DECAYSQUAD iS A STORY BEiNG WRiTTEN BY EMMA ABOUT KiLLER ALiEN BUGS AND THE MiLiTARY's RESPONSE TO THEM. iT iS ABOUT A MARiNE, FUCKJAW, WHO LiKES CUDDLiNG OTHER MARiNES, BUT NOT AS MUCH AS HE LiKES FOLLOWiNG THE RULES WHiCH PREVENT THiS. HERE iS MY iNTERViEW WiTH THE LOVELY EMMA WHiCH WROTE THiS LOVELY STORY:

Who is emma? Emma is a scared little bug that has a job it hates and constantly imagines it is capable of far more than it is against all evidence.

What inspires you? The history of revolutionary marxism, my boyfriend, all the people I’ve ever loved before, Samuel Delany and Dennis Cooper, Starship Troopers, DXM and CNS stimulants.

What is your writing process like? About twice a day I try to write and get nowhere, often I’m at work. Every now and again I try to write something and things actually start happening. I try to write on paper to start because its easier to always have that around allowing unprompted writing. Anything substantive I’ve done has been under the influence, this is a shame and I regard it as a personal weakness even though I view it as a strength in many others. I write until I’m done and come back and proof read later. Proof reading is far easier than writing and I don’t want to spend moments where I feel capable of writing on proof reading, this leads to often quite confused writing that should’ve been proof read before it became something else. I hate how I write and I don’t think I could do it in any other way.

What is important to know about comedy? Comedy is both a tool of social cohesion used to smooth over difficulties in social situations and a way to have a go at the petty tyrants we find in cliques and institutions. I think at its core there’s something quite (at least potentially) conservative about comedy, it neutralises things that are different and bizarre, makes them palatable and consumable.

At the end of the day gallow’s humour does go some way to reconciling you to your death at the hand of the gallows. Of Course this is an easier thing to say in a world dominated by right wing netflix specials where random cunts gather together to say a series of extremely cruel things and then call it comedy but I think our various left leaning comedians have fallen into this trap of making the unbearable bearable and the bizarre consumable but like, I mean I’m talking about some hilarious technically proficient stuff, certainly I’m talking about funnier more insightful jokes than I would ever hope to make.

Stewart Lee has a bit where he says he wishes the top gear presenters died, but he doesn’t really, but actually he kind of does. He’s having a go at how people like Jeremy Clarkson who say these horrible cruel things that they clearly wish they could just say point blank but instead they use the cover of a joke to say it. But like idk if I wanted him dead but I definitely do want people like Jeremy Clarkson gone from our public life as a society? And I feel like there’s a more serious feeling of rage at how much bigots are able to dominate our public life that is being defused by the humour. But like I do love comedy?

I definitely do. And I think anyone whose lived as a social outcast and develops an appreciation of humour does so because of its potential to allow you to live in potentially hostile social environments and be consumable to the people around you whilst retaining an element of who you are in the consumption process. I hope that's what the comedy of my characters does. It's meant to be the comedy of a weird kid in school fighting for his place in a social milieu that despises him but rather its these horrible disgusting people fighting for space in your brain. The people aren’t disgusting enough yet, maybe that's why it's not funny enough yet.

What is important to know about disgust? I’m obsessed with disgust, I used to have a lot to say about it, I don’t know if I do anymore I’m worn down by it. But ultimately when you’re a disgusting person you have to learn to live with yourself and you start to recognise that a lot of the people who love u dont love you in spite of you being disgusting but rather through ur disgustingness. My wearing down comes from not being sure what conclusions to draw from this, but I refuse to budge on the fundamental observation itself.

