“The Optimist”

The governor’s hands trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips. Sweat had gathered quickly at his brow, and his lips quivered sickly.

The glass was filled to the brim with a clear liquid. It could even have been water. Some of the liquid sloshed at the side of the glass, and the governor’s unsteady hand brought the glass level with his face.

Tears were streaming down his face as he took the first sip.

Hope say d feem go sweet?

***************

“…in pursuance of unity, solidarity and team spirit. We shall strive to be better than we were yesterday. As a nation, we will work together to promote the kindred spirit. It is all for one, and one for all. I have a dream where a fellow countryman would be ready to lay down his life when the need arises for the good of the many…”

Marcus Ikoli glared at the screen. “I have a pimple. Why did no one tell me I have a pimple?” He felt vaguely around his face with his hands.

“Just look at that,” his wife began in a mock sneer. “You just gave the greatest speech in Nigeria’s history, and you are worried about a bloody pimple. Later you go argue say you no dey vain.”

“I am not vain,” Marcus snapped. “Am I vain, John?”

The man named John stood with his hands at his back, his legs spread theatrically apart. He wore dark glasses, and the bulge in his black suit told the world he was packing legal heat. He turned his head slightly left in deference, letting a small smile cross his face.

“Vanity is a luxury I am sure the president can afford, sir.”

Marcus smiled. “You should run in the next poll, John. You’re such a politician.”

“Me? Run, sir? And leave you without a chief of security?”

Marcus sighed, and turned to his wife. “These bloody terrorists. You’re right. I need you to cover my back. Come, Rebecca.”

***************

“Good afternoon, and welcome to News Central at six. I am Jumoke Olaitan. Following up to the unfortunate demise of governor Richard Chidiebere of Rivers state, the first stage autopsy reports have revealed that the governor died by poisoning. The composition of the poison is as yet unverified, but interesting forensic reports indicate that the governor may have committed suicide. A half-full glass cup was found beside his dead body in the early hours of the day.

There were no witnesses to the death. The IG of police has released a statement indicating that the Force would be taking the governor’s death as a suicide and advices the nation to do the same.

Was the responsibility of governance too much for governor Richard Chidiebere to saddle alone? Whatever the case, we grieve the loss of one of our finest leaders….”

***************

Rebecca was massaging Marcus’ shoulder absent-mindedly while he poured himself another scotch. A discarded newspaper lay strewn on the floor beside him, and he heaved in his chair.

“It’s alright, Marc. Calm down. You know you think better when you are calm.”

“Two of my most loyal supporters. Dead, and a little less than a week apart. Who is the mad man killing them? I want his head on a platter!”

John stared ahead. He had a team of five in the room with him, and the president’s security had tightened since news of the death of Governor Rogers Aswani reached Aso Rock.

The Nigerian Police Force had issued another press released saying the case on Richard Chidiebere had been reopened in the light of the death of governor Rogers. The same glass of clear liquid carrying the poison had been found by Rogers’ body, although there had been no sign of breaking into the governor’s quarters. The case was now being treated as assassination.

***************

Jumoke Olaitan gave her signature smile at the camera. It was almost a smirk, but not quite. It said two things at once: it said that she took immense pride in being among the first people to know the news before almost everyone else, and that she considered everyone else ignorant bastards. Fortunately for her, she was a very beautiful buxom woman, so at least the majority of a certain gender of the Nigerian people hardly noticed the condescending smile.

A recorded statement by the IG of Police, Mohammed Saraki was playing for the benefit of the news viewers.

“…we believe that whatever triggered the ingestion of the poison by the two governors is linked with the phone call they received. They were found dead with their phones in their hands, after receiving a phone call from a withheld number. Preliminary investigations are ongoing…”

Her phone vibrated, and she saw that she had received an SMS.

“Tell your crew to tune in to freq. 106.5. You just might get promoted.”

She was only stunned for a few seconds before she realized this is a lead! and ran towards Tom, the pink-faced Australian in charge of technical stuff.

They broadcasted frequency 106.5 (it turned out to be in UHF) first in the studio, but when they saw what it was showing, they broadcasted to their live audience.

Nigeria was watching with bated breath.

