Read Online Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters by James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron - Free Book Online
Authors: James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron
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Marines.
The irritating shotguns and pistols pinpricks have transformed into throat catching searing pains of RPGs. My black blood floods the fake Harlem Renaissance street set. Helicopters swarm me. I’m a whirling dervish of muscle and whipping tentacles and gnashing teeth. Humans taste like sugar. I’m seeing black and more black, my blood, my mood, cracked asphalt, tanks, machine guns, rage.
I realize this, in fact, is my moment.
There are news vans everywhere, choppers, too. They’re filming the impossible. They’re making movies out of reality. True, it’s pro bono work on my part, but it’s still me in the spotlight, and I think about a billion hits on YouTube not being out of the question. And it is here when I realize I’ll give the people what they want, because at my core, I’m still that motherfucker. I’ll battle my way through what’s left of Walt Disney, then crush the indies, then make my way up the hills to that lie of a sign, and it’ll be there where I’ll make one final push, give them hell, let the world see me as an evil embodied—fuck terrorism and Amber alerts and To Catch a Predator —it’ll be me, front and center, the name Sweetgrass synonymous with Lucifer.
But I’ll let them win.
I’ll let them upgrade their arsenal to napalm and heat-seeking missiles. I’ll let my blood fall for a nation that’s as hypocritical about its love of shed blood as a Mormon couple soaking while still claiming virginity. I’ll be a martyr for a nation that needs one. I’ll be the narrative of the US prevailing, technology and steadfastness prevailing, good prevailing. They’ll make it a holiday. They’ll recreate my murder in all of the major cities, parades with monsters beaten with sticks, black candies spilling for type-two diabetes-infested children. It will be twice that of the Fourth of July. It will be the bedtime story Americans will tell themselves that everything is still okay, they’re still a superpower, they’re still chosen.
~
Just as I’m about to start heading to higher ground, the earth buckles, and then queefs and gives way. I’m thinking about some underground bomb having been detonated, my end fitting—not nearly as climactic as I’d planned.
But then I see Gema’s shark-like head pop up. She’s fast rising from the hole, fast spinning and biting, fast spitting out hunks of steel and crushed bone. She turns to me. There’s blood dripping down her neck, and yup, right between that valley of beautiful cleavage.
She looks at me and says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
I want to tell her I’m letting myself be killed. That I’m making myself famous. That I’m trying to do a single thing worthy of her affection, my own affection, something that makes me not hide from every acquaintance in the sea. But all that comes out is, “I don’t know.”
“So fucking stupid. Follow me.”
She dives back underground. I follow. And just like that, it’s over.
~
Here’s how Sweetgrass! the movie would’ve gone. We duck underground and Gema tells me how brave and sexy I am. She understands how I wanted to be famous in order to gain her love, which, she tells me, is stupid as fuck because she’d loved me all along. We make out and there’s probably some adventurous fingers and it’s love, pure and simple, the audience sympathizing with us while turning on the quick-to-kill humans. We swim out in the ocean, hand-in-hand, happy and in love, ripe for Sweetgrass2!
That’s the difference between real life and Hollywood.
Instead, Gema dragged me through the sewers, and then to the ocean and dumped me a mile off shore. She told me I was so fucking stupid and pathetic, that I’d ruined everything for our species, that I’d be lucky to live through the week after Diablo got a hold of me. Then she left.
Well, guess the joke’s on her, because it’s been a year to the day since I made my rampage through Hollywood. I’m still alive. I didn’t ruin shit for
The irritating shotguns and pistols pinpricks have transformed into throat catching searing pains of RPGs. My black blood floods the fake Harlem Renaissance street set. Helicopters swarm me. I’m a whirling dervish of muscle and whipping tentacles and gnashing teeth. Humans taste like sugar. I’m seeing black and more black, my blood, my mood, cracked asphalt, tanks, machine guns, rage.
I realize this, in fact, is my moment.
There are news vans everywhere, choppers, too. They’re filming the impossible. They’re making movies out of reality. True, it’s pro bono work on my part, but it’s still me in the spotlight, and I think about a billion hits on YouTube not being out of the question. And it is here when I realize I’ll give the people what they want, because at my core, I’m still that motherfucker. I’ll battle my way through what’s left of Walt Disney, then crush the indies, then make my way up the hills to that lie of a sign, and it’ll be there where I’ll make one final push, give them hell, let the world see me as an evil embodied—fuck terrorism and Amber alerts and To Catch a Predator —it’ll be me, front and center, the name Sweetgrass synonymous with Lucifer.
But I’ll let them win.
I’ll let them upgrade their arsenal to napalm and heat-seeking missiles. I’ll let my blood fall for a nation that’s as hypocritical about its love of shed blood as a Mormon couple soaking while still claiming virginity. I’ll be a martyr for a nation that needs one. I’ll be the narrative of the US prevailing, technology and steadfastness prevailing, good prevailing. They’ll make it a holiday. They’ll recreate my murder in all of the major cities, parades with monsters beaten with sticks, black candies spilling for type-two diabetes-infested children. It will be twice that of the Fourth of July. It will be the bedtime story Americans will tell themselves that everything is still okay, they’re still a superpower, they’re still chosen.
~
Just as I’m about to start heading to higher ground, the earth buckles, and then queefs and gives way. I’m thinking about some underground bomb having been detonated, my end fitting—not nearly as climactic as I’d planned.
But then I see Gema’s shark-like head pop up. She’s fast rising from the hole, fast spinning and biting, fast spitting out hunks of steel and crushed bone. She turns to me. There’s blood dripping down her neck, and yup, right between that valley of beautiful cleavage.
She looks at me and says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
I want to tell her I’m letting myself be killed. That I’m making myself famous. That I’m trying to do a single thing worthy of her affection, my own affection, something that makes me not hide from every acquaintance in the sea. But all that comes out is, “I don’t know.”
“So fucking stupid. Follow me.”
She dives back underground. I follow. And just like that, it’s over.
~
Here’s how Sweetgrass! the movie would’ve gone. We duck underground and Gema tells me how brave and sexy I am. She understands how I wanted to be famous in order to gain her love, which, she tells me, is stupid as fuck because she’d loved me all along. We make out and there’s probably some adventurous fingers and it’s love, pure and simple, the audience sympathizing with us while turning on the quick-to-kill humans. We swim out in the ocean, hand-in-hand, happy and in love, ripe for Sweetgrass2!
That’s the difference between real life and Hollywood.
Instead, Gema dragged me through the sewers, and then to the ocean and dumped me a mile off shore. She told me I was so fucking stupid and pathetic, that I’d ruined everything for our species, that I’d be lucky to live through the week after Diablo got a hold of me. Then she left.
Well, guess the joke’s on her, because it’s been a year to the day since I made my rampage through Hollywood. I’m still alive. I didn’t ruin shit for
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