What are the plans for Emma? Continue trying to write, continue changing my life circumstances in an attempt to discover one that allows me to read and write as much as I want to. Read more sex scenes because I clearly cannot write them for shit. Wallow in self-hate more, try desperately not to do that.

i SHALL REMiND YOU OF SOME THiNGS AND PRESENT TO YOU A NEW THiNG. DECAYSQUAD iS A STORY BEiNG WRiTTEN BY EMMA ABOUT KiLLER ALiEN BUGS AND THE MiLiTARY's RESPONSE TO THEM. iT iS ABOUT A MARiNE, FUCKJAW, WHO LiKES CUDDLiNG OTHER MARiNES, BUT NOT AS MUCH AS HE LiKES FOLLOWiNG THE RULES WHiCH PREVENT THiS. HERE iS THE STORY:

“WAKE UP, WAKE UP THIS IS A DRILL, I REPEAT THIS IS A DRILL” the 2am drill alarm rang out through the barracks. “I guess it’s drill time” thought Fuckjaw to himself as he rubbed his eyes and slowly swung his legs around so they hung off the bed. “I love drill time” he murmured to himself. “I know you do” came the voice from the bottom bunk, that was Shitarm and Fuckjaw would’ve done anything he could to have been waking up in the same bunk as him, but the rule was one marine per bunk and if Fuckjaw liked anything more than cuddling marines he liked rules. Tragically the rule was part of a larger collection of regulations, guidelines and dictates known as the parameter protocols designed to prevent any affection getting out of hand. “Do you feel we talk too much?” Asked Shitarm as they put their armour on, the alarm blaring constantly. “Well you definitely do” Fuckjaw responded, gently helping him place his helmet on. They weren’t allowed real power armour for training, the barracks coup near the start of the war had made sure of that, and the pliability of the far weaker plastic made it possible to feel the hole in the back of Shitarm's skull where a bug had skewered him last year. Both of them sunk their shoulders in a despondent recognition, but they had agreed not to talk about it. The rest of the room was going about much the same. The armour, even its weaker version, was too cumbersome to put on alone. Formally the protocols insisted no one help another put on his equipment, but you try to find room in the budget to put an armour-equipper in every bedroom.

Marching, albeit with little care for pacing or formation, out to the training arena revealed the same wide open space as usual. Grey fortification-like walls lined the perimeter while the area was little more than a sand pit filled with target ranges and cabinets holding guns, knives and the remnants of first aid kits. In all honesty it was a deeply impractical arrangement, the corridor through which they had marched was the only point of access to the arena and yet the targets mostly lined the space near the entrance/exit (many people had been accidentally shot upon entrance/exit) while the cabinets sat on the far side in the middle of it all instructor Verbnoun stood. Verbnoun barked at them as soon as the first two of their formation set foot on the sand "Decaysquad! Line up against that wall the drill was not a drill, I repeat the drill was not a drill". As the squad fanned out and stood with their backs fast against the wall, exactly an arms length plus just a little bit more apart from each other, their minds raced with questions. This was explicitly a training camp for injured marines. "We woke you up last, given your undiagnosed damages” the barking continued, although "undiagnosed" is a cumbersome and hard word to yell even for a man as used to yelling as Verbnoun. "The city is under attack" he continued, less loud now clearly embarrassed by his difficulty with the word 'undiagnosed', “obviously we don't trust you right next to the bugs but conveniently, almost too conveniently” he muttered suspiciously “we have 6 turrets that we need the 12 of you to operate”. Lieutenant Fuckjaw couldn’t restrain himself in the immediacy of his correction “it's not a coincidence sir!!! the turret batteries are designed to be operated by one squad in an emergency” he blurted out as quickly as he could, already covering his mouth with his hand in apology before he had finished the sentence. The gesture was itself pointless, the communication module of the armour was located in the chest due to its clunky nature, but Verbnoun’s embarrassment led him to accept it as sufficient apology and simply point to the turret battery sitting on the far side of the base with a subdued “get going”.