The president was on the big screen, receiving a phone call.

And he looked afraid.

***************

“Mr. President, you do not sound too happy to hear from me,” the mysterious caller drawled.

Marcus pressed the phone tightly against the side of his suddenly slick face. He snapped his fingers at John, and John, nodding, disappeared into the shadows.

“What do you want?”

The voice at the other end laughed sweetly. “No, Mr. President. You have it all wrong. The question is: what do you want?”

***************

“Trace the caller! Trace it, dammit!” John snarled into the phone.

All network operators in the country had been alerted. They were already tracing the anonymous caller.

It was only a matter of time…

***************

“I’ll have you know that the federation does not negotiate with terrorists.”

“Ah, Mr. President. Do you remember these words? “I have a dream where a fellow countryman would be ready to lay down his life when the need arises for the good of the many…””

Marcus nodded numbly, a nod that was instantly relayed to more than 80 million TV screens nationwide.

“My words. In the speech at the Nigerian Unity Convention last week.”

“Your memory is unsurpassed, as is your governance, your Excellency,” the voice chuckled.

The call terminated abruptly.

***************

“What do you mean you lost him?” John was in a full rage now.

“Sir, we were able to confirm that it was an MTN number, and he was calling from Lagos – somewhere in Ikorodu. But he terminated the call before we could home in on him.”

***************

Conversation had started in beer parlors and homes. The president had effectively been threatened on national TV, and the caller had abruptly disappeared. Speculation was rife. Nigeria was mildly disappointed.

“I bin think say na one kind 24 steeze bin wan happen so,” Ohis, an engineer said to no one in particular, as he clutched his bottle of odeku fervently.

But that was not to be the end of the tale.

The president’s phone was ringing again.

***************

“Sorry about that, Mr. President,” the mechanical voice spoke again. “This hide and seek tires me too.”

“What do you want?” Marcus asked again.

“What was that you said? The Federation does not negotiate with terrorists? You’re right, Your Excellency. I am not here to negotiate with the federation. I am here to negotiate with one man

“Marcus Ikoli. It is time for a man to lay down his life for the good of the many.”

***************

The world gasped.

***************

“Mr. President. Your wet bar. Third bottle to your right. That’s a special drink from me to you. There is a glass cup in your second bottom left drawer. Please pour yourself a full glass. Drink to your heart’s content.”

One of the guards yelled, “There is an unbranded bottle where he said it would be, sir!”

Rebecca shrieked.

***************

Aso Rock had been infiltrated. A camera no one was aware of was broadcasting the most powerful room in Nigeria. A glass cup and an unmarked bottle of a clear drink had found their way into the building. Aso Rock had been compromised.

***************

“What the hell do you mean you lost him?” John was even more livid than he had been five minutes ago.

“I’m sorry,” the operator was speaking. “It was a glo number this time. The call was traced to Kano…”

“Wait. Kano?”

“Yes sir, and indications show that…”

How the hell could he have been in Lagos and in Kano in the split of a second?

“…we are sorry, sir. The time was too short for a distinct trace.”

***************

The president picked on the first ring.

“Would you drink, Mr. President? A toast to my good health, perhaps?”

“This is the last time I will ask this: what do you want?”

The president was silent. It’s a waiting game, terrorist. We will come down on you like a plague.

The caller sighed audibly. “You need persuasion, I see. Turn on the news.”

The call ended.

***************

“In an alarming turn of events tonight, the president received a phone call that climaxed in the detonation of a bomb in Kaduna. Reports are still coming in, but from all indications, the loss of life is monumental. It would appear that this terrorist has played his hand.

It remains for the president to play his.”

***************

“You bastard!” Marcus was sweating and gritting his teeth.

“Good. Emotion is good, no? I wouldn’t know of course. You have seen what I can do, Mr. President. Let us turn the negotiations around. What do you want?”

“I don’t understand, but please stop this. The Nigerian people don’t deserve this.”

Around him, the guards were searching the room, looking for the mysterious camera filming them.

“They don’t. And that is why I offer them redemption. The life of one, for the life of many.”

“Marcus. Don’t listen to him,” Rebecca shrieked again.

