Adam-Troy Castro

Writer of Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, and Stories About Yams.

 

I Refuse to Believe That This Building Is On Fire

Posted on October 29th, 2015 by Adam-Troy Castro

Originally published on Facebook 29 October 2014.

I am sick and tired of all these alarmists telling me that the building is on fire.

It’s a ridiculous premise just to begin with. The building? On fire? As if something as big as the building could possibly be on fire! The building was put here for us to use, and even to imply that it could be vulnerable to something on fire is an insult to everybody who’s ever worked here.

Second, it’s not like it’s even necessarily a serious problem. Buildings have been on fire before. A lot of those didn’t suffer any serious damage and many of them are still standing. The White House was on fire once. The White House! You don’t see that being mentioned by the alarmists who run around saying things like, “Why aren’t you paying attention to the alarm?” and “Why aren’t you running to the stairs like everybody else!” Fires are just part of the cyclical nature of things. It’s only now, that there are people trying to sabotage this company and hurt our ability to compete with companies like that, that anybody’s even making a big deal about it.

Third, there’s no real evidence that the building’s on fire. Oh, sure, the temperature’s rising, but I spent some time clearing junk out of an un-insulated warehouse back in 78, and it was almost as hot then. In fact, I once touched a hot car in the middle of a parking lot, far from ANY building, and badly hurt myself. Rising temperatures, all the paper starting to give off smoke, this is not proof that the building is on fire. What do you call a cigarette? It’s made of paper and it gives off smoke! And that’s a trillion dollar a year industry, worldwide! How come you never hear that from the screaming woman running around in circles with flames shooting from the top of her head? As for the smoke coming out of the vents, I’ve been in the smoking lounges of major airports! I’m telling you, buddy, that was smoke!

You ask me, all this talk about the flames raging all the way to the fortieth floor and only a few minutes left is just a distraction about all the other things that keep this office from functioning smoothly. You never hear anybody talking about Myrna refusing to fill the pot after she takes the last the cup of coffee. Conveniently, you never hear anybody bitching about Jack always clocking out five minutes early. You never hear about Peter playing the music in his office too loud. Those are the big issues. But let somebody mention fire once, send men in rubber suits racing between the cubicles in gas masks, and let the panic begin! Before we go running around willy-nilly, shouldn’t be confirm that it’s not just our competitors at Amalgamated spreading baseless rumors to harm our productivity in the marketplace?

The firemen? You’re forgetting the fact that they’re paid to fight fires. It’s their job. They have a vested interest in coming in here and breaking up our furniture with axes. If there’s no fire, they’re out of a job. Of COURSE they’d say there’s a fire. What do you expect them to say?

It seems to me that we never had a proper debate about this. The alarms could have been wrong. The people who saw Enid being dragged out of here on a stretcher could have been responding to rumors. The collapsing walls could have some other cause. The live footage from the news helicopters could be fear-mongering. You know what we need? I know I already disputed the sirens, and the order to evacuate, and the three separate groups of firefighters who came through here already – and, tellingly, RESORTED TO AD HOMINEM ARGUMENTS when I said I had the right to my opinion and was staying put – but if they want me to believe there’s anything to this, they will sit down and give the issue the benefit of an open debate. One of me versus one representative of whichever one of the ten different engine companies which are clustered around this building right now, fueling the hysteria. I’ll take him on. He can tell me that all their engineering models have the building ten minutes from collapse and I can ask him the hard questions about who’s really paying his salary, what his real agenda is, and whether he even believes in the building anyway. When he says, “To hell with this, we’re all bugging out,” you’ll all know that they’re too afraid to answer the hard questions.

Until then, I am staying put.

Two Things I Always Want To Make Sure People Know About Halloween

Posted on October 28th, 2015 by Adam-Troy Castro

First,

While it is vitally important to be vigilant around your children, and to exercise veto power over their treats, and while nobody diminishes the importance of that, the old scare-story about the razor blades in the apples is pure fiction.

It has never happened, not even once, not in all these years of parents assuring each other that the world today has gotten sicker than it was when they were children, because when they were children nobody would ever have been twisted enough to even consider doing such a thing; this is a lie both because there were also sadists and sickos when those parents were brats, as much as they would prefer to idealize their growing-up years, but also because there has never been, in the entire history of American celebrations of Halloween, even a single recorded case of this oft-repeated urban legend ever manifesting as fact, not even once, not a single time, never.

The tale has occasionally been trotted out for horror movies and this may be what you remember. But no kid has ever bitten into an apple and found a razor blade, ever, ever.

The way you know that this story is bullshit? Forget the sheer mechanics of it; forget that the hypothetical maniac would have to get the razor blade into the apple and somehow hide the slice in its apple skin well enough that some unwary kid of the sort who gets panicky over worm holes would have to bite into it oblivious of the obvious danger. Forget that in all these stories the kids bite into the booby-trapped apple on Halloween night and this would require us to believe in the existence of a kid who would forego piles and piles of candy to have a nice healthy apple.

Think on this: with this story accepted as fact by way too many people for longer than I have been alive, not a single impressionable maniac has ever been moved to attempt the trick.

You would think that if it were possible maniacs all over the country would be shouting, “What a great idea!” and razor-infusing apples all over the place. Even maniacs have too strong a sense of reality to attempt it.

Please. Try to have a tighter grip on reality than the average maniac.

Second,

If you are a homeowner and some kid who strikes you as perhaps a little too long in the tooth for Halloween comes to your door with a costume and sack, do not do what asshole homeowners do and shame the kid for being too old for the holiday.

Do you know how many kids in this country have Halloween ruined for them by adults who think it’s their job to be the one to spoil the wonder? Far too many. Listen up, you joy-devouring jackasses: kids grow up at different speeds, they become cynical and imagination-averse adults at different speeds, and you want it to happen naturally, not because some warty prune messianic about adulthood decides it’s her business to splash cold water in their faces.

What does it cost you if the kid dressed as Harry Potter is thirteen, not ten? One thumbnail-sized Three Musketeers? Is that sufficient provocation for making the kid go home feeling terrible about himself? Seriously, shame on you from somebody who’s succeeded in reaching his fifties without completely putting aside childish things.  Shame on you.  If the march of time’s golden chariot is that much of a concern to you, just die already.

Ode To That Signed Book by Him Who Chose To Block Me

Posted on October 26th, 2015 by Adam-Troy Castro

O that novel on my shelf
by him who chose to block me,
Who signed it o’er to my self,
in belief that it would rock me,
who called me friend and colleague then,
in the hopes I’d write some praise,
with fine excerptable blurb,
that might his royalties raise.
But alas! Alack! That book
of Heinleinian flavor,
with ray gun blasts, I ne’er took
an afternoon to savor.
My author pal got online
with Hugo-baiting rancor
o’er books both poor and sublime,
with allies like a canker.
My friend whose best wishes lie
beneath his byline banner,
unpersoned old humble I
in well-worn Facebook manner.
Now that novel on my shelf
by he who has ejected
reminders of my base self
who politics rejected,
do I keep it there to read
or prize as a memento?
Do I pluck it like a weed
and sell it for my rento?
Do I say that madness reigns
in crusades so demented?
Do I satisfy with words
that hurt feelings were vented?
I don’t know, and yet that book
sits still in my library,
teasing me with every look,
idle, sad, contrary.
In my garden of friend’s works,
I cannot bear to weed it,
even as it cruelly lurks,
where I will never read it.

 
 
 

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