tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33552170721339140492024-02-18T22:59:11.815-08:00Bread and CircusesBut mostly circuses.<br>
<br>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-88787978060913349882011-04-14T18:47:00.000-07:002011-04-14T18:50:23.840-07:00HaikuSleep<br /><br />sleep is a debit<br />paid in opportunities<br />yawning is lonely<br /><br /><br />Glances<br /><br />those piercing glances<br />give chase to battered spirit<br />solitude is safe<br /><br /><br />Intent<br /><br />freedom is intent<br />tyranny when we forget<br />to wake and to love<br /><br /><br />Spring<br /><br />spring drops pattering<br />o'er glad wings dancing with sky <br />applause all around<br /><br /><br />Stages<br /><br />in my larvae stage<br />i went pollywog hunting<br />then i lost my tail<br /><br /><br />Parched<br /><br />wind like fetid breath<br />howls through a thirsty valley<br />cracked lips turn awayJoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-28539745645398858362010-12-23T13:31:00.000-08:002010-12-24T10:28:08.661-08:00Cynicism Falls AsleepWe've finally reached my favorite time of the holiday season. The last two or three days before Christmas. You see, working retail for what seems like roughly the last seven hundred Christmas seasons in a row, I've noticed a pattern as to how the Season usually plays out.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stage One - The early roll-out</span><br /><br />You know what I'm talking about. It's the week after Halloween and the grocery stores begin re-stocking Christmas themed candy. Stuff like Hershey's Kisses and red and green M&M's. Most stores aren't bold enough to drop the candy canes in yet, but you know it's coming.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stage Two - Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and the first Psychotic Break</span><br /><br />This is the stage where retailer desperation mixes dangerously with a diminishing middle class fresh off feasting on hormone injected turkeys and copious amounts of beer and wine. The resulting commercial chaos is said to carry businesses over into the black for the year, but the resulting physical chaos of douche bags giving each other black eyes while fighting over half-price blu-ray players is much more fun to watch.<br /><br />The other hallmark of stage two is the beginning of the utter deluge of Christmas music. Look, if you know me, you know how I feel about 99% of all the Christmas music ever created. It's not only hackneyed, overly sentimental crap but also incredibly familiar and overplayed. I guess it's kind of similar to the music of the Bee Gees in that regard. I'm sorry, but it doesn't matter what instruments you play or how well you sing, it's still just a song about a disfigured reindeer who finally gets in with the cool kids. And don't even get me started on all the songs about snow. There's only so many ways you can express how much you love snow in song, unless you're an Eskimo... Am I ranting? Sorry about that. On to...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stage Three - Fever pitch. The last weekend.</span><br /><br />The height of misery for most people, this stage is the result of people waiting to do all their shopping on the final weekend, with their last paycheck before Christmas. Because nothing puts people in a better mood than sitting down and figuring out what bills they are going to skip paying in December just so they can thrust themselves out into a retail meat grinder to find a Deluxe George Foreman Grill for their mouth-breathing cousin Cletus.<br /><br />For customers and employees alike, Stage Three is a bloodbath. Scorched Earth commercialism. Anarchy with a debit card. All of the anger, resentment and cynicism people have unknowingly been hoarding all year long tend to bubble over during this stage and we often find ourselves screaming past each other in parking lots and in register aisles. We find ourselves working so hard to make the holidays happen, like they are just another chore that we need to get finished by the end of the day, and in Stage Three it is very late in the day indeed.<br /><br />Which brings us to the calm after the storm...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stage Four -</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Cynicism Falls Asleep...</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span><br /><br />Something seems to change following that last frantic weekend. Having expunged vast quantities of angst during our final fleeting hours of shopping, we seem to lapse into a cheerful aloofness. It's as if our holiday struggles have exhausted our capacity for frustration and irritation, bitterness and distrust, and all of the other emotional toxins that have built up within us over the year past. To quote a favored songwriter of mine, we allow our cynicism to fall asleep. And with sleep come dreams, and with those dreams comes hope. Hope that next year we can be better, and appreciation that we have people in our lives who make us want to be better.<br /><br />It is this sense that pervades those final few days before Christmas and makes them my favorite of the season. To all of my friends and family, Merry Christmas.<br /><br />-Joe<br /><br />P.S. - Be ready, because my cynicism is going to wake up bright-eyed and refreshed on January 1st.Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-33253539215078036682010-07-06T10:35:00.000-07:002010-07-06T10:49:22.236-07:00Help A Brother Out?EXT. STREET CORNER - DAY<br /><br />CRAIG, a young man wearing a sandwich board advertisement for<br />a 15 dollar oil change stands on a moderately busy street<br />corner. He is waving at the passing cars with faux<br />enthusiasm. Into the frame comes another human advertisement,<br />this one in full costume as an ELEPHANT. He has an elaborate<br />trunk with no visible mouth hole. He stands next to Craig and<br />begins waving at cars.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Full costume... Tough break, dude.