The Aggravation Artist
By Matthew J. Traum

First appeared in the print edition of the
MIT “Graduate Student News” in February 2007

Damn, he was still there!

A graying beard covered the benevolent, devilish face while a quaint suit enclosed the frail, old body suggesting that this professional had no corporeal form. Perfect, pixilated, patches blended black, white, and gray down to every last detail: especially the glossy sunken eyes, which suggested his benign nature. Yet his brown, spit-shined dress shoes, nearly hidden by the length of the suit-trousers, betrayed the true sinister intent of this quaint little man.

As the shop keeper watched, to-be-customers would approach his store, but the insignificant fellow struck at each one, a reptile feasting on helpless rodents. The shopkeep knew for sure that perhaps, just maybe, his entire business could fall into jeopardy on account of the wee intervention of a nobody. They came (they flocked it seemed) to buy his wares. Yet every time the inviting “OPEN” sign compelled a close approach, that little troll would amble up and provide a vast, incoherent, irrelevant discourse that discouraged patronage for the nowstruggling entrepreneur store owner.

With a handful of carefully-selected words, this anticapitalist Maxwell demon held at bay every grocery consumer. The owner looked over the shelves of unbought cereals, lonely paper towels, and rot-worthy meat. He could stand it no longer.

He rushed out to his curb and handed the belligerent geezer a handful of pristine green-blue cash amounting to a few dozen-hundred dollars: the amount originally announced by the meager fellow upon his Monday arrival. Eyeing the fresh, clean money, the old one yielded his position just as another prospective buyer approached. A nod from his balding scalp signaled the unwritten contract fulfilled. Baggy legs carried the able business killer quickly away.

The store owner watched in abhorrence and reverence as the Aggravation Artist, a pioneering entrepreneur in his own right, ambled his way down the sidewalk to his next blue-chip mark.

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Global Spin
By Matthew J. Traum

First Appeared in the on-line edition of the
MIT “Graduate Student News” in July 2002

“I’m sorry, John, but the FAA simply won’t allow Global Spin to launch commuter rockets over U.S. airspace.” The junior senator from Virginia gripped the telephone receiver in his hand as if he were hanging onto it for dear life.

“Bob, I don’t have to tell you how much is riding on this decision,” came John Walden’s voice through the receiver. “The investment by U.S. business interests alone is nearly in the trillions. If Global Spin is not allowed to set up commuter routes into the states, we’ve had it.”

Senator Robert Tack sat in his darkened Washington office regarding the cityscape from his window. “The FAA says that there are security issues. Global Spin rockets may be designed to carry people, but for all we know some rogue nation could hijack one and turn it into an ICBM headed straight at Washington, D.C. We’d never know the difference until it was all over.”

“I don’t give a damn what those morons say,” John Walden’s voice remained reserved despite the incredible blow the FAA had dealt to his business earlier that day. “Global Spin has sunk billions into this plan. We’ve bought remote equatorial islands for staging platforms, we’ve developed the world’s most powerful rocket engines, and we’ve purchased a significant chunk of the world’s liquid propellant fuel supply. Don’t tell me that some Washington bureaucrat is going to stand in our way now.”

Senator Tack fingered the business prospectus sitting upon his desk. In the dimness he read the title to himself for the hundredth time: Global Spin – helping the world travel faster; CEO John Walden, Ph.D. He had read the document over a dozen times, and tried every approach he knew to get the plan past the FAA. However, the administration had a point: commuter rockets that took off and landed like airplanes could carry commuters from Tokyo to New York in an hour, but they could also carry disguised weapons of mass destruction half way around the world in the same time span.

Tack became aware that Walden was still speaking. “You’ve given us your word every step of the way and you’ve gotten some hefty kickbacks as a result. By God, you are a United States Senator; a damn good one. You tell those FAA bastards what you think of their decision by replacing them with someone who supports us.”

“Now you are talking nonsense,” the Senator said. “Do you know how big a deal it is to oust an FAA director?”

“I’ve had enough of this,” said the Global Spin CEO. “If the FAA isn’t willing to let our commuter rockets fly over U.S. airspace or land on U.S. soil, then we are going to have to do something drastic.”

