Weapon Mods

Get Naked

2012-02-06T18:08:00.000-08:00

The comics you have are not important, and furthermore, you've known this for a long time. Your comics will never put your kids through college, and your comics will never really amount to much. So why don't we stop acting like these twenty-four page diversions are sacrosanct and stop shoving them into boards and bags.Let these mother fuckers breath for crissakes! Pick them up! Leaf through them, celebrate them, don't catalogue them! Pick up that Batman # 3 and flip through it while you're putting away your socks. You think Capullo meant for his work to die between two layers of gloss? Hell no. He meant for you to leave that shit out for your kids to see.
Comics cannot be enjoyed within the confines of the long box, my friend. And if you can't look at a long box and tell me what's in it, the contents should be donated to a childrens' hospital; if anybody could use a dose of the good guy winning, it'd be them.
Let's face it. We pick up the comics, we read them, without really reading them. We slide them, glossy side up, between the bag and board, and into the long box they go. Hell, I've put shit in there without even realizing I hadn't read them. So why're we doing this? Just to get that Wednesday fix? And yeah, that's all well and good, but Mom's basement is getting crowded.
All I'm say'n is...don't hold onto that stuff just because you paid for it. Comics are mostly just snacks to get you through 'til Civil War or Crisis. You're not keeping that bag of Lays for posterity are you? Yeah, so send them on their way. And with any luck, what you discard will land in the hands of some kid and the sickness will spread. Because the sickness spreading is the only way to keep our beloved medium afloat.
And if I catch your ass buying comics from goddam Books-a-Million you'll suffer some serious grief. Support your local comic store. I know the people smell bad, but without these places we'll all have to live with comics that have been leafed through by the sonuvabitch that just got finished with his chic-fila.
Now I'm telling you to let your comics free, I'm not telling you to not take care of them. Bags and boards have their place, like when Carnage kicked Doppelganger off the roof? Bag that shit. But when Thor and Captain America went to the House of Dough? Pass it on and pray it does more good than harm.
Travel Foreman's art should not be neatly placed in a long box. You should be hanging John Paul Leon's stuff up on the wall, not trying to iron the creases out. Michael Green's innuendo should be putting a smirk on your face, not wedged between issues 3 and 5.
Get this shit out and talk about it. Argue about it. Fucking fight, beat someone's ass for disagreeing with you.

'Cause Cyclops can beat Wolverine's ass any day. And Baby, you know this.

Pop Star

2012-01-27T19:03:00.000-08:00

I was washing my hands longer than usual. Using the disposable scrubbers over and over, thinking. This was not good. This was not good, and I didn't know what to do.

I walked down the hall, doors standing open, me looking in on these old people. Some of them looking back, some looking at nothing. I didn't hate hospitals or anything, but I wasn't exactly thrilled to be here. And I knew Pop was going to be even less than. But I had to come, if anything just to avoid the potential freak-out. Well, I was praying that this tactic would avoid the freak-out, but I wasn't exactly confident at this point.

Finally. A. Kay Marteau. Room 1421. I pushed the door a little, "Pop?" He was standing toward the window buttoning his shirt, looking pale and blue in the light. He stiffened a little, or so I thought.

"Mom, Pop. She told me you were here." That was really as far as then plan in my head and gotten me. "She wouldn't tell me much. Well. Really she didn't tell me anything." He was threading his belt through the loops by then.

"Pop-"

"Oh, would you stop blubber'n? What the hells'a matter with you? Did'joo run down here to see if the ink on'a will was dry? For the luvva. That woman. I have anemia."

"What? Anemia?" This had not been in the rehearsal of my mind. "That's all?" then, "That's not what I meant."

Pop sat down and reached for his shoes, or rather, pointed at them. I set them down in front of him, "But, that doesn't make sense," I said.

Grunting, "What? Why, is she making it out I'm on my death bed? I told her not to say anything, I told her. Damnit," he winced.

"Just take it easy, I'll do that," I said, reaching for the laces.

"The hell you will! Think I can't get along without'cha?" That old fire was still in his voice, and there for an second I wasn't a grown man. I wondered if I had had the foresight to close the door behind me, but I didn't think so.

"Mom just told me you were here, Pop. And even that much I had to drag out of her. She didn't tell me why. It's Franc, Pop. He's going on like you're-"

"What? Like I'm what" he snarled, we now interrupt your regularly scheduled program.

"Bad off. Like you're really...bad off."

His mouth set into a thin line, and for an instant he did look frail, "He's telling people this?" and he was looking at me now, for the first time since I'd entered the room.

"He's telling everybody, Pop. There's this whole...movement. There's supposed to be some...event? I don't know what to even call it. There's a lot of buzz, everyone wants to help."

His eyes narrowed, "Help what?"

Time to kill the messenger. "He's telling everyone you need blood."

Imagine what Clint Eastwood would say if he opened up a trunk full of chopped up kids, that's the same thing Pop said just then.

"But hey, that's great, right? I mean, you do need blood," squeezing those words out between a smile was not having the convincing effect I had hoped for.

"How many people has'ee ...what'sa word? How many?" he looked like he was trying to read a book that was forty yards away.

"I dunno, Pop, lots. I mean, I heard this from other people, not even him. There's going to be a specific day everyone comes together and does this."

He muttered something that sounded like the sharks are circling. "What'see doing this for?"

"I mean, Pop, I had no idea. That you were even. You know. Sick."

"Do I look sick to you?" he yelled, God I wish I had closed that door, not that it'd help. "I'm anemic goddamit, anemic. You think I'm gonna waste ah-way now?"

"Damnit, then doesn't that mean you good-and-well will need blood, since you're 'goddam anemic'?" I yelled back, screw it.

His nostrils flared but that was all, "Yeah. Yes. I will need blood. I nee'da steady supply of blood. I don't need some...event," he sighed, an exhaustion he seldom shared with me and I knew he was tired, "I don't need some mob'a people."

Quietly, "But, Pop...if you get all this blood you wouldn't have to worry about it for a long time, right? I mean, that'd be great...right?"

He closed his eyes, "Blood does'en last like that. It's not much good after forty-two days, the oxygen."

I wanted to reach over and put my hand on his, or do something, at least, but I didn't. I just waited, looking at the bruise on his arm from the transfusion. With his eye closed I could look at my father, something I was rarely able to do. The creases, the gray and the knots. My hands would never look like his, though they had come close, once.

I leaned forward to hear him, "I need blood every so often. I'll always need it. It doesn't go away because of some blood bonanza. These people are jus' gonna pat themselves on the back, like they done got together and saved my life. And I won't have any choice but to smile'n be grateful, any choice."

"Then Pop, why would Franc be doing this?"

Here he grabbed my hand, my wrist, "Because, the ink on the will isn't dry, yet."

Weapon Mods Dark

2012-01-18T16:16:00.000-08:00

"Atta. Atta, what the hell is this? Are you in the building? I can't get in. I can not get in to the building. Solidarity? Atta it is fucking- sorry, sorry. It is cold out here. Cold! As in c-o-l-d!"

A pirate was trying to hand me something. A man dressed as a pirate was trying to hand me a red flyer with the words STOP SOPA printed in black. He was undeterred by my speaking on the phone, and I was even speaking to a real person on the other end.

"I don't want that. Sir, I don't want that. Atta, what is this? There are chains on the doors, are you inside? How did you get inside? Just tell me, I want to come in. Is this Slim? Did Slim do this? Is he shutting us down? Is he getting rid of me? Just tell me what's going on up there?"

The new guy from across the hall was standing next to me now, looking up at the building. The pirate did not approach him. "Do you know what's going on here?" I asked, holding the phone away from my ear. I couldn't remember his name, just that he'd started writing for OADS a few months back. I think he was surprised when he realized I was talking to him, he was acting like I'd just asked if he knew CPR and the answer was No.

Back to the phone: "Atta, come down and let us in. Me and the guy, the guy from across the hall. Twenty-four hours? What? We've got work to do. I'm not...No. We're not getting pulled into all that. Besides, if Congress did that, they'd have some sort've cyber war on their hands. So- what? I said 'so', so, I'm not too worried. You worried?" That last I directed at the OADS guy, who was clearly wondering why I was speaking to him. Maybe it's because he was standing two feet away from me, jackass. This guy must be a blast at parties.

"Atta? ...Atta?" I slid my phone back into my pocket, making a 'stop' gesture at the pirate so he didn't take it as an invitation to speak. "She's not letting us in. Can you believe that?" I said to no one in particular, even though the two of them were looking at me, now.

I was getting hungry, usually, when Atta wasn't staging political protests, I had had my yogurt and granola by now. "Let's get something to eat," I said to OADS.

"I'm not hungry," he said.

"Fine, you can watch me eat," feeling bad, "You can come too, Pirate."

Thanks for the Thixophobia, Mr. Fleming

2012-01-11T19:56:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I don't really think I have Thixophobia, fear of being touched. I thought it might be Demophobia, fear of crowds, but it's a little much, it's not something I would put in my Match.Com profile. I'm not sure there is a word for the fear I have, which is a little difficult to put into words, even for us here at Mods.

Where X and Y meet, on their axis, is called the origin. The origin is what I fear. That is to say, if I am walking along and it becomes apparent to me that someone, also walking, will meet me at the origin, or will create an origin if we both keep walking at the same speed, well, I just become terribly upset.

Like if me and the old lady head to the skim milk at the same time, that square outside the sliding door would be the origin, and I will avoid that space with extreme prejudice.

If someone passes by me too closely, I reflexively hold my breath and wait for the wake of their presence to waft over me until it's safe to breathe. I believe this is borne out of some strange anxiety, associated with proximity.

I believe the reason for my troubles is this:

Goldeneye for the Nintendo 64 was released in 1997, and I was damn good at it. This was probably the best I would ever be at any video game, end of discussion. I could run through the levels backwards, I knew all the spawning points, all the shortcuts, all the tricks, and I knew where you were hiding. I was sought out for alliances. Opponents tested their mettle against me. I would go on to compare it to every game after, and none of them ever really stacked up.

My signature, what I was known for, what my dossier would stress, was my proficiency with the grenade launcher. With that particular weapon, I was unstoppable. When the game began, the other three players would race to the spawning point of the launcher to try and keep me from it. Alas, it was futile. Before long, my avatar, the Janus Marine, would be raining fiery death down upon everything that moved.

I had a particular eye for being able to judge the distance from me and the other player, pointing the barrel of the grenade launcher at just the right height to ensure an explosive death for the person cursing loudly beside me. But, to put more of a finesse on the thing, what I was really good at was judging where the opponent was running, and firing so that the grenade would land squarely in front of them, their own momentum carrying the avatar into a digital afterlife, over and over.

The Aztec Temple. This was the area to avoid if you were playing against me. See that ramp there to the left? I would stand about half way up that and fire the grenade launcher while you ran in panic-driven circles in that open courtyard until the end. And the end was never too far off, for you.

My eyes would glaze over, and a sadistic smile would crawl across my face. Finally, a game I was good at, finally my wrath could be realized.

But, 1997 was a long time ago. Now the N64 is boxed up in the closet, the games scattered around in drawers. Even if I hooked it all up again, it's hard to get three people who were ever a challenge over to the house at the same time.

If I were going to do a cover of NIN's "Hurt" a la Cash, I'd be sitting there in sepia holding a Nintendo 64 controller.

Now, getting too close to people makes me uncomfortable. If they're headed to the same spot I am, I just adjust my gait, or completely change directions. I'll even pretend to talk on the phone, change the meeting place with the phantom caller so that I'll turn around and go the opposite direction.

And I wonder, if it's because I'm afraid the grenade will fall, where X meets Y.

Thanks for Everything

2011-12-16T15:14:00.000-08:00

JACK KIRBY 1917-1994

JOE SIMON 1913-2011

Help Me, Marley

2011-12-14T16:39:00.000-08:00

The other night I was watching A Muppet Christmas Carol with my daughter, the one with Michael Caine? At some point, maybe after I felt annoyed when Professor Honeydew and Beaker asked Ebenezer for a contribution, or when I rolled my eyes when the rats asked for more coal for the fire, or muttered, "please" when the caroler was at the door, well, at some point I realized that I had become a Scrooge.

I'm not sure when this happened. Maybe your heart hardens when you clean feces off the parking lot where you work. Maybe a seed of misanthropic fruit was planted the first time I had to usher a drunk out of the store. Even now, my fingers type out "a drunk" rather than "a person" so low my esteem for someone who smells-like-something-out-of-a-mason-jar, has sank.

I'm disheartened that I am like this, Reader. Me, who sees an organization like Manna Meal as nothing more than rotting fruit in the sun that draws flies, rather than a means to feed people that are hungry. Me, who wears a mask of contempt for anyone who comes to my door with their hand out. Me, with my natural, burdensome distrust, my anger, my curled nose.

Me, who has never been cold, never been hungry, and have never wanted for anything. Me, who has plenty, who has new clothes, and a belly. Me, who can't put a can of greenbeans in a bag for the Boy Scouts.

This is how bad it's gotten: When people ask me for directions, I lie to them. I lie to them and have a secret thrill. I'll tell them they're almost there, just two more blocks, a left, then a right. And then I duck into a building.

Somewhere along the way I lost some bit of compassion, and in its place came impatience. Somewhere, hope, became a four letter word that I saw on Coke cans. Somewhere, I made an effigy of myself and started living in it. I came up with excuses in my mind that made me sound, to myself, incredibly clever. I couldn't ladle soup into a bowl for someone to eat because of this, and this, and this.

But it all just leaves me with an empty feeling. Because, not only have I not been filling bowls, I haven't been filling my spirit. Now, I'm hungry. Now, I'm starved. You can see the ribs of my intolerance, the sunken eyes of my bigotry, the swollen belly of my indifference.

Reader, I urge you, get out there. Fill the bowls, feed those that are hungry. Feed them with your food, and your love, and your laughter. Feed those that are hungry with whatever you have to give them. There is a need, and we have the means.

I'll do better.

Step Away From the Soapbox

2011-12-06T15:24:00.000-08:00

Reader, I disagree with the offices of Slacker Conservative, but I find that their arguments, though incendiary, are well written and shouldn't be ignored out of hand. Here at Mods, we try not to delve into politics too very often but feel that when presented with opportunities of conversation, we should take them.

On the post, "If You're Young and Not Liberal..."
I would say, yes, as children we were brainwashed into associating corporations as mindless, earth-destroying entities, and there are several, several examples of this. But it doesn't mean it doesn't happen.
There's going to be good and bad on both sides of the fence here. Did you remember deodorant used to come in small boxes? It is Walmart to thank that they don't anymore, according to The Walmart Effect, by Charles Fishman. Sure, they implemented this to save a buck, but we saved a few other resources in discontinuing this, as well.

On, "Super Mario Was an Illegal Alien"
No, I'm not sure what to do with the immigration problem in America. But, I don't think Alabama's going about it the right way, nor do I think labeling these people as criminals is correct either. The idea of putting the bodies of the Occupy Wall Street movement to work in the place of illegal immigrants, I think, is laughable. As far as I'm concerned, the Occupiers don't even have sense enough to come in out of the rain, much less integrate themselves into a working culture as difficult, as demanding, as agriculture. Yes, that is me "bunching" the Occupiers just as this post was bunching the illegal aliens, but what I'm really trying to get at is that this country has put a demand on the work that illegal aliens provide, and that demand isn't going anywhere. The Dream Act should have passed.

On, "All Your Tax Are Belong to Us"
This is a good one, make sure you read it.

Ditto, "Razors: More Than a Mouse"

On, "Platforming: Sans the Double Jump"
I think here, the offices of Slacker argue that everyone should pay a flat tax, then espouse on why a doctor shouldn't pay a tax when someone of a more menial position, should. Also, they raise the question of why a family should be given a tax break, which is a fair question. I think the doctor should have to pay taxes because, despite her position, she's doing a job. Yes, this job may very well save hundreds, if not thousands of lives, in the career span of this doctor, but this is the position she chose. Providing medical care is a career, not a Messianic mantle. Also, I believe a family should qualify for a break because the human their caring for is not yet in a position to put back into the grid, has no means of bettering the social community and hampers the funds of the providers. That being said, I'm as tired of baby factories as everyone else; clamp it down, Duggers.

Finally, on "Homosexuality Not a Choice? Tell That to Commander Shepard..."
I do not believe homosexuality is a choice, I simply think you are or you're not. True, this is a heterosexual saying this, but here I'd like to take the same argument Slacker used for their argument, and use it for mine: I never decided to be straight, I just happen to be. Do I think being homosexual is a result in upbringing? No, I think this argument would lend credence to those that combat homosexual couples from adopting. As an aside, I'd like to point out that when same sex couples adopt, they're providing a child with a home and not adding to the population; I think my wait for the elevator is long enough already. I do not believe in predetermination in any form, thanks, but no thanks, Calvin, and so here I agree with the post. I think the only real choice in this is, as a modern wordsmith might put it: To come out, or to not come out. And as a whole, I felt the paragraph about the restroom was...distasteful. But, coming from Mods some of you may find that arguable.

Ok, Reader. Hopefully that's the last rung of my soapbox and I can climb off now. If this keeps up I'm bringing "Segmented" back.

twelve ten eighty-one

2011-12-01T17:56:00.000-08:00

I know I never remember your birthday, it is very likely that I never will. Even when the pharmacist asks me my daughter's birthday I draw a big blank, then I start repeating the three numbers over and over like I have turrets. I know that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for heresy on May 30th, and I know that Mortal Monday falls on September 13th, Monday or not. But I'm not going to remember yours, even if you're just seven weeks older than me and we go over this every year.

But we're not talking about your birthday here.

We're talking about mine.

More specifically we're talking about the tribute you'll make to my existence, a small token you'll present to me, for having touched your life, for better of worse. You'll have to coordinate among yourselves to see who brings what, I'm not doing everything.

1. Pepperidge Farms Orange Milano Cookies

2. Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream

3. Samuel Adam's Latitude 48

4. Captain America on DVD (not blu ray)

5. The Glamour of Grammar: A Guide to the Magic and Mystery of Practical English, by Roy Clark

6. An Idea

7. A book of U.S. postage stamps

8. Leonardo, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle keychain (Spencer's)

9. Biscotti cookies

10. Look around your home for something you wouldn't save in a fire, and give it to charity

11. A poem about me

12. A picture with you and me that I didn't know existed

13. You Shall Know Our Velocity, by Dave Eggers (the copy I loaned out, not a new one)

14. The Crow, by J. O'Barr

15. Pilotwings Resort for the 3DS

16. Have a dream about me

17. A drawing of me

18. Blue Agave Nectar

19. The remastered Dark Side of the Moon

20. Develop some of the film I have in this drawer

21. House slippers

22. a G. I. Joe comic from a yard sale or flea market.

23. A Yankee candle that smells like laundry

24. A violin

25. A superhero pint glass

26. Violin lessons.

27. Hickory Farms Summer Sausage

28. Kraft Extra Sharp Cheese

29. Water crackers

30. The Making of The Empire Strikes Back: the Definitive Story, by J. W. Rinzler

That's thirty things, people. You have ten days.

No-Insulting-the-Good-People

2011-11-28T18:55:00.000-08:00

"If you could just...acknowledge that you've stressed me out with all this, would be nice," Atta said, waving her hands at her desk, which was covered in angry, angry letters.

I bit the inside of my lip to keep from smiling. No one had ever written a letter before, and now they were trickling in every day. Furthermore, I had no idea the United States Postal Service would deliver a letter with "Fucking Idiot" from "Some Fucking Place" as the return address.

If only I had time for an assassination fantasy.

"And for the luvvagod call Slim back. Today."

It annoyed me when she called the owner "Slim", why couldn't she at least say "Mr. Slim"? It felt like they were teaming up against me.

I set my coffee down and looked at the phone. When I used to call Mr. Harenthal I could have pretty well become a pinball champion for all he would have noticed. But Slim was too invested in the conversation, asking questions, giving me time to answer, that kinda bullshit. He'd probably quietly listen to me sip my coffee and wait for me to finish before continuing. Ok. Deep breath.

Dialing. Ringing.

"Dorge?"

"Aaa-yeah, yeah, Slim. This is. Dorge"

"Great, how are ya, buddy?"

"Crazy busy down here, just...blam, sending these things out, you know? Wham-bam and gone, baby, gone," I leaned down to smell my coffee.

"That's great! Yes, seeing very consecutive posting dates, I'm liking that, Dorge. Traffic seems to be up too and everyone's excited about the numbers. There's one here in particular I'm looking at that has a lot of hits. Are you in front of your computer?"

Christ. "Yes, yeah right in front of me, which one are you looking at?" My Midgar.

"'My Midgar'. Yeah, the Walmart one?"

I know what the hell one it is. "Right, looking right at it. I was kinda worried it came off as a little, I dunno....ranty? But we've got a lot of hits on it, so."

"I don't know how I feel about that one, Dorge, " silence, did the call drop? " I don't think calling our readers "fucking idiots" is the direction we want to go in. I really don't think people tune in here to be called idiots or for your opinion on Walmart."

"It sounds like you're jerking my leash, here, Slim. I mean, it got the numbers up, didn't it?"

"Well, first," he paused on the other end, "I'm not jerking your leash. This is your baby, I'm just keeping the lights on. And second," another pause, "It's all well and good to get the numbers up but they're up by people who read that piece and aren't interested in coming back."

"I don't thi-,"

"You think these people are going to read that and then want to scroll around reading more? You think they're going to go out of their way to read "Goes on Inside" after you called them, and I quote, "fucking idiots", Dorge?"

I was drinking coffee.

"Dorge? Are you listening? Afraid your coffee's getting cold?"

"What do you want me to do, here, Slim? You want me to just take it down? Is that the answer you're trying to guide me towards? Just, what? Just...deflate my conviction?"

"Please, you didn't even back up anything with other sources. Conviction. You can write about what you want to, just please don't insult people in the very first sentence. I mean, look at this "Slacker Conservative" guy over here. He's not calling people fucking idiots."

"Yeah, but that guy...,"

"That guy's crazy, I agree, but still. I wanted to mention I was happy to see you linking to him, it shows...,"

"Temperament? Compassion?" I offer.

"Yeah, Dorge, you're a saint," some joviality seemed to me seeping back into his voice. Ok, so, please? With the No-Insulting-the-Good-People?"

"Ok, Slim. Alright, I'm writing it down," as I write it in the air with my imaginary pink and blue quill.

"I'll call in a week, or so. And Dorge? I was glad to see the numbers up."

I put the reciever down and drank my coffee, which was still surprisingly warm. I leaned back in my chair and looked at the ceiling, yelling, "Atta, I acknowledge that I've stressed you out with all this stuff. And furthermore acknowledge you're awesome."

"Thank you," was the reply, muffled by the door.

Listening to the Footloose Soundtrack

2011-11-21T19:34:00.000-08:00

Reader, I think you should dance.
You've got it good, Baby.
Further more, you got you.

You're the one whose gonna have to get through this, 'cause I'm not going to be able to help much. Like Moma always said, you stand alone on Judgement Day.

So it'll be best when that day comes that you can stand on your own two feet. I know you can do it, just because, well, you're going to have to.

And if I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have left you alone. Who holds up birds? Nobody. Birds gots wings. So fly, Baby, fly.

I know you're looking now, over your shoulder, but it's not gonna happen. You have to press forward, and fuck that baby step shit, 'cause we don't have time. Stride, stride, this is yours now, stride. Into the fire now, into the burning and into the pain. Breathe it in and let it sear inside, exhale the fury, exhale.

It's right there and it knows you're there and you show it a fear that it didn't know. This is an ancient and you envelope it with the forgotten. And it's like you can count each strand of hair. This is you and you're filling up your insides like never before. This is a sound that is only in dreams and, waiter, make that nightmares. Not to be replicated in this realm and not the be remembered by noon.

Drink the water and get past the fire, you did it, you did it. The worst is ahead and now the worst is scared of you. Welcome to the Leagues of the Badassery. Your weapon is skill and your power is might. Crush them all and when the time comes stand and stand and stand. You earned this and you deserve what's coming no matter how them cards fall. There in the glimmer they'll say you stood and that's more than they said for the others.

They'll make masks in your image and the children will weep. They will hang things over the doors that keep you out and warn the others. They'll beckon you in whispers and you will not come. You made that walk and you know they'll have to do the same but can't. This is what they meant in the beginning.

Captain America

2011-11-16T19:18:00.000-08:00

United States Code Title 4 Chapter 1 — The Flag

§8. Respect for flag

No disrespect should be shown to the flag of the United States of America; the flag should not be dipped to any person or thing. Regimental colors, State flags, and organization or institutional flags are to be dipped as a mark of honor.

The flag should never be displayed with the union down, except as a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property.

I don't know Reader, maybe it's all the military parades my dad took me to when I was little, or the air shows or Marine gun drills, but I am one Patriotic son-of-a-bitch.
I happen to think that I am fortunate enough to live in the greatest country in the world.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Dorge! Put down the Kool-Aid! And trust me, I get'cha, I'm not a nationalist, I'm a patriot, and there is a difference.

I don't like that my daughter's school taught her The Pledge of Allegiance without my permission, just because of what it's called: Pledge of Allegiance. If she's going to go around making pledges I think she should know what the hell she's saying. After all, was the indoctrination of the Hitler Youth much different? The current Pope sure doesn't think so.

I don't like that "under God" was added in 1954. It doesn't have any business being in my oath to this country.

I don't like that patriotism gets mixed up in dogma at all; Southerners, abortion isn't going away, they just want your votes.

And seriously? If I loved a man and wanted to commit myself to him in marriage? That's just what I'm going to do. You can fuck off, Arkansas.

Healthcare? Bailouts? Congress?

Ok, breather...

So, in addressing that this country still has plenty of flaws and can be a pretty messed up place from time to time, it still pisses me off to see the flag being displayed incorrectly.

Most of the time it's the mild mistake of hanging the flag so that the union (the stars and blue) are to the right; the union is always to be displayed to the left, shopkeepers.

But, the other day while I was on a walk with my daughter I noticed an attractive mid-size house displaying their flag upside down. My initial reaction surprised me: anger. A big 'ole WTF just slid right through me.

It's their right to do that, I thought, backing away from the ledge, that's why I love this country.

Seeing the three men who made up the lawn care service toiling under it, raking up leaves for this house just seemed...well, shouldn't one of them have had a questioning look on their face?

The neighborhood I was in was known as the shit-don't-stink side of my town, residents comprised of doctors, lawyers and the retired white sort. I suppose that lends to why it was so surprising; after all, I don't think twice to see some horde of militants firing AK-47s and burning the flag on the news, at least their claims seemed legitimate. I was left wondering what sort of complaint this house could possibly level at the United States of America that could constitute flying the flag upside down.

Was I going to march up there and ask? Hell no, Reader. Remember, this is the guy who gets uncomfortable just having people standing behind him, much less demanding to know the origin of their dissent.

Remembering that Veterans' Day had just passed I wondered if a family member of the household had died in recent military service, but I wasn't really getting the Pat Tillman vibe here. And if that were the case, wouldn't the disrespect of the flag be the disrespect of that Service person as well? So it seemed doubtful that's the message they were going for.

Scanning the bumper stickers out front didn't tell me anything either, unless their favorite radio station was trying to start a revolution during the morning commute...

And if this was an instance of "dire distress" I would have liked to have seen something like, well, flames would have worked. Maybe some anti-aircraft rounds going off in the back?

Likely, these people didn't even know their flag was hanging incorrectly.

How could they not, is what's nagging me.

I'm an American.

That is not an apology.

My Midgar

2011-11-10T18:14:00.000-08:00

Reader, lets get one thing clear, if you shop at Walmart you're a fucking idiot. I'm tired of listening to you go there and then bitch about the awful experience every time. I'm tired of hearing you say things like, "It's almost not worth it."

When you shop there you are feeding the cancer that is consuming America. When you make a purchase at Walmart, you are hurting this country.

Here's how.

Walmart breeds a culture that expects every good to be available at all times. This hurts industries such as fruit and vegetable, as a seasonal item must be made to be of all seasons. To supply this demands that the good be brought from farther and farther away, which puts a tremendous drain on the fuels to make this happen.

A person that shops at Walmart is made to believe we live in a "throw away" society. In which a good is easier to replace than to have fixed. This hurts those in the trade of repairing things and places a strain on landfills. Also, it keeps up a pressure for manufacturers to produce these goods, to shelve infinity.

Most Walmarts are open twenty-four hours a day, meaning that they must feed from the grid twenty-four hours a day. How can one not see the incredible strain this puts on energy needs? True, Walmart isn't the only entity to do this, but them being open in those hours means that the competition must be as well. How could there be a fair market when some asshole is buying a Hello Kitty Soap Dispenser at three in the morning. There is a preconception that Walmart has the best prices but it turns into a misconception fueled by these late-night profits. Of course, Walmart isn't entirely to blame for this, but being the world's largest employer, most of the blame can be placed squarely at their door.

Because China must satiate the needs of America, their natural resources take the brunt of our desire. Coal and timber and other materials must be consumed at an unsustainable pace, and the Communist Country of China is only too happy to oblige. It is cheaper to make things in that country, the regulations that seem like a hindrance here are not in place there, so that the mercantile machine rolls on, treading over the people in its path. The consequence of this is a rate of pollution that makes ours at home look...manageable in contrast. But pollution of this magnitude is a global concern, not just a country's.

Because the majority of our goods come from China we have no manufacturing jobs. That is why every morning we're looking at some dirty jackass on the news holding an Occupy Wall Street sign. That, and their inflated sense of entitlement, which I think is something inherited from being a Natural Born.

Small businesses are hurt because of Walmart. One by one businesses close their doors because the cash flow that they rely on are pinched off by a people that would rather get their customer service from a person who's only qualification is the successful passing of a drug test. The less competition in the form of small businesses means the more of a monopoly these corporations can form, and when that happens there will be no choice. Walmart is not the only entity to blame, only the biggest. But so too is this ire aimed at Lowes, McDonalds, KFC, Pizza Hut...

All this because of a commercial I saw this morning: Small Business Saturday, November 26th. America, are you so ignorant that American Express has to tell you to shop small business? I fear so.
Because over the years I've given you good and sound reasons not to shop at Walmart and all you ever say to me is, "It's cheaper."

That's like when you complain about some author describing something to you, "I just thought Get on with it, you know?" Do you know how stupid that makes you sound? Just about the same as when you say, "It's cheaper." Am I pretentious? Yes, but that's just a little of the reason I react to Walmart shoppers the same way I would a plague victim.

I'm from the eighties so I know to aim for the head and keep swinging 'til it blinks.

I'm coming for you, Sam.

Sulfur Rich

2011-10-26T17:04:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I would just like to fart in peace. I would like to fart and not have my wife launch into this theatrical performance, a tragedy mind you, which involves her lamenting and wailing like she just woke up to find the love of her life dead beside her.

