Our friends at Barries' Rock 95 FM have been playing Vehicles on their Sunday night show with host Craig Ross. To request more Braintoy call Rock 95 at (705) 725-7304 or go to the contact section of www.rock95.com.

-Braintoy

The sky is black and they won't tell us why.

I'm tellin you, Winston says, dey invented some cockamamie weapon to fight dem core-dinated riots, only someone messed up bigtime. Blacked out de whole
sky.

You know this for a fact? I ask. We're seated at the table in the OR lounge.
Winston's 42 but until last month he looked about 28; now, 60ish. Tipping a
waterbottle to his lips, he rolls his eyes.

Dunno nuffin for a fact no more.

So what are you saying?

Hell, I ain't sayin shit. Just shootin it.

None of us knew what to think when the military arrived. Their Hummers
appeared a few hours after the sky'd blackened, carrying supplies, weapons,
and of course soldiers — edgy, frightened young men and women rigid with
orders. They prevented no one from leaving but made it clear that if you got
in their way, they'd thrash you ruthlessly and methodically. One woman, I
never knew her personally but I'd seen her face in the halls, I watched that
face get cleaved in half by a rifle butt, one blow, glazed eyes staring in
different directions, a brain-exposing fissure obliterating her nose.
Assaults like that go a long way in deterring others from trying any funny
stuff.

When's de next people hafta be down? Winston asks.

Half an hour.

Maybe I'll go help Elena in de sterile corridor.

A minute passes; he hasn't moved. Sterile corridor, I say.

Yeah yeah.

Apparently we are the hospital's best and brightest — doctors, nurses, etc.
— retained to do the military's bidding (all other staff exiled that first
day into a black-sky milieu wrenched from Revelations). I sleep on a couch
in the OR lounge. I don't know about other departments, but business hours
here means surgeries, sometimes six theatres running at once. I coordinate
patient transfers from ward to OR and Winston transports the patients. Just
like normal times. The military provides us with bottled water, warning us
not to drink tapwater, and feeds us just enough so we don't complain.

Before all this I had a buddy, I say, he actually warned me about food
riots. Couple years ago. Indonesia, then Germany, then Belize.

Winston nods. I member dem.

But he was a known apocalypse nut. I just figured he was spouting more
paranoid gibberish.

Whatever happened to um?

I shake my head. Dunno. Last I saw him was maybe a week before the first
food riot here. Malton, remember?

Did he —

Probably orchestrated it, for all I know. Probably died there.

Did you ever — ?

Twice. Three if you count the thing at Nathan Phillips Square. Stupid hotdog
vendors.

Winston laughs. Darwin awards for dem, sellin hotdogs durin a food crisis. I
mean you can't fault de rioters dare.

Sure, the rioters have committed some quasi-sensational atrocities — like
the mob last spring that stormed Parliament Hill and beheaded a janitor,
then sold footage of it to Al Jazeera — but in all fairness, Winston's point
is valid. They're starving. Plus they don't trust their water supply, for
good, demonstrable reasons, e.g., E. coli outbreaks in the Fraser Delta,
Okanagan Valley, Golden Horseshoe, pretty much all of Atlantic Canada, etc..
Combine these two variables and you've got one truculent bunch. Personally
I'm glad the military keeps them off hospital property. Sometimes when I
sneak over to the main lobby and its gloomy perma-night panorama, outside
I'll hear shots fired.

The lounge door bursts open, in rushes Quint. He dives on my sleep couch and
burrows under my blanket. Moments later a brazen fart cuts the silence,
fluttering the blanket.

Winston says, What de —

Again the door bursts open. In storms an armed soldier, head swiveling back
and forth. She spies the blanket-covered mound on the couch.

Give back the syringe, doctor.

The blanket-covered mound heaves, shudders, then settles heavily into the
couch's cushions.

The soldier brushes past me — faint whiff of white musk — and stands over
the couch, her back to Winston and me.

Take off the blanket, doctor. Give me the syringe.

From under the blanket drifts a feeble groan.

You injected, didn't you. Okay gasman, gig's up. Reaching, the soldier yanks
away the blanket to reveal Quint foetally curled, almost burrowed into the
cushions. Come on, let's go.

Quint replies in snore.

Izzat how it's gonna be? the soldier says. 'kay then.

