That one-space/two-space argument

On FB, I just shared some uptight bed wetter's "article" on why it is absolutely wrong to type one's work with two spaces after the period (versus one).  Know what?  Don't give a rat's f*ck.


I equate this to nuns slapping their students' wrists (for being left-handed) or that drinking-of-tea-with-the-pinkie-out crap.  Also, this useless prick didn't offer any strong benefits or rationales to support his claim.  He just said he was right and everyone else was wrong - even though millions (probably hundreds of millions) of people who TYPE THIS WAY!


Two spaces is easier on the eyes, especially when re-reading through hundreds of pages worth of text.  Dropping a space might knock a page or two off the book's total length (big whoop).  Switching period spacing's hard to consistently do (like not swearing).  And, I'm sorry, did anyone ask us regular folks' opinions before nailing this stupid rule into "rules-of-writing" stone?  Nope.

Apparently, someone else (stuck reading this thumbsucker's article) threw in a fix.  A way to program MS Word to remove the space.  Here it is: http://voices.yahoo.com/using-ms-word-remove-extra-space-after-period-6229262.html.  Hope it's of use to anyone who wants to go one-space.


There.  Rant done.


Have a nice day.


M

JUST NOT WORTH IT

     I heard them out there, looking for me.  In the waning darkness, I sucked on my last cough drop and checked my ammo.  Three rounds left.  I sat with my back to a tree and loaded the Glock.
     So this was how I was gonna die?  Somehow, my city-boy ass lasted fourteen months on the run.  I survived the initial outbreak.  The riots.  The nukes.  Them.  In the end, what brought me down were my goddamned sinuses!
     The Virus (among so many other things) kills the immune system.  These days, a common cold was equivalent to terminal cancer.  Ever since I was a kid, I had bad sinuses.  If I didn’t get to the doctor within a week, I usually ended up with bronchitis or even pneumonia.  As of last week, my phlegm started coming up green: a bad sign.  It took me three days to find some antibiotics.  By then, it was too little, too late.
     I was gonna die.  Then I was gonna become one of them.  As bad as the zombie apocalypse was, surviving the undead hordes was even worse.  They were slower than us but just as strong.  They were everywhere.  The worse thing about them though?
     They could reason.
     Earth was a post-Apocalyptic world overrun by thinking, talking zombies!  They rotted just like big budget movie corpses but loved using guns and underhanded tactics.  In some countries, civilization even endured . . . sort of.  The fuckers hunted us and killed each other.  They lacked compassion, mercy, honor, or regret.  All that mattered to them was the next meal.  To that end, they warred among themselves for every scrap of fresh human flesh.  The more they fed, the better they schemed.  We were “brain food” to them.  Some of the fuckers even bred us like livestock.
     A starving zombie, on the other hand, was batshit insane . . . to the point of feeding on their own.
     I should’ve ended myself long ago, back when there was still hope.  Enduring, for the sake of survival, just sucks.  I could run.  But they’d find me eventually.  Zombies don’t use hounds for anything but appetizers these days.  The fiends had my scent and could track me for miles –
     The wind suddenly shifted.
     Now, I caught their stench.  A search party.  One large enough for my clogged nose to smell.  As we were in Georgia, they’d surely be zombie rednecks with long guns and great aim.  With two trembling hands, I pressed the Glock against the underside of my chin.  I hoped that I didn’t fuck this up.
     I had one shot.
     One chance to die a man.
     May they fucking choke on me.

Am I Good Or Evil?

Had I been born in an older time, I’m sure I’d either be a villain or simply burned at the stake.  The nature/nurture argument aside, my thoughts just seem to swirl into dark places, allowing me to be a better writer.  Still, some part of me’s a bit uncomfortable by my dark side.  Worried.  Afraid, even.

One bothered evening, many years ago, I once asked my best friend if I was good or evil.  An old roommate of mine, he had known me for about . . . a decade-plus at the time.  Without missing a beat, my plain-spoken amigo went and said something I’ll never forget.  He said: “You aren’t evil: but you speak the language.”

I guess I can live with that.