I love my farts. There's nothing quite like that warm escape and following noxious cloud. Only, I find it more intoxicating than noxious. But, having to hear Oh - My - God! after every episode is a bit of a downer.

You know that woman who has an attack at funerals? The one who soils herself with grief, and squeezes you because of Life, Beautiful Life! even though the bastard in the box was pushing ninety and the immediate family is looking at their watches over in the Reserved Section? That's my wife when I fart.

I half expect her to run outside and start screaming, "Soylent Green is People! It's People!"

I fart a lot when I eat meat. My wife knows this, in fact, clued me in on it. Now when we're at a dinner that panders particularly to the carnivorous, my wife gets this look on her face like she's watching one of the Final Destination movies.

When I fart at work I just get out hand sanitizer and start waving my hands like crazy. I would argue I'm very clean because of this. I don't fart on elevators but I will Crop Dust the hell out of the stairs, and climbing stairs seems to massage farts out of me anyways.

My very favorite is the Dutch Oven. That's when you fart under the blankets and kinda just keep it there, let it cook for a little while. My wife says I've woken her up by my farts, but I think she's exaggerating. I think she's just happened to wake up when I've farted, because I really don't think I could wake her up just by neglecting her olfactory bulb.

My sister-in-law is Thai. She told me I was going to kill my family by making "bad air". Well, I just don't think that's the case. Even though my daughter does now walk around the house holding her nose. She walks around the house very slowly, taking gigantic steps, with her nose up and squarely pinched between index and thumb, so it looks like she's walking underwater.

The measures people will go through to express themselves.

Musty

2011-10-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

I knew it was going to be a long day. My task was not going to be pleasant, but it had to be done. It had to be done by me, before the vultures descended, and I took a certain pride in that. I stood looking over the expanse of my father's garage, trying to decided if I was going to try to recycle anything, take some things to a shelter...or maybe just burn it. I wanted to recycle some of the stuff because my family doesn't believe in that sort of thing, doesn't see the use in it, addresses the subject with an "Aw bullshit" as the material is tossed into the trash. I wanted to take some things to a shelter so I wouldn't have to suffer anyone wearing that old stuff around me. And I wanted to burn it so that it would all be gone, gone, gone.

I decided it was best to go through the paperwork first, the desk and drawers, get all that stuff out into my car so I could go through it later. Going piece by piece wasn't going to happen just then, so I started dumping it all into the boxes I'd brought from work. I started taking things down off the walls and nearly got caught up looking at the drawings I'd made so long ago. There were stacks of magazines all over the place, stacked about knee high, the most recent at the top. Some of them, most of them, weren't even in print anymore. I wanted to kick them down, as navigating them was beginning to be a chore, but I thought walking over top of the glossy cascade over and over would be hazardous in my haste...and also, it would have felt like knocking down some kind of temple, in a way.

Everything in the garage was piled in such a way that there was a clear place for a vehicle to pull into, a space on the floor that looked like a car had been murdered there and there was nothing to show for it except the crime tape and some oil stains. I started setting boxes into that cleared space to better get a handle on the situation, to try and calculate what would fit in my car, how many trips I would have to make. Was I being selfish? Yes. I kept going.

I went through my old toys that hadn't been touched for twenty years. I went through the books that just happened to make their way out here. I rifled through some clothes and tested the weight of old paint cans. I opened a box of old VHS tapes but didn't go through it. I kicked open an old trunk and found an empty bottle of peach schnapps. I started piling tools in one spot when I found them, my hands turning black. I turned on the washer and dryer to see if they worked, and washed my hands in the work tub. I smelled an old dog collar but couldn't tell what dog it had belonged to. I tossed marbles over my shoulder to listen to them ping around. I checked discarded lamps for bulbs and wondered at how heavy things used to be.

I found an old tape-recorder, its buttons all worn down, stiff and unyielding. I was getting tired so I sat down on an old wire spool, stretching my back, still holding the recorder. None of the buttons worked, seized in the grip of time, of disuse. The oily resin on it's backside made me think the batteries had probably leaked. But I could see clearly there was a tape still in it. I kneeled down among the tools I had piled up and started looking for a slotted screwdriver, of which I found several. The blade of it cut into my hand as it slid across the old plastic and I tried again. Just happy to have one discernable goal for that second, fruitless as it may be. There was a small snap and the tape slid out into my hand. On the white label someone had written "Christmas '95" across it in small, precise blue ink.

It took a while to find something to play the cassette tape on. I found that the tape was mislabeled. The following came to me in my father's slow, deliberate voice, in the sing-songy manner in which he utilized when we was thinking aloud.

[Sound of tape reeling]
I see you. You that speeded past me....sped past me. You in the blue
[long pause]
four-door van or...sedan...or whatever you call it. You that were in such a hurry. That you cut in front of me. I can see your stupid ass religious sticker
[pause]
and now, I can see your car, flipping
[chuckling]
end over end over end
[coughing]
over end. You dumb ass, your dumb ass is dead
[singing] You dumb ass / your dumb ass is dead
When your neck broke
[pause, breathing heavily]
When your neck broke, if that was all the sound...if we could have only heard the sound of your neck breaking, it would have sounded like a pop can opening
[laughing]
I only wish you had survived because..because I wish you could see me driving past your burning car
Your car is on fi-re.
[Sound of tape reeling]

In the garage I couldn't find any more cassette tapes, I was exhausted. I went back to the paint cans and looked for the small red flame symbol that would tell me that that product was indeed flamable.

My Daughter's Harmonica Song for Pop Pop 1948 - 2010

2011-10-17T16:46:00.000-07:00

You are my favorite man

When you come to my house
Everyday
You are my favorite
But I am so sad
But I just can't say any words
It's not fair
Every day you come to my house
Every day, every time
I love you
You, you love me
But I just can't know what you do
Every so
You chase me in the living room
All around
And you are my favorite man
And you love

Curious

2011-10-12T17:17:00.000-07:00

Together they stood trembling, their whimpers drowned out by the roar of the air purifier in the corner. The monkey had to struggle to be heard. It was a mercy it even tried to explain to them what was happening. Unblinking, gloss-black eyes looked down on them, a stitched-on understanding smile, and utter ruthlessness.
On the floor below them was a cardboard box, setting open like a waiting crypt, its rough edges alien in the rounded edges of its softly colored surroundings. The box was not empty, for it was early fall and the cleansing had already begun.
"You're McDonalds toys," the monkey said, "how long did you think She would keep you?" Holding hands, the cheap plastic incentives went into the unmarked box without a word of protest, some taking one last look, their eyes catching on the silver god, suspended above.
The monkey waited for the next group, the easy ones first, always. It looked down at its shirt, bright yellow with red inscrutable words. It had no uniform, no clear job, but it knew it was the first, and so knew its job was this, to accommodate the transition; from cherished to forgotten.
Another monkey, the same but wearing a police uniform, was dragging a fairy princess, kicking and clawing, but its eyes were unblinking, and its smile was understanding, "She's not too happy, Boss."
"There now," said the one with the yellow shirt, "we all know this day comes."
The purple-haired princess spit toward the monkey, and the police-uniformed one wrenched her hair back violently.
"It's ok, Police George, there's been no harm done," the one with the yellow shirt said.
"I'm a Barbie! A Barbie!" the princess screamed, its heels digging into the wood of the table, jerking against Police George.
"That is true," the monkey said, hesitating, "but look at your arms. Look at your legs." The monkey stepped forward and touched the princess's wrist, "A Barbie's arms and legs are soft, pliable. Why, you can't even bend yours knees, can you?"
The princess's eyes flared, tears began to well up in them, as if force of effort would finally contract its cheaply made legs and arms, it too looked to the silver god, suspended above all.
"Let her go, Police George, it's ok. Listen," it said, reaching out and touching her cheek, "I believe you're a Barbie, but that's not enough. Here's what I'll do: if any one of the other Barbies will vouch for you, stand up and declare you're just as good as them, just the same, then you can stay."
The princess sparkled, it was done, she was saved! It looked over to the shelf to where the other Barbies stood, where it would momentarily be restored to, and its relief swelled and burst like a dead fish.
"Who among you will speak for the princess?" the monkey entreated, "Your sister faces the box, but one word from any of you will save her from that!"
Cinderella Barbie, Snow White, Ballerina and Mermaid Barbie, one by one, turned their heads.
The fight had left the princess as Police George led it to the box, gentler this time, but with the same understanding smile.
"That was poorly done, George," another said from behind.
"What of it, Doctor George?" the monkey turned to face another like him, but dressed in a white coat.
"Why do you have to break them before they go? It's already...,"
"Already what?" George demanded.
"Your time will come, too." Doctor George said, pointing at the rip in George's yellow shirt.
George smiled his understanding smile and gently smoothed the fray in its shirt that it wore like a badge, because every toy knew that if something broken is kept, it will be kept for a long, long time.
"How many more? How much longer, George?"
The monkey seemed to stare off for a second, as if it were seeing something else, "Conductor George is rounding up the last of them," George seemed to snap back to himself, "But then we'll have to move on to old books and puzzles."
The silver god spun lazily in the draft from the air purifier, reflecting a shard of light onto the monkey's ink-black eyes. The monkey turned away, shielding its eyes.
The Doctor smiled, "No, your reign won't last forever, he sees all that you do from up there."
The monkey in the yellow shirt had always felt that he had been cursed by some bleak understanding, a knowledge in the very deepest pit of him, and the hell that went along with it. "I had no idea you were religious, Doctor George. But there isn't a god, not for us. That thing you and the others pray to? That's a Silver Surfer made by Toy Biz. And as for my "reign", as you call it, it will last as long as I have a purpose. And I'll have a purpose for as long as people bring Her toys."

Pecking Order

2011-10-10T07:29:00.000-07:00

Reader, last week you were treated to a post concerning Chik-Fil-a. Now, the very same restaurant has also appeared in our local papers.

http://wvgazette.com/Life/FoodandDining/201109193574

Just say'n.

Snyder & Capullo

2011-10-08T19:21:00.000-07:00

Reader, this will be short. I've picked up issue #1 of Batman, Superman, Detective Comics and Animal Man. Batman's penciled by Greg Capullo, of Spawn fame, and if I'd known that I would have been pretty excited about the relaunch from the get-go.

It's written by Scott Snyder, I'm not familiar with him, but he delivers. Superman's pretty wordy, as he always is and the art is pretty basic, but I'm going to have #2 pulled for me. Animal Man is beautiful, the interior looks like some kind of mod catalogue, very nice, simple line work and soft, yet solid colors- I had to make sure it wasn't Middleton, whom I haven't seen since NYX. Detective Comics? I could live without, I'm one-and-done for that title. Too much invested in the ending for me, and I'm always weary of a book that's written and penciled by one person, that's always going to wreak havoc on a deadline. Ok then, still at 2.99 a pop, that's not a bad price, Reader. So get out there and pick'em up. If you want to play it safe just try the Batman and Superman, but Animal Man was a pleasant surprise.

Eating Out

2011-09-29T18:01:00.000-07:00

The Charleston Town Center Mall.
I used to spend quite a bit of time there. I may have actually qualified as a mall rat. Vans. Billabong. JennSport. Volcom. Catch the KRT, rove around, see a movie, buy some comics, eat some Chic-Fil-A. That last bit is what this post is about, Chic-Fil-A.
I remember when Chic-Fil-A was hungry for business, not as if there weren't doing well or anything, just presenting itself in an eager fashion. There would be someone waiting for me at the top of the escalator with a sample, presented on a simple black plate. I took the piece, but we both knew I was going to eat there anyways.
The wait in line, looking at the other people. Knowing what I was going to order. Number Five, Dr. Pepper, Two Honey Mustard, Please. The pause when they would up the price, a silent what? exchanged from me to the cashier. The cashier who was Christmas help, who didn't know I had been paying only one certain price for the exact, exact same order all Summer. It didn't matter, everyone involved knew I'd be paying whatever price it was.
The ad campaign. The cow standing there with a doomsday placard reading: eat mor chiken. The calenders of much the same. The Vege-tales. Cherry-flavoring is to cough syrup as Vege-tales is to Christianity.
All that changed for me recently.
I found myself drawn to the bloated franchise, walking there aimlessly, as I imagine a bug flies into a zapper. But some wind changed my direction and instead of lining up with the others, the unsmiling horde of slack-shouldered whites, I kept walking. The wind stayed at my back and I kept walking.
Soon I found myself at a place that was hungry for my business. A young man handed me a sample, looking earnest and open, and it tasted great. From behind the counter a woman, undoubtedly related in someway to the young man, was beckoning me with her hand, and in a thick accent, Polynesian? saying, "You like? Come try chicken!" I smiled, goofily. At her behest I tried every variety of chicken they served. The next always better than the last, so different! This tasted different! The neon lights of the pineapple reflected off my glasses as I read the sign, The Hawaiian Grill. These people were treating me like family, like I was some skinny puppy, like I was a paying customer! The woman piled my plate full, the styrofoam protesting under the bulk of the rice, and I was happily departed from eight dollars.
Stop eating! I couldn't! I was being satisfied. I could see the people milling around the other place, I could hear the soft buzzing of their thick, fat wings as they lined up to serve their god.
I used to think Chic-Fil-A's not opening on Sundays was a stalwart stand against the sleaze usually associated with corporations. Now I just think it's a gimmick, and the worst possible kind at that.
The young man handing out samples was tireless. He was of the right age to be getting into trouble with other kids and here he was helping his family out with the business. He even offered me more when I got up to empty my tray. Tempted, but no, no, I must be going.

I wondered what else people have to say about chic-fil-a, turns out the franchise hands a lot of money over to anti-gay organizations. But, the nitty-gritty there is that they're writing checks out to Christian organizations who promote a hetero-sexual family unit. And everyone who's ever tried to eat at Chic-Fil-A on a Sunday knows it's Christian Camp, so there really shouldn't be any surprise there.

But, in the interests of a healthy diet, and trying to patronize places that will truly appreciate your business, not just expect it- go suck a dick, Chic-Fil-A.

Modifications

2011-09-21T17:53:00.000-07:00

"You remember what today is?" Atta asked, flipping through the mail and pushing the door shut with her heel.
"Yeah, for once," I said, trying to separate the unbleached coffee filters.
"I'll do that," Atta said, her personal space bubble pushing me out of the way.
Today was the day Atta and I would meet "Slim", the man who had very recently bought Weapon Mods and all of its posts, past and present. Not so much as a word from Mr. Haranthal and alluva sudden Atta's storming in telling me we've been sold. Not a damn word from the sonuvabitch who woke me up at three in the morning to tell me I misspelled "Beleaguered". I don't know what I was expecting, but something. It's not like Haranthal owned Mods or anything, but I had taken his lack of communication as evidence he was not a part of the deal. I suppose we'd find out for sure soon enough.
I sat through the morning wondering what this transition would be like, if there even was one. Maybe he had absolutely no interest in the going-ons here and only saw some post on the rise with its fifteen followers. Ok, maybe not. I was hoping he'd see fit to sink some money into this place, some new paint on the walls would go a long way, so would a few working lights, and maybe a window-unit that didn't sound like a weed-eater having a stroke.
I imagined the horrors, too. What if he hadn't read any of the posts and thought this was some rag devoted to the NRA...oh god. Oh god. I started to look around the room as if it were the last time I'd ever be in there as the correlation between a name like "Slim" and the NRA came dangerously close to intersecting on the graph I was projecting in catatonic fear.
I was broken out of my sudden paralysis by a soft knocking at the door. When Atta opened it, a man, a giant of a man, lowered his head in with a defense-defying grin and reached down and took my hand, "You must be Dorge," he said, "It's nice to meet you."
If he noticed me stammering he didn't let on, "Slim? Slim. Ahh, this is Atta," I got out, god, did he cast Imposing 2 on me or something? If that were so, what spell was he working on my assistant?
I had to check myself from rolling my eyes as she gushed out her life story for the benefit of our new owner, he finally raised his hand for her to stop when she offered him coffee, and whatever else the Tall-and-Dark might be in immediate need of, "No, thank you, so much," he said, "But I was hoping we could get something to eat? I'm famished," and then he was out the door again without waiting for a response.
"Why don't you like him? You just met him!" Atta said, getting her keys. I suppose I'm not as hard to read as I thought I was, "He's not wearing an undershirt. You know that drives me crazy," it's all I had.

Slim was waiting for us outside, looking up and down the street like he was going to buy that, too. As soon as he saw us he flashed another smile and took off, Atta and me left to follow someone who, if someone were to ask me, had no idea where he was going. I was in the middle of shooting Atta a sideways glance when he suddenly turned around and started walking backwards, looking down at us from all his nine feet of height.
"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," he said, "and I'm really excited, too. You probably don't know this, but I've been reading your blog for a while now."
It took my mind a second to hear what he was saying. I was still busy taking this guy in, goatee, polo, jeans, and young. I guess with a name like "Slim" I thought he'd had a ten-gallon hat and six-shooters, but this guy? This guy looked like he only took public transportation.
"Is pizza ok, it's just quick, and this place is great," he said, holding a door open suddenly, bell ringing.

"Ok," he said, "I'm sorry things have been a little hush-hush. That's all me. I'm a very private person. Not like, dont' think...The Aviator, private, but close enough. First thing's first: Haranthal's out. It's best we just leave it at that. You two are still in, you're not going anywhere unless you want to? Right. Now, don't be worried, I'm not moving in or anything and I have no experience editing, whatsoever. My thoughts? You don't need an editor. That is, unless you need someone to tell you to post at least once a week. Unless you need someone to remind you, as of now, that if you don't post once a week, you're gone. And I don't think I need to pay someone like Mr. Haranthal to remind you of that, do I? There, that was the the roughest part, right there."
Atta looked worried. Surely she had enough faith in me that I could get at least one post out a week? Maybe not. But, putting that aside, who did this guy think he was?
"I'm the new owner of Weapon Mods," he said, and winked.
Wow.
"You say you have no experience editing, well, what do you have experience in? Who are you?" I said. It took him a while to answer. The long pause before hand, and then the answer that could have filled the time-slot for a sitcom. His response sounded like something Ian Fleming made up. Which led to my next question.
"I was tired of the game," he said. "I wanted out. I have a family now, and all that? Doesn't matter. It's just...," and he made some inscrutable hand gesture.
"Then why Mods?" I asked.
"I liked it. And it was cheap," he said, matter-of-fact. Listen, I've got to get going. Just a few things I want to go over, fist. We're cancelling "Segmented" for the time being, and I want "Someone's Watching" taken down, it's offensive. I'm sending someone over at the end of the week to see what you might need in the office. Also, leave out the part when I ordered pizza for everyone. Atta, again, I'm very sorry, I had no idea you were vegetarian. Ok, that should do it. I'll be in touch.
"Oh, one more thing. Put something in there that makes it look like I was reading your mind, or something. It'll be hilarious!"

What does he know?

Transition

2011-09-15T17:11:00.000-07:00

The news had come as a shock. At least, I think that's what you're supposed to say. When something like this happens you're always left wondering if you could've connected the dots, saw where the person was headed before they offed themselves. Wondering what the last thing they said to you was and playing it back to make it sound even more cryptic and knowing. I'll see ya around becomes a track that plays in your head over and over, the words landing slow and deliberate in memory, haunting...did that person know then?
But I don't know if I wasn't shocked because I just figured it would happen sooner or later, or if it was my complete lack of interest. That's why when Atta, war-painted with mascara, informed me that the writer next door had killed himself, I answered with a dumb, "Who?"
Mild curiosity turned into something dubious as she told me the details. The creases in my brow flared, "I don't think three stories would kill someone." Her reaction to that was the first inkling I had that I may not be an outstanding human being; well, the first inkling that day.
She didn't quite slam the door but I got the message. For the next ten minutes I stared out my own window and fantasied about killing myself. Then I started to wonder why his windows opened and mine didn't. This wasn't my biggest moment. I considered he may have broken the window to get through but that didn't seem to match all the movies I'd seen. No one ever broke a window out in a rage and took a nose dive, did they? I started to laugh at that but I pretended I was coughing so Atta wouldn't hear.
I vaguely wondered if O.A.D.S. was pulling a publicity stunt, then I wondered if it would work and started looking at my window again. I opened my drawer and looked for the business card that the deceased had left for me that time, concerning the houseplant in the hall, but I couldn't find it. I had suspected Atta had been watering the damn thing for a while now, it looked like I was going to find out.

I answered the phone, figuring Atta would be out of commission for a while.
"Hello? Yes. Well, I suppose. Tomorrow? Two o'clock? You're name, sir? Huh, that's funny. No, nothing. See you then!"

Someone wanted to rent the space. I hope there wasn't Crime Scene tape up or anything.

Dorge Begins

2011-09-03T18:23:00.000-07:00

Reader, I'm a little concerned. I think it's great you're trying to talk to me about comics and all, trust me, I'm all for it, but I just want to sit you down and let you know what you're getting into. Yes, I listen to NPR too, and the fact that they're spending some air time on one of my favorite things is great, thank you, NPR. But Reader, I just don't want you getting the wrong idea, here. So let me break it down for you just a little bit more.

First, we're going to start with Marvel. There's a lot of you wandering around out there thinking Peter Parker's dead and he's been replaced by some black guy. Well, he is dead, and he isn't. Let's go over that.

A few years ago Marvel launched a line of comics under a banner called "Ultimate". It started with Spider-Man, and no one really thought it would work. What was it? It was a brand new Spidey, #1, baby. But it forewent the old 1963 version and retold basically the same story with a modern edge to it. Everyone bought it up, great storyline for already established fans from the old Amazing Spider-Man, and a great jumping-on point for people for the new Ultimate Spider-Man. It was such a success, other Marvel properties followed suit, soon there would be Ultimate X-Men, Fantastic Four and Avengers.

It proved people love a re-do, a fresh starting point. It was fresh and exciting. But for people outside the know, that's you, Reader, it would prove to be a little confusing on down the road. Because, now you see, there were effectively two Spider-Mans. The Ultimate version, and the Classic version from the sixties.
The difference was that Marvel could get away with a little more on the Ultimate side of the fence, and still get credit for being edgy. Because, trust me, they ain't gonna do anything to mess with the cozy confines of the Classic Universe.
For example: Ultimate Universe gave us black Nick Fury, gay Colossus and now dead Spider-Man.
So, when NPR expounds on how daring it is to kill off a major character, just keep in mind that they didn't, not really. It's still a feat, no doubt, to mess with a major title, but...they didn't re-invent the wheel.

Also, before we move on, you should know that Ultimate Peter Parker is being replaced by Miles Morales, a hispanic/black teenager whose special powers are to garner Marvel a wider demographic.

Nice new design, radically different, but still instantly recognizable as Spider-Man. Reader, I'm not unhappy, and yes, my comic retailer will have this particular issue waiting for me the day it comes out.

You know what John Lennon said about Chuck Berry and Rock 'n Roll? Well, the same can be said about Fanboys and Suckers.

Now, I guess I about made that about as clear as mud, so let's go on to D.C..

D.C. too, is going the Ultimate route, except they're totally abandoning their "Classic" universe, and are just going to totally immerse themselves in the new and improved, starting with issues numero uno for all their characters in September.
Admittedly I'm not a D.C. guy, so I won't try to get into the nitty-gritty on this one, but I'll tell you this, Reader, they already did this once with a comic event called Crisis on Infinite Earths, I believe it was called, where they traded a Golden Age Superman for a Silver Age, whatever the hell that means, it was all brought to light again in an arc called Crisis, which was actually pretty good.

But now it looks like they're getting rid of Silver Age Supes for a....Modern Age (?) version. I'm not sure on the particulars, but it sounds to me that the boys over there wrote themselves into such a hole that the only option they had left was to relaunch their entire damn universe (to be fair that opinion was provided to me by the editor of O.A.D.S., but it makes sense).

Which, if D.C. wants to do that, fine. But, again, let's not listen to NPR and act like anything much is going to change. The "biggest" change they made to Superman? Got rid of the red undies. Batman? Well, he's in...armor now? the Flash has pointy-er head fins and Aquaman still sucks.

When it's all said and done this is just a way for the Pepsi and Coke of comics to make some money, and that's what it's about at the end of the day. People love number ones, and they also like to have a jumping-on point, which Marvel and D.C. have been providing over and over through the years, be it Heroes Reborn, Zero Hour, Allstar Batman and Robin or countless others.
What's important, Reader, is that this doesn't make you cynical, that's not the point of this post. The point of this post is to get your ass to a comic retailer and buy some goddamn comic books.
It doesn't matter that the overhauls comic companies do to their characters are more trite than invigorating, what matters is everone should have a favorite comic story. Whether it's the time Tiger Shark almost killed Wolverine, or Invisable Woman kissed Namor.
And, in closing, I can't really blame D.C. for playing it safe with their redesigned images for their characters. You may not have been there, Reader, but the last time they fucked with Supe's image the fan backlash was pretty brutal.
In fact, you may want to get the kids out of the room.

Slim Pick'ns

2011-08-28T18:10:00.000-07:00

I know some people that go for a walk whenever they come up against a wall, but that seldom did much for me. Besides, looking out the window at this point seemed like a little too much effort. I would have really liked for something even remotely interesting to have been happening outside, but no go. I thought about checking the status of the latest hurricane but it seemed trite to go looking into misery to satisfy my deadline.

I picked up the receiver just to make sure there was a dial-tone, which, unfortunately there was. Why do all the crazies call when I'm in the middle of something, and not when I'm considering a different vocation?

I checked the phone again, I was really surprised my editor hadn't called today, or the last few days for that matter. Then, Atta slams through the door like she just got into a fender-bender with...well, I can't think of anyone, I was going to say Prometheus, but she just laid a bombshell on me and I can't think straight.

"We've been bought," she pants.

I should have said something at this point but I seemed to be suffering from a sudden case of...This is hard for me, Reader, I just want you to know.

"He just calls himself 'Slim'," she continued, "apparently...well, he owns this now."

Goddam Texans.

Segmented

2011-08-04T17:14:00.000-07:00

The room was sparsely furnished with a wash basin and a foam slab. Other bodily needs were taken care of in a separate room where a receiver would analyze any discharge for impurities, but if the length of stubble on Gustav's face was any indication, the need for that had expired some time ago.

Human contact had been limited to a young man bringing him meals, who had seemingly been ordered not to talk to him. But the uniformed young man would have been hard pressed to answer the ex-Controller's questions, simply because he didn't know the answers. If one were to follow the young man's rank, in ascending order, to find someone who did know the answers, one would find men and women at the top that would have had little to no reason as to why Controller Gustav had been charged for treason and incarcerated.

It was not unprecedented that a Controller would be punished for their respective agent's actions, this sort of thing happened. What was different here was that, though the Controller had been located and apprehended easily enough, the agent was no where to be found, and so the charges leveled against Gustav were a little vague, to say the least.

Also, the evidence that the agent under Controller Gustav had committed the crimes attributed to him was somewhat thin, and began to look more suspicious with each passing day. Somewhere above the pay grade of the militaristic young man who brought the ex-Controller his meals, were men and women who felt it was a little late to release Gustav and hope he accepts their apologies. Still yet, there were also a few men and women who felt that the man now sitting in the center of his cell meditatin, according to their monitors, was a mastermind who hadn't been squeezed hard enough for information concerning the whereabouts of his agent, Pedaf Truman. So it seemed that the ex-Controller's immediate fate had come to a stalemate.

Another problem, not to compound them, is that Gustav also didn't know where Pedaf Truman was, had in fact, lost him. In all actuality, he thought the military had come to inform him that the mission had been a success, that all four errant Subjects had been terminated, job well done. That notion had left him rather quickly with the introduction of the stun baton.

Segmented

2011-08-01T16:50:00.000-07:00

Forester slowly traced the lines of the book with his finger, wincing against the morning sun. A breeze pushed against the trees overhead and the birds were just distant enough. The grass under him pulsed against his feet and he tried to control his heart beat, God it was green out here. The doctor told him it would be good for him to get out, instructed him to do so. He looked down and watched the gamma rays from the sun bombard his skin with vitamin D, watched the melanoma darken and pool and turn cancerous. He breathed in the pollen and dirt and tasted the acid on the air, trying to concentrate on the book. It would not do, he had been told, for an agent to have a phobia of all things organic. It was more than Hastenburaphobia or Agoraphobia, and more specific than nihilism, but Agent Forester did not like to be outside the confines of his quarantine, no, no, did not like that at all.

Dr. Everett had found it amusing to no end that someone named "Forester" had felt that way about the great outdoors, and his humor was reflected in that the book he had given him to read whilst standing barefoot in the grass contained the word, "Rye" in the title.

Forester closed the book and suppressed a shudder at the feeling of paper against his skin. A few yards in front of him a man stood looking out at a lake. The shudder he was able to suppress, the smile he was not. Just a few says ago that man had known he was an agent named Pedaf Truman, but now, he's anything Forester tells him he is. Which was "Sebastian" for now, not that that means anything to Truman now, but it will before it's all over. It was just some crazy luck that had delivered Truman to him and the doctor, just a faint blip that "deserved attention" the doctor had said. And there he was, huddled into some alley, telling him his name was Sebastian had been a long shot, but it worked. And now, a man Forester had once shared a professional rivalry with, was eating out of his hand like some lost puppy.

On the night it came through the channels that Controller Gustav had been arrested as an accomplice for his rogue agent's actions, Forester had allowed himself to feel something other than complete loathing for once, just a tart sensation of victory.

Allowing "Sebastian" to listen to the feed, to hear the things this "Pedaf Truman" had been doing in VChicago had created a distance there as well. Chancey as it had been to let Truman hear his true name, but in accordance with the violent crimes that had been taking place? The murders of The Arbiter and Captain Davis? Well, no wonder Truman didn't have any trouble believing he was this Sebastian.

Sebastian turned around, facing Forester, a serene look playing across his face, "I want to thank you."

"For what?" Forester said.

"I think you saved my life. I know you did."

Forester smiled, "Just wait 'till I get you home."

White Blunder

2011-07-14T12:56:00.000-07:00

As I sat counting the beads of sweat going down my back I began retracing the steps that had brought me to this point. I thought that something had been a little off but I had been in such a hurry to sit down it didn't sink in until it was too late. My fact-checker kept trying to grab my arm and whisper something but that would have involved her getting too close to my face and I wasn't having it, besides which, she had this tendency to talk to me like she was my fourth grade teacher and I really wasn't in the mood. I just wanted to sit down and get it over with. I probably would have figured out what she was trying to tell me if A: I hadn't been in such a rush, B: I hadn't been so irritable, and C: I hadn't been wearing sunglasses. Because everyone was facing West for this afternoon wedding, the sun was blazing down so hard I felt like I was being interrogated by God; so I was wearing sunglasses. That is, not my prescription glasses. I could've swapped them out for my regular glasses but I would've been squinting so hard from the sun that I would've looked like a Halloween Pirate.