<br />(taking a closer look at<br />the costume)<br />Can you even breath in that thing?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(motioning to his trunk)<br />Fully functional trunk.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Niiice.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(unenthusiastically)<br />Yeah... They spare no expense at<br />Earl’s House of Peanuts.<br />(pointing to the logo on<br />his chest)<br /><br /></div>They both wave in silence for a beat or two.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT (CONT’D)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Man... I’d trample a whole village<br />for a cigarette right now.<br />(looking at Craig)<br />Got a smoke?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Yeah, alright.<br /><br /></div>CRAIG takes out a cigarette and motions to the elephant head<br />piece<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG (CONT’D)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">You gonna take that thing off, or<br />what?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(looking around<br />suspiciously)<br />(MORE)<br />Yeah, I’m not really sure I should<br />do that... I mean, these peanut<br />people... They were pretty serious<br />about not breaking character... I<br />need this gig!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Craig shrugs his shoulders and starts to put away his<br />cigarette<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Alright then.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wait, wait, wait. Let’s not be<br />hasty here. I need that smoke.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(slightly exasperated)<br />Well, unless you can take a drag<br />through your trunk I don’t see how<br />this is going to w-<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(excitedly)<br />That's perfect! You draw on it and<br />blow the smoke back up my trunk.<br />(holding the trunk out)<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">...You want me to give you blowback<br />through your elephant trunk?<br />(shaking head doubtfully)<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(waving the trunk)<br />FULLY functional elephant trunk...<br />Come on, man. I’m jonesin. Help a<br />brother out!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is really unbelievable. You<br />owe me one.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(pointing to his costume)<br />Hey, we NEVER forget, right? Don’t<br />worry about it. Let’s do this.<br /><br /></div>The STOPLIGHT above the street blinks from red to green. Cars<br />and trucks rumble past.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG (OFF SCREEN)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(a cigarette being lit)<br />Okay. Here it comes.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT (OFF SCREEN)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(coughing)<br />Okay... Now pinch the trunk so the<br />smoke doesn’t...<br />(muffled)<br />...Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff.<br />What are these, menthols?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG (O.S.)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Huh? Oh, no. That’s probably my<br />mouthwash.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT (O.S.)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Hmm. It’s nice.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG (O.S.)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Thank you.<br /><br /></div>FIVE MINUTES LATER<br /><br />Craig is stamping out the CIGARETTE on the pavement. The<br />Elephant is standing next to him, wisps of smoke escaping<br />from the headpiece. They are waving at passing cars.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT<br />Whew! Now I’m ready to pimp some<br />peanuts.<br /><br /></div>He pats Craig on the back with one of his big elephant<br />hooves.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">ELEPHANT (CONT’D)<br />Thanks, bro. I owe you one.<br /><br /></div>The elephant leaves. Craig shakes his head and begins waving<br />at cars again. After a pause, a man in a fish costume<br />approaches and stands next to him. The costume has small,<br />little flippers in place of functional arms, and a logo sewn<br />into the chest reading SUSHI SHACK. The FISH begins waving to<br />the cars.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">FISH<br />Hey, man.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CRAIG<br />(trying to look busy)<br />Hey.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">FISH<br />(squirming in his armless<br />suit)<br />Man... I have to pee SO bad.<br /><br /></div>Craig looks over and sees him wiggling his useless flippers,<br />and looking down at his own crotch helplessly.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">FISH (CONT’D)<br />Hey, buddy? Help a brother out<br />here?<br /><br /></div>Craig sighs, takes one last look at him, and walks away.<br />After a pause the Fish begins waving at cars again.<br /><div style="text-align: right;">FADE TO BLACK<br /></div>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-13267021683547330632010-06-15T12:32:00.000-07:002010-06-15T19:30:57.417-07:00SeashellDollops of yellow cream shed pallid light<br />Time is graying. Sixty pages, creased and faded.<br />I twist my nose sourly and you glare at me.<br />It always smells like carpet shampoo here.<br /><br />The couch is clad in plastic. I sit, septic.<br />You pace the empty room, tobacco smoke fading.<br />We scrawl our dreary names for the mistress in blue.<br />My feet drag, but you don't notice. You never notice.<br /><br />The hallway is an endless cipher. Vacant.<br />Capsules of life, left and right. Leaking.<br />Bleak mortality laps at our feet. Flooding.<br />Remember how we used to collect seashells?<br /><br />We find her in the lunch room. Alone with her food.<br />She is ancient and meager. Her smile is robust.