Disturbing Mass Suicide Worries Local Authorities

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) – A spokesperson for the LADP revealed details of an apparent mass suicide that occurred in the early hours of the morning today in a small warehouse along the docks in LA Harbor.

“We have no information at this time about the identities of the deceased, ” a grim-looking Detective Rob Richardson said during a press conference, “all we know is the scene is horrific and we don’t know why all of these people decided to end their lives.”

Sources tell Reuters that the scene is indeed grisly; the participants apparently inflicted severe injuries on themselves in the process of ending their lives.

According to Detective Richardson, there are at least three hundred bodies in the warehouse.

More Bodies Found in Los Angeles Area Warehouses

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) – At least three other sites in the area of Los Angeles Harbor have been found with hundreds of apparent suicide victims.  This brings the total to six sites found so far, and upwards of over two thousand bodies.

“The LAPD, along with the Long Beach PD have begun a door-to-door search of all facilities in the entire harbor area,” said Detective Rob Richardson, who appeared visibly shaken by the day’s events, “Just pray for their families.  Pray for us all.”

GAAS:448:06   FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Gov. Schwarzenegger Orders National Guard to Assist Los Angeles Authorities

Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger today ordered the California National Guard (CNG) to assist the authorities in Los Angeles to help quell the violence and rioting that has erupted following events this morning.  The Governor has ordered the CNG to mobilize a total of thirty helicopters and two thousand Guardmembers as ground support.

“I urge the good people of Los Angeles to try to maintain a sense of dignity and calm in this difficult time. Our prayers are with any family that has lost someone in the tragedies uncovered this morning.” said Governor Schwarzenegger.

Posted on alt.conspiracy.black.helicopters

Vincent Thomas Bridge in LA Harbor taken out by AMERICAN FORCES

“Don’t believe what the news reports are telling you, I **SAW*** a fleet of F-22 Raptor aircraft FIRE on the bridge and take it out.  The GOVERNMENT is behind the events in Los Angeles, you better believe it.  I’m high tailing it out of this hell hole, along with everyone else.”

“Monster” Video Declared Fake

Filmmaker Don Coscarelli calls latest internet video “amateurish”

Variety.com, by Tiffany Jenkins

Don Coscarelli, best known for the cult-classic “Bubba Ho-Tep”, and director of many low-budget horror films, has declared that the video making the rounds on the internet is clearly a fake.

“The proportions of the monster are all wrong — even the guys that did Cloverfield knew you couldn’t make a monster that big, it just would look real” said Coscarelli, speaking from the set of his new film, “Bubba Nosferatu”, currently being filmed in Czech Republic.  “Look, I know all about cheap special effects, they’re my bread and butter. And this video is terribly done and clearly fake”.

The video in question was posted early this afternoon on Youtube.  The poster remains anonymous.

“I’m sure they’ll show up tomorrow trying to pitch this idea to the studios, you know, ‘I got a million hits on youtube or some shit, make my movie’ — this is just another dumb film student trying to create a bogus internet sensation.” Coscarelli said authoritatively.

U.S. Department of Defense
Office of the Assistant Secretary of Defense (Public Affairs)
Immediate Release, No. 286-10

Statement by Secretary Gates on the detonation of Nuclear Weapons in the City of Los Angeles:

The president will be addressing the nation within the hour, but I wanted to confirm three details. Yes, nuclear weapons have been detonated on US Soil. No, the detonation was not part of a test gone bad.  And no, this was not a terrorist attack. These weapons were detonated in accordance with Executive Order No. 12553, the details of which are currently classified.  The president will reveal all of the details in his address.

President Obama’s Speech Abruptly Interrupted

WASHINGTON, DC (BBC World Service) – In a stunning turn, President Obama abruptly cut his speech short and turned and left the White House briefing room after only a few words.

The broadcast signal from the press room was cut as well.  We here at the BBC have been trying to re-establish our satellite link with our Washington office and have been unsuccessful.

President Obama was set to explain the unexplainable, the detonation of a series of Nuclear weapons all along the west coast of the United States.  Early reports indicate that at least forty-three weapons have been detonated, with casualties in the tens of millions.

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates was quoted earlier in the day saying that these explosions were not the result of terrorist actions, nor were they acts of war by a foreign power.

We will update our listeners as events unfold.