As I kept retracing my steps it seemed my doom was written further back than I thought. I wondered if I would be in the situation I was in if I hadn't hired my fact-checker, Atta. Maybe not, but I don't think that has as much to do with it than the day Atta told me she could take care of the mail for Weapon Mods. Before then it had never occurred to me that someone else could be assigned to take care of mail and it had been something I took care of with my morning coffee, but at the same time I began to see her realizing that working on Thornebelle wasn't as coveted a position as her college peers had told her. So I thought I had better start giving her more to do than checking dates and watering that damned plant outside our office. I acquiesced, mail duty was given up to her and a few months later she brought something to my attention that, had I been doing the mail, would have been deposited into the evening trash.

"You have to go," she breathed, holding the square invitation up to the window like she was showing off the Holy Grail to the pedestrians below.
Something I learned about Atta early on was that my usual defense of, It's really not my thing, didn't work so great on her. There were many subjects of which she thought she might change my mind on, among them, strawberries, cats, stir-fry, dominoes and white wine. To convince her otherwise was to fabricate allergies, allude to safety in cooking practices, all out lying and letting her catch me pouring wine into the house plants. I didn't know how I would explain to her that there was no way in hell I would be attending a wedding, no matter who it was.

To go into any further detail on how I came from not going to a wedding, to shopping for a gift for said wedding, is a bit of a personal defeat for me, so I'm not going to go into it. So we'll just fast forward to the department store, Atta and me standing at some kiosk while it printed a thirty-page gift registry and an employee maked pleasant chirping noises that were intended to make us feel that this is a safe environment in which to spend our money. I had no interest in being there, but I knew if I hadn't come Atta would've spent money out of her own pocket to but a gift and that would've made me feel pretty low. I did explain to her that the people getting married were in no way related to me and I had no intentions of going over a certain dollar amount to purchase some token of acceptance to present to these people that were about to cross threshold, but it was still hard to watch her get excited over some pricey decanter.

If it was clear to me when Atta was holding up the invitation so that the light caught it just so that she had intentions of being my +1 to the wedding, then it must be clear to you, reader. Which was fine by me, because since she was the one who wanted, so desperately, to go, then it was more like I was her +1. But my coming to a state where my intentions of going to this event went from zilch to ok-I-guess-so had nothing to do with the two words, "plus" and "one", it was another two words that sealed the deal, "open" and "bar".

That it finally came time to go and witness this spectacle of the Father's money and Atta still hadn't forgotten about it was not annoying to me. That is was a nice day out, and Atta was good enough to offer to drive wasn't annoying to me, either. What was annoying was that for some reason Atta thought I knew where we were going and that I had had the wherewithal to bring the invitation with the directions on it. That this seemed like something she should have done and I had told her so was not what I would describe as the appropriate time to open my mouth as she frantically punched locations into her phone, the center line weaving out and under from her eco-friendly car as something like a paragraph from The Jungle roiled around in my stomach from lunch.

For the writers of tour guides dealing with the surrounding areas of the city in which Thornbelle is located, it is something of a wonder that fifteen minutes of driving can bring you onto an old country road that looks like it belongs on the set of The Dukes of Hazard more than outside a metropolitan area, and those writers usually use exclamation points to note how special this is. However, it is the careful editor who nudges the writer out of this direction because if that particular guide led the reader out to this area, the reader (then traveler) would come to discover that there is nothing on this road except some wonderful places to shoot a sequel to Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

That being said, one fortunate thing about the road is that there really aren't any turnoffs and getting too lost didn't seem possible. So the trick was to keep going until we came to something. Which really did seem like the best way to go about it at the time.

"There, here we go, right on the right," I pointed.

"I think...I'm pretty sure it said left, it'd be on the left," she was titling her chin up, I guess this allowed her to see over long distances.

I said something gruffly about wondering how she would know that since she didn't bring the invitation and then hastily pointed out that there were pink and white balloons all over the sign by the road, blowing all over the place, and furthermore, how many weddings could there possibly be on this particular road on this particular day? She was about to make some, what I assumed to be at the time, wishy-washy comment, but I held my hand up in what I hoped would be, and was, interpreted as "stop" and her mouth made a perfect line as she turned at the sign, obscured by too many balloons and we parked next to a monstrous pick-up truck.

I went around the front of the car to see if the truck was sporting any decals across its windshield, but when Atta asked what I was doing I only swapped my glasses for my sunglasses and tried to pick my way around the mud. I pulled the neatly wrapped box out of the back seat and procedded to the seating area, Atta by my side as we nodded and smiled at the people we passed. Find-it-ok?'s and Need-help-with-that?'s assailed us from different directions and we both smiled and took turns saying things like "It's so pretty out here." feeling generally welcome and the both of us in better moods for being out of the car.

I sat the gift down in the designated area and we headed out to find a seat towards the back when Atta started trying to tell me something. People were behind us, so it wasn't like I was going to stop and listen to whatever she had to say, since we'd be sitting in a few minutes anyways and she could tell me then.

So, there I was, sitting in a white plastic chair, counting the beads of sweat rolling down my back as I finally realize what it was Atta had been trying to tell me all along. What she had been trying to tell me, desperately before we had both sat down and commited ourselves to the groom's share of the chairs. How, if I had listened, just briefly, to what she had to say, to furiously whisper to me, would have gone a long way just then. But the look I gave her then conveyed that I finally understood, and I hope the look was also apologetic.

"Well, let's just hope these people don't end up with two decanters," I offered, resigned to my seat.

What Atta said next I chalk up more to her being angry with me, rather than her views on any of the strangers that had surrounded us, but I will record it here for posterity's sake.

"Dorge, these people don't know what a decanter is."

And also, might I add, that the bride and groom, whoever they were, were quite a lovely couple.

Segmented

2011-06-22T18:30:00.000-07:00

The blood had stopped flowing sometime ago. Now a thick crust of dark red made a crescent on the Keeper's brow. His surroundings came to him in long distorted waves, whites on grays. When he tried to sit up, his stomach lurched violently, nausea ripped through him like a hook through a fish. He flattened his palms against the ground to steady himself, clenched his teeth and looked up, the whites flared and settled back into grays. Standing over him was the S.E.A.B.O.L.T., looking down at him as if he were in an aquarium.

He pushed his tongue against his teeth, squinting up at his captor, "Where am I?"

The S.E.A.B.O.L.T. seemed to grimace, then replied, "You're here."

The Keeper finally got his knees under him, and sat up a little more, reaching up and touching the blood crescent on his head, "What are you?"

Again the grimace, and the Keeper thought it wouldn't reply before it seemed to come to the conclusion, "I am not human."

"Do you know I'm a Keeper? Do you know the penalties for actions taken against a Keeper are severe?" Things were coming into focus again, the pain slowly being replaced by rage.

When Subject: R had infiltrated the Archives in VChicago the Keeper's first instinct had been to strike, but stayed his hand in hopes of following R back from where ever he'd come, taking a chance that he'd be led to more of the rogue agents. It was a risky move, to be sure, there was no guarantee the Keeper would have been able to read R's shift signature well enough to follow it, but it had worked. Officially speaking, the Keeper wasn't supposed to know about the four rogue agents, no one was, but there were few things a Keeper doesn't know, especially Keeper Darnell. The Keepers usually do not concern themselves with the going-ons of VChicago, or Central Zero for that matter; all four subjects would have been safe enough to walk the halls of the Archives until a Controller noticed them for all a Keeper would care. No, a Keeper's life was one of historical duty, intellectual pursuit, mental and physical perfection brought through the faith of their order; their place was not to get involved with the outside world, only to chronicle it, in minute detail. But, one of the rogue agents had made the mistake of taking something from the archives, and that could not go unpunished. And so the Keeper shifted as well, following Subject: R through the hole in the ether, and his gambit had paid off, he had been led straight to Subject: V. He had been about to place both the agents in custody when he had been attacked by something from behind, and the rest was only vague from then until now.

"You claim you are not human?" Keeper Darnell demanded, steadying himself on his feet. "Then you don't care about the consequenses of your actions?"

The S.E.A.B.O.L.T. looked as if he were trying to explain something to a child when he responded, "Caring is for the weak."

The world seemed to skip a beat, the gray flared into brilliant white, a tidal wave of sound crashed against the perception and the Keeper Darnell had wrenched the S.E.A.B.O.L.T.'s head from it's body, the seven-pound apendage left to hang against it's torso, a tether or circuitry weeding out of it's neck.

The Keeper held his palm out, his eyes slits, the Omni Bible's spine made a heavy smack as it landed in his hand, and he was gone.

Segmented

2011-06-01T18:28:00.000-07:00

The artificial light came into the room at a slant that was supposed to feel like late afternoon, which it did beautifully. The problem with being able to choose daylight settings, however, was that the light didn't progress from the set stage unless someone adjusted the programming; so it had been "late afternoon" for quite a few hours now. Everyone in the room used to working a normal twenty-four hour cycle had been feeling hungry and irritable for a while now, but that's the way it is when the shit hits the fan.
Seated at the head of the table was Acting Arbiter Greigh, who looked as if he'd just been roused out of chambers, put on a transport to VChicago, sworn in as Arbiter and dumped into a meeting room, which he had. Greigh rubbed his eyes, this wasn't supposed to happen, he thought. Arbitor Hhagnik was probably thinking the same thing as he was being murdered.
A short list of suspects read out on the desk display in front of him, with a short bio on each that did little to illustrate who these people were for the Acting Arbiter, supposedly, that's what the people seated around him were there for.
"It says here Controller...let's see, Controller Gustav was assigned to Sebastian Group?" Arbiter Greigh asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Then why was he using an Everett to hunt down the four who escaped?"
"It has been established that in the event that any matters that require agents to act on other agents, an agent from a different group would be used to tamp down any sympathetic notions, sir," the tech answered, unblinking behind his round glasses.
'...it has been established..' the Arbiter thought, is he mocking me?
"I see," the Arbiter said, "the former Arbiter personally assigned Controller Gustav to hunt down four rogue Sebastians...?"
"Yes, sir."
"Controller Gustav tapped an Everett named Pedaf Truman for the job?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any relation there, between Gustav and Pedaf?"
Another Controller piqued at that, "Not as far as we can tell, sir. It would probably have been the choice I, myself, would have made. Everett Truman was a very seasoned agent, sir."
"I see you're a Controller, name?" the Arbiter looked up from studying the woman's insignia.
"Oscanyon, sir."
"So, Controller Oscanyon," the Arbiter began, "You're assigned to Sebastian Dock? You worked with Gustav. You mentioned earlier that you don't believe he would have had anything to do with the death of Arbiter Hhagnik...,"
"Despite the evidence to the contrary," the tech in the round glasses shot out.
Though being new to the mantle of Arbiter, Greigh delivered a withering look to the tech that made him slump in his seat.
"No, sir," Controller Oscanyon continued, looking down the tech, "despite what Operator Nreff claims."
"And we still haven't been able to contact Controller Gustav?" the Arbiter asks another, seated farther down.
"No, sir. And before the murder it had been several days since the Controller's last communique," the young man said, barely out of his teens, the Arbiter thought.
"What about you?" the Arbiter turned to a man sitting next to Operator Nreff, "Controller...?"
"Bashale, sir, with Everett Group," the man said, the light reflecting off his dark lenses.
"This card that was found on the Arbiter's body, is that some sort of calling card?" Arbiter Greigh squared his shoulders.
Bashale seemed to consider how to answer for a moment, then, "I wouldn't think so, sir." Operator Nreff bristled before Bashale could continue, "The card in question is the result of field training the Everetts go through, it's just a simple kickstart for times when memory suppression isn't available. It's not something I practice, and I've reported that I don't agree with the exercise of using them."
"If you disagree with using these cards, simple as they are, why would Everett Truman still be using them?" the Arbiter pressed.
"Because Everett Truman had been in the program long before I was assigned, sir. It's a hard habit to break," Controller Bashale answered.
"Why not use them?"
"Arbiter, I believe these cards might compromise an agent's cover when on assignment," Bashale said.
"Maybe that's why your Everett went on a killing spree, pardon me, Controller Bashale," Controller Oscanyon said, fixing the other with a cold stare, "Maybe so long without memory suppression led to...this."
Operator Nreff turned to the Arbiter, "The memory suppression is a means of controlling-"
"You mean to lecture me on memory suppresion, Operator?" Arbiter Greigh bit out.
"I'm inclined to agree with Nreff on this one, forgive me, Controller Oscanyon," Bashale said, disarmingly, "it is far more likely a Controller such as Gustav could have gained access to the Arbiter's inner sanctum, what, with the safe guards agaisnst agents. According to the Operator it would be near impossible."
"Right," Nreff confirmed, unabashed.
"And no prints were found, am I seeing this right?" the Arbiter sighed, "does anyone make anything of the message? 'Traitor'?" The Acting Arbiter lowered his voice, "Did the Arbiter have his fingers in any pies we didn't know about? Besides the weapons cache, that is?"
"We're still looking into that, Arbiter," Oscanyon says.
"Sir?" the young man sitting at the last of the table perks up again, finger in the air, "I think there maybe something we're overlooking, here," he sounded apologetic.
"What's that?" the Arbiter said, almost inaudibly.
"The Arbiter was hanged, sir. There's only one group that ever does that, sir."
The Arbiter's brow raised, his mouth a grim line.
"The military," Controller Bashale finished.

Segmented

2011-05-16T18:18:00.000-07:00

"Get me Captain," Zombie says, hunkering in the dark.

There is a pause of radio static, then, "Captain."

"We've lost Pedaf, Cap," Zombie says, waiting.

"He's dead?"

"No," Zombie presses himself deeper into the shadows, "Someone just....took him."

"A Controller?" Captain's voice cuts through the static.

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, get back. The S.E.A.B.O.L.T. can't contain this Keeper forever."

"Roger."

Segmented

2011-05-16T18:11:00.000-07:00

The man cupped some water in his hands and drank. He swirled his hands in the fountain to avoid his reflection and coughed on the tepid swill until someone chased him away. He tucked himself under a stairwell and wrapped his arms around his legs. He did not know who he was, or how he came to be in this place. He wondered if someone was looking for him. He hoped someone was looking for him.

He could remember bits and pieces and he wondered if he was crazy. He thought about going to a hospital to see if he was a patient there, or some local facility. He laughed in the dark when he thought funny farm. He tongued the gap in his teeth and wondered if he lost them to a drug habit. He squeezed his eyes shut against his arms and considered checking his clothing for tags again, anything to determine something about himself.

He reached into his pocket but there was nothing there, but he felt like there should have been. He bit his lip and tried not to cry. He did not feel like he thought a crazy person should feel. He wondered how he could get access to a Missing Persons list; he didn't think a crazy person would wonder that.

He drifted into sleep, exhausted. There were dreams but no meaning to cling to, no faces to study in waking.

Someone was coming.

He pulled his feet under himself and held his breath. It was probably just another derelict, looking for a place to sleep or piss. But he didn't think so. The gait was sure and steady.

He squared his shoulders and tried to control his breathing. Whoever was coming down the alley had stopped, paused, then continued. He could see the approaching shadow on the bricked exterior, growing smaller and smaller as it neared, so close now, the person stopped.

I'm not going to hurt you, the person said, a man.
I'm here to help you, the man assured him.

His eyes were wide, listening.

The man told him he had been looking for him, that he was a part of some type of program. The man told him he would just have to trust him, that once he got him back everything would make sense again. Everyone was so worried, worried sick. The man told him that he blamed himself for everything, that it was his fault he was lost, confused, hurt.

The man came closer and there was no pretending that he was still hid, but the man still kept his distance.

What if this man had come to kill him? Or take him back to some...facility. Even so, wasn't that better than this? He tensed to run.

Then the man said something that sounded right, sounded familiar, even if he didn't know quite why. The man told him that he was from VChicago, that he had been on a mission before everything went wrong.

Yes, that was right, he knew it somehow. He reached back into his pocket, reflexivly, and cursed himself. What had happened? What had gone wrong. This man seemed to have the answers, but he didn't trust him. He chided himself, for sounding like a crazy person in his own head. He slowly came out from under the stairwell, the man still a safe distance away.

"Who are you?" he said, his voice cracking from non-use.

The man smiles and takes a tenative step forward, "It really is you," he says softly, "my name's Forester."

He takes a step toward Forester, "Then, who am I?"

Forester holds out his hand, "Your name is Sebastian."

Segmented

2011-05-09T18:13:00.000-07:00

In an instant Captain picked up the Omni Bible and hurled it across the distance between him and Keeper Darnell. Zombie knelt down and plucked his hate rod seemingly from the earth itself, bringing to bear against the Keeper, savagery snarled across his face.

Zombie, caught up in Captain's blind pursuit of the book had led the Keeper right into the heart of the Wha Jasia Fragment, and now the ideal they had sought so hard for, may be already lost. Despair defined itself in the sure stance of Keeper Darnell as he bats the projected book aside and brings his shepherd's crook up to parry the hate rod.

Captain brandishes a sabre, swinging it overhead, his chest left exposed for Darnell to bury his heel in the solar plexus. Captain doubles over, the breath gone out of him. Zombie regains his balance and swings the hate rod low, sweeping the Keeper's foot out from under him. Zombie adjusts his grip to bring the rod down on the Keeper's face, but the Keeper traces an X in the air above him and the rod meets some ethereal resistance, the ensuing vibrations nearly rip it from Zombie's hands.

Keeper Darnell jumps from his back to his legs and hooks the hate rod in his shepherd's crook sending it flying, the maneuver pulling Zombie along with it, Darnell delivering a bone-shattering elbow to his face. Zombie spits a gob of blood and teeth onto the ground, the fight taken out of him momentarily.

Captain stands again, the tip of his sabre weaving in the air, moving slower now, leaving himself less open. He swings the sabre, the blades sings in the air but doesn't connect, Keeper Darnell dodging the blows as they swirl around him. A small smile cracks the Keeper's ancient face and Captain's sabre becomes a hive of serpents, twisting and writhing around his arm, onto his body. Captain falls into a fit of screaming, his body throwing clouds of dirt and grit into the air.

Keeper Darnell stands over Zombie, pressing the convex of the shepherd's crook against his neck, his eyes meet with rage so arresting he hesitates.

The hate rod comes down square onto the base of the Keeper's neck, bringing him to his knees, and the following blow to the head nearly kills him, blood swelling out his ears.

The serpents harrowing Captain recede into nothingness, phantoms as they were. Zombie collects himself, determining how bloodied his face is with his hand.

"H-how?" the Keeper groans into the dirt, "I couldn't...feel you..."

"I am not human," S.E.A.B.O.L.T says as it tosses the hate rod back to Zombie.

Segmented

2011-05-05T17:56:00.000-07:00

Controller Gustav scans the frequencies again and wonders if he's been nodding off. He knew taking an Everett into the field this long was a stupid idea, he just hadn't known how to phrase "stupid idea" to the Arbiter when he was given the assignment.
He sighs and screws his face up, thinking. Standing outside and yelling the Everett's name doesn't seem like a viable option, but it's one of the few left on his list so he doesn't strike it. He could contact a Director, see if the Everett's shifted into another fragment, but there was really no way to go about that without sounding like he'd lost his man, which he had. In any case, he really didn't think the Everett had shifted somewhere else, call it a hunch. Nor did he believe he was dead.
Gustav looks at the link box and knows the Arbiter will try to contact him soon, that he hasn't already he can only chalk up to professional courtesy. He chuckles to himself, wondering if the courtesy would extend to a blindfold when he was summarily executed for treason, which he will undoubtedly be charged with, by VChicago.
The last few days he'd spent pounding the streets of this fragment, half-thinking he'd bump into the Everett, Pedaf, playing darts or hell, working a soup kitchen, for all he knew. But no go, Pedaf was no where to be found, and Gustav was left holding the bag.
Briefly he considers not contacting VChicago, just...unplugging. He imagines living a life where at any moment, the VCF would come knocking down his door and dragging his ass back home, too.
He looks at the four subjects, black and white, splayed out on his desk. Maybe Pedaf met his match with one of these things, barely human. There should never have been just one Everett sent after those four Sebastians, what the hell had the Arbiter been thinking? Why had he agreed? Pride? Something to prove?
Had the Arbiter sent him on some suicide mission? Why not just kill him, then go through this much trouble?
He grabbed a pen and flipped one of the pictures, began scrawling a list on the back, lists always helped him think.

FOUR SEBASTIANS ESCAPE QUARANTINE

I'M SENT TO FIND THEM------BECAUSE I'M A SEBASTIAN CONTROLLER...AM I BEING PUNISHED FOR LOSING THEM?

I'M TOLD NOT TO USE ANOTHER ~~SEBASTIAN~~ TO FIND THEM, TO USE AN EVERETT. I AM GIVEN EVERETT PEDAF TRUMAN.

I BRING PEDAF TO THIS FRAGMENT, EXPLAIN MISSION, SET HIM LOOSE

PEDAF KILLS ~~SUBJECT J~~---BUT MILITARY INVOLVED???---CAPTAIN DAVIS IN ENTROOP'S LAB--WOUNDED--

LAST I SEE PEDAF IS IN ENTROOP'S LAB WITH DAVIS--DAVIS SENT HOME???

I CONTACT ARBITER, REPORT J DEAD. ARB WARNS ABOUT FORESTER--LINK SEVERED WHEN I ASK ABOUT MILITARY.

WHERE IS EVERETT PEDAF TRUMAN??????

Controller Gustav sighs and scans the frequencies again, looking for something, anything. The list hadn't helped as much as he hoped it would.

Segmented

2011-05-04T18:21:00.000-07:00

Captain grins, taking the book from Zombie's outstretched hand and holding it to his chest. The outer binding of the tome wasn't so much white as it was void of color, against Captain's chest, it looked like some emptiness Zombie could reach into. It was warm and humming and held the weight of knowledge, eons of knowledge; an Omni Bible.

"It can really start now, Zombie. All we've worked for," Captain said, holding the book in front of him. "With this we'll be free. Soon, no more shifting, no more raids. We can stay here, bring everyone here to Wha Jasia. All the Gaws, everyone who wants to come, and no one will find us. Once we deviate this fragment, break away from the rest, there will be no way of shifting in or out. With this book we will start a new world."

Zombie rested on his haunches, shrugging his pack off, "You think that thing will even work here? Outside VChicago, hell, outside of Archives?"

"Can't you feel it? It's still warm. Besides, it was designed to work everywhere, just in case any of the fragments fell apart, just in case any of them needed to be restarted, like in New Jerusalem." Captain erected a crude table from the earth and set the book down. "With this book we won't need doctors, or architects, or...anybody. We'll have it all right here."

Zombie stood and came to the other side of the table, "Well, let's see it."

Captain ran his fingers down the blank cover of the book once more and sighed, "We did it," and opened the tome. He pressed his palm to the first page, seemed to think for a moment, and finally said, "Tell me everything."

"What, what is it?" Zombie asked, coming around the other side of the table. Captain had jerked his hand away and shrank back from the open book, his existence blazed and paled, a shock to the system. Zombie looked at the book, speaking softly, "What is that...Yiddish?"

"Hebrew, to be more precise," Keeper Darnell said. "You didn't think I'd let you just waltz out of Archives with that, did you, R?"

Segmented

2011-05-04T17:31:00.000-07:00

Attn: Director 033330.
Re: Capt. Davis

Director,

It is in my professional opinion Captain Merry D. Davis has suffered extensive psychological damage brought on by unknown causes. I've attached his service record only to show that there are no incidences on record, nor prior episodes that might explain the erratic behavior he has displayed upon his return to VChicago.

I have suggested to the VCF that he not be reinstated to the military, rather he should be allowed honorable discharge and retired.

He poses no threat to the continued efforts of VChicago, and has served with distinction.

Sincerely,

Col. Page

"Well?" The Director asks, taking the crisply folded letter back.

"Sounds like horse shit to me," Lt. Johnson says, crossing his arms.

The Director slides the letter back into the envelope whence is came, "So you don't think Merry's gone fuck'n vegetative?"

Lt. Johnson visible bristles, "Sir. Fuck no. Sir."

"Director, is someone working against us here?" Asst. Director Nye asks.

The two men turn to her, "That's what we need to find out, Nye," the Director says.

Segmented

2011-04-26T17:29:00.000-07:00

Most of the time Subject: V, or The Captain, found it hard to explain himself. Once, he got a glimpse of his record and the word "inscrutable" appeared twice. He had laughed at that at the time, but now he felt dangerously close to letting the word define him.
Right now, he thinks the reason Subject: J had moved against him was because he hadn't explained himself as well as he thought he had. He fears losing Zombie, too.

Now, according to Zombie, or Subject: R, J is dead. Killed by some Everett sent to hunt them all down. Captain turns the card Zombie had given him over in his hand:

Pedaf Truman

VChicago

Everett

At first, Captain thought it was some sinister calling card the hunter toted around with him, the quizzical look he had given Zombie expressed much the same before it was explained to him. The words on this card reminded "Pedaf Truman" who Pedaf Truman was, and Zombie had taken it from him. The last thing Zombie had said before he left the Wha Jasia Fragment was that he didn't kill Pedaf.

Captain doesn't know exactly what to do with this information. His first inclination is to terminate the Everett himself. What stays his hand is the thought that, despite him being from Sebastian Group, and Pedaf being from Everett Group, they were much the same. Maybe he should reach out to this person, undoubtedly lost now, confused. Pedaf may not even know of his ability to shift. Even if Captain did try to help, to what end? There was no way to administer memory suppression, and no way to contact Dr. Entroop for another device.

Captain reaches up and touches the small nodes stemming from his ears, a continuous loop of sound that kept him grounded, that didn't let him forget who he was, eliminated the need for the suppression. Without it, Captain would be walking in dangerous territory, and the same can be said for the Everett, Pedaf.

Maybe he should just get over his notion of trying to save everyone and let this one go.

He had wanted to save J, and look where it got him.

Captain sighs and grinds his eye with the the ball of his hand. It had been J's idea to escape Sebastian Dock, V had only facilitated, contacted Entroop. The rest had just fallen into place.

Entroop had suggested they choose two more subjects from the group, it would be easier to fight off the ensuing madness that way, until they could establish themselves in the time fragment the doctor had designated. J had chosen R, V picked D.

But to escape hadn't been enough for V, he wanted something more. He wanted to take back a little bit of what had been taken from him, so he turned his attention to the Wha Jasia Fragment. So named for a fantasy land V had read about as a child, just some make-believe place, except he was going to make it real.

Captain looks at his wrist, the stark V emblazoned there should be reminder enough, but it's not.

So, V learned to go to the void in between the time fragments, learn to maneuver in the dark. That's when the idea of a haven came to him, that's when he realized he'd need help. He needed to give that place a foundation, if people were going to flock to the Wha Jasian flag, then it needed something to be staked in.
He knew he couldn't do it himself, and feared the other three would think he'd gone crazy; he already suspected that they met in secret, without him.

That's when he found S.E.A.B.O.L.T., or should say, it found him.

Segmented

2011-04-22T19:40:00.000-07:00

Subject: R swung his club, narrowly missing Pedaf's head and slamming it into the glass wall, spinning away into a defensive crouch, compensating for his loss of balance.
Pedaf tries to fire his 460 while back-pedaling but the shots go wide, glass shatters and rains down on R's head, a crescendo of violence.
R hefts his club like a baseball bat, a long sleek trunk with some mess of metal on the business end, "HATE" carved crudely into the shaft. He spits a gob of blood into the dirt and approaches again.

When Pedaf had finally tracked down the Gaw Brothers to a probable location, he had not expected to engage in combat, nor be face to face with another of the four subjects who had escaped quarantine from VChicago. Though he now regretted leaving the sword behind, he was lucky he even had a weapon at all; he had considered leaving it before he approached the brothers so he wasn't perceived as a threat. But here, in what appeared to be some abandoned greenhouse, Subject: R had seemingly been waiting for him, and now he was swinging something that looked like a fucked-up axle at him. How did this happen?

R slashed the tip of his club in a downward swing, making Pedaf back up again, save his face from being crushed. Pedaf saw his chance as the end of the club bit into the dirt, it was so heavy R had to plant his feet to get it back up- Pedaf leveled the weapon and squeezed off a clean shot that slammed into R's chest, shoving him back into the dirt.
The club dropped to the floor with a hollow pang as Pedaf stepped past it, lining his sights up again. R was holding his wound, the skin crisping away; the internal damage the 460 inflicted was incredibly savage for a weapon so advanced.

Subject: R could have had the drop on Pedaf, but had chosen to fight him in the open, and with some crude club at that. Had he been trying to prove something? Was he going mad without the memory suppression?

Now that Pedaf was standing over him, he could see the wires stemming from his ears, the same thing Subject: J had been using. He now wondered why he had felt compelled to give the device he had taken off Subject: J to Captain Davis. Maybe because he hadn't trusted Controller Gustav with it, hadn't trusted him to get it back to VChicago to see what it did. But it looked like Pedaf was about to have access to that very same device again, once he plucked it off R's dead body; this time he'd keep it, to see for himself why the subjects had been wearing them.

From the ground R brought his foot up into Pedaf's groin and rolled away from the ensuing blaster shots, dirt and grit exploded from the ground as Pedaf slunk to his knees, white-hot pain screaming through his body.

As R brought the club down on him, Pedaf finally realized how it had come that Subject: R had been waiting for him: the Gaw set him up. That plaid-wearing son-of-a-bitch had walked him straight into a trap.

When the man woke up, he was in some sort of abandoned greenhouse. His head was sticky with dried blood that had pooled around his face, and his head was pounding. He tried to sit up, but could only manage to roll onto his back. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket and sighed with relief as his hands closed around the crumpled card inside. He couldn't remember why, but he somehow knew the card in his pocket would have the answers, tell him everything he needed to know.

But when he pulled it out, it was blank.

Segmented

2011-04-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

Captain Davis slowly lowered his weapon. The explosion Entroop had set off had partially deafened him, that and the fatigue made him slump against the doorway, the 460's weight straining against the shoulder strap.
Controller Gustav and the Everett moved quickly to sit him against the wall, the room having no chairs, only those long tables with the blank pages scattered everywhere. The Controller was asking him why he was here, but he could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying, and he couldn't seem to catch enough breath to answer. His hands finally relaxed enough to let the Everett pull the rifle from his grip, setting the safety and laying it aside.
Davis wondered if the Director knew a Controller was here in this fragment, but only briefly, he couldn't seem to focus. He bit his lip and tried going through his training, slowly examining his symptoms. His body felt sore to the touch, as if he were bruised, everywhere; blood was just beginning to stop flowing from his nose and ears; deaf and confused; slight vertigo and his eyeballs hurt. That meant the explosion was a concussive charge, not incendiary. That also meant that the walls and ceilings of this underground labyrinth might buckle completely at anytime.
This was supposed to be a relatively simple operation, extracting one man from a time fragment that shouldn't have posed much of a problem in and of itself. Davis hadn't even taken a full contingent, and more than a few rookies just to get them some ground time. Now he'd be writing letters and folding flags. Now he'd be explaining how important this mission was, when he wasn't sure why he was even here.
The Controller was gathering papers together, just blank pages as far as Davis could tell, while the Everett sat on his haunches in front of him, saying something but it was still hard to make his words make sense. Finally the Everett pushed something into his hands, some device with ear pieces stemming from it. The Everett closed Davis's hands around it, as if to keep it hidden, and stood back up, turning to the Controller. He jerked a thumb back at Davis, at which the Controller shrugged and left with an armful of the papers.

