By Kyle B. Stiff
As I watched the new Thor movie I decided that the basic events (one alien race asserting dominance while another race maintained the status quo) could very well be happening in reality. I’ve already made the leap and decided that not only is our universe inhabited by many, many sentient races, but other dimensions exist, too, and they’re also inhabited. I also decided that those various species will be similar to us in that they will want things, gather things, and fight over things. If that’s the case (and it probably is), then that means our species is competing against competitors we don’t even know about yet. So while I was watching Thor and his golden-armored god-soldiers fight against gray-faced drones in black leather, I couldn’t help but wonder, When I take the day off work so I can stay in bed and jack off at a furious pace and make a mark on my score sheet every time I blast another bullet from the clip, and I’m eyeing the clock because I want to see if I can beat my old record, and I’m drinking one juice pack after another because goddammit I’m determined to outshine my sixteen year old self who is doing this exact same thing but in another point in our time/space continuum… am I really helping my species all that much?
The pride I feel at “mastering my craft” is of course a veneer of bullshit because I know the answer is NOPE. There are species out there training vicious armies jam-packed with soldiers indoctrinated to physically become high off the concept of victory. There are laborers on strange worlds digging for uranium and thorium and all kinds of stuff that you need to make badass starships, unbelievable glowing towers, and unbustable bunkers, and they don’t really like working long hours on shit planets but they even put in extra hours because they know that part of their pay goes toward feeding artists whose work inspires their political leaders to not suck off some oil company CEO just because his penis is out and ready (metaphorically speaking). That sort of thing is happening out there among the stars. We worry about having seven billion motherfuckers on this planet, but I think that’s less about “overpopulation” and more about the fact that our efforts aren’t focused because, believe me, everyone else who’s in this race has a population that can be counted in the trillions, not billions, and their leaders are waking up covered in cold sweat because they don’t know if they have enough people and off-world colonies in order to effectively compete in this intergalactic pan-dimensional battle royale.
I don’t need to tell you that we’re not doing very well, but then again, maybe I do need to tell you that we’re not doing very well.
Now, don’t go getting all deflated. We’ve been at the top of the food chain for so long, that it’s made us soft. “Oh God, we’re not the top species in this galaxy! Why try at all?! Why not just fucking give up?!?!” Yeah, it’s frustrating, I get it – now please take those thoughts and bury them. They do not help. They have even less value than not caring at all. No, the best attitude to develop would be a sort of burning thirst for joy-through-victory coupled with an underdog’s determination PLUS with a wild card called “don’t be an asshole and get singled out for termination” thrown in for good measure.
Now, there’s probably some species out there that cooperate among themselves and use weight of numbers to their advantage. We’re not going to be able to use that tactic. Probably no species can when it has only its homeworld and zero colonies, but we’re also hamstrung in that we’re most likely a slave species (speculation on my part) and most of our leaders are psychopaths. I don’t want to harp on this point, but I’m assuming that we’re a slave-species because… well, just look at us. If a celebrity or a famous politician walked in the room, would you be able to function at normal capacity? Fuck no, you can’t even decide what music you like without someone else telling you! We were made to work in teams, to fight in packs, and to serve whoever has a leader-colored aura. I don’t like it and you won’t admit it, but that’s what we have to work with, so let’s get over it and keep moving.
Now, this sort of cognitive setup would be fine if we could trust our leaders, but we can’t. If our politicians could think of anything besides sucking off CEOs, then they would be on TV with all kinds of charts and diagrams explaining this alien situation to you guys and it would be super-simplified so everyone could get on board, and the biggest players in the corporate world would be trying to out-spend each other on projects to make humanity stronger, and our militaries would specialize in pointing their guns upward rather than wherever some draft-dodging politician told them. So right now we’re not competing… we’re not even trying to compete.