McMurdo Station, Ross Island, Antarctica

“…message repeats…My name is Antoine Barnes, a US Marshall at McMurdo Station. I am the only person alive here, the rest have gone…insane…and have taken their own lives. We have lost all communications with the outside world. If you are receiving this signal, please reply on short wave 9204 kHZ…message repeats…”

Jason the Physicist wasn’t surprised at all when Jason the Physicist walked through the door to his bar. Since that time travel incident back in college, he’d actually been expecting something like this to happen someday.  What really surprised him though, was when a third Jason walked through the door.  The arrival of the third Jason seemed to unnerve Jason #2 as well.  For a moment they all stared at each other.  The Original Jason broke the tense silence.

“Shots,” he said, “are exactly what we need right now”.  He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured three shots.  The Jasons quickly downed them, and smacked the empty shot glasses down on the bar in unison.  The Original Jason took a moment to examine his other selves.  Jason #2 seemed just a few years older than him, but Jason #3 was considerably older, his long hair almost fully gray.  He was wearing an extremely ratty Aqua Teen Hunger Force t-shirt, which The Original Jason thought he had lost, but apparently he had found at some point in the future.

“So, what kind of trouble is the world in this time?” said The Original Jason.  Jason #3 looked at Jason #2 “You first.” he said, with a sly grin.

“It’s not the world, it’s your kids, Jason, something has got to be done about your kids. ” Jason #2 said.  The Original Jason blinked momentarily, then started laughing. “Back to the Future”, he said, “good one!” and high fived Jason #2.

“Seriously though, in five years, those crazy scientist at CERN will accidentally create a tiny black hole, which starts orbiting the inner core of the earth.  Its orbit is irregular, and takes it through the core and mantle, slowly consuming matter.  If nothing is done, the black hole will grow and grow and consume the entire earth.” said Jason #2, with great gravitas.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said the Original Jason, “they did it again? I already bailed their asses out the last time they created a tiny black hole.  This is very irritating.”

Jason #3 finally spoke — “That’s why I came.  I knew you wouldn’t want to help again, and I have the most at risk here, since I come from seventeen years from now. I knew you wouldn’t want to help those bozos again, so I came to help.  Let’s have another shot, then Jason and I will go save the world, again”.

The Original Jason poured three more shots, which were quickly downed. Jason #2 and #3 got up and headed for the door.  “Hey,” said The Original Jason, “where did you find that shirt? I thought I’d lost it!”

Jason #3 turned and smiled that sly smile again “I can’t tell you, time travel is tricky enough without revealing too many secrets. It might change something important.”

“Bullshit!” The Original Jason said, “we’ve interfered with time a lot, and everything has worked out!”.

“I know, I’m just fucking with you.” said Jason #3, and turned and left the bar with Jason #2.

Jason The Physicist laughed quietly to himself and started cleaning off the bar.

When Chris woke up, he realized he was stuck in a maze.

He was in a small chamber, with four exits, and in the dim light, he could see that corridors stretched off and made abrupt turns off into the distance.

He tried to remember how he had gotten here, but his hazy memory gave no answer.  In fact, other than his name — Chris — he could remember little else.  There were giant, gaping holes where  his life should be.  It was obvious that he had a past, that he was someone, but the specific details escaped him.

His head throbbed dully and his muscles ached, but after a time, he was able to pull himself up off the floor and to his feet.  He walked unsteadily over to the nearby wall to get a closer look.

The wall was made of stone, with no joints or seams to betray its construction method.  It was completely smooth and featureless.  There was light coming from somewhere, but Chris could not locate any obvious source.

All of these words — wall, stone, light — came easily into Chris’ mind, but beyond that his memory was a complete void.

He decided to explore.  He picked a corridor and set off.  The hallway was fashioned out of the same featureless stone as the room he had woken up in, and he followed it a short distance before he was presented with a crossroads — another corridor intersected the one he was traveling down.  Peering to the right and left revealed more of the same — more halls and more intersections.  Chris decided to go for a while, always taking the right hand corridor.

Time went by.  It could have been a few minutes, it could have been a few days — the sameness of the corridors and the consistency of the light gave no hint of the passage of time.  Chris arrived in a small chamber.  It appeared to be the same one he had left, but he had no way to know for sure. For the first time, Chris glanced down at himself. He was wearing a loose fitting white shirt, and a pair of baggy pants.  Shirt.  Pants. That’s what these things are called, Chris thought to himself.  These are clothes, and I don’t know who or where I am.  He sighed audibly.