Leaning down and sort of sideways, giving Winston and me a tasty view of her
tush, the soldier grabs Quint by the shoulders and heaves him most of the
way to a sitting position. Suddenly Quint's hand arcs around and plunges a
syringe into her neck.

You —

The soldier lifts a hand to her neck, then topples.

Presently Winston says, Dat was somefin.

Quint springs off the couch. That's when I begin to suspect he might've gone
a bit sideways. Eyes bulging with bliss, mouth gaping in grimace, dimples
throbbing with rosy tension, he looks like a clown without makeup.

Gotta get out! he whisper-shrieks. Can't take it anymore! Bad place!

Bad? I say. Why?

Quint gestures with twisted claw-fingers. Know what they're doing in there?

Surgery.

Know what kind?

Pre-canning, Winston says.

Huh?

It's a joke, I say. We call it pre-canning surgery.

Winston chuckles, which makes me chuckle.

What's funny?

Laughter subsiding, Winston says, Well, see, what you're doin in dare,
you're separatin de meat from de bone. Dat's de pre-canning stage.

Winston used to work at a meatpackers, I say. Way back when.

Clinging to that bugeyed blissful grimace, Quint issues the laugh of the
damned, a wobbly highpitched giggle. Finally he says, Can't take it anymore!
Gotta get out!

Where'll you go? I ask.

Anywhere but in here!

Winston shakes his head. No sir, you got it wrong. You wanna be anywhere but
out dare.

He's right, I say. Out there's nothing but moonless dark and roving packs of
cannibal zombies.

With a visceral shriek Quint flees, lounge door swinging shut behind him.
Almost immediately, shouted warnings commence: Doctor! Come back! Stop! Then
the squeaky thunder of many jackbooted feet sprinting down the hall. Halt or we'll shoot!

Winston looks at the soldier puddled on the lounge floor, then at me.
Whaddya say? he says. We got time enough fore de next people hafta be down?

I rise and smile. The question is: we got time enough before the anaesthetic
wears off?

From somewhere in the building, not far away, shots fired.

Dat free or four docs so far dis week?

Five, I say. Help me get her up on the couch.


By: The Impudent Hack

Have you heard of Aerobroken? These guys have put together a hilarious but totally awesome music show. If you're looking for good new music (heavy good new music) and don't mind playing a drinking game check them out. The latest episode has a review of Braintoy. For more go to: youtube.com/aerobroken

Wondering what to watch tonight? How about one of the earliest horror films - the wild and surreal '. Directed by Robert Wiene, the film is about a Doctor and his sleepwalking assistant and their connections to a string of murders in their local village.

Chris being a huge fan of this sort of thing, spent the past while editing some of the movie to our music. Its shorter, of course, but it will give you a good idea of the movie. And we think the footage goes quite will with Sputnik II. So enjoy it - a trailer for a movie made nearly 90 years ago. Happy Halloween!