AN EASY MARK

            Anderson Moach sat in the corner booth of The Bladed Dragon Chinese restaurant.  The trendy and overpriced tourist trap had nine large-screen TVs, each of which showed nothing but martial arts movies.  Moach was a tall assassin who wore casual attire over his wiry frame.  He eyed the packed house and nursed a pot of tea currently with two empty cups.  Resting on his lap was a gray gym bag with a silenced MAC-10 (and spare ammo) inside.
            At 44, the hawk-faced killer saw Pillar City as one of God’s bigger mistakes.  The floating metropolis had been a criminal hub for almost a century now.  The only reason he’d risk coming back here was to repay an old debt.  Moach checked his watch, surprised that Ling would be late to her own  –
            “You’re looking well.”
           The startled assassin looked to his right to find Ling Chang sitting next to him.  His weapon was (somehow) now cradled in her dainty hands.  The psychic oracle kept the MAC-10 under the table as she briefly appraised it.  She wore black slacks, comfortable black shoes, and a yellow blouse.  Her brown leather purse now rested between them.
           Thin and graceful, Ling wore her graying black hair in a tight bun behind her head.  A pair of silver bifocals covered her plain, round face.  While she barely looked a day over sixty, Moach knew that she was much older.  In fact, Ling had barely aged a day since she had recruited him some sixteen years ago.
           “You’ve brought ten extra clips,” Ling said with a smirk.  “Expecting trouble?”
           “I’d rather be slumming in Tehran with an American flag on my back,” Moach griped.  “Why am I here?”
           “No, I’m not calling in that favor you owe me,” Ling smiled as she discreetly returned the submachine gun.
           Moach’s eyes angrily narrowed because her e-mail suggested otherwise.  Ling poured herself a cup of tea.
           “I do have 100,000 reasons for you to kill someone.  An easy mark.  Lightly-defended.”
           “Why me?” Moach frowned.  “You short on manpower?”
           To his surprise, Ling nodded.  She reached over and tossed down the tea like it was a shot of whiskey.  Satisfied by the taste, she poured herself another.
           “The world’s gone mad since Clean Sweep,” Ling frowned.  “With the heroes gone, my workload’s increased ten-fold.”
           Moach could empathize.  Before the heroes were slaughtered, Ling’s teams could barely avert most of the threats she foresaw.
           “Who’s the mark?” Moach asked as Ling emptied the second cup.
           “A child,” she replied.  “Barely four years old.  Almost slipped past my Sight.”
           “What makes her so special?”
           “Three months ago, she was kidnapped, augmented, and brainwashed.  A week from now, she’ll resurface with a psychic scream.”
           From his experience, psychic screams could kill almost anyone who heard them – even psychics like himself.
           “How bad?” Moach winced.
           “Based on my vision, the child will kill most of New York with one eight-second scream.”
           Ling poured herself another cup and waited for Moach’s questions.
           “Who’s behind this?”
           “We currently lack the resources to investigate even half our threats anymore,” Ling shrugged.
           Moach sighed.
           “What if I was to . . . ‘settle’ this for you?  Kill the girl and the guys who took her.  Would that make us even?”
           “It would be a start,” Ling replied with a proud smile.  “Since I cannot afford to adequately pay you, feel free to steal whatever you wish from them.”
           Moach’s mouth curled with a tempted grin.
           “Just remember: you’re on your own,” Ling cautioned.
           "That’s how I like it,” Moach replied.
           “Also, whatever happens, you must kill the child,” Ling insisted.  “We cannot risk another act of mercy.  Can you do that?”
           Moach stared off, fully aware of what Ling’s reference.  Back in 2000, Moach fell in love with a potential threat . . . and let her live.  He took sufficient steps to nullify her actions (or so he thought).  Instead, 9/11 happened – just as Ling foresaw it – because he showed mercy.
           Afraid that Moach had gone rogue, Ling’s superiors in the U.N. wanted him dead.  It was she who allowed the assassin to fake his suicide and “retire” from the scene.
           “I need their faces,” he said.
           Ling gently touched his right hand.  Images of the child, her captors, and the impending mass killings flooded his mind.  Now that he had seen the bastards’ faces, Moach could find them anywhere.
           That was his power.
           As for the girl, she was close . . . less than a few blocks east.
           “Consider it done,” Moach assured her.  “Cash, please?”
           “In your lap,” Ling smiled as she emptied the cup and rose from the booth.
           Moach looked down.
           In his lap, there was a stuffed manila envelope with his MAC-10 resting over it.
           “How do you keep doing that?!” Moach started to ask before he noticed that Ling was gone.