He reached into the pockets of his pants and found a small, wadded up piece of cloth, which gave him an idea.  He set the cloth in the center of the room, and set out once again, always taking the right-hand passageway.  After another interval of time, he came upon a small chamber. In the center of the chamber was the piece of cloth.

He began other patterns – always take the left-hand passage, left-right-left, left-left-right – and the result was always the same.  After some indeterminate period of time, he ended up back in the same chamber, with the same small piece of cloth sitting in the middle.  Tired and exasperated, he picked up the cloth and shoved it back into his pants pocket.  He lay back against the wall, his eyes heavy with sleep.

When Chris woke up, he realized he was stuck in a maze.

Jeff was playing the most important game.

It was a game of chess, and the stakes were very high — the highest, in fact.

He was playing for his life.  His opponent:  none other than the Grim Reaper himself.

It was Jeff’s move.  He fidgeted nervously, and patted down his pockets.  He found an almost empty pack of cigarrettes and fished one out and placed in between his dry lips.  He searched for a moment more and silently cursed his forgetfulness as he remembered leaving his lighter sitting on his bedside table.

“Got a light?” he said hopefully to the being sitting across the table.

Death answered with a silent stare, his hollow eye sockets betraying no hint that The Reaper had even heard Jeff.

Jeff spat out the cigarette and returned to the game.  Trying to decide between moving his rook and his bishop, his thoughts drifted back to earlier in the day, before all this happened.  Time seemed to move very slowly, like every second was a year.

Jeff was a typical twenty-something do-nothing slacker.  He had a job changing back-up tapes in a giant data center, and the rest of his time was split between parties, bars and sleep, not necessarily in that order.  Jeff had spent the night working, as usually, then slept most of the day. He was walking to meet his friends at his favorite pool hall, when he had been dragged into an alley, stabbed and his wallet stolen.  He lay bleeding in the dark, and had seen Death approach.  The Grim Reaper was seven feet tall and carried an honest-to-goodness scythe, honed to a sickening sharpness.  Jeff remembered seeing “The Seventh Seal” back in a film appreciation class and with his last breath, challenged Death to a game of chess.  The next thing Jeff knew, he was in a windowless room, sitting across a richly-appointed chessboard from the Grim Reaper.

Death made a gesture, which brought Jeff out of his reprieve and back to the moment.  His hand was hovering over his bishop, and apparently had been for some time.  The Grim Reaper was making that “get on with it” hand gesture, which in any other circumstances would have been hilarious to Jeff, but for some reason, with his life on the line, wasn’t.  Jeff finally committed to the bishop, and nervously moved it to take The Reaper’s knight.

Jeff thought he perceived something.  Something about the move seemed to have unnerved Death, if such a thing was possible.  If The Reaper had a beard hanging from its fleshless skull, Jeff could have imagined the being stroking it just then.  After a moment’s hesitation, which seemed to last forever, Death took Jeff’s bishop with his queen.

Examining the board, Jeff knew he had won, and looked up up at death with a giant grin.  Jeff could see The Reaper examining the board, and after a moment that seemed to last an eternity, Death reached out a bony finger and gently tipped his king over.  Jeff heard a rush of wind, and the room and The Grim Reaper faded away, leaving Jeff standing in a dusty ruin.  Jeff gaped and looked around, but he knew the truth, almost immediately.

The game had, in fact, taken an eternity, and he was utterly alone in the wasteland that was once his city.

Jeff sat down in the dust and began to cry.

Walter Wiggensbottom had a giant, shaggy, white beard.  He was extremely proud of it — “It’s taken me forty years to grow this thing!” he would tell his friends.  Walter also had a giant problem.  For the last five years, he had only been able to find work as Santa.  Walter hated playing Santa, but did it reluctantly in order to pay the bills until his retirement kicked in.  At 62 years old, he still had four more years until his social security kicked in, and Walter hadn’t been lucky.  He had worked for a small manufacturing company his entire working life but they had gone out of business six years ago and taken his pension with them.

Walter was very, very good at playing Santa.  The kids all truly believed, and even though Walter was a reluctant Santa, he took his work seriously and played the part well.

Until the day he met little Jimmy Sandborne.  Little Jimmy was the kind of kid who made rotten kids look like little angels.  He was nine years old, and most of his family secretly hoped he would get in some serious trouble with the law so they wouldn’t have to deal with him any more.  At nine, he already amassed an impressive resume of thievery, arson and vandalism.  He also had a smile that could melt an iceburg and a rogue’s charm — he got away with everything he did.