Back into the entrance/exit corridor they ran, a glance back to the closing door showed a frantic instructor yelling into his mic as the two diagonal metal panes finally slammed shut meeting in the middle. “What do you think he’s doing?” Shitarm asked, looking to Fuckjaw as well as one can while running. Before there was a chance to respond, sergeant Exilethroat yelled back from the front of their formation “he’s doing his job, which is exactly what you should be doing”. He always was a bossy little bitch, that’s why they made him sergeant. Barreling through the absolutely empty military industrial complex (complex like the building) would have most likely been a deeply eerie experience, if there had been someone to turn off the 2am drill alarm. The bugs always attacked at night, or at least they did following the breeding accords [of (date)] signed with the bats - echolocation was a distinct advantage in the dark. Arriving now at the turret battery entrance after a good 20 minute run, the newer members of the squad were visibly exhausted, used to the mechanised armour doing most of their running for them. Fuckjaw and Shitarm always ran up the back, their war torn bodies a threat of embarrassment to anyone who found themselves struggling to keep their distance. They huddled into the elevator to take them up to the controls. It was a service elevator, the exact same one used in the construction of the tower the controls were at the top of in fact. With each step someone took they felt it move gently, then creak slightly less gently. There was piss on the floor, frankly it could've been the piss of the person who built the thing, and as it only went between two floors the control panel was just a cracked little glass button - press to go up if you're down and down if you're up. Pressing it began the ascent and every bump and wobble as it moved up rippled through the marines, their armour clanking together. Fuckjaw’s arms dropped to his sides, trying to make himself as small as possible and while he couldn't get a proper look through the needlessly large shoulder pads that displayed their rank and squad he was sure he felt the pressure of Shitarm’s hand pressed against him.

The elevator slammed into the roof of the tower as it reached its first and final destination, had there not been metres of concrete and plasteel in the way it would have probably taken them straight to the bug planet itself. The first four exited, shuffling into the darkness of the control room, the glow of lit-up console buttons and the burning of a few skyscrapers kilometres [new unit of measurement] over in the city were all that illuminated the room. “They redirect all non-essential power to the shields of the city when it's under attack, we’ll have to use...” Exilethroat began explaining to his squad, but before he could finish he was interrupted by Shitarm’s torch coming online and beaming a thick beam of bright light into his eyes as Shitarm pivoted to allow Fuckjaw to turn on his head-mounted torch. “Yeah we’ll have to use our torches.'' finished Exilethroat, as he averted his eyes and set about making his own beam. The remaining 8 made their way out of the elevator, torches slowly filling the room with light. “These are mark 3’s why the fuck are we even here” exclaimed Decayhip, he was Exilethroat’s partner and the newest member of the unit, he barely still had use of his left arm from the injury that landed him in the squad. Mark 3 civilian defence turrets had complex computers onboard and the presence of a gunner was mostly to satisfy laws surrounding AI and only humans being allowed to authorise use of lethal force. “I could've done this while I was still in the infirmary” he continued, his rage showing no sign of letting up. “And you will do it now while you’re still in Decaysquad” Exilethroat was quick to rebuke him “come on you’ll’ve left us by the end of the week, probably quicker given this invasion” he pointed out the window “just do your job”. 6 consoles sat with 2 hard steel chairs sitting in front of them, clearly not built to hold someone wearing power armour of any quality. The tower itself resembled an air control tower and each control console stood behind a large rectangular window blackened to only be one way. In the middle of each console was a monitor, to its left and right a series of glowing buttons, most of them superseded in functionality by the big red one sitting above the monitor that just said “fire”.

Quietly at first, buried amongst those other things you hear as a “did i hear that?'' In the back of your mind, the wooden crate - left over by the people who built the place - in the corner began to rustle. Then louder and louder, the noise transforming from being a vague movement of the crate to a very definite movement of something inside the crate trying to escape. "That box wont stop moving" observed Shitarm, but his commander immediately rebuked him. "I know! We all know, its loud as fuck and whatevers inside it is probably about to kill us, you see any guns around here?". "None built for humans to fire, '' murmured Decayhip, still deeply disgruntled. This kind of petty bullshit could have probably ensued for a good half an hour, the burning city in front of them as much of a cause for urgency as the vibrating box to their side. However the bug in the box found itself horrified at the thought of listening to these marines for one more second, used as it was to the comfortable silence of a hardly used control room and immediately broke out, making a bee (ant? mantis?) line for the commander's face. It was covered in murky yellowish-brown chitin, if it had stood upright on it's back two legs it would have easily been Fuckjaw’s height like some kind of perverse antennaed kangaroo come to knock the shit out of him. The middle pair of its 6 legs ended in sharp pincer-like points, darkening as you went further down the leg and chitin locking closer and closer together until at the very bottom a green venom was slowly secreted. It moved in a confused scuttling way, the changes to its middle legs clearly causing it some difficulty, and yet it still rapidly closed the distance between the wreckage of the box and Exilethroat’s face, rearing up on its hind legs and leaping towards him with its pincers aimed a eye’s width apart.