“Have a drink, Mr. President. It’s actually a nice-tasting brew. That is all I ask.”

The president stared sadly at his wet bar.

 

CNN was reporting. “The terrorist who shockingly patched through to the president of Nigeria, Marcus Ikoli, has stated unverifiably that he has enough bombs to level several commercial cities in the country. He has given the president an ultimatum: drink from the bottle, or watch people die.

“Tough decision for the president. The president has issued a standing order to bar all suggestion of help from foreign bodies as, in his words, it will only “muddy the waters” and interfere with negotiations with the terrorist. Meanwhile, President Barack Obama has said that negotiating with terrorists is never a good idea as it only strengthens the opposition’s stance…”

***************

Though the rest of the world didn’t know it, Only Jumoke had a direct line to the terrorist. The number that he had used to text her.

She knew that she should call the police, but on a whim, she dialed the phone number.

“Hello. This is – “

“Jumoke, from News Central. Why did you call a known terrorist, Jumoke?”

“I’m sorry. I…”

“I know why you did. The need to know. The curiosity. You cannot stand to know the story from someone else. You want to be the first to know.”

“Again, I’m sorry but – “

“Do you know why I chose you to broadcast tonight’s events, Jumoke?”

“I’m not sure I – “

“Twelve TV stations and eighteen newspapers, Jumoke. That’s how many media sources carried the news about the dead governor Richard Chidiebere. And do you know what they said? They all reported along these lines: “A half-empty glass of a suspicious clear liquid was found by his body…”

Jumoke paused. She didn’t understand.

“You were the only one who reported it as a half-full glass…”

Jumoke sighed. “News reporters do not usually write their news stories. They just report what has been written.”

“Yes. But you wrote that story, didn’t you?”

Jumoke closed her eyes. “Yes. Yes I did.”

“I am an optimist, Jumoke. The glass is always half-full.”

***************

Forty-seven minutes had gone past. John was no closer to finding out who the mystery caller was.

Marcus Ikoli sat alone in the room. It had been cleared of everyone else. Even Rebecca had been taken away from Aso Rock.

The mystery caller had ordered the president not to take down the camera beaming him to the rest of the world. “They are my eyes on you, Mr. President. If my eyes go blind, I’ll kill a large part of Nigeria.”

The thought nagged. How can I be sure he isn’t bluffing? How can anyone have that much bombs around the major cities? The reports indicate that there’s no sign of explosives there. What if he’s lying…?

But the mystery caller’s voice had been calm and almost playful. “Heads and tails. Half-full and half-empty. A game of chance. Would you take the risk, Mr. President? When the hour is up, would I really blow Nigeria up? Can I even blow it up? Two possible outcomes, Your Excellency.

“One. You don’t drink. I blow up Nigeria. Or I don’t.

“Two. You drink, and you die. And I don’t blow up Nigeria. The choice, as they say, is yours.”

Fifty minutes. Ten minutes to a decision.

The president poured himself a drink.

 

VUNDERKIND’S ENDNOTE:

I really hope you had popcorn while you read this.

Challenge Twenty Nine: Aunty_HotStuff

**Allow me to greet Aunty HotStuff fess: _______O__ Oya, make una read**

Mastermind: Miss Awosika

Domain: SoulCaste

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The day was already coming to an end, but work wasn’t over.

It never was. Especially when you had your time invested in your passion. The feeling of accomplishment, that surge in your heart when you reach every milestone, knowing you are making impact – it never got old. Nothing gave me better satisfaction.

Challenge Twenty Eight: Trimia

**She is a beautiful nightcrawler. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the lady codenamed Aurora Borealis!**

Mastermind: Trimia_

Domain: SpotsOnAZebra

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SPINNERS END

At forty one, The Russian Scientist Araiat Mason was easily the best bio-scientist in the world. Her achievements outnumbered that of her seniors in the field.  Her daughter Nadir whom she had from a teenage affair was well on her way to being even as revered. Nadir had studied and worked alongside her mother until one fateful day.

Challenge Twenty-Seven: Sybil

**Anything I say can and will be construed as a spoiler. So I will keep it short and sweet. I love Sybil. End.**

Mastermind: Ceebeelah

Domain: Sybillan, Amasybil

My Solace

I lay on the grass as I gazed at the sky,

The stars all glistened.