It was the 18th of December when Walter and little Jimmy met. Walter was once again filling his role as Santa at a local mall, and Jimmy had berated his tired mother to take him shopping until she finally gave in.  Jimmy got what Jimmy wanted.  As soon as Jimmy spotted Walter, Jimmy knew who his latest victim would be.

“Mommy, I want a picture with Santa!” he demanded.  His mother nodded mutely and walked over to the booth where Walter was stationed and paid the $10.00 for a picture.

Jimmy slowly approached Walter and slid into his lap, his best smile in place.

“Ho Ho Ho little man!” Walter started his normal schtick, “what would you like for Christmas this year?”

Jimmy looked around to make sure no one was watching, then threw himself on the ground and started screaming bloody murder.  Walter stood up in a panic.  Jimmy was shouting “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” over and over.  Jimmy’s mother came over reluctantly

“What’s wrong Jimmy?” she asked.

“Santa touched me in my private parts!” he screamed, pointing at Walter.  Walter was dumbfounded.

“I certainly did not! I would never!” he protested.  Jimmy’s mother picked up the screaming boy, who by this point had started gyrating violently.

“I know you didn’t” she said, “he does this all the time.”  She apologized and dragged the screaming youth away.

The very next day, Walter shaved his beard.

Jason the Physicist knew it was going to be an interesting evening when the alien walked into his bar.  Jason had dealt with his share of odd an interesting events (like the time he helped the folks at CERN save the world from a tiny black hole they’d accidentally created, or that wacky time-travel incident back in college), but he had never actually seen an extra-terrestrial.  The alien slapped a tentacle on the bar.

“Whiskey”, it said, sounding very much like Stephen Hawking.  Jason peered around for the source of the word, and finally settled on a small black box on the creature’s belt.  The box looked like it had been put together from parts obtained at Radio Shack.  In fact, upon closer examination, Jason saw the tellate cirle R logo in raised platic on the front of the box, next to a small speaker whose wires disappared into the innards of the box.

Jason looked at the alien closely, trying to decide which appendage he should address as the alien’s face, and settled on a likley lump of green tissue that had a small fissure that might be the creature’s mouth.

“Well or call?” Jason asked, completly serious.

“Canadian Club,” the alien replied, “and you can call me, for lack of a better word, Max”.  The words came out of the small voice box with a methodical, almost dream-like slowness.

Jason nodded and fetched Max’s drink.  When he returned, Max wrapped one of its smaller tentacles around the glass and raised it to the fissure, which opened to reveal row after row of fearsome teeth.  The alien dumped the contents of the glass down this ghastly gullet.

“So, what brings you to town?” Jason asked, and immediatly realized that the alien must get that line all the time.

“Actually, my band needs a bass player, and I was hoping you’d be interested.” Max replied, as if such requests were the most normal thing on Earth (or any other planet).  In addition to owning the bar, Jason was also a fearsome bass player, although it had been years since he’d played in a band — running the bar took too much of his time.

Jason thought carefully, and then replied “What instrument do you play in the band?”

“I’m the singer.” the alien replied. Jason could swear the ends of the creatures “mouth” turned up in a grin.

Jason blinked, and thought for another  moment and asked “Of all of the bass players on Earth, why me?”

“There aren’t many physicists on the planet who can rock like you do, we’re all big fans” the alien replied.  The Hawking-like tones produced by the black box added a serious tone to the creatures utterings, “and we are also in need of your abilities as one of the foremost physicists on the planet.  We have a particular problem that we need help solving”.

Jason thought of the last time he had to use his abilities as a physicist, when the Earth was on the verge of getting sucked into itself, and what a pain in the ass that whole adventure turned out to be.  He thought for a long moment and finally replied.

“I don’t believe in aliens, and it’s closing time.” he said.

Max looked stunned (or at least Jason imagined that he did), and after a time, turned and made his way out of Jason’s bar.

Jason locked up for the night and began turning chairs on top of tables.

Editor’s note: This is the second version of this story, which I think turned out much better. The first version can be read here.

On the day Tokyo was being destroyed by giant robots, Ichiro Ramone was 5,470 miles away enjoying a nice sandwich.

