the tamago report

Eggs benedictated


by Mark Yeow

You can tell a person’s life by the way they walk. Plodders whose feet scuff at the dirt, trying but not hard enough to push back time. The daydreamers who dawdle at birds and flowers and plastic bags in the wind. The hurriers stumble and fumble in their scurrying FROM; the marchers adopt military pace in a clip-clop quest TO. Only a few realize you don’t need to walk. I used to jetpack until a gang wearing trout’s-head masks pulled me down and broke half the bones in my body. Now it even hurts to hobble.


by Mark Yeow

In the third month, we ran out of bacon. But Dad had seen this documentary before the blackout. So he shot two Vorpids in the mountains and we sliced them up thin and covered the slices in piss and buried them by Mum’s grave for a week. But me and Cotter didn’t want to try it, so the next survivor came wandering we offered it to him. Big guy with a spade who looked at Cotter like fresh meat. Next day he was retching up blood and Dad had to feed him to the snarks. I can tell he misses bacon.


by Mark Yeow

Count wants organ-walkers for the live music. Look like robot chickens, warble like trumpets and French horns as the bellows gasp and vomit. Darius says inadvisable, space too small, tech too new. Count insists. Day of ball. Playing Grieg, two walkers go HAL. Burst out of pit, trample guests into red putty. General Tre nails one, it falls on him, turns him as boneless as the pig on his plate. Darius sets off EMP. Paranoid, but right to bring. Not before robo-chickens eat Count and spew into air with ending fanfare of Mountain King. Ironic. Messy. Cleaner bots might go HAL when they see.


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