Challenge Eleven: Christian Aeriel Maximillian

**For the record, Christian Aeriel Maximillian was my classmate and friend in secondary school. Back then, he was still the writer, and I was his illustrator. He would craft tales about the gods, and I would bring them to life with my sketches. Sweet times. JS3. What? I can famz… okay, I am gone***

 

Mastermind: Christian Aeriel Maximillian

Domain: AerielWrites

 

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Disclaimer: It is not the intention of the writer to spark a religious war with this write-up. The writer will take no responsibility for anything, code or slang which might be misunderstood in this write-up.

What if cancer was not meant to be an illness, just a failed evolutionary step?
What would happen if we fixed it?
What would we become?
Would we embrace it?
Or would we fight it – all over again?

‘Approximately 12.7 million cancer cases and 7.6 million cancer deaths were estimated to have occurred in 2008.’ (2008, GLOBOCAN)

There are over 100 different types of cancer that we know of; the more common of these being lung cancer in men and breast cancer in women. Current thinking accepts that as longevity increases so does the risk of cancer, which is why cancer in the majority of the animal kingdom is only common in those that live for extended periods; the short lifecycle of most insects, for instance, precludes them from this ‘illness’.

Of the 50-70 trillion cells in the human body some, over time, will naturally go wrong, creating tumours – abnormal and unregulated growths through rapid cell division. Many genetic markers have been found to suggest a greater or lesser likelihood of an individual ‘contracting’ any one particular cancer.

The term we use for the process of tumour occurrence and growth is tumorigenesis , the literal meaning of which is the ‘coming into being’ of a tumour, an apt name as we will discover.
But what if it were discovered that cancer was in fact a failed evolutionary process? Evolution as we understand is a change in the gene pool of a population over time. A gene being a hereditary unit that can be passed on unaltered for many generations. Populations evolve by the often subtle changes experienced within these gene pools. Thus, a single person within a population of say, 7 billion, is never typical of that entire population and will never evolve during their lifespan because they will always retain the same genes – at least that is what happens now, but is this what evolution intended?

David Fortune sat at his mother’s bedside gazing out of the nearby window. A light breeze was evident outside as it subtly moved the branches of a nearby tree. With his gaze transfixed outside, but his thoughts still firmly in the small room he watched as a squirrel scrabbled up the tree trunk and disappeared into the foliage. How simple a life it would be as a squirrel he thought. A sudden pang of guilt came over him – how could he have become distracted by something so, so ordinary when next to him his mother lay dying, the aggressive cancer eating away at her as every second ticked by.

He shifted uneasily in his chair and settled back; looking up he counted the ceiling tiles once more – confirming that there were still forty nine (if he included the half tiles and where one would have been if not for the light fitting) he turned his head towards the bed and rested his cheek on the chair back. Taking a deep breath through his nostrils he was able (if only temporarily) to replace the smell of hospital antiseptic with leather.

His eyes shifted focus on to his father who sat on the opposite side to him, sleeping now – at long last; it had only been a matter of time, after all the human body can only go so long before the craving, that desperate need to sleep and recharge takes control – however much you wanted to stay awake.

Time moved on, the only noticeable distraction being the occasional ‘intrusion ’ by a nurse who kept on offering tea, coffee, a blanket? His father had a blanket, but somehow, deep down he didn’t feel worthy, no, not worthy, just not right – to seek comfort while his mother… (he forced himself to think it)… was dying , just didn’t seem right. It was ok for his dad he needed the rest, deserved the rest. He had nursed her at home until, until now.
His watch chimed, signally the start of a new day. Standing and stretching his legs after the long night he stood there watching his mother, she remained unmoving other than the shallow rise and fall of her chest, her gaunt features displaying deep shadows around her eyes and in the centres of her cheeks.