Davis only meant to close his eyes for a moment, to stop his head from spinning, but then he came to he was surrounded by medical officers and the Everett was gone. He was pulled off the floor and laid onto a gurney, sounds were coming back but lights were still blinding. One of the officers leaned over him and made a V and a C with his fingers before nodding to a soldier to get Davis out of there.

He squeezed the device the Everett had pushed into his hands.

Segmented

2011-04-12T17:26:00.000-07:00

They walked along in silence watching the storm rip through the horizon. The leaves were showing their backs and the world was ripe with blue-gray, the air felt thick and wet.
For a moment they paused but then walked on, the wind picked up an edge, biting and cold.

"Does it have to be so damn cold?" J said, wincing against the wind.

"No! But it's nice, isn't it? I mean, wow, you can really feel it!" V exclaimed.

They stopped and turned to each other, the wind whipping past them, harbinger of the rolling clouds ahead of them. Bits of dirt and grit began to sting against them when the wind gave in a little, but the storm progressed even so.

"What is this place?" J asked, not having to shout now.

"It's ours, what's it matter?" V replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.

J shrugged and looked after the storm, "Are we just going to stand here in this?"

V smiled, "I think it'll be sort of a baptism, you know?"

J frowned, "What?"

The wind howled again and they had to stand closer not to yell, the rain was coming down harder now and the storm was almost on top of them.

"Where are we?" J pressed, crossing his arms against the cold.

"You don't know?" V smiled wryly, "'Wha Jasia'," he laughed.

J studied the looming clouds, "They'll stop you," he said to the wind.

"What?" V yelled over the howl.

J turned back to V, "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because it's still unstable, this whole fragment. I need your help, you're a better shifter than me and you know it."

"Sounds more like you want to make sure I'm with you on this," J fired back.

The clouds consumed the sky above them and a torrent of rain came down on the two, curtains of rain set the scene and the lightning seared day-bright, contorting their faces.

V looked up despite the rain and raised his arms, shielding his face, the rain began to pour away from him as if he'd raised some bubble around himself, the fury of the storm pounded against his translucent enclosure but ceased to fall on him. He lowered his arms, wiping the water from his eyes, "You get it, J? This is all ours," he grinned, impish, "try it."

J turned slightly, hesitating, then, balling his fists, "Rain harder."

And it did.

Segmented

2011-04-07T18:33:00.000-07:00

"So, I hear you've been busy," he said, clasping his hands together and sliding down into his chair, "Am I one of your Gaws?"

"Well, I've told people as much," he laughed, and pressed his palms on to the desk in front of him.

Four-hundred years shared between them and still they engaged in dancing around the point, but the former had always been more direct that the latter.

"It's good to see you, my dude," he said.

"You too, R. I'm glad this all worked out, this much of it, at least. I really wasn't, well, I was scared we'd all be scattered through the fragments when we escaped," he sighed, relieved.

"I've dropped that moniker, just so you know," 'R' said, making a conceding gesture, "I go by 'Zombie' on the channels. What about you, V, I'm hearing less of that on the chatter."

'V' smiled wryly, "I've gone back to 'Captain'," he said, leaning back. They shared a laugh, the afternoon sun coming in as shafts of light through the blinds.

A relaxed silence fell between them, Zombie crossing his ankles on the desk, Captain standing to look out the window. Both of them not sure how to continue, not wanting to harm the relative calm they were sharing at the moment. But it had to be done.

"The other two say you have something to do with one of the fragments going dark," Zombie said.

Captain didn't turn from the window, "I wasn't aware you'd seen them. They won't talk to me on the channels, well that's not altogether too surprising. Did 'J' mention he tried to kill me?"

"Yeah, he mentioned that," Zombie said, "but I guess you got the last laugh."

Captain turned, "How's that?"

Zombie paused, as if unsure how to go on, "You know J's dead, right?"

Captain didn't answer immediately, instead he turned back to the window, pushing the blinds apart, "Does 'D' know?"

Zombie snorted, "He doesn't want anything to do with this."

"Zombie," Captain leaned over the desk, "I am responsible for one of the fragments going dark," he paused, "are you going to try to stop me?"

Zombie rubbed his chin absently and took a deep breath, "No."

"Are you having any...do you remember everything? VChicago, Sebastian Group?" Captain said, sitting down.

"It's not so bad, as long as I'm wearing this," Zombie said, indicating the ear piece, "Entroop's design is really...,"

"Something," Captiain finished, fingering his own ear piece.

"Better'n memory suppresion, anyways," Zombie scoffed.

Captain steepled his fingers, "So, if you're not going to stop me, does that mean you'll help me?"

"I didn't say that," Zombie said, setting his feet back on the ground, "I don't even know what you're doing with this blacked-out fragment, I just figure not stopping you is the least I could do...,"

"But now that you're safe, well, relatively, with Entroop's machine keeping you 'grounded' so to say, wouldn't you, or, haven't you thought about shifting back home?"

Zombie looked at Captain down the blade of his nose, "Are you trying to sell me on some revenge mission, Cap?"

"I need something from the archives, one of the journals," Captain said, reaching under the table and fingering the hilt of a blaster he'd stowed there before 'Zombie' came to him that day.

"One of the Omni Bibles, is what you mean, isn't it?" Zombie sighed, "What's this all about?"

Captain smiled and leaned back again, putting his hands behind his head, "Gaius Mucius Scaevola."

"...Who?" Zombie's brow furrowed.

"I came across the name when I was reading Titus Andronicus, it seems he may have been some of Shakespeare's inspiration for the lamentable tale," Captain spread his hands, leaning forward again, "Gaius Mucius Scaevola was this general, who when confronted with this enemy, this king, burned off his own right hand!"

"What? Why?" Zombie asked, incredulous.

Captain grinned, "To show the resolve of Rome."

"Is this what this is about? Your resolve?" Zombie demanded.

"No, it just struck me then, that...someone burned off their own damn hand. It's been done."

"So?"

"That means, if I were to do it, burn off my hand, right now, I wouldn't be the first person to do it. Now, burning off your hand, that's some crazy shit, right? But it's been done. Everything's been done. If you can think of it, everything you will ever do, someone has already done," Captain sighed, "it's a little depressing."

"I'm not following you, Cap," Zombie said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Zombie, we're going to reset it all," Captain said, "Everything."

Segmented Chronology

2011-04-06T19:44:00.000-07:00

"Sir? There's a Mr. Stevens here to see you?"

She was only calling me 'sir' because we had company. I could feel my cheeks actually flushing. Two visits in one day and Harenthal wasn't one of them, well, that's something. The guest who was currently being blessed by an audience with Dorge Kas, moi, of Weapon Mods was some mousy chick who said she was 'super' devoted to the blog. But she was here with a few concerns.
But I think she's lying. First off, I think she's lying with the whole mousy bit, with the short haircut and all. She walked in here like she owned the place, or worse, she's a stalker, but I'm not going to flatter myself, so I'm not falling for any mousy schtick. Second, 'super' devoted? I mean, come on. I barely read this rag and she's quoting lines to me that just illustrate that I drink when I write. And third, who would drive to Thornbelle just to express a few concerns?
No, the reason she's here became clear to me thirty seconds before the fact-checker said, "Sir-There's-A-Blah-Blah-Blah," she wanted to tell me about her blog. Cripes.

"I'm sorry, Ms.-,"

"Mrs.," she says.

"Right, would you mind to excuse me?"

"I came a long way," she reminds me.

"Ah. Right, so you did. Please tell...Mr. Stevens I'll be with him shortly," I give the fact-checker a pleading look and she shuts the door. "Sorry about that, so, you were saying about 'Segmented'?

"Well," she began, "I think it's confusing to your readers and people are coming to a point where they're just not reading it."

"And this is different than any other day of the week?" I smile.

"I'm being serious, it's not coming across well and the next time you do some 'Daddy' post there probably won't be anyone around to read it." Great, charming isn't going to work with her.

I looked at the pictures on my desk and sighed, she may have a point. "So? Stop writing them?"

"No! No, no. Just, clean them up a bit, make it easier to read, less confusing," she smiles and slides a tablet across my desk, "This should do it, just a little something I put together. This way, the reader doesn't have to keep going back and forth from Mods to Drop Station," she was beaming now.

http://www.whajasia.com/timeline.html

"Wow, that's really...,"

"'Super'?" she offers.

"I was going to say 'devoted', but, yeah."

"So you'll take a look at my blog? The Only Girl Playing?"

"Hell, I'll follow the sonuvva bitch."

"Great!" she says, popping up and standing with her arms akimbo. Mousy. Right.

By the time she left I had forgotten about Mr. Stevens but a gentle rapping on my door resolved all that, "Mr. Stevens! Right, I'm sorry-," I stammered.

"He left, Dorge," the fact-checker said, sliding in, "And it was only Pete Stevens, the guy from Drop Station?" she said, setting a journal on my desk. "He left this."

"Why?" The thought of Pete Stevens actually standing in my office gave me that weird feeling I always got when I watched Gilligan's Island. I pushed back murderous thoughts and opened the journal.

"He just said to tell you it was from Mr. J."

Pete Stevens had walked over here to deliver a journal whose contents were completely blank. How could anyone be so utterly useless? The murderous thoughts rose in me again and this time they felt palpable.

A blank journal. Or was Mr. J trying to tell me something?

Yeah. Probably just a blank journal. Asshole.

Segmented

2011-03-31T20:37:00.000-07:00

"So, Entroop was gone by the time you got here?" Controller Gustav asked, preoccupied with the enormity of the room they were standing in.

"Yes, at least I couldn't find him," Pedaf said, laying his sword down on a table amidst some clutter.

The room smelled vaguely of chemical and grass. Overhead lights strummed and went dark, only to flicker back to life, making the shadows dance macabre. Tables were scattered around the room in some tantric pattern, but there were no chairs. On top of the tables were papers, everywhere, but completely blank, some crumpled or ripped, but blank; there were no writing instruments anywhere.
In the center of the room some hulk of a machine stretched into the shadows overhead, humming softly. Cables poured from its center axis, thick and greasy, but didn't seem to lead to anything, diodes raced up and down in tiny constellations, the ribs of it heaved.

"What do you make of it?" Gustav said, holding his palm to the machine as if it were a fire.

"Sir? I don't know," Pedaf checked the battery of the 460 Rifle and slid the clip back in with a satisfying snap. "I'm sure it's responsible for the distortion waves, but whatever else it does, hell if I know."

Gustav flipped through some of the papers on a table, sorting them into neat stacks, "I wonder what all this is, I'll have to get it to a tech."

"What are you going to do with the body?"

"Subject: J? Send it back to VChicago," Gustav shrugged.

Pedaf picked the sword up, then set it back down. He rolled his neck and looked towards the ceiling, "I guess I thought he'd be the hardest one to find, just, I dunno, from the pictures. From what archives said, it's a little strange, feels strange, right?"

"All it means is: One Down, Pedaf. Three to go."

"Three? What about Entroop?" Pedaf asked, lowering his eyes to the Controller.

"When Entroop is apprehended he will stand trial on VChicago," Gustav said, then added, "according to the Director."

Lucidity flits through Pedaf's face and disappears just as quickly. He's tempted to pull out the card he'd been fingering in his pocket to see what it says, knowing it's something important but for some reason doesn't want the Controller to see him do this. His fingers also touch against something else, something he took from Subject: J, but he doesn't want the Controller seeing that, either.

"Pedaf?"

Pedaf, that's it. Pedaf. Everett. VChicago.

"Pedaf, you still with me here?" Gustav pressed.

"Y-yes," Pedaf stammered, "I was just wondering if you'd be contacting the Director, to report."

Gustav seemed to study Pedaf before answering, then shrugs, "Soon enough, if we can establish a link. I'd also like to find out what the military's doing here."

"Military?"

"Forget about all the bodies piled up out there? Forget you're holding a Class 460 Rifle?" Gustav's eyes penetrated.

Pedaf gripped the device in his pocket, yes, some listening device Subject: J had been wearing, that's what it was. What did it do? Something about the distortion waves? Why didn't he want Controller Gustav to know he had it? He pulled his hand out of his pocket, lest he give himself away. "No, I didn't forget, it just seems too...clandestine to be military."

"Really? I was just thinking it was too military to be clandestine. But you're probably on the right track, this just may be sand in our eyes, this whole thing," Gustav said, abruptly turning to the exit.

"What about all this?" Pedaf said.

"Well, we'll have to talk about that," said the man cutting Gustav off at the door, dressed in fatigues and leveling his own 460 at the two. "What are you two doing down here?"

Controller Gustav didn't offer an answer, or even step back, "Lower your weapon Captain Davis," he said, crossing his arms.

"My God, is that an Everett?"

Butterfly

2011-03-28T10:03:00.000-07:00

She examines the open suitcase in front of her and wondered if having to tote all this stuff around was going against the point of the trip. She took out her hair dryer and placed it on the bed beside the suitcase, imagining seeing it there when she got back.
She chides herself for already coming back in her head. She closes the suitcase and carries it to the front door, committing to herself that she would add nothing more, nor be tempted to take anything else out. She eyes the suitcase cautiously, she was forgetting something; but the washing machine dinged and she went to transfer her sheets to the dryer. Nothing like your own bed and clean sheets when you got back from a trip.
That's what she thinks now, she wondered if she would come back different, and so think something different? She wasn't young enough to hope for that.
Keys, wallet, passport.
She lookes out her peephole out of habit, leaning her weight against the door. She thought the phone would ring soon, and when it does it still startles her. She sat on the edge of the stool so she wouldn't get comfortable, wouldn't let her body trick her into a long conversation. She winced when she said, "Mom," because it sounded like she was still a teenager. She cradled the phone with her shoulder and pantomimed tying bows with her fingers, talking to her mother distractedly. Her mother wanted to know what This Whole Trip was supposed to Be About and she didn't know how to answer her, so she just repeated how long she'd be gone. She thanked God she didn't have any animals because having to ask her mother to take care of them would've been unbearable.
That's when it occurs to her that if she had had animals, her mother was the only person she could have called. She looks at how long the call took before she presses END and powers it down. She places it neatly in a drawer and wonders if she should leave herself a note as to where he phone is. But she decides that the hairdryer on the bed will be enough of a reminder of how banal she was, and turns away from the deposited device.
In the store last night she stood in the cosmetics section looking at several versions of the same woman for seven minutes. She thought 'seven' because 'ten' is what everyone says. Despite the promises of "Ravishing Red" and "Brunette Brevity" she decided not to color her hair, as that would only substitute the change she was going to make.
In the airport today, she's happy with the decision she made as she provides her passport and its photo identification.
On the plane she accepts, please-thank you, an apple juice and crumples the foil lid in her hand. Just a few weeks ago she would have folded neatly, and she certainly wouldn't have deposited it onto the floor. She had changed.
In the cab shes asks the driver, "What's that smell?" and hopes she sounds demanding.
She scatters the contents of her suitcase onto the hotel floor and pulls off her clothes. In she shower she breaths in the steam, and as she exhales it pulls with it the old lining of herself, vaporizing in the air. She watches the water well in her hands and she lets it fall with a satisfying splash. She will misuse this facility. She will use up all the hot water in this hotel. She will drain the watersheds of this country for her shower.
She leaves wet foots prints on the carpet and stands at the window naked. She can see the pool below but is looking at her reflection. Inside, she thrashes against this image of herself, inside, she wants to pull the flesh back.
At the bar she shrugs at the bartender, the music is too loud and she doesn't understand his language. The drink he brings her is tart and burns her throat but she likes it. She knows she will never have it again and will never know the name for it.
Her hand is on the man's knee and she wonders if he plays soccer. She smiles when he laughs and wonders what his bare chest looks like. Her old self would be worried about waking up with a few less organs. She was different now, she thinks as her hand rides up his thigh.
In her room she pushes him onto the bed and grinds down against him. Her nails wrench into his chest and he squirms from the pain. She is full of him and his hands are on her wrists, she relinquishes some of the control and hopes he will sleep here so she can fantasize about killing him.
She is shopping in some district and she thinks she sees him, but doesn't. She is about to buy her mother something, but doesn't. She considers taking interest in a game of chess two men are playing, but doesn't. Instead, she tosses a glass Pepsi bottle down a flight of stairs and grits her teeth against the noise.
She drinks the water because she's not supposed to and considers peeing in the ocean. She changes her mind and decides to go back to her room; the destruction is waning and she thinks the metamorphosis is almost complete.
This time on the plane she does not accept a drink. Instead she counts her teeth, over and over, with the tip of her tongue. She wonders if she would instinctively know how to break an animal's neck, like a cat. She thinks about watching her fingertips as a child, trying to watch them grow.
No one knew when she would be back, but she still feels a little disappointed there's no one waiting for her at the airport. She scans the crowd around her slowly, as if she is looking for someone in particular. Instead, she is taking stock of all the people she owns. She imagines leaving footprints in the thin carpet as if it were sand, she was different now.
Her suitcase is the first to appear at the baggage claim and she considers leaving it there, but in the end doesn't.
In the cab she asks, "What's the smell?" but she really doesn't smell anything. The driver sounds apologetic anyways.
Her mother isn't waiting outside the burned-out shell of her house because she didn't know when she would be back. Standing on the sidewalk, her tongue feels like a swollen sausage inside her mouth. The cab driver can think of nothing to say except, "You're sure this is it?"
Caution tape makes a perimeter around her yard and the siding is blackened where the flames licked out her windows. From here, the roof looks relatively untouched, like a lid on top of a jar of havoc.
Once they realize she's back, the neighbors begin to slowly file out of their houses. Some strange ritual is about to commence, made all the more unquieting because they don't know her name. A man in a polo shirt reaches out to touch her arm then thinks better of it. An old woman admonishes that everyone thought she was in there when the house was burning, no one knew where she was.
The fire inspector had determined that the point of origin for the fire had been the dryer; the only thing inside had been sheets, maybe curtains.
She can't allow these people to see her laughing, and she wonders what she'll have to think about to get herself to cry. She gets back into the cab and tells the driver where she wants to go.
This time she does leave her suitcase, there on the sidewalk.
She stretches her wings and blazes with color.
Metamorphosis complete.

Heed

2011-03-28T09:58:00.000-07:00

When my first daughter was born feeding her was a challenge. She didn't want to latch for breastfeeding and the formulas weren't working. She would just vomit everything up moments after ingesting it, which led to incessant crying.

First-time parents waiting for CPS to knock down the door because we couldn't get our baby to eat.

Regular formula, expensive. Soy formula, more expensive. Hydrolyzed formula, most expensive, but it was the only thing that worked. When it's your baby, it doesn't matter if the only thing she'll eat is milk from a bald eagle, you'll get it.

"It's hydrolyzed because the protein is already broken down," my wife supplies.

All this seems so long ago that it's hard to remember. Me standing in the kitchen, mixing this yellow chalk with water so it would be ready the next day. Or cramming as much as I could of the formula into the grocery cart when it was on sale. It was hard. I can't imagine doling out twenty-five bucks a pop for that formula now, I don't see how we did it then. The CPS didn't come. Our baby was healthy, and fed, and warm. She still is. It's hard to get her to eat her greens, and negotiating twenty jelly beans down to ten is always trying, but she's healthy, fed and warm.

I have a lot to be thankful for.

On Friday, March 11, a 9.0 earthquake ravaged Japan.

The water has become contaminated from the radiation emitting from the damaged Fukushima Daiichi nuclear facility.

Japan’s Health, Labor and Welfare Ministry has advised people not to give the water to infants.

http://www.redcross.org/

Go now. Help.

Segmented

2011-03-24T14:45:00.000-07:00

"Link accepted, you're a go, Controller Gustav."

The Arbiter looked at the communications tech and waited, a faint static emitting from the speaker.
The tech avoided the Arbiter's eyes and tweaked the dials a little more, "Go ahead, Controller."

"..ere? This is Controller Gustav, do we have link?"

"Ye-,"

"We can hear you fine, Gustav. What's the situation down there?" the Arbiter leaned over the speaker.

"Everett 32 has eliminated Subject: J. I repeat, Subject: J eliminated."

The Arbiter pursed his lips, "That's excellent, Controller. I was a little worried how working with an Everett might be for you," he paused, seemingly unsure. "Controller, how closely are you following '32'?"

Silence, then, "He reports to me regularly, sir. Is there a concern?"

"I'm afraid Everett 16 may be taking an interest in this."

"I see, sir. Is there anyone from Sebastian Group who might...curtail him?"

The Arbiter sighs, "You're the only Controller I trust over there, and with you in the field, it's tricky. And with Foreste-ah, '16' so close to the Doctor, I don't know if I want to go that route. I just need you to keep your eyes open, least they decide to get involved."

"I understand, sir," Gustav said, his voice distant over the time lines.

"You're doing good work, we should be able to wrap this up soon."

"Thank you, sir."

The Arbiter motions for the tech to sever the link, but then, "Sir, did you 'OK' the Director sending in the military? These Time Fragments are easily collapsible, a force that size cou-,"

"Link severed, Arbiter," the tech said, shutting down the equipment.

"Dismissed."

Segmented

2011-03-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

In the corner something was blinking in and out. There, then not. Having struggled so long against the distortion waves, vertigo was easily induced. Trying to focus on something that was flickering in and out of space was working a number on my head.

Remember the training. Look for the shadow. Confirm what you're seeing. I gripped the 460 and took a few steps closer.

My God.

I fight through the suppression and try to remember. I've seen this before when something had gone wrong at VChicago; a Controller screwed something up and one of us were caught between the fragments. It must have been early on in the program, all the kinks hadn't been ironed out. An Everett, like me, was stuck in some continuous loop, here then not. Riding the currents of time but not space, living some ghost existence.

I was seeing it again. I got as close as I dared to the figure appearing and disappearing in the damp corner. I felt like I was kneeling next to a coiled snake.

What had the Controllers done with that subject? Too many layers to fight through in my mind, but ending it mercifully doesn't seem like their style. I wonder if that poor soul is still flittering through the fragments like that.

I count the seconds between appearances, trying to determine how many lives he's existing in at once, but I forget the formula and can only guess.

When you see someone as all the possibilities fate, or chance has provided, it's hard to recognize them off-hand, because in this life they have short hair, in another half their ear is missing, hundreds of deviations, paths, and this bastard was living all of them at once. The only thing I can tell for sure is that this person was a part of Everett or Sebastian Group.

And then it clicks; I'm looking at Subject: J. And he doesn't appear to be much of a threat.

Gone.

A patch over his right eye, grinning, "...ok if I call you, 'Clock'?"

Gone.

Bald, scars criss-crossing his face, "...hated you all this time."

Gone.

Handsome, clear eyes, "...you're a pretty cool guy."

Gone.

Does he even know what's happening to him? Has he gone insane? I consider shifting to see if I can pull him out of the loop, when I remember why I'm here. I don't think he can understand me, I don't think he even sees me. But now I'm shaking and my breathe won't come, but I can at least do one thing for him: explain.

"Subject: J. You were a part of Sebastian Group of VChicago. You were number twenty-seven of forty. You, and three others, Subjects: R, D and V escaped from a quarantine and fled to this Time Fragment. The people who oversaw Sebastian Group, the Controllers, determined that the four of you constituted a threat to the time lines. You were tracked here, to this Time Fragment, because of a man named Entroop, whether the four of you were specifically looking for him, or he somehow contacted you, I do not know."

He doesn't hear every other word as he blinks in and out, but it's important for me to do this, so I continue.

"My name is Pedaf Truman. I'm from Everett Group of VChicago. My Controllers have sent me to kill you, and the other three."

Gone.

Long, stringy hair, impossibly pale, "-orget something aga-,"

The blinks were coming closer together.

I looked at the 460 in my hand and was amazed I still knew how to handle the weapon. Maybe not everything is suppressed. Then a thought, what if I fire this at the wrong time, just as he blinks out? Do I just keep firing until he happens to appear in this time? If Entroop is still down here that might be showing my cards a little early.

Gone.

Piercings stud his face, "-is time. I didn't die li-,"

I shift the rifle to my hip and grip the hilt of the Samurai sword, it is a well-made blade and it slides from its sheathe unerringly.

Gone.

Deeply tanned, smiling, "...get things back to normal, you kn-,"
I slowly slide the blade into the time-space Subject: J occupies, as he flits in and out of it. At once there is resistance, and then not. Resistance, then not, as I slide it home.

Gone.

Bearded, cold eyes, "...think I'm bleeding? Does...,"

His body slumps against my sword, no longer phasing in and out, the ghost flicker over, and I see him how he was in this Time Fragment; young, pragmatic. I can only pray that he only had to suffer one death. The thought of this scene playing out over and over again for him makes my stomach lurch. I have a feeling I've done this kind've work before but it doesn't appear to get any easier.

"I'm sorry, J."

Segmented

2011-03-21T09:17:00.000-07:00

The Brothers have proved to be more elusive than they were made out to be. Whether or not they have some collective database is yet to be determined; and what that data would be is even more speculative. I need addresses, dates...not favorite colors.

There's been no more contact from Controller Gustav, and I have to look at my card more and more frequently: Pedaf Truman. Everett. VChicago. Another thing I have to keep reminding myself is why I'm holding a Samurai sword. It seems I may have confused what Time Fragment I'm in, at least, that makes the most sense; all I remember is needing a weapon.

As I'm vomiting right now, it's increasingly difficult to focus. I think I'm in the sub levels of Thornebelle, and if the growing intensity of these distortion waves are to be any indication, I'm very close to Entroop and whatever he's been up to.

I'd been making my way here using utility access-ways for the last two days, and the waves of vertigo began late yesterday. If there's anything being in quarantine so long has taught me, it's being able to tell when vertigo is artificial. This must be some protective measure Entroop had ensured for himself. That explains these nauseous episodes I'm having, why with every step I'm losing more and more of the super ego.

My knuckles are white on the hilt of the sword and I wonder if I should unsheathe it. Another blast from a Class 460 Rifle echoes down the halls and I know I've brought a knife to a gun fight. But at least I still recognize the report of a 460, and I recognize what that means: The Director has sent the military in. Are we working in concert, or is this the Ace up their sleeve? Why bring in an Everett at all if they were just going to send in the military? Or maybe I'm in the wrong Time Fragment, after all. Nothing to do but press forward.

I think the gunfire may be some attempt to confuse pursuers; there's no return fire, nor issuing of commands, and then it's just a hunch.

But I know I'm close now, despite the distortion.

Bodies.

There are bodies everywhere. I didn't think I could vomit anymore, but I have to choke something back. All military, young, too. These kids look like they just went to sleep. I check the safety on a 460 and sling it around my shoulder, the dead fingers pried loosely from the weapon and I realize I just missed the party. I somehow just missed whatever happened here.
I press my head against the cold wall and wait for the next distortion wave. When it doesn't come I know I may have already missed Entroop. It seems strange that a shifter could miss anything. I'm tempted to go back a little, see if I can figure out what happened, but I remember what Gustav said and I don't want to press my luck. I want to make it home after all this, and shifting may sever my link.

I push on.

Segmented

2011-03-19T08:07:00.000-07:00

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

"..."

"Hey, listen. I think someone's looking for you. Someone is looking for you."

"Who?"

"Pedaf Truman? It's how you said it would be."

"Do you know where I am?"

"No."

"Jesus, you had this number for so long?"

"I've always just remembered it. He called you 'Subject: V'."

[soft laughing] "Oh yeah?"

"Just like you said. How'd you know that?"

"'Subject: J' told me."

"I didn't tell him anything, well, I told him he may want to talk to the brothers."

"Mmm...have you talked to them?"

"No, not in a long time."

"Have you talked to any of the Gaws?"

"No, you know, I've been meaning to call Ro-,"

"Subject: R?"

[laughing] "Right."

"Thank you for calling me. I mean, thanks for everything."

"Are you still there?"

Segmented

2011-03-17T17:25:00.000-07:00

Great.

Just. Great.

Pedaf Truman. VChicago. Everett.

Pedaf Truman, an Everett, from VChicago, is in the wrong Time Fragment. And he has Controller Gustav to thank. And he's thinking in the third-person. Focus.

"You ok? That stuff'll hit'cha kinda hard," he said, exhaling a haze of odorous smoke, looking at Pedaf with glassy concern.

No wonder I'm thinking in the third person. This is my contact? This is my in?

"Pedaf? Pe-doff! What is that...Russian?" and he made a noise he must associate with deep thoughts, or chocolate. "Kalashnikov, comrade! Da Bolshevik sputnik!"

"You're saying you can't even tell me what a 'Gaw' is?" This is going nowhere.

"I don't think it was ever anything. I mean, was I a Gaw? Yes, but...what do you think that means?" he leaned forward abruptly, "That's the question, Pedaf, right there. Why are you here?"

God only knows. But I don't think he means "here" the way I think he does. I haven't heard this much existential bullshit since, hell I dunno, fake-memory-number-twenty-four. "Do you still contact Subject: V?"

His laughing suddenly turned into coughing, his face contorted sharply, "If he knew you called him 'Subject V' God his head would just-," and he pantomimed a head swelling like a blow fish.

"Well, I was just trying to get in touch with him. Do you know how I would do that?"

He flicked his lighter, almost compulsively, "No. No, I haven't seen him in a long time. I haven't seen any of the Gaws in, hell, years."

How did this go wrong? Why am I here, indeed? This guy can't even give me an answer as to what a Gaw is, and it sure as hell doesn't sound like there's any dangerous element to them. At least, not to the extent Gustav made them out to be. Is this just some story he's told me to...justify what he's sent me to do? Is their only transgression having escaped Sebastian Dock? Does he think I'll sleep any easier at night either way? I can't even guess about my last assignments and I'm sure it'll be the same for this one once it's complete. In the meantime I'm still going to have to track these four down and this "Gaw" has proved utterly useless. I'm no closer now than when I started. I'm already thinking about trying to find Entroop and that's not good. But, he may already know I'm here, somehow. Just the way Entroop always seemed to know.

"You know who you should talk to? The Brothers," he said, crossing his legs.

"These are Gaws? What would they know?"

"Maybe nothing. But they kept a kind've...database. If anybody can help you...,"

The Brothers...a database? Doesn't make sense that the Controllers wouldn't have known about this.

"Hey!" he lurched forward again, "You're not wearing green!"

"...What?"

He reached out as if to pinch him, "It's Saint Patrick's Day!"

"You're not wearing green, either!"