Ichiro’s mother was Anzu Watanabe, a Japanese supermodel and lead singer of the all-girl 80s punk rock cover band Bang Bang Go Go. His father was Ricardo Ramone, a multi-billionaire who oversaw an empire of Mexican factories churning out NAFTA-friendly merchandise, ranging from cars to casino chips. Ichiro never felt at home in either Tokyo or Mexico City, so when it came time for college, Ichiro chose Berkley and majored in math with a minor in art.  It turns out that Ichiro was a certified Einstien-level genius, which was quickly noticed by the spooks at the NSA. They recruited Ichiro upon his graduation and put him to work on a top-secret project that involved breaking complex coded communications.  These signals appeared to be between the Russians and a destination just outside the orbit of the planet formerly known as Pluto in a region of space known as the Kuiper belt.

Being born to money gave Ichiro certain advantages.  He worked for the NSA on his terms; when he wanted to. The rest of the time, he made a living working in a ticket booth at a Sunset Boulevard pornographic movie theater in Hollywood.  The owner, Mr. Perkins, was an ex-Scientologist who had hit it big working at a start-up during the dot-com boom and left it all behind to buy the theater from its previous owners, a transvestite named Denise (formerly Dennis) and her wife Charlene, a retired porn star.  Mr. Perkins knew nothing of Ichiro’s secret life decoding alien broadcasts, but had he known, he might have re-considered his stance on the Scientologists

Ichiro was about to take a bite of his sandwich when his iPhone started playing Bang Bang Go Go‘s rendition of The Ramone’s “I want to be sedated”.  Even though he was estranged from his parents, Ichiro was very proud of his mother’s rise from poverty to the heights of the super rich and elite, and had her band’s songs programmed for all of the different ringers in his phone.  This particular ring meant he had received a text message from Robert Marley, his superior at the NSA. Although Bob bore no resemblance to his namesake, his name was the source of constant amusement within the coordinators of the NSA’s headquarters at Ft. Meade and he was forever finding hand-knit Reggae beanie hats on his desk.

Ichiro read the message. It was typically terse and to the point, like all of Bob’s communication. “Tokyo destroyed; parents likely dead”. Ichiro paused, trying to decide what that really meant to him. It made him sad, but he knew his parents had lived life to the fullest and would die with no regrets.

“I guess it’s true, you can never go home” he remarked out loud, then proceeded to finish the rest of his sandwich.

Editors note:  This was the first of two versions I did with the same basic story. I think I like the how the second one turned out better.  You can read the second version here.

On the day Tokyo was being destroyed by giant robots, Ichiro Ramone was 5,470 miles away enjoying a nice sandwich.  Ichiro was born to Anzu Watanabe, a supermodel Japanese mother and Ricardo Ramone, a rich, industrialist Mexican father 22 years ago in Tokyo.  He was an outcast to both countries.  So naturally, as soon as possible, he left his family in Tokyo and moved to Los Angeles, where he now makes a living working in a ticket booth at a Hollywood Boulevard pornographic movie theater.  A job that had its share of obvious drawbacks, certainly, but it was not without certain perks.  The owner, Mr. Perkins, was an ex-scientologist who had hit it big working at a startup during the dot-com boom and left it all behind to buy the theater from its previous owners, a transvestite named Denise (formerly Dennis) and her wife Charlene, a retired porn star.  In addition to paying Ichiro a salary, Mr. Perkins allowed Ichiro to stay in a room just off of the projection booth, so Ichiro was spared the expense of an aparment in LA, which saved him a considerable amount of money.  Ichiro was saving all of his spare money so he could go to culinary school and one day open his own restaurant.  He needed to do this on his own, without his parent’s money, to prove to his father that he was a worthy son.  When he had last seen his parents, it had been a heated, angry exchange, and he had stormed out of their penthouse apartment and not seen or spoken to them since.  He eventually bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles.

Ichiro was eating his sandwich in a small cafe across the street from the post office where he kept his PO Box (exclusive culinary schools frowned upon applications with a Pornographic Movie Theather as the return address).  He finished the sandwich and proceeded across the street at precisely 12:05 to collect his mail, hoping today would be the day that his acceptance letter to the CIA arrived.  Ichiro had no back-up plan — if he wasn’t accepted, he was prepared to spend the rest of his days working for Mr. Perkins and selling $5.00 tickets to porn shows.  He opened his box, and inside was a letter bearing the distinctive circle-leaf logo of the CIA.  His hands were shaking as he opened the letter, but after reading only a few words, he knew his dream was shattered.  He slumped to the ground next to his box and began sobbing openly.  This being Los Angeles, no one gave him a second look.

After a time, he collected himself, and slowly made his way back to his ticket booth.