He began counting breaths, watching, listening… waiting. Her breathing was definitely slowing now, the gaps in between lengthening; her diaphragm expanding with ever growing effort, although each breath was expelled in a rapid contraction each time more readily as the weakened muscles could not hold on to the vital gases so desperately needed.
David wasn’t sure when she took her last breath. The pauses had grown so long in between that when one didn’t come he just waited, so desperately he waited, until untold minutes had passed. Minutes that had been filled not with sorrow, but of relief – relief that her suffering had ended. He held her hand only then realising that his father too had been watching, listening quietly. How long had he been awake? David did not know. All that mattered was that they had shared her last moments together.

He awoke in a pool of sweat – even after 30 years the memories of his mother’s death were so clear in his mind, tormenting his dreams, creating the ‘oh so frequent’ nightmares that still made him weep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes and face with both hands, the cold of the bare wooden floor beneath helping to heighten his senses.
Looking at his unshaven features in the bathroom mirror, the bloodshot eyes from the half bottle of single malt whisky consumed the night before; he leaned on the sink and composed himself. Clearing his throat he said to his reflection: “Ladies, gentlemen, fellow scientists , I am Dr David Fortune and as of today no one need die of cancer…”

A low murmur crossed the conference room floor, increasing in intensity as it spread like a ripple on a pond, finally becoming a crescendo of shouted questions and raised hands. Perhaps in hindsight, David considered , he should have built up to this revelation as opposed to using it as his opening line?

Calming his audience with his own raised hands and ignoring the many questions he continued. “For many years the war to eradicate cancer from our lives has taken place in laboratories and hospitals across the world. We have used skilled surgery, aggressive drug regimes and radiation in our ‘arsenal’. More recently many have looked at gene therapy and targeting cancers with ‘magic bullets’ riding on the backs of viruses. We have even been able to devise vaccines for certain cancers. However, one of the goals that has eluded many here today has been to develop a way of stopping the spread – the metastasis that so frequently creates secondary tumours.

Halting the process of metastasis was the aim of my team and in so doing we stumbled across a revelation ; a revelation so profound that we could not, would not, believe it ourselves at first.” The buzz of excitement across the room was such that David paused once more to allow a level of calmness to descend. Pointing to the screen behind him he activated a video sequence. “As many here know, during the process of metastasis millions of malignant cells from a tumour are released into the bloodstream. Most are killed by the trauma of travelling through blood vessels; others are attacked by our immune systems, whether by T-lymphocytes, macrophages or lymphokines. But others make the journey unscathed, creating new tumours; some of these cells remain in our bloodstream undetected for years only to resurface after what appears to be a period of remission. The question my team and I asked first was why do some of these malignant cells survive while others do not? But more importantly, the other question we often asked ourselves was if the propensity of cancer is on the increase because we are living longer, then, conversely as our immune systems have evolved should there not have been more cancers in early bilaterians whose immune systems were not as developed? ” Pausing for affect, he took a sip of water and gazed at the front 3 rows over the top of his glasses.

Continuing he said, “It is commonly accepted that our adaptive immune systems appeared quite suddenly, around 450 million years ago with the emergence of jawed vertebrates. But because of its complexity , the mammalian immune system is described as ‘irreducibly complex’, and thus its evolution and origin through ‘Darwinian ’ mechanisms is frequently challenged . How then do we reconcile this?” he let his hypothetical question hang for a second. “Our breakthrough occurred when studying tumours taken from AIDS patients,” more video sequences appeared as he continued… “As you will see here, HIV is a unique human RNA virus, capable of infecting cells of the immune system. In particular , HIV targets and eventually kills T cells that have a crucial role in the regulation of immune responses against invading microorgan isms. In an untreated HIV patient, 10 billion to 100 billion new viruses are produced daily which progressiv ely destroy the T cells over a period of several years. This gradual erosion eventually renders the patient vulnerable to unusual and opportunis tic infections rarely seen in healthy people. Most patients who die from AIDS succumb to one or more of these opportunistic infections – interestingly of the 40% of AIDS patients who develop cancers, the cancers they develop are ones that occur infrequently in the normal ‘healthy population ’. So we started afresh with a new hypothesis : What if cancer was part of evolution? Designed to take Homo-sapiens to the next stage of their natural development, a stage corrupted by an irreducibly complex immune system that defies evolutionary understanding? Armed with this hypothesis and the genetic codes from numerous tumours of differing types we developed a virus of our own to carry the instructions to ‘repair’ what we believed to be the corrupted coding. We call this viral agent ‘f66’, after the gene location. We then injected our test animals with a drug we call Genesis-T, designed to protect the cancer cells during metastasis . We then sat back and waited.”