He stopped and looked down at his plaid blue shirt, "Are you sure?"

Christ.

I'm going to shift into the stone age.

Segmented

2011-03-14T17:43:00.000-07:00

I have a piece of paper that has three words on it.

Pedaf Truman

VChicago

Everett

Sometimes when I look at the paper I get that feeling like when I look in the mirror too long. I have to convince myself that it's my writing. Then I have to assign a meaning to each word. If someone's ever forgotten how old they are, maybe just for a moment, they'd understand what it's like when I try to figure out my name. I could have just as easily scribbled "home" there, beside VChicago, but I've got to make myself think.

What were these initials for? Some arbitrary designation assigned by Project Window? Really, I don't suppose it matters. I've been flipping through the photos Gustav gave me, trying to determine what's so..."J" about this person, or "R" about another.

"Kill them," he said. Kill them, sure, that'll be a snap, mind to keep dinner warm? I don't even know where to start with this one. I can't get any sleep on this train. When I get into town I'm going to have to get a weapon; what's going to pass for a weapon here? A little more info on this Time Fragment would've been nice, thanks, Gus.

I pause on one of the pictures. This is the one Gus said left the four, I wonder if he meant all four? Is this guy going to be my way in? "Hi, I've come a long way. Long story short, I know your from Sebastian Group, would you like to get revenge?" That's a long shot.

The stewardess brings another water, and I wonder why she gives me a strange look when I say, "stewardess". It's the first time in as long as I can remember the water tasting so good.

When I get into town I'm supposed to make contact with one of these "Gaws", but I feel like I'm just walking into a trap, like that time with Forester. And I spend the next fifteen minutes wondering if Forester is a real person.

I'll figure it out. After all, I have all the time in the world.

Fucking Milton

2011-03-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

Momma said there'd be days like this.
I wonder if writer's block was a result of some chemical imbalance. I wonder if I'd had a few more greens during the day I would be churning out the next...something or another. I would cite the rum as a hindrance, but it didn't seem to slow Hemingway down. And fucking Milton was blind.
I'm probably just pissed off my fact-checker called-in the second day in a row. Probably tired of me asking her things I could have just as easily Googled just to keep her busy; hey, it's my dime. What she's probably doing is looking for another job.
At least I haven't heard Entroop moping around today. What kind've name is that? Jewish? En-troop. E-N-Troop. They probably just fucked it up at Ellis Island. This would be a perfect thing for my fact-checker to do.
I'm ready for this relative quiet to...I want to say, "explode", but that doesn't sound right. "This silence is pregnant with the posibility-scratch that-potential to...," Ok, really? What I'm waiting for is the phone to ring, and when it does, it'll be Harenthal.
And this is what he'll say:

I don't even feel like going in to what he'll say. It'll be bad. I don't even feel like thinking about it.

He's going to really blow his top when he figures out my posts are only making sense if the reader is checking out the Orbital Anvil Drop Station blog, too. Since, technically, O.A.D.S. is the competition. Then, he'll ask me, genius that I am, why I'm giving all those particular posts the same title. Because "Segmented 2" didn't sound good?

I think I'm going to get out, maybe get something to eat. Step away from it, come back. Something will bubble up to the surface, especially if I run into a zebra ninja or something at the pizza place.

I grab my keys.

The phone rings.

Segmented

2011-03-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

If the four subjects from the Sebastian group were indeed living in some sort of "half-shifted" phase that would explain why it had been so hard to pinpoint them. But once we narrowed it down to their present location, it seems all we have to do is point the interceptors in the right direction and take off the leash, with the presumed risks that go along with that.
What remains unclear is why the subjects have chosen this particular time fragment, and furthermore, why they stayed together after the initial escape from Sebastian Group. There is speculation there's something here we're not seeing, whether that be an event or something else of mutual interest.
Everett Pedaf and I have set up a base camp of sorts in this fragment, but in order to keep a link to VChicago we do not have the luxury of "shifting" for fear of losing contact. That deserves a bit of an amendment, Pedaf doesn't know that shifting will potentially sever his link to "home" which Project Window would see as the lesser of two evils, the other being that Pedaf discover that by shifting he isn't as tethered to us as we'd like him to believe; but I did admonish that he only shift as an absolute last resort.
Another concern is that Pedaf will not be under his memory suppression regimen, a concession we had to make in order to ensure he didn't "forget" he doesn't belong in this fragment. But what comes with that is the fear of the schizophrenia-like symptoms that seem to bubble to the surface of someone who goes too long without the suppression.
It would be interesting to study the psyche of the four individuals, now having been without the conditions of the quarantine for so long. Dementia would probably be the least of their problems, and their sense of self would be nothing more than some abstract notion.
Having to establish a bond of sorts with Pedaf, or "Everett 32" has proven less difficult than I initially suspected.
I feel I will prove solely responsible when he is destroyed.

Segmented

2011-03-07T15:12:00.000-08:00

He could see everything from here. All the pieces moving in a current he alone controlled. He half-smiled, before the feeling came back, the feeling of being watched. He had had it before, knew it well, but that was so long ago.
What could he have done with more time? What would he have done with more time!
And now Entroop was pushing his hand. Damn that fool!
The clouds rolled beneath them and the weight of isolation bore down on him. He had shored himself against this, and even with the man behind him, he felt utterly alone.

"What if "Project Window" wasn't what you thought it was?" the man said.

He did not turn from the window, could see the trim man behind him in the reflection. He thought his heart was going to burst. He wanted to clench his fists, but breathed evenly, and didn't. The man behind him was from a past he didn't remember, and a future, too. Sometimes he had trouble wrapping his head around the whole thing.

"This is where everything began?" he asked.

"Most would say 'ended'," the man said.

Was this more of the memory suppression? He tried to retrace his steps, where was he before...here?

"Pedaf?"

He pressed his head against the glass, "Were you one of the Controllers? Or, the Handlers? Were you one of those?"

The man stood up, "You could probably say that. Yes. But you weren't assigned to me. I was with the Sebastian Group."

"Sebastian. And me?"

"You were with a group called "Everett" and your number was thirty-two," the man said.

He turned to face the man, "And you're here to help me? To help me find Entroop?"

"No," the man said, "I'm here to observe. I'm here to warn the others if you fail."

He approached the table, there were black and white photographs strewn about it. All the images seemed to portray the same four people over and over at different ages, sometimes together, mostly not.

"The four of them were from the Sebastian Group. That's why we had to use you, we thought it would be too dangerous to use someone from the same quarantine,"

"-quarantine?"

"Yes," the man continued, "everyone, even you, were under quarantine. It's easier to manipulate the Time Stream that way, but it's very damaging to the person. That's why we had to use the memory suppression, and implant false memories."

"The aliens? The...what was it, Tripes?"

"False, just a story," the man consented.

He sat down, or fell, into a seat. He didn't recognize any of the people in the photographs. Sebastian Group. Some how these four had escaped and landed here, in this time. And for some reason or another, he was now involved. "Do they, I mean, did they have names?"

"Yes, but our intelligence on the ground tells us they've adopted new names since they've been here. Also, there's been a splintering, this one," he pointed, "doesn't associate with the entire group."

"You have intelligence on the ground? More Controllers?"

"Not exactly," the man said, "but that will be kept on a need-to-know basis, to avoid compromising them. We have a few people inserted in a group that calls itself Gaw."

"What does "Gaul" have to do with this?"

"Gaw, G-A-W, it could be an acronym, we're not sure yet. These two are very close to the group, immersed, some have said."

"This is a little much to take in. What am I supposed to do when I do make contact?"

The man's brow furrowed, "Isn't that clear? Kill them."

Vruce Vanner

2011-02-28T15:56:00.000-08:00

If I were The Incredible Hulk, I would follow a super-hero to the grocery store, and when they went in, I would pick up their car and put it somewhere else.
This is the thought I have every time I park my car outside the market. By the time I reach the automatic doors I'm wondering if I would be Smart Hulk or Hulk Smash. So, I'm wondering if I would hide the car because I was being clever, or puerile.
The Hulk was originally supposed to be gray, but when Stan Lee sent it to the printers, they told him they didn't have gray. "Make it green," he said.
The Hulk's real name is Bruce Banner, but the character Bill Bixby played on the serial was named David Banner because the producers thought "Bruce Banner" sounded gay; if they thought "Bill Bixby" sounded gay I'm not really sure.
The way you can tell whether or not Stan Lee created a character is if the real name uses alliteration. Bruce Banner. Peter Parker. Matt Murdock.
Stan Lee's real name is Stanley Lieber.
I'm thinking about The Incredible Hulk because I'm angry.

The Calm Before

2011-02-25T09:12:00.000-08:00

I was just about to pick up the phone to call O.A.D.S. when I thought better of it. I really didn't want to deal with any of this today.

It had been raining all week and this old building was beginning to look and feel soggy. The whole staff was endlessly clearing their throats and making other noises with their nasal canals that made me want to take the fire axe down off the wall- that's how old this building is, there's a fire axe on the wall.

Thankfully Mr. Harenthal was finally off my ass for five minutes, but now the Super was calling me asking all these questions about Merghast; and having someone scream "Merghast" over the phone in an Eastern-European accent did not afford a whole helluva lot of understanding. In about forty minutes of phone-time I was able to coax out that Merghast was behind on rent and I was listed as the Emergency Contact. The spooky guy in the dirty bathrobe makes me his emergency contact, fantastic.

On top of that everyone's still acting weird about the whole Mr. Entroop thing- as in, whatever he's lost it ain't found so I have to listen to him moping around upstairs. Why the hell you'd bring anything of value into this building is beyond me.

That's why my hand was hovering over the reciever.
Well. If anyone over at O.A.D.S. wants to talk, they'll just have to call me.

Dishabille

2011-02-16T09:45:00.001-08:00

When my youngest daughter asks me questions, I try to answer them as best I can. Not that she's asking me meaning-of-life, does God exist stuff yet, but I hate to say, "I don't know" to her. So, if she sees someone walking down the street and asks who they are, I just start making it all up. By the time we're through, this person, whom we've never laid eyes on in our life, has a new name, job, hobby-we even talk about the pets they have.
What I'm trying to say here, is that when she comes up with something, I like to just go with it. On Saturdays she dresses herself. I think she does ok, she seems to know more about girl clothes than I do. A blue jean skirt and a floral dress? Fine. I mean, for me she's either dressed or she's not dressed, and as soon as she's dressed, we can go out the door. What is irritating though is when my wife's out of town and I drop her off at the daycare the women will say things like, "Did Daddy dress you today?" and I just smile like I don't understand English.
I thought about all this today sitting at a stoplight in my white sedan. Me sitting there with a cordory jacket and houndstooth fedora, her with a towel she had found in the backseat over her head. I looked like I was driving around a Persian princess; or one of those kids that are allergic to the sun.
I really was about to tell her to take that towel off her head, but the light turned green.

Purloined

2011-02-14T09:09:00.001-08:00

I used to keep things. I couldn't bear to get rid of anything, so I kept everything. I associated some emotional memory with these objects and so they would stay right where they were.

I didn't understand how people could get rid of something. At one time, I had two stacks of USA Todays in my bedroom; I mean, I paid for them, why would I get rid of them? Actually, I didn't pay for them, the subscription was a gift from my sister, and that's why I couldn't get rid of them.

I think that came from a time when me and another boy were looking for something to destroy, and I proffered up some toy that didn't seem to be in use. Carefully, he asked me if it had been a Christmas gift? Yes, it had. With all the reverence a child could muster, he told me you could never destroy Christmas gifts, and so I applied that to gifts in general ever since.

At one point, I would keep the plastic wrapper that my Wizard magazines would come in, carefully inserting the periodical back into it, along with all the subscription cards that would flutter out of them. I didn't think of this as a problem, I only thought, why doesn't everyone do this?

There were two incidences that I remember that were key in bringing down my wall of hoarding. For the first, I was sitting in a journalism class and the professor was talking about the transience of news, the point being how quickly news becomes old. Then he said, "After all, people don't keep newspapers, unless, you know, they're crazy." I wonder if my mouth went dry.

The second incidence occurred when I was reading an Avenger's comic. Tony Stark had invited Steve Rogers over for dinner, but before they begin to eat Tony says something like, "Well, if I would have known I'd be having you over, I would have kept all that WWII Captain America memorabilia. My first reaction was: Why would you get rid of all that stuff anyway? My second reaction, admittedly a little slower to come around, was: Why am I getting upset about this?

Since then I've enjoyed a kind of catharsis in getting rid of things. To be sure, I still keep quite a bit, comics, books and the like. But I'm getting better.

That's why I understood why Mr. Entroop was so upset. A few days ago something of his came up missing. What, I don't know.

I had seen him talking to the people at O.A.D.S. across the hall, which was odd (he usually keeps to himself) but I didn't think much of it. All I'd ever gotten from him was a curt nod, so I wasn't too concerned with the haggered look he had been parading around recently. Soon enough it got around that his office down the hall had been broken into, which began a cursory examination of our own. But, it didn't seem that whomever had broken in had much interest in reams of paper or discarded coffee cups.

We all wondered what it could have been that the intruder was after, and considering the way Mr. Entroop was acting, something was missing. Then I began to wonder why he hadn't been over to ask anyone here? Did he somehow suspect us?

Or maybe, because of how many times I had to get the master key from the super to get into our offices, he didn't think we were all that competant.

Salvation on Special

2011-02-08T16:18:00.000-08:00

By the time I looked up I could see the man working the register was growing a little concerned. How long had I been staring blankly, after he tallied the total. He was holding his hand out, waiting for me to deposit my I-shop-here-frequently card into his palm, but I was just standing there like somebody had hung their keys up on a mannequin.
It was clear this man hadn't had this situation in mind when he came in to work today.
I wanted to say something like, sorry, lost my train of thought. But my mouth was so dry it came out as a slurred, "Srey, mos mmmmy...," before I was able to cut it off.
The cashier was saying: I'll just swipe your card!
The cashier was thinking: ohmygodthisguyshavingaseizure.

The thing that had set my mind in some repeating loop was the name tag the guy was wearing. Below the printed "Emmet" was a helpful suggestion that read Ask Me About _____. At this juncture, Emmet had taken it upon himself to scratch out the special of the week, and had written in "JESUS".
What I think hit the reset button for me was that I didn't understand that he meant the Son of God. The Jesus that immediately came to my mind was some Catholic kid, not the King of the Jews. I wondered if this would prove problematic for Hispanic customers. "Jesus? Our cousin? Does he work here?"
When I finally realized the particular Jesus he meant, I was thrown into some kind of shock. Of all the check-out lanes I could have taken, I ended up here with Emmet. I wondered if the lady in the express check-out invited you to ask her about Odin.
I was racking my brain. I couldn't think of anything to ask. I was really flabbergasted. All I could think about was how I used to tell people the "33" on Rolling Rocks referred to how old Jesus was when he died.
You can pretty much tell people anything when you wear glasses, and when I tell them that, I follow it up by telling them my glasses don't even have prescriptions, and they believe that too.
Despite my glasses, I was still standing there having some sort of breakdown. Nothing was coming to mind to ask this man about Jesus. I felt like someone just gave a really great speech, but I couldn't bring myself to ask any questions when they said, "Any questions?"
Of course I had questions! Maybe I would have thought about my questions if I hadn't been comparing Reduced Fat Cheez-Its to just Regular Cheeze-Its! People were gathering up behind me. I had finally reached the man on the mountain and I was blowing it!

I couldn't risk trying to speak again, so when Emmet handed my my change I tried my best not to smile like a crazy person.
It's hard to push a shopping cart out onto the parking lot when you're convinced you're going to be hit by a car, or probably a truck lamenting the demise of Dale Earnhardt.

Shameless Amendment

2011-02-06T18:59:00.000-08:00

A few months ago I met the Senior Editor of IDW Comics, and decided to take his intro to writing class. The assignment was to tell our stories in five pages, and the lot of us did.

http://www.comicsmonkey.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4617

This link will direct you to a site to purchase said comic. Or! Soon you'll be able to pick up a copy from Cheryl's Comics & Toys behind the Southern Kitchen.

Superman Direct Deposits

2011-01-27T15:29:00.000-08:00

I gripped the steering wheel with my leather gloves and thought about Batman. I thought, that's how Batman would grip his steering wheel, in the Batmobile. I was waiting at the drive-thru at the bank. It was taking forever, and I was getting anxious because there was a car behind me. I hate to think someone is waiting behind me, I can't stand it.
But Batman wouldn't care, so I gripped the steering wheel like my parents had been gunned down in an alley. I set my jaw, and relaxed it. This is how Batman would look in his car, impassive, inscrutable. I just put the brakes on a drug cartel down by the docks, and now you're taking forever with my transaction?

I practiced my breathing, for the time I would have to disarm a bomb, probably tomorrow. I wondered if the cowl would be restrictive. Even if it was, Batman wouldn't stop to adjust it, so I would just have to deal with it. I wondered if the tips of my bat ears would rub the ceiling of the car, that would drive me crazy. I imagined having a sore neck all the time from hunching down in the car, so my ears wouldn't rub.

Sometimes when I sit in my car, just as a regular guy, not the Dark Knight, I work myself up a wedgie. This line of thought had me rethinking the cape.

I thought about the moral code that came along with it. How far would I have to be pushed that I would kill a bad guy? Probably not far, I was kinda in a foul mood. But it seemed to me, crime would probably fall another ten percent if Batman would just break some goon's damn neck; not even a real bad guy, just the hired help. Snap. Alluva sudden the bad guy lines would shorten a little.

Another question: would I go for just the stark bat symbol on the chest, or the one with the yellow oval behind it? Really, I'm partial to the yellow oval. I might even go for the gray and blue suit, too.

What the hell was taking this lady so long? I just assumed it was a woman. But I would never honk, I wouldn't honk my horn for anything. I didn't want any nasty looks, which is something I'd probably have to get over, being Batman. The guy behind me was probably working himself up to have a stroke, but there was nothing I could do. Why wasn't he honking? If he honked, I could just shrug and give an amiable smile to the bank teller. Some People, the shrug would convey. We get that all the time, the teller would say over the intercom. I would bark out some laugh, and my self-loathing would reach all new levels.
I finally resolved to myself that I would look over and at least give the camera a nasty look. If not a nasty one, just a not-smiling one.
That's when my dreams of being Batman came to an abrupt halt; really, they just shattered all over the place. Because, when it comes down to it, I wasn't really the Batman type.

But really because, Batman would never forget to press the "Send" button.

Mr. Harenthal

2011-01-23T10:27:00.000-08:00

"What in the fuck was that?"

Great.

"Seriously. Tell me why I'm calling, Kas. Tell me why I have to call you, and say, 'what the fuck was that.'"

I hate it when he calls me Kas.

"And when I say 'that' I mean "Kitty Kitty", "How He got E", and "Handwerk", what in the fuck was that?"

The back of my neck is prickling, I somehow want to defend these posts he's blasting, but I don't know how. He's right, in any case.

"You have ten goddam followers and that's how you plan to get more? "Kitty Kitty" is how you're gonna bring in the eyeballs?"

Some people liked "Kitty Kitty", I said.

"Oh, right, that's what we need. Cult Classics. Cult-Fucking-Classics will drive this thing right into the red, you fucking retard. You see this thing going straight to DVD? That what you're aiming for? After market? Not going to happen!"

I hoped he couldn't hear me sigh, but there was a pause.

"Now what? You're a historian? Let me tell you something, when people read this miserable shit, they're not going to Google all your vague references. This shit is so fucking vague you're probably making it up!"

I told him I wasn't making it up, but I don't think he heard me, because I whispered it.

"So, we have some time-traveling hit man, ok, I'll bite, sure. But how in Hell would I know that with a title like how he got E. My God I can feel the blood going to my eyeballs! You know what that feels like?! No you don't, you fucking tree-hugging twit! For fucks sake you are useless."

This was bad. I imagined him grasping his chest. Here comes the big one, 'lizbeth.

"Then! Then Handwork, oh no, I'm sorry, Handverk. I thought I was reading a fucking instruction manual for a vibrator that I was going to fuck myself with! Did one fucking idiot who reads your blog have any idea you were making a reference to Nazis?"

Well, after I explained-

"After you fucking explained! Well it's a good goddam thing you only had to make ten fucking phone calls, isn't it!? Oh wait, two of your followers is the same person, and one is you! Did you have to explain it to yourself?"

I pictured him squatting on his desk and screaming into the phone.

"Am I on speaker phone? Am I on the speaker phone, just answer me, please."

No, I told him. He seemed to be running out of steam.

"Please, put me on speaker phone, if you will."

Boop.

"Dorge."

My door is open. Fuck. I can't close it fast enough.

"I'm not trying to be the big bad editor."

They're probably going to hear this clear over at O.A.D.S.

"BUT IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND WRITE ME GODDAMN IPHANTOM PART FUCKING 2 YOU'RE GOING TO BE WRITING TWEETS FOR SARAH FUCKING PALIN!"

Handwerk

2011-01-12T16:51:00.000-08:00

She sat in her car and waited. She did nothing to pass the time, would not take the chance on not being precise. She did allow herself to count her breaths as she watched the digital clock on the console.
The parking lot was wet and cold and the bright of the neon reflected in the puddles. Soon, they would come out in their smocks and name tags, and pull the baskets of crap inside. Hopefully some of the goods that had been left outside all day would somehow be gone, hopefully that would shave some time off the next endless inventory.
That's what she thought they would be thinking. She pursed her lips, and momentarily lost count of her breaths; she knew a thing or two about inventory.
The bald heads in perfect rows. One by one she called their names. Hours.
In and out she breathed, her gloved hands folded in her lap.
She was not like them. She was secret.
She did not care that the Employee of the Week taught Sunday School. She was unaffected by the pregnant teenager. She was uninvited to put a little money together for Donna, times-are-tough-for-her Donna. No, what she cared about was how much longer the neon M was going to last, it was looking a little dim. She cared about the Custom Framing area, and she wanted to make sure everyone cared about it just as much as she did. She cared about the machine; mercantile.
It was supposed to last for two-thousand years.
She had been trim, then. Her body had had a cruel silhouette, and her blonde was not forced.
She resisted clenching her fists and looked at the picture setting on the passenger seat. Some verdammt coloring book page. This is what her superiors had sent her with? She almost smiled and thought, there was a time when my superiors were Superior.
From here she could see the woman leaning down to the PA system to announce The Store Will Be Closing In Fifteen Minutes. A little early, but she wasn't here to test her, that was something the DM would have to deal with.
She plucked the page off the seat and studied it, some Disney character with a little caption. This was her punishment for trying to bring about the greatest society the world had ever known. This was her punishment for believing in something greater than herself. This is why she had to change her name. Griese. Grace. Grace. She breathed; in-out, thirty-three.
I'll tell them my dead son colored this, she thought, Why else would I get it framed? Wasn't that true, in a way? Her womb had been barren for some time now, wasn't that a death in itself? What else could she say? She wanted a custom job for something her retarded nephew did?
It was time. It was time to do one of the most useless jobs on the list. It was time to do a job that was found to be the complete inverse of the station she once held. This was her punishment, this was her Hell. And she would do it with aplomb. One day her Hell would be over.

Secret
Shopper

how he got E

2011-01-06T16:39:00.000-08:00

"This is all a- well, it's a lot to take in. Do you mind to just go over once't more?"

Ok, here goes. My boss was always on my ass for not show'n enough initiative. I was just trying to do my job and go home, but he was always going on about my lack of motivation. I was work'n in a warehouse, right? You get that, right? Kind'a like this armory here, but for goods, shit people want. Sure, you got warehouses. What kind'a initiative am I supposed to show at a goddam warehouse? Sorry, damn. Anyways, so right, what am I supposed to do? See how fast I can take some crate from A to B or wash the forklift in my down time? Don't worry about what a forklift is. So, right, this guy is always on me for not giving my all but, I'm not my job, you know where I'm coming from? It's just an expression. So, one day, it's like a Tuesday, I'm like fine, I'll show some god- er....some damn initiative. I'm moving all these pallets around for shipping when I see one with all these boxes marked C A. That's all it said, C A, and normally I'd go ask fifty different people what I should do with the thing, but I didn't want my boss coming down on me and telling me to use my damn brain again. 'Coming down'? Like...riding my ass? Nevermind. Anyways, I decide I'm going to take care of this myself. So what do I do? I ship the whole damn thing to California, hell yes that's what I did. What would you do? It's a state out west, well, it will be. Damn it's cold, what month is it? September? Yeah, they don't fill you in on that part when they send you. Really I'm taking way too long but I don't like doin this or anything, don't think I do. Right, so, yeah zip, off it goes, to the Golden State, job well done. But then on Thursday this lardass, my boss, just blows into the warehouse like a hurricane, and I swear to God I think he's going to have a stroke, er um, a heart attack? and just whales into me, want'n to know why the hell I sent a whole pallet of fifteen-hundred rolls of Construction Adhesive to godalmighty California! Well, that was it, blam-o, don't let the door hit'cha on the ass Mr. Loughlin, three strikes you're out!
It wasn't a big deal, I was a temp anyways and warehouses always need guys like me to schelp their stuff around, but I did'n want to go to the next warehouse, you know? I did'n want to drive a damn box truck or run around working the garbage trucks or anything like that. I'd done that, get me? I was through. But it ain't like I got a diploma or nothing, either. So I was open to new things, just keeping my ears open, when I meet this guy. This guy named Buer.
Ok, now this is where it gets a little tricky, so just stick with me.
I met Buer, or Mr. Buer, at this place I used to go to and drink. One night he was there and struck up a conversation, started talk'n to me outta nowhere. Somehow he seems to know I'm a little hard up, and he starts talk'n about these jobs he has. Strictly under the table stuff, and he's wonder'n if I'm interested. Well sure I'm interested, sure I am. He says, sometimes, these jobs are a little dicey, but I've seen some dicey stuff, nothing new. All'a sudden he starts ask'n me how I did in school, how I did in history, stuff like that. And I tell'm, not too hot, right? I'm moving boxes around a goddam, sorry, a warehouse, and that takes a genius? So that seemed'ta make the guy happy, he kinda just smiled when I told'm that.
Ok, now just keep in mind I'm just tell'n you this to be nice. This ain't gonna make any kind'a sense to you, but I'm gonna lay it out there, just so you know.
This guy, Mr. Buer, game me a job as, like this, time hit man. He tells me who they are, and where I'll find'm and, bam I'm in like 1835, or, what? 1786? Right, 1786. And, you know, he tells me a little something about the hit, not much. Like you? Well, this gots somethin to do with some Dan Shays, I dunno. It would be this little thing, like this, that I go...you know, 'fix' and we got dinosaurs at the next Superbowl, or somethin. But in this case, you're my fix, Lieutenant Wheelock, And I'm sorry about that. It's nothin personal or nothin, don't think it is. And there's nothin you can do about it, either, Buer's got this list, and you were just on it, that's all. But I can't just shoot you and zip outta here, either. It's always gotta be some damn, well; for you it says: Died when horse slipped on ice. How'ya like that? How the hell'm I suppose'ta do that? I'm the one you should be feel'n sorry for, not you.

"Well, I can't rightly claim to understand it all, but, I must ask: How did you find me out here?"

You kidding? I could hear you breathing.

The line goes quiet and she knows her friend is trying not to laugh.

She: Stop it, you asked!

Her: What a Freak! That's what he told you? On your first date?

She: I asked him to tell me something, some little truth about himself.

Her: And he told you that?

She: No, no...he told me he was self-conscious about how loud he breaths through his nose.

Her: And?

She: And then I asked him why.

Her: Well thank God that's over.

She: Actually, we're going to try to do something this weekend.

Her: What? Why?

She: ...I kinda like him.

And she smiled.

Gospel Music

2010-12-13T16:21:00.000-08:00

I am not a religious person. I'd probably describe myself as agnostic, at best. I don't care what you do, or who you worship, or what you believe in, just, please, don't bother me with it. But, there is one thing that evokes my ire while on the subject of religion: I cannot stand for any sort of persuasion using religious dogma. Be it monetary, fear, acts of war..., anything. WWJD bracelets set me livid for sixth months, and any billboard that ends in -GOD makes my throat burn with bile. Preying on Southerners through their fanatism is clever, yes, but wrong. So you can imagine my reaction the other day when I heard a commercial on the television while I was cleaning my daughter's room. Some huckster wedged inbetween animated elephants and talking vegetables was suddenly trying to get my kid to buy Baby Jesus' Guitar, and Other Instruments. I was rabidly looking for the match to a sock, so all I could really do was listen as I heard school-age children exclaim over the Baby Jesus Drum Set and Baby Jesus Keyboard. I was getting so angry I forgot what I was even doing with my head shoved under the bed, groping wildly for anything that might be a Size Three Yellow Sock, but by the time I got into the living room the commercial was over. How Dare They, How Dare They, was my mantra and I wondered if this was something to call the Attorney General about, call someone about. Start a Baby Jesus Band! I didn't care if someone just bought a pair of maracas and started singing songs about Jesus, but to slap (what I imagined) something akin to a Hello Kitty Jesus Face onto something and pander it to Christians was abhorrent to me, and hopefully others. I sat down and watched four hours of programming meant for toddlers hoping to see the commercial again, but it was gone. I couldn't find anything on the Internet, either. I wondered how many people had been swindled by this fly-by-night company, probably the same people who sold flags after 9/11. Then something more disastrous came to mind: what if someone bought a Baby Jesus Guitar for my daughter for Christmas, in some misplaced...gesture. I didn't know who to talk to about this, it was driving me crazy.
Finally my wife came home and I was able to tell someone about my concerns. I was trying to stay calm but the subject was getting me riled again, and her apparent lack of interest was upsetting me. This commercial had mocked something I had strong feelings about and it seemed like I was the only one that cared! Now I was getting upset with her, was I the only bastion of defence left against a world that would slap a Hello Kitty Jesus Face on the side of a guitar only to please Mammon?!

My wife took a deep breath, or maybe she sighed, "Do you mean Baby Genius?"

Damnit.

Kitty Kitty

2010-11-15T09:17:00.000-08:00

I have a long history of hating cats. It just became my thing. People would say, that Dorge, he sure hates cats. It's not so bad now, I'd much rather have a cat than a dog; I don't have to walk a cat. The problem with hating something is that people ask you why. I never had an answer, no real reason, so I just wouldn't answer the question. I believed this added to my mystique. You don't go around messing with origin stories, and hating cats was apart of my origin story. But, over the weekend, while I was crawling in the dirt within a two-foot crawl space, I think I happened onto a memory that must have been the source of my strong dislike. It didn't help that it was because of cats that I was in that crawl space at all on Saturday morning.

When I was little we had a cat named Kitty. When you live in the country, there's little need to call a cat anything more than Kitty. Kitty was a stray from God Knows that I ended up feeding, and once you feed a cat, you have a cat. At first I called her (not sure about the sex, cats are usually just referred to in the feminine in my stories) Shadow because of her coat, then it just devolved into Kitty.

