윤

Emma Peel was asleep in a room on the second floor, but I had a hard time climbing the stairs to get her because you know how they are in my dreams, so narrow and dangerous, and I’m always crawling on them. Turns out she wasn’t there, but I met her in the kitchen instead. She wore heels and towered over me, prompting me to ask her if her husband Peter was even taller. We were needed, as it were, so she, Steed and my faceless sidekick jumped into a sedan. I took a seat in the passenger side, but realized that Steed was piloting with his umbrella from the rear, and congenially allowed me to take the wheel. My driving was hectic, with all the reckless abandon in a videogame, but after all, we were professionals. We arrived at a junkyard where the bad guys were about to crush some containers of evidence; I quickly executed a daring reversal into them, ruining their opportunity. They had us and used the electromagnet to lift the car in the air. I somehow escaped to the ground, but faced a 20-foot giant in their ranks. At first such a being was hard to believe, but I supposed with the right breeding, it wasn’t impossible. The crane wound up and flung the others into a far-away building, their bodies visible in the rubble (like on the OMAC cover), but Steed and Mrs. Peel survived. My assistant, however, did not, and Steed demanded we take a blood oath to avenge his death. So that’s where the name comes from.

He was a favorite of 할머니’s (the others being Paul Newman and Elvis Presley), and although she probably didn’t understand a word he said, she insisted on tuning into his broadcast every night. When Dan Rather took over, we got to watch Get Smart instead.

[Thanks to my new Superfriends lunch gang at work, I’ve come up with details to flesh out my premise for that SVU-based fanfic to parallel my own, ah, rich life experience.]

In the criminal justice system, sexually-based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.

BENSON: You’re gonna love this, Elliot. Second case in the past two seaso—years. Victim is an Asian male, age indeterminate (between the dyed hair and the comic books on his shelves), found cold in front of a videogame.
STABLER: So he played until he died, I’ve heard that’s happening a lot lately.
WARNER: Yes, but that smell of urine from his pants? Usually these hardcore players at least keep a bucket handy. His pants are stained from it, but the floor’s clean. And his hands may be placed on the keyboard now, but roll up the sleeves, those ligature marks indicate that they’ve been bound recently. This man probably died elsewhere, and was moved here.
FIN: Seems all this online gaming stuff is just openin’ up whole new worlds for people to kill each other over.

[Opening credits. Break for commercial.]

Someone had left a flyer on the door, a sheet of copy paper printed entirely in Courier I just had to scan and save. I found a transcript here, fourth post down, from Mike. Funny thing is, all the comments in his advertisement, except from “Einstein’s ghost”, are attributed to a variation of author Michael L. McCloskey, whose description of his self-published work sounds more like a screed against his employers than a science fiction tour de force to rival L. Ron’s. At least he had fun at Knott’s Berry Farm while writing it.

I would so watch an episode of 老婆’s Taiwanese travel show if the comely gals had to sit through TGP and Machine Girl like I did this weekend. Probably cure them of their Japanophilia, real quick. I suppose with a history of チャンバラ, the hacking and goring are within cultural norms, if you can call them that, and this is surely just the 特撮 genre taken to the next level. One apparently on a ladder of psychological development where you sympathize with the grotesque Power Ranger villains and don’t recognize any censorship standards.

Had this dream last night that I rediscovered an old song on the B&W screen my 3G iPod with this title, pre-Pearl Jam and just the one word, by a band called Me Myself and Irene, also not to be confused with the Farrelly Bros. Jim Carrey movie. Cross-referencing the two now finds no connection.