I have this dream where I'm in the morgue. Nothing shines, everything grim grey metal, sharp crotchy odour of formaldehyde. No idea why I'm there or how I got there or who let me in, but it's cool and quiet and dimly lit and I'm all alone. The only door's locked, an oversized slab outlined in the grim grey wall. No light underneath. But I'm not worried. Not yet. I'll just wait for someone to come and open that door. Someone must be on break, back in ten. Wall clock says 7:30. Morning or evening? I suppose time doesn't matter in the morgue. Grim grey wall of minifridge doors, two rows of four. Is eight enough? One door hangs open, vacant slab stuck out like playful tongue. Various corpses on metal tables, in various states of dissection, at least one child. Organs scattered across metal surfaces like rancid fruit. Surgical trays strewn with stuff-smeared instruments, artefacts of the morgue's living occupants. I try to ignore the lurid details. Then my wondering what I'm doing there hits second gear. I'm not dead. How can I be dead? And I'm no morgue worker. Am I a morgue worker? A delivery guy with a laughable sense of direction? I have no idea. A big bloated blank where knowledge should be. But I'm not worried. Not yet. I start imagining things. Menacing metal whisper of blades being sharpened. Soft meaty shhh of scalpel slicing livid grey flesh, forging bloodless T-cut. Whiny saw grinding crunchy path through bone. Latexed hands establishing firm grip and prying torso open, stem to stern. Maybe I should stop imagining things. Just wait for someone — the returning living occupant — to open that big old door. Soon I get to wondering if I need be elsewhere. Am I missing some appointment or opportunity? I remember nothing beyond those morgue walls, a big blue haze of nothing. On a whim I reach for my wallet. But my back pocket's empty. In fact I have no back pocket, no pants, no clothes at all. I feel a bit like Adam probably felt after eating that apple and realizing he was nekkid. Conspicuously underdressed, to say the least. Room temperature suddenly plummets ten degrees and I scramble for something to cover myself with. Another artefact, a white coat hanging by the door. Probably any minute now the living occupant will open that door and find me wearing his labcoat, which probably has who knows what kinds of corpse gunk on it. Every so often those damn gaping-chested cadavers catch the corner of my eye like a stray nail does a sweater. They're on one side of the room, I'm on the other, that's the best I can do. Sharp crotchy odour of formaldehyde, everything grim grey metal. Wall clock hands still pointing at 7:30. Must be broken. How long have I been there? Unknown. And why no clothes? Unknown. Then my wondering hits third gear. How did I get in? Who brought me? Why don't I remember? Unknown, unknown, unknown. What's my name? My age? Do I have a family? Social insurance number? Nothing but a big bloated blank. But I'm not worried. Not yet. I sit in a swivel chair at a tiny desk cluttered with artefacts: computer, phone, stack of papers, mug of pens, framed photo of what looks like dog biting wincing man on hand. Over my shoulder the prickly crawling silence of gaping-chested cadavers. Minifridge door hanging open, single empty slab protruding like victim's tongue. I glance at the paper stack's top sheet. Death Certificate. The good old State, striving for authenticity through paperwork. Name: Lee Roadie. Sounds vaguely familiar, like someone I knew ages ago. Cause of death: artistic asphyxiation. What the . . . And that's when I start to wonder, Am I missing something here? Something cosmic, something crucial? Why am I suddenly convinced my destiny has been outsourced to the highest power? I can't remember my past and I've lost the contract to my future. Maybe I should go start hammering on that oversized slab of a door and pray someone hears. But I can't move from that chair. My right foot somehow stuck. Something attached to my foot is caught under the chair's wheel. Something attached to my toe. I move the chair. A goddamn toe tag. Now hold on here! Must be a mixup. But I'm not worried, not yet. When the living occupant returns, I'll just explain the mixup and then be on my way. Hopefully no paperwork. For now I reach down to rip off the toe tag. But it's fastened good, with something stronger than string, suture thread maybe. Needs some sort of sharp-edge intervention.

— And that's when I first awaken to cower under my sheets, realizing I hadn't been one bit worried in the dream, but now awake I'm approaching terrified. Afraid to return to sleep, afraid of the news awaiting me there. Trying not to fall asleep, trying not to fall, trying not to, trying not, trying —

Sharp crotchy odour of formaldehyde. Supine on grim grey metal table, waiting for living occupant to return. Not worried, not yet. How long have I been waiting? Long enough that when I finally hear the oversized door rattling in its frame then sweeping open, I smile for the first time since I can remember. Turn my face toward the door. Two persons, one my wife. I can't make out her face but I know it's her. My smile widens. I draw the breath I'll use to greet her and resolve this mess, but she speaks first, pointing at me, rendering my words, breath, body, the whole package null and void. 'That's him. That's Lee. Jesus, he's smiling.'

— For a second I think I'm still on the metal table, wracked by horror sweats and terminal thoughts. Then I realize I'm in bed, no longer dreaming, my terror authentic, another mental mess to clean up. Never been married.

By: The Impudent Hack

Noel totally hooked us up with this video, he's good at stuff like that. We were at Devo's place for a tupperware party when he (Noel) played us this awesome animated short. I hadn't seen it before but apparently it's a pretty big deal, it won an academy award in 1989. Wolfgang and Christoph Lauenstein directed it. I haven't found much else that they have done but if you come across anything let me know, I'd like to check out more of their work.

On a side note, this video goes really well with interlude... just a thought.

watch it here...

See ya,
Tristan

Every once in a while you see a film that really touches you in a special way. Maybe this time it had to do with the word 'brain' being in the title, or maybe it was the fact that it's as crappy as it is awesome, but 'The Brain That Wouldn't Die' is now on my short list of B-Movies: watch it here. As far as I understand it's public domain now - which means you could probably chop it up, stick it back together, give it some special serum and bring it back to life with a new body without any government agencies tracking your ass down. It would be interesting to see a cut of this put to surgery sink - maybe I should make a little project out of that. In my spare time... ha! Who's got spare time when you're as busy conquering the world as we are?

