Practice Makes Perfect

by George O'Gorman

Scientists spotted the thing at a distance of approximately 9 AUs from Earth. Orbital telescope observations revealed it to be an object resembling nothing less than a vast brain. Almost as big as Earth's moon. And covered with what looked like human blood.

"Do we have a vector on this?" General Phylaxia said.

"Yes, General."


"Headed straight for Earth."

"I see."

"And fast, General. Like a bat literally shot out of Hell."

"I see."

"And you can't really make it out on these images, but the giant brain is so bloody, it's leaving a trail like a comet's trail. Except in blood."

"I see."

"Do you, General?"



The president of the United States of America didn't look up from his game of Mumbledy Peg.

"Yeah," he muttered, stabbing a Marine Corps Kaybar knife into the top of his desk. "General Phylaxia? How we lookin' on this giant bloody brain comet thing?" Stabbing.

"Well, at the present moment the observatories are in agreement..."

"GYHU! God damn it!" Laceration. Deep. Blood just starting. The president held his thumb up. Looking at it in disgust. Then he reached for the fifth of 100 proof vodka. Guzzling. Then, slowly, he placed his hand back down on the table. "Go ahead, General. What's the situation report with this thing?"


"FUCK!" Index finger. To the bone. Blood just starting. "What are you waiting for, Phylaxia!? Give me the fucking report!"

General Phylaxia clenched his jaws shut. Holding it back. The puking. He wasn't used to seeing blood. Or insanity. Not on this level. "Okay, then..."

"Hwooh! Hwooh!" The president jumped up. "Practice makes perfect! Practice makes perfect!" His pinky. Dangling.

Earth would be ready.

George O'Gorman is a part-time laborer, full-time writer and musical artist. His fiction has appeared in many publications, including Neonbeam, Neon Literary Journal, Tales of the Zombie War and Chimeraworld #5 .