Moments before, Tack was about to crush the phone with his bare hands. Now, the receiver almost slipped away from him. In a near whisper he addressed John Walden’s threat.

“John, calm down now, I think you’ve lost your perspective. Do you know what you are saying?”

“Too much has been invested to throw it all away. One way or another Global Spin is going to help the world travel faster… Goodbye.”

With an abrupt click ringing in his ear, the senator placed the receiver back onto the base unit. He sat in the dark for a moment trying to piece together the meaning of what the Global Spin CEO has just said. For the years that he had known John Walden, the man had been a bit eccentric, which is how he got so far with his space commuter project.

Tack sized up Walden in his mind. The man was an American, but at the moment he was on one of Global Spin’s equatorial islands where any government could get to him. Maybe one already had. Would John Walden really surrender his technology to some rouge nation to get revenge on the FAA?

The next image in Tack’s mind was dozens of Global Spin rockets raining out of the skies upon American cities. They could be tipped with chemical weapons, or worse. Hastily Tack picked up the phone and rang for the night secretary.

“Yes, this is Senator Tack. Get me the Secretary of Defense.”

For days, the gears of government and military turned without a sound. For what it was worth, Senator Robert Tack’s political career was over. His intimate involvement with Global Spin would be enough to oust him from office by the next election, but he felt that he had to act.

The taped transcript of his last conversation with John Walden had been enough to prompt a serious military assessment of Global Spin’s potential arsenal. Never before had a corporation been scrutinized as an enemy combatant. The results of the report prompted spy satellite orbits to change, anti-ICBM missiles to be re-programmed, and Global Spin’s accounts to be frozen. Key government and military personnel were moved to secure hideaways. NORAD was placed on the highest alert.

The first sign of trouble came in the guise of a memorandum from the National Weather Service to top government officials. NWS noted that their calculations for sunrise and sunset had missed the mark three days in a row and were steadily getting worse. Most of these memos ended their short lives in paper shredders. It was the second sign of trouble that caused a great stir.

Robert Tack emerged into a large subterranean conference room peopled by every major military and political player in the U.S. game. As an insider with Global Spin, Tack’s silent presence was demanded at such meetings.

An air force colonel began to speak. “A surveillance satellite crossing over the Indian Ocean last week spotted a massive heat bloom. At first we thought it was an eruption; routine for small islands in that area, but lack of seismic activity raised our suspicions. The satellite’s pass this morning reveled an identical image. We cross-referenced the island against recently acquired Global Spin records. The island houses their main engine test stand.”

A Navy Admiral cut in. “Well, lets get some bombers down there and take them out, whatever they’re doing.” Instantly, the room became saturated with generals’ voices.

Tack absorbed the information and instantly it all became clear. He had to yell for several moments to bring the room back to order. “Gentlemen, I think the last thing we want to do is destroy that installation,” he said against numerous glares of disbelief. “Don’t you see? Walden is using Global Spin’s rocket engines to do exactly what he promised: helping the world to travel faster. I suggest we get a negotiation team down to that island right away. We need to talk him into turning those engines around before all we’re left with is a 10-hour day.”

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Charous of the Dead
By Matthew J. Traum

First performed in a public reading at
Miramonte High School in October 1995

This house holds the blood of ten-thousand mortal bodies, and each piece of furniture symbolizes the death of one individual. The black place has dozens of cluttered rooms filled with dusty, disheveled furniture; each a spirit screaming for rest.

Some spirits scream louder than the others; so loud that their voices can be heard by the living. Screams and wails of all pitches reverberate through the house and the grey countryside dimly set around it.

The tenant walks among the screams in the halls of his house. He sometimes walks into the ballroom wherein his masterpiece waits: eight furniture pieces, five assorted chairs, a table, a headboard, and a lamp. When he brings his hand near to one, the spirit inside screams out with a raging pitch. Spanning a full octave, eight notes, the man can play his song.

No company ever comes over. In solitude, the man plays his blood curdling tune. Over and over again it echoes through the halls and through the dirty windows into the deserted gray beyond. Again and again the same song repeats until all who can hear fall into insanity by the tortured howl of the dead.

Sometimes, when the mood is right, the man sings aloud the words to his ever repeating song: “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb...”

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