Kitty had something wrong with her, but I was too little to know what. She was always skinny and I could see her ribs and Mom told me not to touch her. So she was infirm, she was my cat. But everyone could see she wasn't long for this earth, and when she died I probably wouldn't even notice. Probably.

One day in the fall my brother was raking leaves in front of the house, he was even going so far as to get up under the shrubs, probably extending this chore so he wouldn't be set out to do something else. Well, when he was clearing the shrubs, he found Kitty. All stiff, with matted fur, mouth snarled up into some death grimace while a green crust formed up around the eyes.

In some fit of compassion, my brother raked Kitty's body under the pile of leaves he'd began when he saw me running up the driveway, being chased by our oldest brother. I was laughing/screaming so hard I couldn't catch my breath from being chased. When I got to the pile of leaves my brother had been raking, I stopped, trying to get my breath before our older brother caught up to me. The distance I had gained had only been given to prolong the chase and soon he was on top of us. My brother tried to warn him away from the pile, but when our older brother reached us, he scooped me up and plunged me into the pile of leaves. My hands thrashed out, and I felt one of them burst into something cold and wet, I thought it was mud and my brother was screaming for us to stop, to go away. All three of us were then wrestling around in this pile of leaves and I was trying to get away, I didn't think my hand had gone into mud anymore. Something was making my hand tingle as if there were bugs all over me, little crawly bugs. Our oldest brother was oblivious (I like to think he was) of the fact he was mashing me into the corpse of my dead cat, and so was I at the time. I was just trying to keep my face away from whatever it was, I could smell something then, gasping for air as I was, and his weight on top of me wouldn't allow me to free my hands. He was trying to make me get a big mouthful of leaves, but there was the promise of some deathly mire under those and the tears were streaming down my face.

I don't remember much else about that, I don't know when I realized that I had been mauling a dead cat in an effort to keep my face off the ground.

That goes a long way in telling why I don't like cats, call it guilt or what have you.

That also goes a long way in telling why you don't name cats in the country.

Bread Break

2010-11-11T09:01:00.000-08:00

They met at a cafe on the corner, it was warm so they sat outside. One pushed the hair out of his face and the other set his hat on his knee. This place isn't too close to the road and the waitress is pretty, isn't she? I think you're supposed to say Server now, one responds. Nevermind, the one saying that would never care what people are supposed to be called. Call me misanthropic, he says. Well, do you want something? Nevermind that too, because he tries not to ask Yes or No questions. What will you have? That's better. Nothing and he pushes the hair back again, if he'd sit up a little more the hair wouldn't be in his face. Really? They have a good beer and he grins. Is that supposed to be funny and he looks for a brick So you read my blog. I do, am I getting you right he grins. You couldn't get a Fomorian right, how do you expect to get me right. So you read my blog, too and they both laugh. What's on your mind he slides his hands into his pockets and leans back. Do you know who Merghast is? Yeah, it is **** isn't it? Yes. I thought so. Do you think it'll be a problem? No, not if he's only going to post some introductory paragraph about his blog. Where is he staying? Not on Thronebelle, is all I know. Close? Not sure. Have you seen him and he looks out across the street as if he might be there Have a water at least. Why do I even have to drink anything here, why are we here? Can't we just be a little bit comfortable and he makes a sound of exasperation. Who gets a beer at a cafe, aren't you supposed to have tea or coffee or something? He shrugs and drinks the foam I like this place. He asks about Everett Dock and he takes another drink I need to reread all that stuff. I didn't like where I took it and I was just trying to inject it with a little purpose. Fuck purpose and they smile. Should we talk to him? Who? Merghast they say, statement and question. It's not like you can call him. You didn't call me. Jesus. I think we'll run into him soon enough. There is bread getting cold on the table and he rends it. God what are you, a Barbarian, are you starving? How would you have me eat it, but it doesn't sound like that with a mouth full of bread. Are you going to move that fucking plant, or what? The...what was it? I don't have the blog in front of me. I know, you know how I know? He drinks and gives him time to answer but he doesn't. Because if my blog were in front of you, you'd be enraptured. He laughs because the other is laughing and the other is laughing because he's drinking and pleased with himself. I've got to go he says and pushes away from the table. I'm not finshed he says and feels for his hat. I think you'll be alright, I told you I wasn't staying long. You never said that. Yeah well, it's written on my Family Crest in Latin, probably why you couldn't read it. That's very funny, anyways, thanks. He finishes his drink but doesn't stand up.

West of Banda Cate

2010-11-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

He had not been this far into Sally's shop, so there were dirty sheets of canvas hung up over the windows, to keep out the light, keep out the details he didn't need to fill in. He was sitting on something hard and cold, it was too big to be an anvil, so he kept it at that.
She was stoking the fire, he watched her in the glow and wondered if she was too pretty. Hard to tell, past the black smudges, the hair tied back, out of the way. Through what little light there was, he could see the glint of rows and rows of armor, hanging from a chain netting from the ceiling. Was she married before, or was this her father's shop? Who hung all that chain, her? It didn't matter. She was looking at him now.
"It's cold here," he said, awkwardly, his voice loud in that stuffy space, "I mean, out there."
She pulled a hammer out of her leather apron and turned back to an orange molten sliver. He winced from the noise reverberating off the walls, that sharp banging made this place more real.
"What are you doing here?" she said, she yelled over her work.
"I can come here, if I want to," he said.
"You're the DM."
He considered what to say, not wanting to sound like a DM. He was holding a helm in his hands, looking through the eye holes. He wondered if she called them eye holes.
"I know I'm the DM. I'm just here for, whatever. I won't stay long," he wondered why he was apologizing to her.
She picked up the glowing steel in a pair of tongs and thrust it into a basin of water, steam exploded into the room and his nose burned, just like he'd seen in a movie once.
She pulled her gloves off and wiped her face with a dirty rag, "People don't like to see you walking around, that's all."
"No one saw me come in here," he may have been talking to himself.
She took the helm out of his hands and regarded it a moment before hanging it back up, "Is there something wrong?"
"I was just going to talk something out with you, I thought maybe you could help," he looked out a small opening in the canvas as someone walked by outside.
"Did they find out what was going on? With the animals?" She stood above him with her arms crossed, he felt uncomfortable having to look up at her from whatever he was sitting on.
"I think so, well. Rolan and Fema'lei did," he shifted to stand but didn't want to be that near her.
"Loom wasn't with them?" Her face was clearer now. Maybe she wasn't that pretty, he thought.
Finally he did stand up and walked over to the window, looking out into the market place, "I just hope I'm not spinning too many threads again, I've been trying to wrap a few loose ends up."
She didn't reply, or he didn't wait for her to.
"I think I am, I mean, they know what happened to Tohm Deeza, and Bame. They know what Benzel To'Baj is up to, they know there's a bit of a power play going on here...,"
"Does Ackle still...,"
"Ackle still hates Connor Dorian. Ackle wants to kill'im," he turned away from the window, wondering if he had been speaking loudly.
She was pulling her gloves back on, and he could see the scarring on her hands, "Where are they going now?"
"I think they're going back to Devils' Bay."
"I have an aunt there. Do you think they know that?"
He smiled, "They might. I was even thinking about, like, you wanting them to take something to her like medicine or something, I don't know."
She laughed, at last, "More threads to weave?"
"That's why I didn't do it."
"Is he down there?" the laughter was gone from her face.
"Yes."
"Do they know about Void? What happened with him?"
He rubbed his face absently, "I don't know if they remember Void."
She turned back to the fire, "They remember Void."
"Why do you say that? They've never even come across him."
She looked at him over her shoulder, "You've never seen Bastian."
"What? What's that supposed to mean? Are more people saying he's already dead? That he's been dead?"
"No, it's just that this city is full of him. You can feel Bastian in Largo Largo. That's how I know they remember Void, you can feel him some places."
"Right, well. We'll see," he said, picking something up, "where did you get this?"
"Largo's ran by a theives' guild. Most things aren't hard to come by."
He sat it back down and watched the blue fire dim again, "I have to go."
She turned to watch him leave, "Where are you going?"
He didn't want to hear her, he shouldn't have to answer any of her questions.
"You're going to see Sunshine, aren't you?"
He pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head.
"You got him wrong, you know. His size isn't right," she smiled again.
"You think I don't know that?"
"But do they know? Who would know?"
He sighed, "Rolan, probably. Maybe Merghast. Merghast."
"It's not a big deal," she demurred.
He paused with his hand on the curtain that led to the front, "Do you need anything?"
She laughed and told him Spring would be nice, Nefyet.
"What's that mean?"
"You tell me."

When he turned and looked back, she was at the door. "Does Loom think I'm pretty?"
He smiled and thought, I'm sure he does.

I am (not)

2010-10-13T15:23:00.000-07:00

It is a long walk from 7784 Thornebelle and home, but I try to do it at least once a week. I like to wave at the people I know, and sound small, meaningless utterances. It's going to come, I say, and make a point of casting an ominous glance to the darkening sky. The people, folding the flags, locking the doors, standing with their arms crossed always agree...it's coming.
Walking home does take a little longer than public transportation, and it's all but dark by the time I get there, but it's more relaxing. It gives me time to think. And I usually spend the better part of that short journey thinking about myself, but last night I found myself thinking about my youngest daughter.
I wondered what growing up with me as a father was like, I wondered if I was doing a good job. I wondered if I was like my dad or mom. I wondered if I was stern enough with her or if I spoiled her. I wondered if I gave her enough attention. To be honest, I thought I was doing alright, as things go. I don't really even like kids, but with her, it was like she'd been there all along. I don't want to get all hippy-trash, but maybe she had been.
Sometimes I think she knows more than I do, about myself, the world. And other times, when I'm reminded she doesn't, I want to protect her from all that, to make her world as simple as possible.
I thought about how big she was getting, and that made me think about how big she will get. All the changes she has gone through, and will go through. I began to think about where I am in my world and how I got to be here.
Change. A human event, a metamorphosis, one day that, to this. Some cultures, most cultures, marked this change by some tradition. I wondered what my tradition had been. Since I hadn't gone out into the woods to come back a man, since no one held me aloft in a chair and danced me around a room, what had I done to cultivate my change, and if the answer was nothing, how did I get to be this? Had something gone wrong? Did I miss something? A meeting? None of my friends had held me down and sharpened my teeth with rocks. What kind of friends did I have then, if none of them had held me down and sharpened my teeth with rocks?
So, I began to wonder if my daughter's friends would be kind enough to gather around her in a circle and pluck all of her hair out, so that she will know she's become a woman. Because, I have doubts whether or not I'll be able to tell her she's walked over that threshold, I'm not even sure I'll know when she does.
To comfort me, to assuage my doubts of what I am, I tempered my thoughts with what I am not. Being able to mentally check off Not a serial killer, Not a drug addict, and so on, comforted me somewhat, but then I could also add to the list Not a world-renowned surgeon, as well.
I settled on this: we are defined as much as what we are, as what we are not. That I could live with, enough to make it home, anyways.
Lost in my thoughts, the walk home hadn't seemed so long, but it was strangely quiet when I shut the front door behind me. My daughter was in her room, the door was shut. That was odd, her door was only ever shut at night, when she was asleep. I stood outside her door and wondered what she was doing in there, I could see the light shining at the gap on the floor so it was unlikely she was asleep. She must have known I was out there, I could hear her get up (from the floor?) and cross the room, the way you cross the room when you know someone's at the door.
She opened the door and looked up at me, I smiled, but she looked uncertain. Did she think she was in trouble? Had she broken something in her room or...? But then she smiled, she seemed to have come to a decision in her head of simple black and whites. She was beginning to realize this was her world, too, and she had a place in it. A place that she was going to define with small steps, perfectly crisp, defined boundaries. She looked up at me and took a breath, now or never, flicked across her face.

"I'm not a unicorn," she said.

Book Club

2010-09-16T17:19:00.000-07:00

The rain had created...no, that's not quite right. Because of the rain, there was no one sitting by the river; despite the newly constructed awning keeping a large section of the seating dry. He could be alone, he could read. He didn't have to wish that bitch with the cell phone would stop talking so loudly, because she wasn't there. He felt like he was in a bubble, he could see the rain coming down all around him, yet he was dry. He doesn't quite remember what the other man said.
"Hey, that's a good idea," or, "That's a nice spot," something like that. Someone had come into his bubble. He had to look all around to find the man seated above him, some seven rows up. He wished he had just ignored him.
"Yeah, it's nice," he yelled back, or something like that. He imagined sitting and reading a book, that read Engage Me, for a front cover. He tried to remember if he'd ever tried to talk to someone while they were trying to read. Yes, he had.
"But, I think they paid too much for it, I mean...how many people will it really keep dry?"
He wanted to read, and didn't know how to answer the question. So he turned his head and yelled syllabic sounds that he hoped the river would carry off. That seemed to be the end of it. Thank God.
He opened his book again, and fantasied about being hit in the back of the head with a 2 x 4. He wondered if he would hear the man, if he chose to come down to him. It was an idle fantasy, he did not fear the man who he now shared his dry island with.
The book he was reading was about soldiers in Iraq. Or probably Afghanistan, he couldn't keep it straight, no matter how smart he looked in his glasses.
There were three positions he sat in. When he began, he would stretch his legs out in front of him and let his feet dangle over. Then, after a few pages, he would draw his legs up and perch his book on his knees. Shortly before it was time to leave, he would scoot himself to the edge and let his feet rest on the row below him. Usually, with not enough time to start and finish a chapter, he would pull out his phone and delete a few emails, or read them. But usually delete.
It was time to go. He tucked his book beneath his arm and grabbed his umbrella. From that distance, the man looked like someone just getting out of the rain, so he waved at him. He wished he hadn't. He wished he had a sword.
"Hey, hold up, can I ask you a question?" or something like that, the other man yelled.
"Fuck," he said, not quietly, but knew the man couldn't hear him.
The other man started ambling down the rows, think a giant staircase, take two steps, then gently lower your leg down to the next level, again.
He did not move. He would not move to meet this man, the other man would have to come to him.
The man was now on the row above him, and he could see now the sickness in the other man's eyes. "You wouldn't be a guy to help somebody else out, if they were down on their luck? If somebody needed bus fare or something, are you?" or something like that.
"No." he replied.
Why don't I gut you right here you fucking waste, is what he imagined saying.
"I don't carry any cash," he continued.
"Oh, I gotcha, I understand," the other man said.
He imagined the other man with a swollen belly and sunken eyes. He imagined the other man leaning up against an adobe, mouth agape, a fly landing on his exposed teeth. This image did not match up to the reality of the other man, wearing a warm sweat shirt with a belly poking over his elastic waistband, carrying a half-empty-not-half-full Mt. Dew. He decided that the other man couldn't be that down on his luck, because there were not flies landing on his exposed teeth.
And as he walked away, back into the rain, done with whatever had just taken place, he felt sad because it had not occured to him to help the other man. He hadn't wanted to. He wondered how many down-on-his-luck's it would take to be that other man, he wondered what it was like to be hungry. He had never known.

Finish Him!

2010-09-13T15:36:00.001-07:00

Violence. That was the buzz word they used. I reveled in it, violence. There was power in it, and we were thirsty for it. They tried to stem the flow, but it had already burst through the gates. The evening news had my attention for the first time, and I wondered how these people could believe what they were saying. And I wondered if it was true.
This was the start of realizing adults were full of shit. My sixth grade teacher told me that if someone were strong enough, that it was possible to rip some one's heart out through their chest with their bare hands. Shortly after that, all the boys, from every sixth grade class were taken into the library, and told we could no longer draw pictures depicting violence. I grinned, because they really only should have taken two boys away from class, and I was one of them. Because if you needed blood and brutality, you only ever went to me or one other kid; and that other kid's dead now.
And that was fine, I was glad because we had stopped the flow and were granted some strange recognition. I would tell the others, They Told Us To Stop. What I meant was, We Were That Good. We had brought on the attention of some strange censorship because of a game: Mortal Kombat.
The thing is, I wasn't even that good at the game. I never have been that great at fighting games; but I was great with the culture of it. Back then, I knew why Scorpion wore yellow, and just how Baraka was unique.
This game would go on to gain national attention as people used it as a platform to rally votes, it made for a good enemy. It wasn't supposed to be that big of a success, the game play was choppy and the graphics weren't stellar. But the more it was ranted against, the bigger it became until sells warranted a franchise.
Without this game, there would be no Grand Theft Auto, Modern Warfare, Resident Evil...because of all the drum beating from Joseph Lieberman and Tipper Gore, video games had to adopt a rating system to keep trash like Mortal Kombat out of kiddies' hands. Some opposed this censorship, but I was all for it. Because without the rating system, home consoles had to adhere to some friendly middle ground. But now a developer can slap an M for Mature sticker on it and sell whatever they want. Hey, I'm game. Who hasn't gotten a blow job in a stolen car and then beat the prostitute to death with a baseball bat? Just me?

On Monday, September 13th, 1993, Mortal Kombat was released on the home systems. Most notably the Sega Genesis (blood content, fatalities intact) and the Super Nintendo (no blood, "less violent" fatalities). They gave that day a name.

Happy Mortal Monday.

Invitation

2010-08-10T07:37:00.000-07:00

Reader. In a spasm of graciousness, in a veritable seizure of humility, I would like to inform you that the office of O.A.D.S has responded to our last post, "Versus".

I tell you this, because despite their office being across the hall to us, here at 7784 Thornbelle, you have no hope of finding them. The path to their blog is overgrown and barely visible from disuse.

However, there is a link to the Orbital Anvil Drop Station to the right of this posting, near the top. There, see it? Please, by all means- we await your return.

Versus

2010-07-19T12:32:00.000-07:00

I would like to take this opportunity to allow the reader a peek at the inner workings here at Weapon Mods. Some of our readers have expressed a desire for something of a personal touch, to see beneath the glossy exterior that we take such pains to keep polished. It may be time to put a face with the name, as some would put it, and with nothing pressing at the moment, now seems like as good a time as any. However, there may as yet be something else behind this post. I've decided not to pin up the thin veil of altruism that I had considered, but I can't quite get into why I'm opening the doors, if just a bit, sans golden ticket. I'm sorry to have doubted you, Reader- I should have known you'd be right along with me, despite my earlier facade of posting a Making Of...but, let's just get to the real reason for this post.

Now, don't be too disappointed, we will need to explore some of the behind-the-scenes aspects of Weapon Mods if we're going to reach a conclusion to the problem I will put on the table for all to dissect, shortly.

The offices of Weapon Mods are situated in a cozy downtown office building that looks more like a brownstone apartment than a commercial space. To be sure, if the sounds that emanate from the floor above us are any indication, it is unlikely that all the inhabitants of this four-storied facility are within the demographic of persons wanting to further their career.

Because of the monorail, the lights do dim from time to time, the windows do rattle, and on a slow day we can watch motes of dust drift lazily in the shafts of the 3:00 sunlight. Actually, it's usually 3:07, as the D Train is always a little off. Not all of the light sockets work, and the plumbing is nefarious in the winter. Despite all this, 7784 Thornbelle Street, Suite E, is where we crank out this crowd-pleaser, and for the most part, we wouldn't have it any other way. Also, for that long list of cons, rent ain't so bad, either.

The quirks that are the natural conditions of our setting do not create the problem. No.

The problem lies with a particular houseplant situated in the hall outside the doors of Weapon Mods, Suite E. This plant is a tall, ungainly mess, that bears no resemblance to the description thrust into the dirt at its base: Ficus Benjamina, Weeping Fig- Elegant Braided Stem. Good Light Essential To Avoid Leaf Drop, But Avoid Direct Sun. Water Once Every Two Weeks, But Otherwise Keep Moist. Liquid Feed April-September. It reminded me of something someone would write about themselves on one of those match-maker sites, but then you end up with this ugly unwieldy mess that makes you want to drink.

I will go so far as to describe the hall outside our office to illustrate clearly why this houseplant is a problem. Suite E is not accessible via elevator, as there is no elevator; three flights of stairs serve as the last defense between us and any invading armies. The floors are hardwood with a slight run of blue carpet running the length between the stairs and a window overlooking some one's urbanite garden and from time to time small children seemingly escaped from some orphanage or otherwise guardian-less. The window is narrow and tall and faces West, allowing us to be joined by our massive counterpart shadows at closing time. The framework of the window makes for the hall to be bisected. In other words, Weapon Mods, Suite E, clearly holds dominion on one side of the hall, while Suite F rules the other. This is an unspoken, yet beyond-question law and I am sure was inked out along the same time as Hammurabi's. And, for the most part, things went swimmingly when it came to any questions about the immediate surroundings of Weapon Mods, until the Ficus Benjamina.

I knew it may become a problem when I first spied it upon reaching the third floor last October. But, it was on the opposite side of Suite E, Suite F's territory. It blocked some of the sunlight coming in, but my hands were tied; after all, I wouldn't have anyone from Suite F making a row if I decided to burn someone from their staff in effigy on our side of the hall, that was just the matter of things.

And for months, there it stayed, on the other side of the hall, full and healthy, even though it was an inherently ugly specimen of vegetation. For a long time I thought we may have to endure the thing indefinitely; I thought it was a fake. But that proved not to be the case as time went on; someone from Suite F was keeping it alive, caring for it, it seemed, every two weeks.

The problem, at last, is this: round about two weeks ago the weeping willow looked as if it had made some progress, however lacking bipedal locomotion, to our side of the hall. I was in a hurry at the time, I wanted to start "Take Flight" before that errant Cardinal left my mind completely, so I didn't stop to confirm my earliest suspicions. The next morning was the next I thought about the plant, and the sight of it made me eye the door of Suite F contemptuously, O.A.D.S. the placard to their door said...the full name wouldn't fit into the allotted space. The plant had moved, yet again. I pushed it back toward Suite F's side of the hall with my foot, and considered calling. I didn't want a misunderstanding to escalate, so I shrugged it off. Surely it happened because someone had turned the plant in order to assure all sides were evenly sunned, and in so doing, the plant had inadvertently settled nearer to Suite E.

But when I locked up that night, the plant had been pushed clear to the other side of the window, our side; a provocation had been made.

I pushed the Ficus back across the hall and left.

The next morning the CO2 emitting hulk was standing in front of the door to Suite E, blocking the placard that read, Weapon Mods, and inserted into the soil below was an index card that read, "Take care of your plant. -Orbital Anvil Drop Station."

The degrees of retaliation clicked and whirred through my mind like some devil's The Price Is Right wheel. I was incensed: long has that inferior blog been a sty in the eye of everything we do here, but there were always efforts to remain cordial.

Silence from the opposite door, I wondered if someone was watching me from the space at the floor. I was going to set the plant exactly in front of their entrance, but it seemed petty. At last I picked it up and set it next to the window, away from our side, as it always had been.

Later I wondered if perhaps an honest mistake had been made, maybe the tenants of Suite F truly thought the plant was ours. But, I had folded the dirt-smudged index card in half and set it in a drawer, and taking it out to look at it, I knew who was making the mistake.

So, Reader...that is the problem. I do not know how to proceed. I feel, we here at Weapon Mods have been "called out", so ignoring it is not the best solution (some degree of dignity must remain intact). Also keep in mind, that no matter the outcome, the folks at O.A.D.S. and Weapon Mods will likely remain inhabitants of the third floor of 7784 Thornbelle, so I can only hope that some plateau of civility can be reached sometime in the future.

I turn to you, as surely we can agree upon some solution. Quickly.

American Martyr

2010-06-24T09:46:00.000-07:00

A day has passed since I saw the truck with the decal reading, "ONLY GOD KNOWS WHY," stretched across the top of its windshield. At first, I thought it was making a rhetorical statement, mirroring the inner conflict I'm sure we've all had about why things happen the way they do. But, that assumption was folly, for at that time I had not been close enough to see that the decal banner was flanked by the numeral 3. The statement the Black Truck was posing is better expressed, "ONLY GOD KNOWS WHY DALE EARNDHART IS DEAD."

I don't mean to be callous. Here at Weapon Mods, we hope to express the greatest respect for life. Perhaps that is not always clear, nor even addressed in our writing, but surely can be seen through our charity efforts.* But, it struck me as odd that that the death of Dale Earndhart (which was nearly ten years ago) is the event in which Black Truck chooses to keep the torch burning. There are any number of causes out there (ask any Subaru owner) to support via bumper stickers, and this is the rallying cry Black Truck issues?

However, Black Truck has been instrumental in opening up some discussion here, at the offices of Weapon Mods. I like to think that it has allowed a lot of us here to open up about personal experiences that would have otherwise been left untouched. This has brought a certain catharsis to the office, and I don't think there was anyone who didn't call home that night, after work.

Despite this, there are some questions that the staff were still pondering that night, and probably still grace some neurological doorway: Had Black Truck never lost anyone? Is that why it was clinging to the death of a NASCAR driver, in some appreciation of its first real loss? It was, after all, doubtful that Black Truck had known Dale Earndhart on any personal level, it can be argued that anyone who had known Earndhart on a personal level probably chose a more subtle way to grieve. However, I do seem to see an awful lot of headstone decals on the back of many a S.U.V., (un)tactfully placed below or above a dreamcatcher.

Also, aren't there more relevant issues to lament than the demise of a race car driver from (Google) North Carolina? There must be an allowance of relativity here, as well. Weapon Mods doesn't wish to be insensitive, so we must recognize the possibility that Black Truck felt the way about Dale Earndhart as some feel about....well, anything that generates enough remorse to emblazon your windshield with, "ONLY GOD KNOWS WHY".

I'm tempted to take a turn here and further explore the consequences of Black Truck's actions, but I would have to use a Star Trek reference and I'm not prepared to do that.

*To date, Weapon Mods has not contributed to any charity, whatsoever.

Beleaguered Benefactor

2010-06-18T06:14:00.000-07:00

It is the early morning of the, as of yet, hottest day in the Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand & Ten. It will soon be stifling hot, a firm hand of heat on our chests, and burning sensations on the tender ridges of our ears. I remember there was a time when I thought I would rather be cold than hot, but I have changed my mind about that over the course of the last few years.

I would say this because being cold meant staying home, under a blanket with a science fiction paperback, and doing little else. Now it means waking up earlier to scrape the snow off the cars, and more dark hours to ponder my place in the universe- I'd rather not think about it.

I think these hours of reading spent in that warm house, in which my parents still reside, went a long way in building at least some modicum of intelligence; or at least it gave me a penchant for speaking with such.

Soon, I will lead us to an event that occurred last night at a local grocery store, but first some other elements must be established.

I had an idea in my head, a certain image, that I wanted to see put to paper. I did enjoy some notoriety in grade school as a competent artist, but soon came to realize how small fish my efforts to take pencil to paper were. Since then, my artistic ability has atrophied, and I've taken to trolling the Internet for prospective artists to accomplish my goals of bringing a little bit of life to my thoughts.

This has come with a little difficulty, language barriers, explaining things via email, time constraints, and foremost, method of payment.

I'm not going to go too far into explaining why paypal wasn't going to work for this particular artist I had been working with, in so explaining now would ruin a bit of the end. But it looked like the solution was going to be provided by Western Union.
With the advent of online transactions, things were going swimmingly. Navigating Western Union's website and jumping through all the security hoops, I was relieved I wasn't going to have to dig a pair of shorts out of the hamper to leave the house.
But.
There was a problem. I couldn't really understand the man on the phone, something about my phone, there was a problem with my phone number. I'm aware there's a problem with my phone number: it allows people to call me when I'm really just trying to listen to Closer as loud as I can in my car. But that didn't seem to be it. And after asking him to repeat what I think was, "Proceed," for the third time (I was having some difficulty understanding him, but I did get them impression he was really into cows), it looked like I would have to go to an actual Western Union location, or at least a store that would facilitate my transaction via.
I must admit there was, at this point, some resignation that my evening was taking a turn, but I really wanted to complete the transaction.
Before we get into the final part of this, you should know that there were feelings of exasperation building in my chest, like the slow leak of a gas pipe. The first location I tried, recommended by the man on the phone who had probably practiced the word, "Inconvenience" to his bathroom mirror, was not operational. However, I soon found another locale, and was fast on my way.

Before long I was standing slightly below a girl, probably entering her twenties, who stood on a raised platform. It is in my opinion that this girl, responsible for money transfers, in what would become my last attempt of the evening (that's not entirely true), did not while away her winters by reading- anything. I would like you to commend my restraint, in transcribing the following conversation, that I do not spell her words in the phonetic manner in which they were delivered. There will be no, "Dat" for "That".

Girl in Red Smock: Hello, can I help you?

Weapon Mods: Yes, I'd like to make a money transfer, through Western Union?

GRS: Oh, you'll need to fill out that green sheet over there.

WM: Well, yes, but I've already gotten through most of the process. Well, it's pending, they said there was a problem with my phone number? Anyways, I have this code they game me? It would pull up my transfer order?

At this point, we can all see that everyone involved is somewhat confused, and I can't blame anyone for that. Please, continue with me.

GRS: I don't know...what are you trying to do?

WM: I'm trying to send money to Argentina.

GRS: ....What's that?

WM: What's what?....Argentina?

GRS: Yeah, is it a prison?

Reader, I have two wrinkles that have formed over years of pinching my eyebrows together, as if I am constantly asking the world, "What in the fuck is wrong with you?" The glasses don't help, if anything, they lend to making me look like a jackass who spent his winters reading. I know this, and I try to buffer my comments with a coating of congenial mirth, but my tone was about to become rather clipped- in linguistics, it's called Code Switching. Thankfully, only three words came out, and I exited the facility.

WM: It's a country.

Though in all of this I did learn something. Many Spanish speaking countries have no concept of the middle name. Instead, people are named with a unique first name, which is followed by their paternal name, and then the maternal.

This is Dorge Kas Johnson, signing off.

Take Flight

2010-06-01T18:53:00.000-07:00

On the way to work, a cardinal dived onto the street in front of my car, corrected, and swooped off into the peripheral. My foot tensed to brake, which is more than it does for errant squirrels, and I wondered if the sudden two seconds of lost acceleration saved me from a collision somewhere on my way to work.
The day before, a brown, nondescript bird flew against one of the windows of the building I work in. It came down as easily as Icarus but was not afforded the dignity of hiding its death throes in the inky water. I can hear the sound of it as it fell, but surely I could not have heard the impact of this small package of feather and hollow bone. I can't even take a phone call on that side of the building because of the noise.
I stood above the bird, its body made heaving motions of life as it looked up at me, beak opening and closing in some mantra of fear and misunderstanding. There was nothing I could do for the bird, even though I wanted to pick it up.
And as it lay there dying it did not understand my lack of compassion, did not understand that I could not afford to let anyone see me picking up a dead animal, even though it was not yet dead.

I have yet to learn what these birds are trying to tell me.