<br />You plead with her to eat. She shakes her head no.<br />I sit, impotent. Fashioning a lifetime's regret.<br /><br />I make the same empty promise every time we leave.<br />Next time it'll be different. I'll finally know how<br />to tear myself open and leave something for her<br />An ear for one last story, whispered through a seashell.<br /><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --></style>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-61469486546687945222010-06-01T16:36:00.000-07:002010-06-07T20:03:35.033-07:00Love, Sitcom Style<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There are lots of little rules for beginning writers. Write every day. Show, don't tell. Avoid purple prose. Edit, edit, edit. All excellent rules, very useful to the developing writer, but by far the most common piece of advice is to write about what you know, or alternately, to write about what you love. I've always wondered what this last bit of advice has to say about a guy like, say, Thomas Harris. Does he simply just happen to know a lot about cannibal serial killers, or does he love them too? I guess he knows at least enough about them to know that he loves them, or loves writing about them in any event.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Anyway, the reason I'm pondering such things is that I'd like to focus a series of blog posts on a specific subject, and the rules say to write about something I love and something I know about...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So I'm basically looking at writing about comic books, video games or television. Oh yes, I'm a Renaissance man. Look, I'd love to be writing about impressionist painters or world travel or macroeconomic policy, but that would be going against the rules. Write about what you know... write about what you love...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> But how did I settle on television over the other two? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I bought my first proper comic book, Spectacular Spider-Man 132 (Part 6 of the classic “Fearful Symmetry” arc featuring Kraven the Hunter), at age 13 and from that point forward there was rarely a weekend where I didn't manage to whinebomb my mother into a trip to the comic book store. I absolutely loved comic books, still do, but I'd also like to secure a date with a member of the opposite gender persuasion one day, and I'm worried that a six part blog series on how chronically mishandled Wonder Man has been in the mainstream Avengers continuity over the last 25 years just might adversely affect my chances. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Video games? We got an Atari 2600 in our house when I was seven years old. I got one of the greatest gaming computers ever built, my beloved Commodore 64, just a couple of years later. I was born into the age of video games, forged in the crucible of Dig Dug. I was Sid Meier's bitch. From age nine until age twenty-one video games were indisputably the most important thing in my life. (Sorry, family. Sorry, friends. Sorry, personal growth and development.) I considered writing about my lifelong love of video games, but the nostalgia inspired by writing just this one paragraph has ended with me searching on Ebay like some frantic ex-junkie, calculating how much it would cost to reconstitute every video game system I've ever owned. No way, man. I'm mostly clean these days. I won't go back. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Which just leaves television. The alpha and the omega. My white whale. No other pop culture based anesthetic quite got its hooks into me as deeply as television. You know those ubiquitous studies showing the average American kid watching between three and four hours of TV a day? Yeah, well, I was in the vanguard, baby. I put in a good four to five hours a day, more in the summers. I like to think that I was making up for all those kids unfortunate enough to be born into television-less homes. Those poor bastards.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Like any all consuming, soul absorbing passion, my television watching preferences have evolved through the years. From cartoons and game shows as a kid, to cop dramas and adventure series as an adolescent, to the science fiction and fantasy genre stuff of today. I have deeply loved it all, but there is one particular genre of television that I loved more than any other. I'm talking about the half hour situation comedy.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> You want to know how much I love sitcoms? If it were legal to marry a sitcom, you'd be talking to Mrs. Curb Your Enthusiasm right now. That's how much I love a great sitcom. I even like a mediocre sitcom. Hell, I'll even tolerate the most hackneyed, laugh track ridden, 22 minute suckfest if it has a compelling ensemble character or two. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Characters are obviously the heart of any television show, be it drama or comedy, but there's something special about a well constructed half hour sitcom ensemble. In many ways it's like having a character laboratory to experiment in: You take a bunch of quirky, eccentric, flawed, often archetypal characters and mix them up in a workplace or family setting and watch to see how they react to each other. Of course, the irony of the sitcom is that the situations are often the least important part. This is evidenced by the fact that so many sitcom plots are utilized over and over again in show after show. This works because it's not the situation, but how characters in the ensemble react to the situation (and more importantly, each other) that matters. The way in which Kramer and Frank Costanza go about starting their own business in an episode of Seinfeld will differ drastically from how Frasier and Niles Crane would go about opening their own restaurant in an episode of Frasier. Same basic plot, vastly different shows.