So do we give up? What did I just tell you earlier?! Are you a human or a dodo marked for extinction?! No, soldier, you don’t give up – in fact, you don’t even know how to give up. But since we’re not all in this together, that means we’re going to have to do wage this war guerilla-style for now. That’s right, you’re a fucking guerilla. You’re a balls-out covert operative in an army of one. You’re a mad general obsessed with victory, like Apocalypse Now’s Colonel Kurtz slowly dying in the urban jungle of a backwater planet. But you’re also the grunt assassin that works for that guy; you train all day long and you follow your commander’s orders without hesitation, you’re considered “special forces” so you’re given a lot of leeway in terms of how you execute your orders, but the important thing is that your commander has never once ordered you to fail in your mission. If you think it’s silly or stupid or obnoxious or straight-up incorrect for me to say any of that, then feel free to disagree, but before you disagree you need to give your species a couple dozen pushups, or hone any skill in your toolset for at least a couple of minutes, then disagree.
Which leads me to my next point: Quit acting like an awkward fucktard who’s “just trying to figure out this crazy world”. We’re out of time on that shit; you can’t fuck around in the playground once the sun goes down, you need to either run your ass home or get ready to fight some guy who came out of the woods and wants to take your pants off. Your job is to improve. Get your shit together. Hone whatever skills you have, strengthen your body and your mind, make your aura shine brighter, quit being so sad all the time (slap the shit out of yourself if you have to), or if you’re already on an insane self-improvement hamster-wheel then get your shit together by getting off that wheel and maximize your ability to relax. Every soldier has to relax in order to focus his will on completing the mission. Remember, you can’t win this entire war by yourself. Don’t get all sad and overwhelmed; we don’t have time for that shit. In all likelihood you have something decent that you can do that will contribute to the overall joy and strength of your species.
And let’s be realistic, there’s a very high chance that a hundred years from now humanity will be looking at the fires blazing along the hulls of descending ships and all will be in rubble and ruin, the lights in every city will blaze out and darkness will fall and we’ll use our crusty, dirty flags to keep babies warm while they sleep, but sleeping won’t come easy because at night our oppressors will send out their “combat models”, hyper-enhanced rabid freaks that move so fast we can barely see them, but we can definitely hear them shrieking like banshees after every kill. And our bent-over politicians will, of course, make the “hard choice” to sell plenty of us into slave labor to keep the species alive because that’s just the way those guys operate. But fortunately the humans who grow up on that hellish battlefield (which is only slightly worse than the hell-world we now inhabit) will fight back in small guerilla units using stolen gear and tactics we can’t even begin to imagine, and they won’t know how to give up, and the idea that they should fear death will be completely foreign to them because they have seen far worse than death, and the thing that will inspire those joy-addled bone-crushing motherfuckers will be the name of a savior long dead, a name belonging to one human who did something awesome back in the day, and they’ll whisper that name every time they spill blood in repayment for what was taken from them, and the name of that savior that the Death Commando Wolf Pack will cherish will be… oh shit, wait for it… that name will be YOUR NAME, YOU BEAUTIFUL MOTHERFUCKER YOU!
I no longer look up at the stars and think, “Could it be? Might there be someone… like us?!” The older I get, the more foolish that seems. Really, what are you guys doing? Are you waiting for “official disclosure”? Waiting for Obama to tell you it’s okay to believe in non-human sentient beings before you can get your shit in order? You don’t need an alpha male to tell you what to think and do. Just do your best because your species needs you. Yes, it needs you specifically. In fact, go ahead and get that big tattoo that says (on one tit) BORN ON THE HELL-PLANET and (on the other tit) DESTINED FOR THE STARS.
* * *
Hey readers! If you liked this hastily thrown-together post, you should check out some of my books. I’ve got an epic series called Demonworld, which is equal parts Mad Max and Lord of the Rings (think “science fantasy”), and a much-loved gamebook series called Heavy Metal Thunder which is currently a hyperlinked Kindle book but will be a fancy phone app any day now.