The audience was visibly agitated at this point; many were in heated discussions in small groups others sat transfixed , waiting for the speaker to continue.

“What we discovered over a period of 6 weeks was a gradual change in the tumours – the tumours shrank and became small nodules at each of the metastasised sites throughout the test subjects. Those subjects who had not yet metastasised also developed these nodules across all major organs, blood compositio n subtly changed too – immune systems became stronger yet they did not stop the nodule appearance s; in fact quite the opposite. Each nodule had multiple layers of lymphocyte s clustered around them – not consuming but creating a protective layer. Of the one hundred laboratory rats treated in this way, every single one, at each stage of dissection , we recorded identical observations. By week 2 no sign of malignancy existed, by week 4 the remaining rats were healthier, stronger and exhibiting structural changes to existing organs – heart, lungs, liver, kidneys and skin all performing at greater efficiency – in affect transformed, an evolutionary step completed in less than one month. When we breed the final test subjects, with ones taken from our control group, the offspring shared the full benefit of the enhanced evolutiona ry changes. The full paper and press release will be available at the end of this seminar and will detail all our findings – including the human trials. Now I open the floor to questions. ”

Multiple hands shot up. Pointing to the front row he said, “My estemed colleague, Professor Wilson.”

Professor Wilson was Dean of Medicine at King’s College London, as he stood the light above him glistened off his receding brow, “Dr Fortune, thank you, an elightening, and I must say ground breaking research study. Perhaps you could give us your views on the long term effects of this ‘evolutionary’ step, as you call it?”

“Yes, thank you, of the rat test subjects all were dissected over a period of 3 years, with the excepetion of one who remained healthy until dying of natural causes, recently, after 6 years following initial treatment. As I am sure most here are aware the average life expectancy for the white rat is 2½ to 3½ years. Upon dissection no adverse side effects were observed. Of our human trials, 50 volunteers were found all sufferring from end stage terminal cancers, 10 were AIDS patients. All 50 volunteers were randomly chosen, blind, as per usual protocol: twenty five received the correct treatment and twenty five received a placebo treatment. Of the twenty five that received the placebo – all were dead of their respective cancers within 6 months. Of the the twenty five that received the viral gene therapy and Metastasis T treatment, all are alive and well and symptom free.”

“What of the nodules? “Where these observed too in the surviving volunteers ?” David looked around, locating the questioner in the press enclosure. Using his hand to help shield his eyes from the lights pointing directly at him, he replied “Nodules appeared in all the treated volunteers . Although these too have reduced over time, their work seemingly done.”

The same member of the press continued, “Do you not think that announcing a cure-all for cancer by modifying it to a design ‘you believe’ to be correct is not playing at God? The research direction you took was completley against current thinking – current thinking that I hasten to add has produced significan t results. My question to you is this: Using your treatment will it not, in effect, create a sub species of Homo Sapien – an evolutiona ry superior race?”

David, stared down the reporter, sensationalist reactions like this could only be expected. “Perhaps the gentleman from the press would care to actual read the press release or even the full paper before likening my team and I to God. As far as a sub species is concerned this is not the case. All we have done is trigger a dormant, albeit corrupted, biological process. A process that Homo sapien was obviously meant to have – to be physically stronger, less likely to contract diesease, more resilient in every way! If this is a bad thing then I apologies. The evidence is in the detail.”

“The Devil is in the detail, Dr Fortune, I only hope you make a good God!”