Poison and blood collide, supposedly an iris is located in the mess but Exilethroat’s beautiful green eyes mix too readily with toxin for that to matter. “Ahhh fuck” came the inevitable scream as he wrestled with the bug sitting on his face, trying to dislodge it, the panicking only made it dig deeper through his skull and as it reached his brain Exilethroat’s balance gave out, he fell backwards Decayhip running up on his right landing a mostly worthless punch in the creature’s thorax. The remainder were running about desperately looking for weapons knowing fighting the bugs without them was worthless. In the distance a skyscraper erupted in an explosion of flame, illuminating the entire room briefly, Fuckjaw saw it, the lazer rifle behind the same crate the bug had erupted from moments earlier. The remainder of the men were startled, not the insect though it detached its pincers, leaving them sticking out of Exilethroat’s eyes like stakes, and set upon retribution for the meagre punch to its thorax. Decayhip continued punching it with his one good hand as it turned around to face him, two desperate hits to the side, one to its face as it reared up to greet him. Mandibles lodged in his hand. One piercing through the wrist, one the space where his fingers merged together he was pulled forward, the bug using the momentum of his punch against him as its left foreleg sliced his right leg in half and he fell across it landing with his face in the ground, femur flying off into the air. “Sorry sarge” he spat out through blood to his dead friend across from him as serrated legs plunged through his chest from behind.

“The rifle” Fuckjaw yelled to Shitarm who was on its side of the room, Shitarm looked behind him to see it and then looked back over to the elevator where the entire remainder of the squad were running in, desperately panicked. As they bundled in they crashed into its far wall and then they crashed into one another, the elevator swung violently away from the door it was docked up against clearly not designed to hold people in armour. Then it smashed back into the tower as it swung back, and that was the last of it. Some cable snapped, then another. They must've heard nothing because the acting commander was turning to face the control panel as they began to fall to their deaths. The bug couldn’t give a shit, it was setting about ending Shitarm’s life as punishment for yelling. Jumping back on top of Exilethroat’s face it reconnected its pincers, let out a shriek (of joy?), and began making its way over rearing up once again onto its hind legs as it did. Shitarm began running to the rifle, Fuckjaw began bracing himself, raising his arms trying to convince himself the armour he wore might do something. A pincer came for his chest, his arm went out to meet it knocking it to the side. The bug went off balance. He brought his left fist up aiming for the bug’s eye, however a serrated forearm met it first shredding through the armour, the flesh and the bone all the same. Screaming and chittering met each other before being mutually silenced by the revving up of the lazer rifle. Electronic whirring gave way to bzap, bzap, bzap as bolts of red lazer severed the bug's rear legs before puncturing its thorax from behind. Blood from Fuckjaw’s hand pooled with greenish-brown hemolymph on the ground, he clutched his wound trying to apply pressure and Shitarm ran over to him, unsure what he could do. "Babe!” He yelled “I mean commander!” he corrected himself, processing the recent elevator induced promotion as he ran.

The blood loss was getting to Fuckjaw but just as he felt his legs giving out, Shitarm was there holding him from behind, gently guiding him to the ground so he might sit down, one hand on his back the other applying pressure to the wound, trying to stymie the bleeding. “We have'' his words were choked out, his body seemingly committed to blood being all that left it “to confirm the dead”. “They’re dead commander, there will be time for rules later we have to make sure you're safe”. “I’m fine don’t worry about me, and don’t call me commander till you’ve got the logs from Exilethroat’s health-monitor yourself” “you’re not fine fuck... look at you babe, you’re more blood than plasteel”. Fuckjaw would’ve protested but he slipped into unconciousness as Shitarm slowly brought him lying down. Panic came over him as he looked down at his friend’s (who are we kidding, commanders? boyfriends?) still gushing wound. Now was not the time to dwell on the proximity of rank and relationship in the desire they invoked in him. He smashed a box, its contents scattered on the floor, then another, then another all was metal and plastic, no fabric (none? Little bits of string attaching labels to things perhaps, nothing for a bandage.) another box dashed upon the floor erupting its contents upwards as it made contact. He was desperate and every second he searched he wasn’t on the wound itself. “Fuck, the venom.” Things seemed beyond hope.