Pull the Plug

2010-05-20T17:27:00.000-07:00

Tonight at the gym, I suffered a slight dizzy spell while I was on the elliptical. The elliptical is a machine that makes you look like you're running with gigantic strides, but without impact on your joints. I really like using it because I look like I know how to use it, and I sweat like mad. I look like I'm trying to sell the machine on a forty minute television commercial.
Maybe I looked down too long, or shifted my gaze from the TV too quickly, but my world went a little tipsy there for a second. I didn't loose control, and the viewers at home wouldn't have noticed unless the forensics specialist played it in slow-motion for them. But there is was, some inner ear distress that made me suddenly evaluate my surrounding area for potential head trauma.
If I passed out here, would I hit my head on that? Would I just slump forward, or backwards? How long would it take the people around me to realize something wasn't quite right?
I thought about people saying Hey Buddy, Took Quite a Spill There. I thought about the woman at the front desk, the one who told me my membership was expired, when indeed it was not, saying things like, Oh My God, Are You OK?
This made me think of the way my mouth looks when I smile. Because I would have had to shrug it off, pale and panting on the ground. Don't Get Up, Just Take it Easy Buddy. I would smile this crooked, awkward smile and my diaphragm would be constricting with forced laughter.
Get Him Some Water, they would say. I Wish I Could Hit it That Hard. That's Dedication.
More forced laughter, and I would be trying to get up. I would feel it obligatory to throw in a slight misstep, whether physically warranted or not.
The next day there would be a small red mark along my face that people would ask about.
I Would Just Die, they would say.
This made me think of alternate dimensions. Perhaps in a different dimension, I did fall. Maybe in yet another dimension, I did fall, and I died from it. It's easier to follow me here if you've read any X-Men comics.
Maybe I fell and hit my head in just the right place, and even now, I'm thinking about a dimension in which that did not happen, this dimension. There's another me, drooling and staring out the window, sweeping enough cognitive function into a neat little pile in order to imagine the dimension I am now residing in.

I think we were all on board until a certain point there.

Retraction

2010-05-18T16:38:00.000-07:00

Here at Weapon Mods we strive to bring you the most feasibly accurate posts. From time to time, there may be an errant stroke of fiction or just a base lie. When these occurrence are brought to our attention we will do our very best to correct the error. Also, Weapon Mods finds the practice of hiding retractions in small fonts, or on the very last page of other publications- deplorable. That is why we have chosen to use a larger font for this piece, and entitle it, "Retraction". After all, Weapon Mods was influential in ushering in this new age of transparency. *

In the post "Pound Cake" dated November 3rd, 2009 the machine used to push the burning hulk out of harm's way was described as an "enloader". This, however, is incorrect. The machine used, was in fact, a bulldozer.

It is with much chagrin that Weapon Mods has been alerted to two discrepancies in one post, and the most recent post at that.

The post, "Busy Signal" identifies two other blogs, which Weapon Mods did the disservice of naming incorrectly.

Anvil Orbital Drop Station should have been listed as, "Orbital Anvil Drop Station".

Blog In the Ointment should have been listed as, "On the Blog Wagon".

We here at Weapon Mods hope to continue bringing you the most accurate and current posts. We hope we are forgiven these few indiscretions, and look forward to your continued support.

*This is not true.

Busy Signal

2010-05-12T17:52:00.000-07:00

Today, the offices of Weapon Mods were quiet. Ok, quiet, isn't the word...it was like we were bereft in the universe, floating along some ethereal plane, sole inhabitants of some nihilistic galaxy, pondering our regrets and hoping for a better...anyways. Suffice to say, when the phone did ring, we were all ears. Well, when we realized it was ringing that is, at first it was like when the alarm clock goes off in the middle of a dream...?

WM: Hello? Hello, this is Weapon Mods.

Caller: I have a problem.

WM: Er, yes? A problem?

Caller: Yes. I have a problem with blowers.

As you know, the only problem WM was having at the time was the fast-approaching bottom of the coffee cup.

WM: Ah...blowers?

Caller: You know, leaf blowers?

A pause.

Caller: They drive me crazy.

WM: I see, is there someone using one in your neighborhood? They have it going during Jeopardy, or something?

Caller: No, not that...so much. I just think they're lazy.

WM: The people using the blowers, leaf blowers?

Caller: Everything about them. The people, the...things themselves, it's all just very...lazy.

WM: Right. And it can't be good for the environment. They are gas-powered, right? I think so.

Caller: Yeah, as far as I know. Maybe there are some battery ones now, too. But for Chrissakes, get a rake! You know what I mean?

WM: I know exactly what you mean, you see these fat asses strolling around with their blowers,
like it'd kill them to do a little raking!

Caller: Right! You know, it probably would! They'd be into their third little...I don't know...leaf-raking motion and they would just die!

Here, Weapon Mods and The Caller share a brief laugh.

WM: And where are they blowing those damn leaves? Into someone else's yard!

Caller: Oh, yeah, oh yeah. And probably into some poor bastard's yard who rakes! Here's his guy raking-

WM: And then his idiot neighbor is blowing more leaves back into his yard!

Caller: Right! But the neighbor, the...the leaf-blowing guy, doesn't see what the normal, nice, raking guy has in his bag of leaves...

WM: Of course not, he's probably too busy, you know, blowing the goddam leaves around and-

Caller: Exactly, so, the raking guy, the nice guy, is leaning over and pulling a machete out of this bag of leaves.

The conversation seemed to be taking a certain turn. What's more, Weapon Mods began to think The Caller had a familiar voice.

Caller: See, the blower guy thinks the guy is just going to, you know, whack some more weeds, or whatever. But then, the raking guy, the machete guy? He's jumping the fence-

WM: The fence? Jumping the fence? You cut out.

Caller: Right, and he's just going at this guy with the machete!

WM: Wait, sorry. The...blower guy is going at the machete guy?

Caller: No, no...the guy with the machete is really fucking the blower guy up, I mean, he's screaming all over the place and, like, yelling, "please no no no, please...," but the machete guy just can't help it now, he's in this blood rage.

WM: Because of the leaf blowing?

Caller: No, because of leaf blowers. He really has no choice.

Something about how The Caller said, "has no choice." triggered some faint recognition in Weapon Mods. A spark of familiar, like suddenly recognizing the voice of the narrator of some credit card commercial.

WM:...Aimel?

Caller:...No.

Caller: And that's another thing that's lazy. Guns. Guns are very lazy. If people had to use real weapons? Then the murder rates would just plummet. Instead of this...impersonal...blam blam blam shit...

WM: Well, going after someone with a machete would be pretty personal.

Caller: Yeah, it was.

WM: Aimel?

Caller: I was...the voice...of Aimel, once.

Voice of Aimel: So, do you think we have a story? I mean, would you want to interview me, or anything? I think people would respond.

WM: I'm not....it's not that Weapon Mods doesn't agree with the fact that leaf blowers as a whole have a certain annoying quality to them.

For some reason Weapon Mods felt like Voice of Aimel had to be talked down from a ledge. The tone of the conversation had taken on some bizarre quality, charred smell of violence. And, it seemed like Voice of Aimel could find Weapon Mods just as easily as it was to call. The number isn't listed.

Voice of Aimel: I think this would be a great story.

WM: Have you done something?

Voice of Aimel: What do you mean?

WM: Have you done something illegal, details of which you're trying to garner media favor for? Weapon Mods doesn't pay for interviews, you know that, right? You might want to try Anvil Orbital Drop Station, or...what's the other one called....Blog in the Ointment?

Voice of Aimel: I don't want to be paid...

WM: But you do want something?

Voice of Aimel: To be thanked.

The phone was hot and greasy from being held to Weapon Mods's ear so long. It didn't ring again all day, and why would it? The number isn't listed.

Goes On Inside

2010-04-20T19:13:00.000-07:00

Today I carried one pair of jeans, and two pairs of slacks to work. The slacks were to be deposited in the dry cleaning bag designated with my name. The slacks I was wearing were a little too long, so I was going to take them to the haberdasher after work to have them altered. I had brought the jeans to change into for the ride home. Though getting out of my car without any pants on does, now, strike me as humorous.
I carried all of this in a duffel bag, with the strap across my chest, my right arm resting on top, close to the Nike swoosh, my left arm swinging freely. I watched cars go by, a black man said Morning, and I agreed.
I caught my left hand making gestures that went along with the conversations I was rehearsing in my head, and I wondered, if anyone driving by had seen me doing that. The building in which I work, loomed closer and closer, with every step, and I was careful to breathe through my nose.
On a similar day I thought about the prayer that Franny tries to master in Franny and Zooey, but not today.
I was hoping someone would see my bag, out of place on someone dressed as I, and say, Hey. What's with the bag?
Because I was going to reply, My wallet was just too small.
I thought that would have been really funny.
But no one asked.

Which makes me think no one will ask about the katana, either.

Sympathy for the Devil

2010-04-19T18:44:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, I sometimes assign theological meanings to songs. Take Filter's Hey Man, Nice Shot, whenever I listen to that song, I always think about Jesus' Crucifixion; I will Survive (Cake's, not Gloria Gaynor's) turns itself into a melodrama of turning over a new leaf, casting out evil forces from your life.
Last Saturday I was listening to Nine Inch Nail's Something I Can Never Have, and I found something in the lyrics, the slow, gradual processions that I had never thought about before. As a whole, the album, Pretty Hate Machine is a rant against some unspecified girl (though I've heard Tori Amos is the impetus for Reznor's debut, I don't think that's true).

What I heard in the lyrics is the imagined plea of Satan before he rose against God.
It was the chorus that got me thinking about a different meaning to the lyrics; let's be clear up front that I'm not supposing Trent Reznor had any different or secret meanings hidden away in this track-this is just me imposing an old theme onto it.
This is me taking a sympathetic view to Satan, and supposing that he wasn't all that convinced himself, that he should take on the Throne.
The lyrics reveal a scene in the play, the rising action just before the uprising against God, the climax. This would be opposite the scene Milton gives us at the beginning of Paradise Lost, as a juxtaposition. This plea, heard through the lyrics of Something I Can Never Have, would echo the mood set, when Satan, "Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf." (Milton)

Ok, am I explaining this clearly? I'm not writing a term paper, so I'm going to take an aside and make sure you're still with me. Satan's mutiny against God is the climax of the story. Before the climax, in the rising action, is what I'm thinking about here with the NIN song, and I'm making these literal references with Milton because his work, Paradise Lost takes place on the boot heels of the climax.

Still here?

Sure, the lyric, "I still recall the taste of your tears," is a little hard to work with for what I'm going for, and all I have is John 11:35, "Jesus wept." But, let's go on.

You make this all go away/I'm down to just one thing- alluding to God's infinite power, and Satan's only thing left. If Satan has come this far in his betrayal, he's pretty well fallen, and the act itself now appears to be the only conclusion as to what has led up to this point, he has "crossed the Rubicon" as it were.

I just want something/I just want something I can never have- the point of Satan's betrayal is to claim God's Throne, and yet he must realize, even now, that it is unattainable.

You always were the one to show me how/Back then I couldn't do the things that I can do now- acknowledgement or recognition that he is defying his creator. "Back then," an allusion to time, another point that Satan is aware that he is dealing with an infinite entity, something that does not recognize time, John 8:58, "Before Abraham was, I Am."

In this place it seems like such a shame/Though it all looks different now/I know it's still the same- this is before the Fall, so Satan is still occupying Heaven. He is looking upon all that he used to know, and must realize that he will never again be admitted. Soon to be, "As far removed from God and light of Heaven/ As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole." (Milton)

You make this all go away-here is the plea. Satan, now unsure, wants things to go back, somehow, to the way things were.

I don't meant to present an argument as to what happened before the Fall, this is just the music video I came up with in my head, driving along, listening to "Track 5", as I had forgotten the name of the song. Though, I did look up the number five just for posterity's sake.

Five words in the title, Something I Can Never Have.
Five letters in several key players for my proposal:

J E S U S
S A T A N
J U D A S
D E V I L

And, the song it self runs for 5:54...well, almost had 5:55, damn.

There are certain works you should read if you're interested in the notion of Satan's act of betrayal, why it happened, what it led to, the meaning, so on, so on.

Murder Mysteries, by Neil Gaiman
To Shoot an Elephant, by George Orwell
Paradise Lost, by John Milton
Dante's Inferno, by, yes, Dante.

Truth be told, I've never read all of Paradise Lost, but if you reference it enough people just assume you have. It's ok, try it. Oh, also tell them Milton was blind and he dictated the whole thing to his daughter, that'll make the pants drop every time.

50 on Hat Man

2010-04-12T17:51:00.000-07:00

Invariably, every morning I somehow find myself walking behind this man with a limp. It's a huge, crazy limp, paralysis, more like it, and I think to myself, "Great, I'm going to have to slow down because he's limping all over the place." But the thing is, he's really fast. I don't have to slow down at all because I can hardly keep up with him.
I meant to write this when it was still cold out, that's how long I've been thinking about it. I would think about someone looking down at us leaving the parking garage and taking bets like we were racing. I can hear the announcer: Annnnd they're off! Limping Man is coming hard down the straightaway and Hat Man is close behind! Folks this is going to be a tight one, Hat Man really wants it today, but Limping Man looks like he's going to take it again!
You see, I wear this fedora...Indiana Jones hat in the winter. I'd like to get another one for spring, but...back to the Limping Man.
So it puzzled me, every day, why this man, who had had some sort of stroke, was walking so much faster than I was. I thought about that Kids in the Hall skit with the guy who walked incredibly slow. Was that me? Was my disdain for working Where-I-Work physically slowing me down? I wasn't sure.
Then it came to me while I was walking with my daughter. Molly is three, so walking with her entails a lot more physical activity than walking, say...by myself. First there's walking, which turns into marching. This soon evolves into running, and then skipping. Then...we do the "Scooby-Doo" walk, big long slow strides like you're sneaking up on someone? Yeah, I can hear the Neighbor Hood Watch pulling down their blinds. This all eventually leads to hopping like a frog, down the street, looking like one of those Mentoring commercials. It was the skipping and the frog-hopping that made me realize something.
Skipping down the road looks fantastically gay. But, it's a lot faster than walking. So is running, you say? Well, people who run, dressed in slacks and a tie, look like a lawyer who just forgot his client was on the stand. Also, I'm wearing leather-soled shoes, I'm not running in them.
Besides, skipping and running would garner too much attention, and that's something I worry about, if you read iPhantom.
What does all this mean? It means Limping Man is faking it. He had came up with the same conclusion that I had about skipping being gay and running being crazy, and decided, the only way to go any faster than walking was to come up with a limp. He covers a lot of ground, tossing his leg out in front of him and catching up to it. He takes the stairs like a champ, and it doesn't seem to bother his driving. Sometimes I think he might know I'm onto him because I don't slow my gait anymore. I'm trying to keep up with him, and he still gets to the stairwell before me. The walk I'd perfected over nearly three decades was my own specific gait, I thought I did well with it- just to find that his mode of transportation, though seemingly flawed, granted him far greater distance and speed. How could I have been so wrong?

Bravo Limping Man. But I feel like my luck's about to change...maybe I will start running.

Or skipping.

From Everett Dock Q-32

2010-03-01T17:24:00.000-08:00

It looks like messing with my sleep cycle didn't work out the way the Controllers intended. Well, that's the only reason I can think of that I'm completely lucid today. I can't guess how long I've been out of it, but I feel rested and alert. It probably had something to do with the memory suppressors I'm on, or I think I'm on. I need to make it clear to myself the things that I'm immediately aware of.

I'm still in Everett Dock Quarantine-32. At lease it appears that way, I have no way of knowing if I've been moved for any reason to, say, Quarantine 14. As far as I know, all dock pods are identical. Also, there's no way to leave any impressions on the rooms to distinguish one from another; no scratching "fuck you" on the walls with a...well, whatever. I did mention the regulation of the kerotene levels, I can't even scratch myself. There's not even a layer of dust to write my initials.

For all intents and purposes I'm still in thirty-two: dirty-blue.
I have not had human contact for nearly one year.
My nutrients still seem to be streaming in, the only indication I have that there's someone still on the other side.
My memories are being suppressed, or I've been treated with something to slow neural activity, it all boils down to: the id and the ego have not called to check to see how I'm doing here.
I have been placed here under my own volition, I was trained to endure this.
I am apart of something called Project: Window.
My name is Pedaf Truman.
I hate tripes.

iPhantom

2010-02-13T08:54:00.000-08:00

Today there was a writing workshop at the Cultural Center (I think it's been renamed the Culture Center, but hey, they tried to rename the Sears Tower, too). I didn't want to go to this thing, not really. But I was feeling guilty about the forty-four cents my parents spent to send me an article about it; maybe not so much the money, just the whole trouble of it.
I had full intentions of going when Cable was interested, but when he dropped out I wasn't too thrilled about the whole idea anymore. When Deathlok said he might go, I had one foot on the I'm Not Going Express, but at least I wouldn't be alone. Then I remembered registration was kind've early. "You'll be up?" I asked. Skeptical for 200, please Alex.
One thing I can't stand is to not, at least, try. So, that's what I did. I got up, got ready, headed out the door with a blue, and a black pilot pen. I wore my red hat, and black boots. I had been wearing a hat with Super Mario on it, that read, "Made in the 80's," but I wanted to look older, and usually I wear slip-on Merrils, but I wanted to go for the Shit Stomper look. I was unshaven, I can't say I had a shadow because it's more of an...Irish sunset. I have an Irish sunset on my face. I wanted Salinger reclusive and Howard bombast. I also wore my wedding ring, I couldn't have these people falling in love with me, or anything-it's a constant concern.
A few years ago, actually several, I had once signed up for a creative writing class in the basement of Taylor Books. Out-of-Place. I had no idea what those circa-menopausal women were talking about and I wanted out. I was refunded my...Mom's money, and bought Neverwhere in hardback.
In the morning, Deathlok was indeed, not up. The thought of going to this thing alone had really put me on edge.
On the way there I was hoping that the snow had kept everyone home, that I'd show up with two others and we'd talk about foreshadowing. When I did get there, that turned out not to be the case. I wouldn't go so far as to say it was a throng of people, but far more than I had any intention of dealing with on a Saturday morning. But, I pressed on, and found myself at the back of the registration line.
These people needed a leader. For some reason that thought kept reoccurring to me, maybe because I'm more Leonardo than Raphael, maybe because they reminded me of sheep, not a predator among them. But the other thought that kept a steady tattoo in my head was, Out-of-Place/Out-of-Place.
I couldn't just walk out, people would see that I was just walking out. I'm so sure people are watching me all the time that sometimes when I walk in the cold, I hold my breath. The point being that if I did that long enough, someone watching me would realize, with utmost horror, that I am not human, there is no vaporous trail of breath.
So, I pulled the trick I reserve for when I see someone I don't want to talk to: I got on my phone. I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at the screen-it's important to give an appropriate pause, no one just answers their phone. Then I decided to answer my phantom caller, quick to get it to my ear before anyone watching could see my glowing apps, tell-tale sign that no one had called, and that I'm a crazy person.
I think I'm good at the phone trick. I repeat things, because the phantom can't hear me, I use geographic reference to give them a spatial quality, and I start and stop speaking; the phantom cuts me off. All the while I sound like one helluva guy. I scan the line behind me and assure the phantom it's no big deal to step out of it, that I'll come find the phantom and make sure they get to where they're going. When I'm finished I even say, "Ok, b-," and give the phone a hurt look; the phantom hung up prematurely.
I felt that the conversation ended a little abruptly, so as I was leaving, the phone rang again. I stood out near the steps of the building, and for the denouement of the performance, I waved out to the phantom, as if it were operating a helicopter and couldn't decide where to land. I hope everyone watching appreciated all I had done for them.

Maybe I should go back. The transitions in this piece are a little choppy, and you can see I really just wanted to talk about the phone trick. I should have been a little more descriptive of the people actually there, and why I felt so tense. Was I full of foreboding because of the creative writing class all those years ago? That area's kind've unclear, I think. And why do I use vague references? Pat yourself on the back for getting "...Howard bombast," God, what's that about? There's phone tricks, and then pseudo-intellectual tricks. And then there's blatantly using conjunctions as the beginning of sentences.
I do stand behind the double-negative, though. That I'm keeping.

Alice

2010-02-10T17:08:00.000-08:00

Recently, while trolling through the App Store, I came across something called "Alice". It has a simple, rounded logo that caught my eye. It turns out, I had been looking for Alice for quite some time and didn't realize it. I once even offered Cable twenty bucks to be my Alice.
Let's back up a little here. Something you should know is that I hate going to the store. If I were speaking, you'd hear a certain quality to my voice when I said hate, like I'd just climbed up forty flights with an anvil. It takes there being no milk in the house for me to even consider going.
It's an experience that, no matter how small the list, will undoubtedly make me heart-palpating-ly frustrated by the end of the endeavor. Only at the grocery store must I dwell among the throng of the dirt, only there must I wait behind inferiors. I am King Nebakanezer and the grocery is my field, a thousand torments to be endured, and Loki laments!?
Ok, I don't care for it.
What Alice does is this: sends you dry goods. You log on, you search around, you add to your cart, bang-it's sent to your house. Now, I know there are other sites that will do this. I'm not sure what they are, I haven't really looked into it. Agreeably, I should have looked into it earlier if the only praise I can laud on Wal-Mart is that it acts as a minnow trap that keeps the degenerates occupied with...whatever.
Back to the point. Alice has a website, and, as mentioned before, an app for the iPhone. You can shop, track your shipment, utilize customer service, and with a recent update, scan bar codes with the app. Sometimes Alice won't have a certain item, but then you can suggest that she carry it; whether that'll happen is yet to be seen, but so far it hasn't been too bad an experience.
The only thing not great about it is the shipping time. I placed the order last Thursday and it landed today, Wednesday. But, the cool thing about that is, I hit "Record" on the app last night, and said, "My order is taking forever!" and today I received an apology email and $5 off my next purchase. So, yes, they bought me.
When the package came today it was in an attractive blue box with a detailed invoice inside. Also, there was a neat little bag with a free sample (Nature's Own Honey 'n Oats Granola Bar), I'm a sucker for bags, presentation is everything. And when Alice thinks I'm running low on something, she'll send me a handy email reminder.

So, if you wait until the God Squad is eating at Bob Evans before you try to get into the store, or if you comprise dinner from saltines and pepper, Alice may just be for you.

After all, everybody needs an Alice!

http://www.alice.com/

Dark Avengers Annual

2010-02-07T08:53:00.000-08:00

Reviewing Dark Avengers Annual #1.

Those of you hip to comics may know that from time to time a publisher will do an "Annual" for its better selling comics, set aside from the regular run as a stand-alone that may, or may not, have something to do with the on-going story. Annuals are usually thicker than the monthly, and contain within them a single story, which is rare in the world of comics today. In the past, Annuals used a different creative team, whereas Lobdell was writing the monthly, some no-name was given the chance to write the oncely, a good thirty or so pages, and the art was...just awful.

Dark Avengers Annual is different in a few ways in that the regular writer, Brian Bendis, scribed it. Also, Chris Bachalo was tapped to pencil it, a Marvel vet that picked up speed in the nineties. (If you look closely, you can find an early Sandman that he penciled, as well). And let's give a head nod to Tim Townsend and crew for providing excellent inks.

I have limited my comic purchases to a very few titles, but I always give the rack a quick scan. It may be that Capullo, of Spawn fame, called Marvel and told Quesada that all-white covers get me every time. And I'm sure that everything being off center aided the fact that I didn't notice the rag was 4.99 until I got home with it. But look how Bachalo's negative space, employed in the barrel of that space gun, draws your eye right to it. Maybe I did notice it was 4.99, it's hard to say now.

I've enjoyed Chris Bachalo as far back as Generation-X. His style lended to some...ethereal tangibility that I hadn't seen before. Whereas Madureira was too clean, Pacheco was too crisp,... Bachelo was dirty. It may be easy to dismiss the lack of cleanliness of his scenes as stylistic fodder, but think of how many of Stephen King's characters smoke. I don't smoke, I hate smoking, I think it's disgusting, I turn my nose up at it. But, when Lisey smokes, she's a little more real to me. And by that argument, when I have to fend off Venom, I can grip the pipe better if it's rusty.

Another aspect that must be mentioned when talking about Bachalo is his mastery of implied motion. Implied motion is the intrinsic tempo of an image without having to rely on "swoosh" lines, or vibration marks. (That was needlessly wordy, he makes Spider-Man look like he's really swinging somewhere fancy). Not to say Bachalo doesn't utilize these methods from time to time, but he can add a level of motion and intensity that is hard to best. I believe all of this is inherent with the cover image provided above.

Brian Bendis is a busy man, he pens several titles for Marvel, along with all the Events that keep the lights on at the House of Ideas. I was actually a little surprised to see that he wrote the annual. In fact, I thought it was the on-going series until I got home with it, and realized it was an annual. And 4.99.

Bendis has his faults, he once "hung" when he should have "hanged", and twice (to my knowledge) he's placed Langley in West Virginia. But at the end of the day, he does tell a good story. The characters are funny, adult, and have conflicting personalities. Issues like adultery and loyalty keep a crisp tension that gets put on simmer while fighting back the alien horde, which seems to always land Bendis a T+ rating, but that's the audience.

However, all he seems to offer with this tale is the introduction of a new Captain Marvel, or re-introduction, as it were. Throughout, the character who becomes Captain Marvel finds himself puzzled by human inconsistancies (tired) and does alien-y things like eating eggs out of the container (K-Pax). There is pursuit, battle, space-guns, love interests (his strange behavior attracts the attention of some Hot Topic femme, surprise) and metamorphasis.

Bendis does have the skill to paint a fuller picture of the world by letting the reader listen in on what the bystanders are saying about the fantastic events that are taking place, but he also delivers lines like these: "Why are they after you?" "Because I know the truth."

It seems only the extra production cost of another ten pages (vs the average 24) is the only thing that could ramp up the out-of-pocket. In the end it's a needless tale that will only serve to bulk up the Trade. I do enjoy Bachalo, but his work here looks bored.

Usually his color contrasts between the characters and the

back ground make the image pop, but here it looks lazy and rained on, most of the scenes that take place in public could pass for some dream state. And I would have liked a little more thought to go into Captain Marvel's costume design, he looks like the going-to-die guy on the away team.

You're better off to leave this one on the shelf. Take your money and buy a Captain America by Brubaker, you'll thank me when you have that little bit of extra parking money in the morning.

Spoiler: Captain America does show up in this issue, along with Steve Rogers.

A Word From Weapon Mods

2010-02-07T08:44:00.000-08:00

Though Weapon Mods tries to stay above whatever triviality that may be taking place in current affairs, we feel that it is our responsibility to sometimes weigh in on certain matters so that our readers may find it easier to identify themselves with what they read here. By doing this, we do take the risk of alienating some readers, and it may serve as a sort of train stop, a chance to disembark from Weapon Mods. But, for the others that choose to stay aboard, we're happy to have you. We would now like to take the time to issue the following statement:

Dear Sarah Palin,
You're a fucking retard.

Thank you,
WM.

Project: Window 44-P:E

2010-01-24T08:59:00.000-08:00

12/44/017/44-Prime:Echo

I suppose with any study there will exist some X Factor, some radical variant that is free from the bounds of hypothesis. Subject Ralph is certainly proving to be our free radical in the Everett Group.
One would think that, if a person felt they were aware of what was happening to them, they might keep it to themselves in order to lull their oppressor into believing that that person was...docile.
Not so with subject Ralph. He knows, or suspects that he is subjected to memory suppression, which of course, he is. What is odd about this is that he detected the operations almost immediately, whereas all other subjects at Everett, all 57 of them, haven't batted an eye, to use an old saying. What is more, subject Ralph posts these thoughts of his into the input. Is this an act of defiance? Is this...nihilism?
Whatever it is, it's creating a lot of headaches here at VChicago. Next week will be the third time I go to the board to stay the hand that wants subject Ralph destroyed. The argument is that the candidate is corrupted and inserting another subject into 32 now will prove financially beneficial in the long run. I.E., the Developers are trying to cut their losses while they can. I guess we all answer to someone.
I wish there were some way to contact Ralph, but the Controllers would never go for it. Not this early, in any case. I do have to deal with the fact that it may be far more decent to let the subject be destroyed. What the others will undergo will be inhumane at best...but those are bridges crossed long ago. What we, as Humans, do now, is for our collective survival. Well, that's the rhetoric, anyways. Whether what we do here will amount to a whole hill of beans only history will tell. This movement has completely polarized the United Peoples to the point you'd think we weren't at war with the tripes. As a matter of fact, it's frowned upon to say "tripe" on the relay now for fear of alienating-alienating somebody and their kids. Sometimes I can't believe I was with the party that pushed for some type of democracy. Now it's, "all hail the triped." Goddamn tripes.
This is the third time I'm going to bat for you, Ralph. They'll probably ship me to DFargo after this and you'll never even know my name. Well, it's Fenrik Dobson, hugs and kisses.

[Historical Archive:: O/Dobson Gift 7 cat 1477756]

[Historical Record:: Project Window 44-P:E was used in the injunction against Monitor Fenrik Dobson]

From Everett Dock Q-32

2010-01-24T08:51:00.000-08:00

I've been sitting here, trying to write out something for a long time. It's becme harder and harder to compose my thougthts, and I'm always very sleepy. I guess the controllers have derugulated my sleep cicle to make it more diffiult for me to remeber things.

Interview with Vola Trecase

2010-01-12T08:16:00.000-08:00

Today, Weapon Mods sits down with Vola Trecase, a character actor who received critical acclaim after her most recent role in a Dungeons & Dragons Campaign. After two cancelled interviews, WM finally catches up with her at Festrif's, a local kobald haunt in Devils' Bay. Not where WM expected to meet with Trecase, but we were soon to find out, "expected" isn't the word to use in an interview with a woman who speaks fluent Draconic.

WM: You've enjoyed a cult following-

VT: [interupts] Endured.

WM: Is the convention circuit proving to be less than-

VT: [laughs] Conventions! Dreadful, no, you wouldn't see me there. I went to one a long time ago, when that Ghrade character was all the rage. He's a good example as to what can happen to you, if you're nayoon.

WM: "In love with yourself."

VT: Loosely.

WM: Elvish. And we're guessing Draconic. Are there any other languages you're fluent in?

VT: I think everyone in Largo Largo speaks a little Goblin, and I could order lunch in Etva. [meaning she knows some Supernal.]

[The interview is put on pause while Vola orders lunch. Mods declines, but Vola sees through our polite denial, to the real problem: Mods is not fluent in Draconian. She orders for us and shares a laugh with the kobald waitress.]

VT: It wouldn't do at all for a human not to order here, they'd think you were a gaskoni, and it's hard to say what would happen with my food.

WM: What did you order?

VT: This is Festrif's, I ordered their fish stew.

WM: Largo Largo. We thought you would have rather talked with us there, the city being so close to your home. What made you choose Devils' Bay?