In 2012, Dr David Fortune, driven by the loss of his mother from cancer and the desire for no child to ever experience a similar lose, announced his revolution airy cancer treatment. In 2013, the United Kingdom Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency (NHRA) approved the use of Virus f66 and Genesis-T, shortly followed by both the American FDA and European EMA. In 2014 Dr David Fortune and his team received the Nobel Prize in Medicine. By 2025 ‘Fortune’s Treatment’ as it became popularly known, was being widly used across the world. The human race had embraced an evolutionary change that had been halted by it’s own immune system, some 450 millon years before man had first walked the Earth. One hundered thousand years of self determination had given man time to become clever enough, to ‘fix’ this irreducibl y complex immune system that defied logical evolution. Not all people embraced the treatment, many religions openly condemned it, but faced with death from cancer or life – most chose life.
As the f66 virus crossed between parent and child the subtle changes of a halted evolution began. First noted in 2035, children born with the f66 heritage were on average taller, stronger, and more able to shake off illnesses. Skin pigmentati ons were noticeably more ‘olive’ coloured, not unusual in a diverse modern population . But as time progressed the skin was not the only change that was noticed and embraced as ‘good’. Lungs were more efficient, able to sustain life with no visible side effects in low oxygen content areas, whether high altitude or polluted cities. The human liver was more efficient in detoxifica tion and regulating biochemica l reactions. Kidneys homeostasi s function increased removing impurities from the blood that would have killed past generation s. Skin continued to change, becoming more leathery, redder in colour and able to withstand extremes of heat and radiation.

The lesser talked about traits of f66 began 3 generations later. Tails were common place in many newborns; initially, the small extensions to the vestigial structure all Homo sapiens had shared were removed at birth, but they soon became common place. Eventually public displays of tails became a teenage fad and thus became accepted overtime. It wasn’t until the horns began developing after puberty that the Vatican expressed its public concern of this ‘new’ breed. By the time 100 years had passed from the drugs approval, 75% of man stood 7 foot tall, had red skin, horns and a tail. The ‘pure’ Homo sapiens were few and hid mostly from public view.
When the missiles rained down, no one knew why or who? The scorched Earth that remained was no place for pure Homo sapiens who either died in the initial blasts or from radiation sickness weeks later.

Hell on Earth had arrived.

On a huge slab of granite, that rose one mile out of the ground where once stood the Vatican City, there was inscribed:

“So God created man in his own image” Genesis 1(27)
“But the Devil is in the detail

Challenge Ten: UluthriX

**From the infuriating pages of Uluthrix’s notepad comes this one. True to its name, I was befuddled. Enjoy**

Mastermind: UluthriX
Domain: Properly hidden

_______________________________________________________________________________________________
BEFUDDLEMENT, GOOD SIRE

Frank was a leprechaun
From the house of Delphi
He didn’t like being preyed upon
So he gave up Fifi

Now Fifi was Frank’s main squeeze
A cute little fairy
No man near her would dare sneeze
He’d be giddy and feel airy

Now, here is the twist
There has to be a witch in a fairy tale
She had never been kissed
Her ugliness was to a scary scale

Fifi had the greatest boobs
Pointy and quite a sight when they shake
She caused an increase in the price of lubes
Waidaminit – the writer needs a bathroom break

Ah, I return to my tale
Ignore the smear on my pants
I had you in a regale
Without resorting to bants

Mackie was a dragon
And he was depressed as a pressed depression
See, the popular tradition
Had it that dragons were famous for much conflagration

But Mackie was a chain smoker
Don’t judge him; he never liked the sticks
He hadn’t perfected his face of poker
So it was easy to see it made him sick

Mackie had no fire
He wanted to be a poet
He burned to be a poet
But he could not breathe fire

Fifi awoke one terrible morning
After a night at Frank’s bed
After a night of suspicious moaning
To discover she had a beard

Of course, she fled
Frank had a whisker allergy
She blushed red
When someone called her Sir Hillary

The witch cackled and stared at her hairless pudenda
She reveled in her depraved magick
Fifi had a beard crafted from the witch’s parts under
Shorn from places pelvic

Frank didst wander in search of Fifi
But his heart was not in it
For a stack of gold needed to be hidden
A leprechaun’s job, wasn’t it?

