Digital Cicada

  The Pilot Chapter Three: Clancy was off doing things no one expected him to, as usual. A woman named Hazel had enlisted his services. They chatted while he put up her Tv, and hit it off. So well, in fact, that they found themselves that night at the Spicy Cranberry, a hip young gastropub. While they dined on odd salads, their conversation turned to life. Hazel had just finished a moving speech about helping restore the great barrier reef, when she asked, “So, Clancy, what are your plans for the future? Not going to be doing odd-job home installations forever, are you?” Clancy, who had been having a marvellous time, locked up. A deep, deep well opened up in him. Out of it escaped confusion, fear, and dream-like nausea. He muttered something about the bathroom and left. He did run back in with a sorry face and left some cash on the table, not wanting Hazel to be stuck with the bill. He was going to say something, but got scared off by her scorching look of consternation. Worried br...

  The Pilot Chapter Two:   “Long way from the race, are ya mate?” came the tinny voice of a fox-skin hat. No, the voice of the man wearing the hat. “Not surprised much, you don’t look like much of a runner.” Hoping that statement was about his office attire and not his body, Clancy steeled himself to the matter at hand,  “Where the fuck am I?”  “Mate, you need water? Let's get you to the officials and fix you up.” After a long and drawn out conversation with a bystanding concerned mother and avoiding several numbered marathoners, Clancy had an Idea of what had happened. Or at least what had seemed to happen. He was in Australia. Clancy confusingly had all his valuables, and wondered how long he had to have been knocked out or drugged by assailants to wake up on the other side of the Pacific.  He found a newspaper. Checked the date. He hadn’t been out. He seemed to be exactly 17 hours ahead of where he had been, well, moments ago. The same place in the sun’s eyes...

  The Pilot Chapter One: Hans Schimmelpok and Clancy Blankets were daydreaming. One day, they thought in unison, they would have their own agency. Modern private investigators extraordinaire. Currently on their way to the bank, they imagined stopping a runaway madman and reclaiming large canvas bags with dollar signs on the front. Maybe then they could reclaim the ashes of their dreams from their currently relegated, unknowingly discontented roles. For now, they were running an errand for their boss. Their rusty Impala sputtered in the wind. Down the road, climbing above the horizon, sat the Sky Arrow. It was a cheesy tourist attraction, promising a view to the stars and above. They had visited it years ago on a class trip. Clancy, going through a pirate phase, brought a spyglass. Peering zoomed on city streets below, they realised then and there it would become where they observed the happenings of vast and dense lands.  They reached the bank. There was, as expected, no burgl...