VT: Don't you love it here? So much going on, ships coming in, going out, who can say where? It's fun to imagine where they're off to. And you can forget how old you are when you sit by the sea for a little while. I lived here for a long time before I moved outside Largo Largo. GD and I would go out fishing with the kobolds on the weekends, that's how I came to be able to order here! [laughs] That seems like ages ago, and I guess it was.

[Vola seems to slip into a reverie, looking at the bustling dock through the window. Then abruptly snaps back to the present and spins our notes around on the table to face her, tut-tutting.]

VT: I thought as much! It's G-e-e-D-e-e, not "GD". I'm sorry, that's always irked me!

WM: GeeDee Barne. There's a man wrapped in mystery. We couldn't even find census records for him in Banda Cate, so either he was born before the census was initiated, or he's not from P'allencha, originally.

[Before Vola can answer, the kobald waitress serves us two bowls of the fish stew, with two seashells the size of WM's palm perched in the thick broth. Vola graciously demonstrates using the shell as a spoon, saving WM some embarrassment.]

VT: Faska, Banda Cate still has records? We heard that everything was destroyed, the library, I mean.

WM: The census records are still intact, along with the tariff logs. [WM suggested that there may have been information regarding GeeDee in the older Paladin contracts, but we were not permitted to see those.]

VT: Figures. I'm sure Seti. To'Baj wants to make sure...well, never mind all that. I've only been to 'Cate a few times. A city built around the tenants of Erathis is just doomed to not be interesting.

WM: Some say there was a time when you were involved with Largo Largo's Nacht, Bastian Dorian. Any truth to that?

VT: [manages not to choke on her stew] Bastian! And I suppose I spawned that bastard Conner, too, eh? [cackling] You're going to have to do some better research, kinne!

WM: Perhaps, but are you denying that there wasn't something between the two of you?

VT: Not denying, no. It's just so silly, Bastian's old enough to be my grandfather. He is a close friend to GeeDee and I, and we love him very much.

WM: The word in Devils' Bay is that The Vanni's* Nacht has fallen quite ill. Do you know anything more specific?

VT: I wish I did, the last I inquired, Seti. Conner Dorian said his father was resting, and couldn't take visitors.

WM: There is some specula-

VT: [sharply] You'll check your tongue. I would know if anything...dire...had happened to Bastian Dorian. [sighs] Please, I thought we were talking about me.

WM: Some people we've talked with think you're a bedtime story.

VT: Bedtime story?

WM: [embarressed] Yes...'Get to bed before Vola comes!'

VT: Oh! That's terrible, people say that? Have I been holed up that long? What else do they tell the little kinnes? 'Wash up, or Vola will nibble their ears'? Wait 'till GeeDee hears this! Well. Faska, this has been lovely, but I'm afraid I'll have to be leaving if I want to make it home anytime soon!

WM: There won't be any caravans going up the Hurry untill tomorrow!

VT: The Hurry! Really. Thank you for lunch! nes'lij gyd Ba'lat!

With that Vola Tracase rose out of her seat, waved an informal 'goodbye' to the kobold bartender and disappered out the door, a cold blast of air and saltwater pushed through as the door closed behind her. WM was left feeling unprepared for the interview, but is consoled with 'how does one prepare for a woman like Vola?' The next twenty minutes or so was spent trying to pay the tab without insulting a kobold, meaning any pursuit of Vola was out of the question. Too bad WM couldn't tell if the waitress was smiling or...hungry.

*The Vanni is the ruling Theives' Guild in Largo Largo.

Use the Spice, Paul

2010-01-06T13:03:00.000-08:00

Dune, by Frank Herbert.
The cover hails it as "Science Fiction's Supreme Masterpiece" and that was enough to sell me. Also, the book felt nice in my hands, which is important on the "to buy, or not to buy" test. On the cover is a long stretch of sand seen overhead, with two figures walking toward the top of the image. My eye creates a classic Cardinal direction orientation of the scene, so the characters look as if they're walking North. That being said, their long shadows stretch into the East, planting the setting sun (Al-Lat) in the West. The West plays an important role representing death in some societies, that may not have been considered in the production of the cover, but it fits.
This is the first I've ever read Herbert and would read more, but for now I must resist sinking back into the Dune legacy. The story is epic, and the world it has bred has a grandeur all its own. The characters are fantastic but believable, much of their development takes place in the writings of Princes Irulan, that are used as chapter markers.
The pacing is slow and deliberate, the events of the story take place within a four year time span, but the characters change so much within that time that it seems a lot more time has passed when the "man-child" Paul becomes Muad'Dib. And the reader is treated to the perspectives of several characters, jumping between thoughts of the antagonists and protagonists from paragraph to paragraph, sorry, no Ender's Shadow here.
This book may be long but I don't think Herbert needlessly explains everything for the reader, after all, a glossary is provided. His writing style reminds me somewhat of the tempo that takes place in comic books. The action that the eye creates in between the panels of a comic is as important as the panels themselves, there hides the explanatory motion. So, in my mind the final battle between the Fremen and the Houses may prove to be very climatic, the wording of the thing is less so.
There are elements in this book that Star Wars has borrowed from, and that may be putting it lightly...ok, Lucas ransacked Herbert like the Wachowski Brothers ransacked Gibson. Maybe the book hasn't enjoyed the commercial success as Lucas's ventures because there aren't any heroes to slap on comforters and towels. Remember: Luke Skywalker didn't use the skin of his enemies as drum heads.
As for Science Fiction's Supreme Masterpiece? For me, a book would have to have "Asimov" on it somewhere to make that claim.

Historical Archive:: W/Everett Prop 3. cat 0000522.

2010-01-04T12:36:00.000-08:00

[Historical Record: Dr. William Everett's third letter to the Development Officers was recently found in an information cache long thought destroyed by a misfiling error.]

12/03/35-P:G

Attn: Development Officer(s) Station MTopeka.

In light of recent developments I must insist further study be conducted of the alien contact received 35-P:G [Historical Record: 08/22/35-Prime: Gold]
I recognize that the signals were interpreted as not much more than the usual space static, but to totally ignore them is folly. It is my belief that the signals can be interpreted as code and could mean further study of the area is warranted. After all, the code was received in the space quadrant in which the wreckage was originally discovered. [Historical Record: the quadrant referenced here is B:9 Total, where the first alien contact was made fifteen years before the date of this letter. An unmanned space probe discovered a small alien vessel, which would later be classified as an escape pod. The entity inside the vessel was not living upon discovery.]
There has been little to serve as a "Rosetta Stone" from the alien vessel, but I don't think we're too much further from cracking their language and/or codes. [Historical Record: the alien language was deciphered four months after the writing of this letter, had it not been for Dr. Everett, it is believed the process would have taken years longer.] If I were granted financial compensation to continue my studies, I have full confidence that VChicago may be prepared to make legitimate contact with the alien(s) within five years. [Historical Record: VChicago made its first contact with the alien peoples three years and fourteen days after the writing of this letter. Let it be known that Dr. Everett had worked on what would later be known as Project: Window for quite some time, and no financial compensation was authorized by the D.O.'s of MTopeka. Dr. Everett died destitute.] To be on the precipice of contact is something we all must appreciate. What this could potentially mean for our medical technology, engineering, astronomy, travel, colonization, etc..., is staggering to consider.
I propose that my studies be reinstated for one year, and be compensated for standard operating costs. I will continue to publish my findings every three days, as per the current procedure, and submit all information to the archives of the Development Center.
B:9 Total will prove to be key in our efforts to communicate with the alien(s) whence the destroyed vessel originated. I implore the Development Officer(s) of NTopeka [sic] not to classify the "signals" as confidential, and allow my continued studies. [Historical Record: the signals were not classified as confidential and Dr. Everett's studies continued. After the language of the aliens had been deciphered four months after this request, Dr. Everett was able to translate the signals as what would later be called, "The Ifsayer Herald". A full version can be accessed in the Historical Record Archives:: I/Herald-W/Everett cat. 0023340.]
The implications of these signals may prove to be the key to unlock all the questions posed by B:9 Total.

Sincerely,

Dr. William Tenver Everett

[Historical Record: Whether or not Dr. Everett had considered that the aliens could prove to be hostile is unclear by evidence of this letter. His colleagues have gone so far as to suggest that, had he reported his findings of the aliens' violent nature, his studies would have been shut down indefinitely. By evidence of there being no monies diverted to Dr. Everett by MTopeka, he was more than likely correct in that assumption. Despite receiving no compensation, Dr. Everett continued his studies under the auspice that he had never been ordered to desist by the Development Center.]

Project: Window 43-P:E

2010-01-03T12:22:00.000-08:00

12/19/009/43- Prime: Echo

Subject "Ralph" is actively resisting the memory suppression, a phenomenon unique to the Everett Group. He continues to post memories that can not be confirmed by the limited amount of data we have access to. I have requested a warrant to study his confidential files, since the last three access proposals have been denied without explanation. Perhaps A Development Officer will see fit to pay more attention to this particular subject.

Subject "Reema" however, is progressing at the projected rate. The only thing unique about Reema is that she is the sole female in Everett Group, and somehow survived the initial toxin screen. This may be a fluke, some radical deviant of nature, or it could be part of the formula needed to bridge the gaps of the alien DNA. It will all prove nil if she continues to withdraw. Reema has not accessed the input for weeks, and I have suggested a further understanding of the female psyche is in order; Dr. Peek [Official Record:: "Dr. Peek" omitted] has been in communications with two key Development Officers in order to submit her expertise on the matter.

Hopefully Reema can be coaxed back into her more familiar habits. I fear it may mean interaction with someone else. I don't go so far as to say physical interaction, but earlier studies have shown that the female candidates do not deal with isolation as well as male candidates.

Handler Fosey [Official Record:: "Fosey" omitted] has not submitted anything new for the Sebastian Group [Official Record:: "Sebastian Group" omitted] studies for quite some time, I pray that all goes well there, as the success of that particular group is pivotal to Project: Window. [Official Record:: "Project: Window" omitted]

[Official Record:: "Subject 'Ralph' not omitted due to public knowledge after the Kartegian Incident dated: 10/05/018/35-Devro: Gamma]

From Everett Dock Q-32

2010-01-01T09:43:00.000-08:00

I can remember a time when I thought, things will turn out all right. And I know that, at the time, I considered myself a well-rounded person, and a thought like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to have. You have everything if you have your health, that's what they used to say. I just want my thoughts.

I wish I knew the breaking point between being one person, and becoming someone else. Maybe there's not really a breaking point, maybe it's more like a smear in the memory. It's a slow process that takes place while you're sleeping and things begin to undulate to make a different person after three years of waking up.

I think I've become a golem of bad memories. Lost memories. I think my skin is made up of memories I can't recall. And I am guessing it's driving everyone up in VChicago friggin insane that I'm trying to somehow...collect my memories.

It is difficult to retain, but I do it as kind of a production, like a play. The easiest thing for me to do is think of a smell. I start with the smell of plastic, new plastic, and go from there. The smell creates the genre of the memory, and new plastic reminds me being a kid. Then the stage is built, the wood foot bridge over the creek, add the leaves scattered all around. Somethings you don't have to think too hard about, it's Fall. It's getting cold and the sky is coat-lining gray. Add the sounds, no...birds aren't right, the creek is slow, you're getting it.

Remember it's easy to remember the face of a kid you knew, if you didn't know them as an adult. My memories sometimes put full beards on ten-year-olds. So you have to create the person and for me, it's easiest to start with the ears, for whatever reason. They're just about impossible to remember, and can you say for sure whether or not your ears are detached? Don't feel! But the difficulty of trying to remember someone's ears brings the rest of them into sharper focus.

There's only so much of the memory that can be brought back. The rest falls away into inference and supposal. I know that King pushed me off the foot bridge into the water, and I suppose it must have been freezing. I don't know what happened to King, I suppose he moved away, because I think I would remember his death. And I infer, by being freezing and wet, that I would have gone home to change into some warm clothes, but I can't recall that, either. This is a memory that I keep framed inside, separate in the box like a photograph. I always have to find a way to keep them as individual incidences, so as not to confuse them with the...static in my mind.

Blam

2009-12-16T17:58:00.000-08:00

If I could describe the look my wife gives me when I pantomime shooting myself in the face, I would. It's usually while we're watching television, because that usually serves as the impetus for me to reach into the imaginary roll top desk in front of me, and pull out the well oiled handgun. We'll have watched a commercial about Wal-Mart, and my thumb disengages the safety. Or whatever has the NBC eight o'clock time slot will have someone that says, "This show will change the way people listen to music!" like it did tonight, and I'll place the barrel into my mouth. At this point I look over to see if my wife is making the indescribable face, the face that asks, "did I sign up for this?" and pull the trigger. I then reach behind my head with my left hand, poised as if it's going to pluck out a kleenex, and then slowly expand my fingers away from the back of my head to illustrate my brains exiting the back of my skull in slow motion.

But really, I can't say enough about Sing Off, you should check it out.

From Everett Dock Q-32

2009-12-07T17:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I get confused. When things get bad here, I try to remember the reason I signed up in the first place. If I think about it long enough, I remember that that isn't necessarily the way to go about it. I should try to remember the reasons I was eligible to be a candidate in the Everett Group; it's not as if I had the choice of signing the dotted line.

Memories now are like books on the shelf, I know I've read them, but the contents are largely inaccessible. I remember a few parts, arbitrary things that don't have much to do with the story, but it's all so vague now. I feel like that's the least of my worries. Something they gave me has made me too aware of the things going on inside me.

It's like suddenly having power over things that are usually filed under involuntary muscle control. I don't have to think to tell my to heart beat, but I'm much more cognisant that it is beating, and I can't escape it. Sometimes I catch myself moving my lips and tongue inaudibly, as if I'm using muscle memory to remember a phrase, or a word, but when I realize I'm doing this it disappears, and it's hard to lapse into it again. Like when a person shakes their leg, it's like they can go on forever until the person next to them snaps.

I remember one of the exercises was to focus on all the parts of your body. You were supposed to sit there with your eyes closed, on the floor and hum some mantra, and focus on your toes and feet and knees, and everything, but all I could think about was Sally Mitchum, and telling her mom she was dead. I couldn't deal with the mantra, for one thing. Two rows ahead of me, Forester was really going at that fucking mantra and he was in tune, man. He was almost vibrating, he could've disassembled his goddamn cock and put it back together- he could feel every little distinct anatomy-book piece of himself.

Well, I do remember something else now, writing this. Henry Bale pissed himself, right in the middle of all that. It was probably the third session, and there was Henry, crying, with two attendants leading him out of the room. The instructor was going nuts trying to get us all back into the rhythm of things, but the smell was awful. No one could look at Henry, here was this guy who always had a good word for everybody, and nobody could look at him. Before I closed my eyes again, Esther looked at me and whispered, "Sebastian."
I really felt bad for Henry, and there was Forester going on like he never left his trance state, like he was above all this physical shit and the smell of piss wasn't damp in his nose.
I'm trying to remember the sessions after that, and I can't. I don't even know if we did that exercise anymore after Henry left. That was the last time I saw him, and I'm pretty sure he's not in the Everett Group. But for all I know Henry could be in Q-33.
Even if he were, he may as well be on the moon, because I'm in Quarantine-Dirty Blue, Thirty-Two.

Brown Code

2009-11-27T14:44:00.000-08:00

It's funny how I can think of so many things to write about during the day, but once I get home it's all gone. Entering my house must be like taking a sedative, when I'm here, I don't feel like doing much.
I can barely get anything read, I start to fall asleep three pages deep. It's probably because I don't read until I'm ready to go to bed, and so I must've made reading into a sleep trigger for my brain. I once read a particularly long billboard and ran my car along twenty feet of guardrail. The billboard made some quasi-political statement and read, "-God," at the end, so maybe I hadn't fallen asleep, maybe I had lapsed into a momentary hate coma.
I wish I had come up with "hate coma" but I didn't, as far as I know the first time I heard it was from JSK3, but who knows. If you're not clear yet, a hate coma is what you experience when you see someone letting their two-year-old crawl around the floor of the local Long John Silvers.
I might experience hate comas more frequently than others because I think I'm better than others. I'm not sure where that comes from, where I've adopted this sense of grandeur, but it's there. Sometimes it can be a problem, especially when there's the cold reality that there isn't anything all that great about me, that's just the product I sell. I even assume I have more hate comas than others, it can really get out of hand.
But I think people love the product, they buy the brand. I think this, because people make assumptions about me that aren't true, or half-true. But I guess everyone's heard themselves in a story that they didn't take place in. And I guess everyone's heard something like, "Remember when...," yet, that person wasn't there, or sometimes hadn't even been born.
When people ask me if it was hard for me during the Depression, I just half-smile and show them the knot of bread ties in the second drawer. I mutter something about old habits, assumptions are made, and I haven't really lied about anything.
It's the shaking I can't control, or...you've heard that somewhere.

Project: Window 42-P:E

2009-11-18T17:16:00.000-08:00

12/19/007/42-Prime: Echo

There is concern that the subject has suffered, is suffering from, some sort of dementia. Subject hereinafter will be referred to as "Ralph".

This is in reference to Ralph's last posting. In it he makes claims that are untrue or contradictory. Dementia is not uncommon in space, but I had hoped that it wouldn't be an issue, with Everett Dock having the pseudogravity wells in place. In the earlier studies the subjects were less inclined to be induced into some sort of madness if, at the very least, gravity was in place; artificial or not. [Official Record:: "madness" omitted]

Dr. Clemson believes that the dementia may be coupled with paranoia, but I consider it to be a product of the memory suppression. [Official Record:: "Dr. Clemson" omitted] However through Ralph's postings we may be able to see just how the memory suppression works, as it is still relatively untested.

The concerns for dementia stem from Ralph claiming that at the time of his post, he has spent 49 days in Everett Dock. When, in fact, he has spent 116 days. He has access to an Input, which states the date and time based on 365 Day/24 Hour Standard, and the Dock is programmed to cycle days with those hour parameters. At this time, we don't know how Ralph has determined he has only spent 49 days there.

Also, in the last posting, he claims that it is his first posting, which is inaccurate. To date, Ralph has posted a total of 244 entries. It is almost as if he is writing as someone else. It may be a result of the memory suppression.

It is difficult to say for certain, but in all the records available to us, there is no indication that Ralph had children, or co-existed with children at any time. It is also unclear whom Dave Jebbs may be, as that name does not appear in any of the VChicago rosters. [Official Record:: "Dave Jebbs" omitted] It may mean having access to Ralph's classified files is warranted.

Ralph repeatedly refers to "The Fire" but it is difficult to discern what he means by this. There is no service record for him in any branch of the United States Military, but The Fire could be referencing a war. He also makes a vague Jewish reference, and could possibly be using The Fire as an allusion to the Holocaust, but that seems unlikely-especially if he's meaning that he was involved in any way, which would be impossible.

It is in my opinion that Subject: Ralph is not ready for the next implementation of Project: Window. It is doubtful that the memory suppression has been effective, and may have proved counter-productive. However he is the only Everett that has shown any sort of self in the initial trials, and so destroying those candidates would be detrimental to the studies as a whole. There is hope, that the more advanced Sebastian group will provide clearer results in Prime: Adonis. [Official Record:: "Sebastian" omitted]
We shall see.

From Everett Q-Dock 32

2009-11-11T16:18:00.000-08:00

I wanted to start by saying, Space Is Cold. But, that sounds like a throw back to me. It's like saying, Once Upon A Time. The thing is, I'm not cold. On Outpost VChicago I was implanted with a therma-derm, so everything's regulated. Which is fine, I guess. But I was always of the mind that blankets weren't just for warmth, anyways.
I think the hardest thing to get used to is being naked. Back home, I was only naked for a small part of the day, in the bathroom. I didn't even sleep naked, because of the kids. I went through so much trouble showing them beautiful art, and explaining that the human body was nothing to be embarrassed about, but now I'm having trouble remembering if they ever saw me without a t-shirt and shorts. Maybe it would have been different if they had been, you know, my kids.
The Controllers said it was easier to monitor, and minimize any risks to my health, if there were less fabrics for the "luel crits" to hide in. Sometimes they would look at one another and say, "Membah Dave Jebbs?" But that made little sense to me. Call it what you want, but I was too astonished that anyone with an accent like that could possible be in the position these guys were in. So, I don't know why I even mention Dave Jebbs, because I haven't the slightest who he was or what happened to him, and with their drawl, maybe that's not what they were saying anyways. Maybe they were saying, "Day Beds."
I've been by myself for forty-nine days, and I still look back at whatever I've been sitting on to make sure I didn't leave any little...ass bits, I guess. Everything's so sanitary here, I don't think I could work up a sweat if I wanted to, with the humidity control. I thought I would become more me, being naked all the time. I thought I would all at once be the end of every movie about self-discovery. That's what I told myself, but feeling the tip of my penis against my leg all the time was a distraction, I didn't see how I was going to get through my spirit walk with my cold penis tip always jouncing against my leg. So, I haven't become more me, in fact, I think I'm losing me, or whatever I once thought made me up.
Partly, well, more than partly, is the lack of hair. No fabrics means no hair, too. Being bald I can deal with, I had been bald before, during the Fire. But, even then, I had eye brows. A person looks so alien without eye brows, and I find it hard to look at myself in the mirror. The thing is, everything's so polished here, it's all reflective, so it's hard not to catch little glimpses of yourself.
When I've been stripped of everything, I should be becoming all that I am, but, instead, I can't even empathize with the person looking back at me. The eyes are the same, well, almost. Sometimes I can catch the glint, the only tell-tale of the UV coating. I'm telling you, everything: regulated.
But despite the loss of self, or the straying from it, really, how close was I to it in the first place? I remember an interesting exercise in one of the labs was to draw your face. Without a mirror or photograph, you were supposed to draw your own face. Well, no one could do it, of course. Not even Forester, and it was always a big deal when he couldn't do something. I couldn't even come close, I couldn't even lie and say, "well, this is how I think of myself." Because, I certainly hope that wasn't the case. I wonder if what I look like now is any closer to the drawing I made?
Everyday I'm becoming less and less convinced of myself, and maybe that's what the Controllers want, anyways. This flesh doesn't even feel like mine anymore, and I can't remember if it's because of the Fire, or VChicago.
Not only am I losing myself in all this, I'm losing others. I used to be amazed at how many possibilities there were in people, and wonder what may have been if there had been no wars to quell the surge of human progression. But now, I don't feel very special at all, and I don't really think much would have come out of having more Johnsons or Goldsteins around.
Forty-Nine days and this is the first I've written anything. They told me I should write frequently, it would be a good exercise for me. This is the first time I've written anything because I know everything is monitored. I wondered what the Controllers would think of me, and I fooled myself into thinking they wouldn't understand because they were idiots. And I fooled myself into thinking they were idiots. So, why don't I just address all this to the Controllers? I guess, because I'm writing for...me. I hope. I guess I'm writing these letters in the hope that they'll get to me sometime, where ever I am.
I'm surprised I have fingernails, there is some familiarity in that. If they were longer, I might try to cut myself, some red in all this white. But one of the injections halted the growth of my keratin.

Pound Cake

2009-11-03T15:52:00.000-08:00

JIK tells me I've been grinding my teeth at night.
I've always done that. I guess it comes and goes. When Mom asked the dentist about it, he said it was caused by stress. I was in grade school at the time, so I assure you I had very little to be stressed about. Later, another dentist told me children typically do it if their teeth aren't even.

For some reason, thinking about this has reminded me of my tenth birthday. I'm not sure what I got that year, I thought maybe it was the Sega Game Gear, but that had to've came later. What I do remember, was that night, around seven, a car broke down across the street from my house.

I was born in December, so it was well into dark that night, around seven. Our house sat on a bit of a hill, so sometimes when people walked up or down the road, they would climb the hill and stand at the chain link fence, to talk to Mom. Across the road was the Post Office, with a gravel parking lot long enough for Dad to sometimes park his mining equipment, and leave enough room for mail aficionados, as well.

I can't imagine my mom yelling for me to come watch the plight of some poor strangers, but some how or another I figured out something was going on outside, and found myself standing at the fence, looking down across the street.

Apparently what I had missed up to that point was a couple had noticed their car was smoking, and pulled over onto the Post Office lot to see what the matter was. In my memory it was a man and woman, and I have an image of the woman, plump with dirty blond hair, in my mind. She was probably in her twenties, but back then, I imagine I thought everyone was in their twenties, or extremely old.

The man had popped the hood, but the smoke just bellowed out, and he couldn't get close enough to do anything about what was happening. It seemed to be an ugly, off-white car, in the dark. It was December Tenth, and no snow on the ground, in my memory it felt like fall, standing there next to my mom, waiting, hoping for it to happen. Maybe I was too excited to be cold.

The Post Office was a trailer painted blue, and sometimes wasps would build nests in the drop-off box. When the car did catch fire, the flames were reflected back in the hard paneled exterior, and the dark glass of the closed-for-the-day Federal Institution, and it was beautiful.

Of course, it began slowly. Little wisps of flames licking out of the engine, surely nothing would come of it. Whatever magic had delivered this spectacle to my doorstep would soon run out, and it would be over, like the abrupt turning-off of the television at bedtime. But it didn't stop, the flames grew higher, and things, components of a motor vehicle were popping and sizzling in this Tribute of My Birth.

But that's not the best part. Like I said, my dad sometimes parked his mining equipment on the very same lot. On any given day there may set one of two bulldozers, or a flatbed trailer that would've been better off in some country painting in a hotel. However, that night, there was parked my favorite piece of the heavy machinery: The Front End Loader.
To stand next to one of it's wheels was to know your place in the universe, and to sit in it's cracked vinyl seat was to conjure Hannibal. I wouldn't know it as The Front End Loader untill a few minutes ago, when spellcheck insisted "enloader" wasn't a word, neither is "hellsfar" for that matter.

The concern became that the wreak was too close to the Post Office, and there was some fear that it may very well make that subscription to TIME a few days late, if things got out of hand. So, there was my dad, running down to start up the enloader, it had been a great show up until then, but at this point I'm emotionally invested.

What better gift could a ten-year-old boy get, than to watch his father push a flaming wreak thirty feet away from the town's only link to the Sears Catalogue, using heavy machinery? By the time dad positioned himself behind the car with the enloader, it was a hulk of twisted metal and fire. The smoke just poured out of it, and I imagine dad had to breath that thick black air in order to get the job done. Pushing it had left a deep charred ditch, and I can almost hear the sound of it all.
When dad backed the enloader away from the MADD advertisement, it was then only smoldering, no longer bright enough to illuminate the leaves of the trees, overhead. I'm sure I went out to look at it the next day, but I don't remember. Maybe it was taken away that night, or by that time it was just...

In any case, for my tenth birthday, a car blew up in front of my house. I don't think it was planned, but it was one of the best gifts I ever received.

Thanks Mom and Dad.

A Dragonborn in Devils' Bay

2009-10-27T17:04:00.000-07:00

The setting for the D&D campaign I'm running is slightly more modern than medieval. It's a time when the older people still fear and respect the gods, and the younger are finding no use for them. Magic is used less and less, and it wouldn't be long until these people saw something akin to their own industrial revolution.
The particular area I've placed my players is coastal, but the terrain quickly changes within a few days of the port city, Devils' Bay. It would probably look like West Virginia and Maine mashed together, with a salting of Florida to provide the marshes and vineyards.
The area is mostly human, with a few families of kobolds living and working among them on the docks in Devs'by. And south of Largo Largo is an old hobgoblin war tribe that have since stopped beating their drums. Even the elves dress in mostly human garb; one would be hard pressed to find someone who didn't speak at least a little Common.
So the dragonborn in the party must forgive the children that follow her around in the cities, as they've never seen one of her kind. Fema'lei isn't so quick to forgive, however, when she hears Serp, under the breaths of the older folk.
She came to the area through Devils' Bay, on a pilgrimage of her own. She probably wasn't considering her first night in the area would be spent in the town jail. Nor, was she prepared for any of the adventures that would soon take the dragonborn off her path. Fema'lei would have preferred to have gone to Banda Cate to get the whole thing over with, but the Hurry would soon change all that.
The Hurry is an old trade route that stretches from Devils' Bay to Banda Cate, about five days travel from end to end. And although the road is mostly straight from a harpy's view, it has been known to twist a man's fate as soon as his feet step out on it.

That May Be an Encounter

2009-10-26T17:04:00.000-07:00

This will be short. This is a contingency plan in the event of my absence.
I will here direct the way my daughter's crib is to be presented. Please assume that if you are standing beside it, and looking down, the cardinal directions apply, as the other side is to the wall.
To the west serves as the head of the bed. When she was much smaller, the oppisite applied, but that has changed for whatever reason. Here must be placed the green pillow, with opening folded beneath on the northern side. Sometimes her mother places the pillow on the chair at her table, in any event, it should not be hard to find.
After the pillow is placed and smoothed, the small Curious George with Yello Shirt is placed in the northwest most corner, slightly atop the pillow. On the oppisite side, on the southwest most corner, slightly atop the pillow, sets Kermit the Frog.
Along the northern side of the crib, where pillow ends and bedding begins, is placed Cookie Monster, and then immediatly after, Oscar the Grouch.
After this, is a long span of soft bedding, untill we reach the northeast most corner of the bed. Here, Zoe should be placed. And oppisite her, in the southeast most corner, sets Abbie KaDabbie.
The next part I allow some creative input, or just let your mood guide you. There are two blankets in the bed. One, a soft pink, typical variety found in a girl's room. The other, a blue Spider-Man blanket. Choose either and fold to a square about the length of your forearm. If folded correctly, there should be four straight corners and one rounded corner for either blanket.
Now place the blanket cattycorner to the southeast corner, but not in a fashion that the blanket touches any of the railings. It should appear to be "floating" atop the bedding.
Now, whichever blanket that wasn't used is to be folded lengthwise and draped over the eastern rounded railing. Of course, if this blanket happens to be the Spider-Man blanket, please make sure that the visage of Spider-Man is looking over the crib.
Now, for the finishing touches.
In the bed one will find a Big Bird puppet, and Grover puppet. The Big Bird puppet is to be placed on top of the "floating" blanket, with the arms crossed over the chest. Please be sure to "groom" his beak, as it can collect fuzz in the bed. Next to Big Bird is placed Grover, with the arms folded over the chest. Big Bird is to be to the left of Grover, and the edges of the puppets, where one would insert their hand, is to be straight with the bottom edge of the blanket.
When the bed is finished, all lines should be clean and smooth. Please be sure that all corner characters are slightly turned to the center, as if their small plastic eyes were looking at one another from their respective corners over the expanse of bedding.

I hope I have been very clear, but please do not hesitate to ask questions. I will not abide mistakes after I've gone through the trouble of setting all this down for whomever will care for my daughter's bed in the event of my absence.
If I come home and there is a foreign character in her bed, or if Oscar the Grouch is placed beside the pillow before Cookie Monster?

Hell to pay.