The Worlds of D.A. Madigan

IN THE EARLY MORNING RAIN: A Military Memoir By The Worst Infantry Trainee In The History of Mankind INTRODUCTION: I can't, right now, remember my arrival at Fort Benning, GA in March of 1985 for Infantry Basic Training. I had been recruited by the Army National Guard unit in Syracuse, NY, although my lack of aptitude for or proficiency at anything vaguely military was phenomenal. And I should have known better. But at that point in my life, I felt at a dead end, unappreciated, and was chafing for some vast, transformational experience that would kickstart my existence and help me move toward some more fulfilling destiny, and I guess I figured what the hell. The military had been a vital, life altering crucible for many before me, and I seemed to be otherwise trapped, so why not? I'd find out why not. Still, as I say, I can't remember actually arriving at Benning. I remember bits and pieces of the plane rides down there, of the Atlanta airport, and I remember quite well ...

WORLD 214, SYRACUSE, NEW YORK Dean glanced at his watch; like everything else about him, it was cheap, shabby, and in need of a good cleaning. Dean had bought it for $30 five years before; he'd had to have the battery changed twice and the crystal replaced once since then. The current crystal was almost too scratched to see through; it was probably getting along towards time for a new one- but Dean could still make out what time it was if he tried, and to Dean, function was far more important than style. Not to mention the fact that the five dollars he'd spend having a new crystal put on could be far better spent at a bookstore or in a movie theater. It was ten minutes of three in the afternoon. Dean's appointment was at three; as always when he had an appointment, he had left his apartment a good 40 minutes early. Partof this was because Dean had a horror of being late; he was always convinced that, if he showed up even a minute after he had agreed to, people would leave w...

Graffiti found spraypainted on the side of Sparta University’s Dawne Hall, March 11, 1994: Tesla Girl Tesla Girl I’m in love with Tesla Girl Bartholomew 'Barley' Keppler sat stiffly in front of one of the comm-console's many videoscreens. He couldn't really sit any other way; paralyzed from the neck down, his torso was kept upright in his motorized wheelchair by a rigid body brace that looked more like a medieval torture cage than a piece of modern medical apparatus. His head was cocked off to one side and his uncombed, greasy hair fell in lank waves to his left shoulder. The thick, black rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose distorted his bright blue eyes and nearly hid the glint of manic intelligence in them. The videoscreen in front of him was alive with oddly angular Japanese animation. As he watched, one of the characters pointed stiffly and shouted to another, "Blast him, Ray! Blast him with power!!" Knowing it would annoy Albert, Barley loudly...

SEPTEMBER 23, 1983 - WARREN'S HOUSE, 11:35 P.M. A humanoid creature, 12 feet tall, composed of some dense looking, bluish black, rubbery substance, stalked down the hall towards the group of superhuman intruders. Its jewel-like eyes flashed red in its otherwise featureless, clearly artificial visage. Huge three fingered fists clenched at the end of sculpted, massive, dark and gleaming arms. The polished linoleum of the hallway beneath the figure's dense, thudding feet seemed to tremble as it approached. Dave's character, Captain Jack Thunder, stared in wonder at the awful approaching apparition. (Dave himself looked in mild shock across the table at Warren, who was D.M.ing tonight.) "What the fuck is that?" Captain Thunder cried out. Night Vision, the black clad man in the battle harness festooned with futuristic gimmicks and weapons, dropped the unconscious ACE (Augmented Cybernetic Elite) agent whose body he'd been searching and yanked his Mark VII pulser ri...

PRE NARRATIVE DEVICE I was sitting out by the pool relaxing, chatting with the big titted blonde girl from England in an aimless fashion, when I heard the distinct little click of the upper right stem on my watch suddenly jutting out from the casing. The air took on the razor sharp, crystalline sheen of overtime. Liz froze into utter immobility, her pleasant rather than pretty facial features, errant strands of breeze blown blonde hair, half lifted hand with fluttering, unmanicured fingers, and frankly enormous boobs lifting and falling distractingly under a wet one piece swimsuit, all distilling into one sharp, utterly unmoving image, her mouth half opened, voice cut off partway through an adorably accented 'well, HONestly'. The gently lapping surface of the pool, being pushed around by the steady western breeze coming around the clubhouse ten yards or so away, went utterly still. The breeze itself cut off as if someone had thrown a switch. The air, and the world, lay complete...