On a side note, we're glad you guys dug Jody's blog, that should become a regular occurrence around here. We like him, he carries heavy items without complaining. Much.

Adios,
Tristanthonomus

Hello.

My name is Jody LeRoadie and I'll be your substitute therapist while your regular therapist is away. Are you comfortable? Would you like a glass of water? Powdered is all I have, I'm afraid. And it's milk-flavoured. Help yourself. Over there by the Iron Maiden. And make sure you're comfortable. Because what I'm about to tell you may be extremely disquieting. And I'm not responsible for anyone's lost or stolen sense of security. Although it wouldn't be the first time. This one woman a few years back, a friend of my sister's, I inadvertently reduced to blubbery sobbing tears with a few honest, well-meaning words about her weight. Now this woman was not what you might call slender. More what you might call hefty. And my sister had told me this woman battled body-image issues, so all I was trying to do was tell this woman she was entitled to feel okay about her weight so long as she took responsibility for it. Or something like that. Anyway, she locked herself in her bedroom and overdosed on T3's. Just kidding. She shot herself in the head. Again just kidding. But I'm being serious when I say she's not spoken to me since. A little well-placed truth can disquiet entire administrations. So please, make sure you're comfortable.

I work in an operating room. I'm used to the sight of blood. I'll open the door to the theatre while surgery is going on, to pass a message to the anesthesiologist, say, that her horse out at the stables just cracked someone's skull, and the orthopaedic surgeon will be wrenching away at some poor old woman's degenerative hip, dramatic arcs of blood splattering the protective plastic shield surrounding the operating table, the raw red story of a high-performance individual's facility for sublimated aggression. I know one female orthopod, and she's not exactly big — much less hefty — but can she ever rip those bones apart at the joint. And then the crimson carnage at the post-op scrub out, all that expensive haemoglobin and DNA spiraling down the drain. Over the surgery sink a posted placard reads, Blood. It's on us all to give.

Sometimes I wonder if people really have any idea of what goes on when they're anaesthetised. I got to thinking about this a few weeks back, in the moments leading up to my surgery, my anaesthetic. A couple days earlier I'd gotten mad and slammed a knife into a cutting board. My pinky finger slid down the blade, letting immediate blood and severing my flexor tendon. I knew right away, my finger went numb and slack. Couldn't move it. Tried, as blood squirted from the wound, which wasn't very deep but well-placed. And two days later, in those final pre-anaesthetic moments, I begged the surgical team to go easy on me.

I'm part of the system! I cried. My father works here! He's your colleague!

But my pleas were like fodder for their sinister enthusiasm. I knew what was going to happen. These people around me would change, these nurses and doctors, into the very monsters you wouldn't want around your supine, anaesthetised body. The kinds of monsters who are very interested in your flesh and blood. Heavy blue blast of Propofol an anchor to my consciousness, dragging me down into a dark buzzing oblivion. The last thing I recall is the nurse standing over me, grinning, her teeth growing longer and sharper. And then—

I'll open the door to the theatre while surgery is going on, to pass a message to the scrub nurse, say, that her house is on fire. But she's not listening. I'm used to the sight of blood, but I still can't get used to seeing the sharks and vampires circling the patient on the table, every so often darting in and slicing a major artery and shrieking with primal delight as blood jets, or simply tearing off bloody flesh cutlets and defending them against greedy aggressors. Long forked tongues licking blood off the floor, the walls, the equipment, the patient, each other. Anesthesiologist with Orphan Annie eyes doing ketamine in the corner. Doctors from all over the hospital lining up at the theatre door, nosing me out of the way, sharks smelling blood and baring rows of greedy, serrated teeth. If only the Health Minister could see this.

— And then I wake up in the Recovery Room, a slow, blurry wakeup in high definition. The darks extra dark, the brights extra bright. The drugs still outweighing me, but just barely. A vampire nurse looming bedside, grinning with normal teeth and proffering a popsicle. A consolation prize? Her hands and face and scrubs polished and blood-free. My hand all bandaged up like a lollipop, my arm the stick. By the time the bandages come off, the bite marks will have healed.

Time's up. See you next week.

A short while ago we filmed a cover of Pink Floyd's 'Sheep'. We just put it up on youtube in two parts. Enjoy it!

Part 1 is over here: Sheep (Part 1)

Part 2 is here: Sheep (Part 2)

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