Apparently, Miracleman is planning on being the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse: Hung-over.

Apparently, Miracleman is planning on being the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse: Hung-over.

You laugh...but he's real. And he's a BASTARD.

It's status report time. Time to see how sucessful the retailing of evil is going. So far I'm unimpressed with the results. Evil is just not on the increase, in fact nothing much is going on at all. It's time for a new plan.

"So, my lowly minions, this is the new plan. We will forge some rings of power to give to the city council members, but in secret we will forge a master ring into which I'll pour my malice, my..." I notice my minions giving each other looks. "What!?"

One minion nervously speaks up. "It's been done sir, there were movies made and oscars awarded and..."

With a little waggling of figures I conjure a portal from which massive clawed arms emerge and drag the screaming minion into their hellish dimension.

"Good point. We need to come up with something new."

"Honey? What's this gold ring in the bottom of your top dresser drawer?"

"Bob, why are you poking through my drawers--oh, god, I didn't say that. What ring?"

"Pretty stone in the top of it, looks old. We're not going to have a troop of adventurers coming through looking for it, are we?"

"If we do, I've got dibs on the short, dark-haired one with the haunted eyes."

"OK. I want the tall scruffy one."

"Which one?"

"Yeah ..."

I walked through the backyard, kicking at the ugly piles of decaying snow, in a thoroughly irritated mood.

"Brian!" I shouted, and not for the first time. "Where the hell are you, honey?"

There was a strange half-choked gurgle sounding from behind the woodpile. I grabbed a piece of kindling and ventured a glance.

My husband crouched there, studying - nay, fondling - the metal object in his hands. The light bounced off his scalp as he turned to me, hissing, "It'sssss mine! My preciousssssssss."

"Yes, sweetie," I sighed, "it's yours. No one is trying to take it from you."

I reached down in an attempt to help him to his feet. "NO!" He scrabbled further away from me and bared his teeth. "It'sssss mine, you can't have it, filthy wivesesssss."

"Okay, fine, have it your way." I was angry, and tired of his possessiveness. "Fat lot of good it's going to do you out here," I muttered as I headed to the house. "And it's not like I can't just get up off the couch and turn the channels manually."

Hans and I finish loading the last of the kiosks on the truck. Okay, by loading, I mean watching the robot do the loading, but the kiosks are loaded and that's the point.

"So boss, what is all of this for?" asks Hans.

"Project H."

Hans returns to the lab. "I'm done boss. The kiosks have bee place all over the city."

"Eeeexcellent. It's time to activate project H." I get ready to flip the big switch marked 'Project H'.

Hans looks at all the computer equipment in the lab. "So what is Project H?"

"Only the future of entertainment my big friend. What do you find on DVDs these days?"

"Movies."

"And...."

"Software."

"And..."

Hans considers it for a minute. "Aren't there audio DVDs nowa..."

"TV shows. People buy DVDs with TV shows on them. Project H takes this to a new level."

"Virtual Reality? I noticed the neural interface helments on the kiosks." Asks Hans.

"Oh, it's much more than than. My new reality extrapolator quantum computer analyzes the entire TV show, cross references it with everything on the Internet and allows the user to modify the TV shows as they see fit. Don't like a plot point, change it. Don't like how a character develops, change it. Incorrect science, fix it. I'll make a fortune from Trekkies alone. These kiosks will let me test the concept." I flip the big switch and all the kiosks activate at once, linking to the R.E.Q. computer and it's vast library of entertainment media.

"It's working. The future of entertainment is mine, BWAH HA HA HA HA HA!"

Hmmm, what're they selling now...

R.E.Q. Entertainment Kiosk - where you run your favorite shows!

Huh. It's got The Avengers, Homicide, Firefly...

Wonder if it's got a porn filter...No, filter. That can't be right. I could just take Emma Peel and John Crichton and Willow all...How much does this cost anyway?

I've been trying to find one of these hot new "write your own adventure" kiosks that I can play with, but they've all been taken by leering, snickering people writing their own porny versions of their favorite shows. I want a turn! Darn it, if people are putting their money into these kiosks to watch their own fantasies, they're going to stop buying the stories I write.

Wait . . .

Might have known evil was afoot.

Brian's been awfully thoughtful of late; springing to answer the phone ("You don't want to talk to those pesky telemarketers."), running out to meet the mailcarrier ("Oh, just a bunch of flyers and junkmail. Say, let's build a fire and cuddle."), waiting on me hand and foot ("Who needs to go outside when we have everything we want here?"), personally fastforwarding through commericals ("Don't you just hate commercials?")... If I was the suspicious type, I might think that he was behaving suspiciously.