmen, thirty mercenaries, and a bunch of adorable fluffballs to feed.
4242: Fundamental Laws
A little vignette related to 4242, a project I've been working on-and-off with Vaahlkult and Weissidian. Originally it was to be from a totally separate story, but I couldn't figure out what the hell to do with Galvez. So now he's the right-hand man to a rival of Kal'selyn, queen of trade over a large part of the galaxy. Anyway, it's a story universe that alternates between dark and extremely violent and...whatever you would call this.

Jyscil is Vaahlkult. Oswald Ferdinand-Rogbert and Ramon Galvez are mine.
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The streets all slick with rain reminded him of a hazy digital painting, the lights in their puddles formed with exaggerated, unpolished brush strokes. A half-dozen men and women in front of the bar, all lit up by the big white light hanging over the bouncer, formed the only distinct part of the scene. He wished he knew how to paint the things he saw.

Standing beneath a playground, he looked miserable and out of place. The loaded revolver in his right hand looked more like a child's toy in this setting. What a place for a skid bar like that, he thought, just across the street from an elementary school. Tomorrow if all went as planned the kids who played on these swings and platforms would be stuck behind yellow tape, their vacation place home to grisly murder.

Murder as committed by Jeff Kuhn, a man who played the part of a lost high school graduate far better than that of a hitman.

Nearly ten to two. The greasy biker son of a bitch would be coming out any minute, dragged drunkenly along to his fate by a girl he trusted. Time to get what he deserved, what everybody deserved in the so-called "underworld." An underworld of guys who skimmed from VLT machines, took protection payments from convenience stores and chop shops, and sold a lot of drugs. An underworld where the top hitmen were guys like Jeff, who took three grand in exchange for taking a life.

At first, he wasn't sure if the pair leaving the bar and crossing the parking lot really was Andre the Dead Man and Samara the Decoy. It wasn't until they had nearly reached the fence, fifty yards from where Jeff stood with his head bent to avoid hitting the crossbeams that he recognized both.

Samara had been the sort of innocent beauty only a diseased man would want to fuck rather than love. Had been until she met that diseased man, and started selling ecstasy with him in a trailer park. Had been until two miscarriages and a six-month stint in a women's correctional facility. Had been beautiful and sweet and fun-loving and--what the hell. She'd always been a royal bitch. Smart, a hell of a lot smarter than her boo, but unpleasant. It was two in the morning and Jeff's thoughts were getting muddled. He shook it off and waited for the pair to come to him.

"Kid, it's pissing rain out. Why don't you wanna head home with me?" Andre urged, tugged along at the wrist into the sandbox.

"Because this is more fun." She beamed. "Besides, I have a surprise for you."

"What kind of surprise?"

She sat up on a platform across from the one that partially concealed Jeff, connected to the rest of the playground by those little handles on tracks that kids swung from. She pulled up her skirt and let Andre get real close. Kissing her neck and clumsily removing his belt, then unzipping his pants, reaching in to grab hold of his cock.

Jeff stepped out, pistol held in front; Andre hadn't even noticed. Samara hadn't either, for that matter.

"C'mon, kid, what surprise are you talking about?"

"She meant 'surprise guest.'" Jeff's voice was low and just a little unsteady, a touch vibrato.

Andre had enough time to turn, genitals still halfway out of his underwear, and wheeze;

"No, wait!"

The first round went through the hand he threw up and into his face. He staggered and fell, catching another bullet in his chest as he went. Samara fled, screaming and playing the act of helpless bystander very well. Jeff stepped closer to the mutilated one percenter, half his cheek missing and still very much alive. He aimed straight for the bridge of Andre's nose, as lit in his mind's eye as a self-portrait.

One shot. Two. All the king's horses and all the king's men would never put Andre's skull together again. Jeff wiped the pistol and dropped it in the mire of wet sand. He turned and took off running, bolting across the school field, feeling very much like a boy who'd just smashed a window by accident and wanted to escape the blame.

We're all kids, he realized as he bounded along. We're all just dopey kids trying to play a game to which no adult understands the rules. He wished very much that he could paint this--that he could show the world his revelation.

But he was still Jeff Kuhn, the low-price hitman. More than that, now; he was an outlaw in the eyes of outlaws.
Two AM, At A Playground
A vignette from a larger story I would like to work on, if I figure out how to write it.
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Smartasses. I couldn't figure out how to delete a journal entry.
Death drives a green Packard. Depression era, with modern bumper stickers and parking tickets which, if you look closely, were written out by Hammurabi. I met him once, he’d pulled up outside my house and hopped out for a smoke break on the street. He looked like he didn’t have anything to do when, far as I know, somebody dies once every few seconds, somewhere. I went outside and asked him who he was after.

"You. But not for a while. Y’know Arnold Rothstein got shot just three blocks from here?"

"I thought he was killed in New York. Definitely in America."

"Who you gonna believe?"

Death flicked his smoke to the asphalt and crushed it with a casual twist of his purple dress shoe. Then he drove off, leaving me feeling a little melancholy and a little drained. Never could get the hang of snow in October.
Early Winter
I think I may have found myself a schtick writing flash fiction. In this case I think it worked pretty well.
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Go figure: I stop getting shitfaced every couple days and my productivity goes way up. Why, why can't I combine the two things I most enjoy? Oh, right, because the point of alcohol abuse is to dull oneself into a stupor.

Another publication by Dreamscape Press is forthcoming: I have a story in their anthology Zombies in Japan, which I'm told will be out sometime around the new year. It's unpaid, naturally, but I wrote the tale in fifteen minutes so what the hell do I care?

Recently I got myself a new job at a warehouse, picking orders from nine in the evening to five in the morning. While that may sound grueling, I've actually adapted my sleep schedule pretty handily and I'm enjoying it thoroughly. Soon I'll have enough cash to go out and buy cheap booze and overpriced books by Penguin again. Seriously, why does a single Philip K. Dick novel of less than two hundred pages cost just as much as one that's twice as long and a hundred times more well-known? I go to used book stores a lot, of course, but sometimes you just can't find what you're after in those places. Great locations to just shop around, though.

My writing life is pretty aimless as of late. I'm compiling my own anthology, with plans to put it on Amazon, out of stories that have either appeared on here or that I couldn't get published professionally. Be sure to hurl your hard-earned paycheck at me when it comes out.

So what the hell are you all up to? Seriously, why are all of you standing around my kitchen, drinking my ginger ale and eating my green onion cakes? That shit costs money!

deviantID

SgtPossum
Jake Ristic-Petrovic
Canada
A drunk Albertan, I'm a writer. I write stuff, and shit, and other things. Feedback is always appreciated, positive or negative.

I've got a tumblr. SgtPossum.tumblr.com
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:iconhomunculus888:
homunculus888 Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Dood.
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014
Dood broods over oodles of food.
Reply
:iconhomunculus888:
homunculus888 Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
You've been working on that all week, haven't you?
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2014
...Mayhaps.
Reply
:iconmyriadwhitedarkness:
myriadwhitedarkness Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave! :)
Reply
:iconedges-to-everything:
Edges-to-Everything Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday, Jake! :nod:
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Thanks!
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:iconhadrianr:
HadrianR Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Happy Birthday ! :D
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Thank you!
Reply
:iconimagineapplescruffs:
ImagineAppleScruffs Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hey there, Jake! Happy Birthday, buddy! :)

Dude! Eat cake and ice cream and shit. And drink shit. Then puke it all up and do it again. Celebrate! :D

:ahoy: Here's to many more years of writing and sarcastic humor. And writing sarcastic humor. ;)

:peace:
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