Mackie passed his WAEC that year
He was in ecstasy
Still his parents gave no fucks that year
They ruined his fantasy

So he sat at his station and wrote
And smoked
And choked
Oh, the bloke choked

Mackie died without fire
Though he had the fire to be a poet
He died clutching his cigarette lighter
Ironic, he burned to death

Fifi became a man
Thanks to Dr. nine-oh-two-one-oh
She has two knobby bits
And the flexible long pole

Frank threw himself into his work
Burying gold everywhere he went
He never thought about Fifi, that girl from work
He worked until he was spent

And as for the witch, what became of her?
Why did she damn Fifi so?
That I cannot explain, aha
There are things we cannot know

The witch, ugly thing that she is
Stands naked in the rain
My new beard is itchy, it is
And her pudenda is bald again

The Big Man Ch.3

Luckily for Daw Red, the guy in the wide pants was a clumsy runner. He kept clutching at his inner thigh as he hopped after him. Daw Red had no trouble putting a lot of distance between him and the retard.

He passed the side street and came upon Durosinmi Etti Drive. This area had people going about their business like regular humans, and it would have drawn unwanted attention for him – fully suited as he was – to come charging down the streets like the hounds of hell were on his tailcoat. So he slowed to a jog, checked behind him twice to make sure he had lost his chaser, and then began to walk.

“Christ”, he breathed hard. “Fucking clowns on the streets these days.” He absent-mindedly picked up his phone again. The bitch still hadn’t called. Another disappointment for the day.

The Big Man 2

Cautiously, I nicked the prostitute’s purse and hung around to hear the random comments from the crowd. Nothing worth noting.
I finally tore myself away from the crowd, before the police came in. I made my way to ShopRite, where I roamed around, lost in thought. Nothing made sense to me anymore.

I dialed my wife again. “Hey”, she chirped, too lively for my liking. “Hey,” I replied. “How is the day going?”
“Fine, fine!” she replied, which that infuriating

The Big Man (Introduction)

Justin’s Note: What you are about to read is a story I did last year (December, to be precise). I rediscovered it again on Facebook and decided to transplant it to my blog. I hope you find it interesting.

If you can, leave a comment. I will respond to all comments (and might secretly fall in love with you as a result). All comments will be appreciated.

Thanks….the story begins.

…………….

The first thing I noticed was my penis.

The Tale of Always Ultra (Not Really)

I swear. This is an old book. Therefore, the story is old. Simple logic, really.

***Older Justin: First, remember, this was five years ago. Go easy on the criticism. I had to put a clamp on my need to edit stuff, so this work is purely unedited – I typed it as it was in the old book. Comment gently. The next keystrokes represent the thoughts of a much younger me***

“I’m in,” Quent said.

“Good. Alert Morpho as soon as status is clear.”

“Got it.”

Quent walked towards the receptionist.

“Morning, miss.”

“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

My Past Has Caught Up with Me!

I love sensational titles. It keeps people clicking. Oops. I just revealed my secret. Please, now that you know, can you continue clicking on my blog post? I swear, I don’t derive orgasmic pleasure from your clicks. Honestly.

Okay…

Well, in a way, my past did catch up with me today. I was rifling through ancient manuscripts of mine (fancy way to say I was checking through my books from 100 level), and I exhumed (fancy word for ‘found’) some cryptic text (fancy word for ‘nonsensical scrawls’) I wrote while I was but a gangling youngster (I am still gangling, but not a youngster anymore **sigh**)

The Student: Part II

March 12^th, 2008.

It was the same boring GST class. He knew he should really stop coming for the mind-numbing lectures and all, but he had this irrational fear that his dad was watching his every move, so he came regularly for the classes. Still, he couldn’t help stifling several yawns in the two-hour class.

The lecturer – a woman, and an unattractive one at that – was saying something about the moral (or was it mural?) life, and Patrick couldn’t be arsed. Imagine his shock when, while scratching his balls surreptitiously, he heard a question directed at him.

“Young man, stand up.” He did, quickly.

“What do you think about euthanasia?”

“Ma?” he blinked, eyes further enlarged by his high-powered glasses. “You Ten Asia?”

The Student part 1

(January 14^th, 2013. University of Calabar)

Patrick Onoriode watched as the car drove away, leaving him in front of his faculty. He straightened his rumpled shirt and turned around to behold the massive hulk that was the faculty of law, University of Calabar.

Low-hanging trees cast soothing shadows to reduce the January heat, and as Patrick made his way into the faculty, dried leaves crunched underfoot.

He wasn’t glad to be back.