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Because I'm a deeply disturbed individual, I also really enjoy breaking down sitcoms into sub-genres. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Undeniably the most established set-up is the family sitcom. The roots here go back to the 50's with shows like Father Knows Best, but they probably enjoyed their apex in the 70's with the brilliant All in the Family. Of course there was no shortage of family comedies in the 80's either (Family Ties, Cosby Show, Growing Pains), but they all lacked an edge and their wholesome banality ultimately helped inspire a backlash of satire against the ideal family, typified by shows like Married With Children, and later, Family Guy. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Like the family, the workplace has been some of the most fertile ground for ensemble comedy. Maybe there's something about the stresses of work or perhaps it's the sheer variety of settings, but the workplace sitcom has been responsible for some of the most memorable characters of all time. The “office weird guy” is a staple of workplace comedy. Think of characters like the Reverend Jim on Taxi or Matthew Brock on Newsradio. An interesting melding of family and workplace shows would be the school sitcom. Welcome Back, Kotter and the Howard Hesseman 80's hit, Head of the Class follow this formula, wherein life lessons are heavy-handedly doled out by the teacher to the students, or sometimes, the other way around.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Then there's the “single in the city” sitcoms that we saw a lot of in the 1990's. These shows were very relationship driven. Mad About You starring Paul Reiser and Helen Hunt was a prime example, but mega-hits Seinfeld and Friends spawned a seemingly never ending slew of shows featuring attractive people living and dating in New York. Suddenly Susan with Brooke Shields, Caroline in the City with Lea Thompson and the Jonathan Silverman series The Single Guy all had multiple season runs in the 90's.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Another widely used sitcom set-up has been the buddy comedy. The Odd Couple, with Tony Randall and Jack Klugman, was never close to a ratings hit when it ran on CBS from 1970 to 1975, but the laughs generated by forcing two polar opposite characters together have been so strong that dozens of shows over the last three decades have tapped into this successful formula. Laverne and Shirley, Bosom Buddies, Kate and Allie, Perfect Strangers, Will and Grace and many others had successful runs in the 80's and 90's, and more recently the BBC cult hit Peep Show has taken the Odd Couple theme to a new creative high.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> There's one final sitcom set-up that deserves mention. It's the nostalgia comedy. These shows are set during specific time periods in the past. Happy Days is the most well known, and highly regarded show within this sub-genre, but several other shows have made their mark. The critically acclaimed ABC comedy/drama the Wonder Years ran for six seasons into the early 90's, and That 70's Show capitalized on a mysterious nostalgia for the 1970's for a highly successful eight season run more recently. An unfortunately short-lived gem in this realm was the 2003 Fox sitcom, Oliver Beene. Set in 1963 New York, it followed the trials and tribulations of the 12-year-old titular character, in first person perspective, with the wonderfully dry narration of David Cross as an older Oliver reflecting on the experiences. The show also featured Grant Shaud (Miles Silverberg on Murphy Brown) as Oliver's hyper-Jewish dentist father.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So there you have it. An overview of the mighty situation comedy. I now realize that I've just written nearly 1500 words on how much I love sitcoms. Clearly it's time to go have a nice long cry, and re-examine my life. Next time we're going to go in depth for a look at three of my favorite ensemble casts. One each from the family, workplace and buddy sub-genres.<br /></p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-39142494447496329122010-05-25T10:48:00.000-07:002010-05-25T10:55:18.938-07:00Something Real<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The sun was still some minutes from rising over the mountains to the east when Dan Wyman swung his truck into the gravelly parking lot of the Cascade Ranger Station. He skidded to a halt in front of a rustic looking stained log residence. A sign hanging from a chain attached to two wooden posts carved with totemic symbols read</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="CENTER"><i>Cascade National Forest</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="CENTER"><i>Visitors Lodge</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He grabbed his worn green ruck from the seat next to him and hopped out of the truck. His heavy boots sank slightly in the dry, dusty gravel. He took a moment to stretch leg muscles gone stiff during the long, twisty drive up from the foothills. He sampled the unsullied mountain air, inhaling deeply as he approached the lodge. It was a traditional log structure with carved stone columns as vertical corner posts. Three windows fronted the entrance. Two smaller ones framed a large wide one running to the left of the entrance. The only thing Dan could make out clearly through the window was an infant fire smoldering in the stone fireplace. The sun, having finally mounted the peaks to the east was busy filtering a blanket of gray over the darkness of night. He kicked the dust from his boots and stepped into the lodge. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The interior of the lodge smelled vaguely of cedar. A number of souvenir racks were displayed about the room. There were post cards, hats and t-shirts, books and bumper stickers, as well as a large glass case containing dozens of small porcelain figurines of forest animals. A long, wooden counter ran parallel to the back wall where a set of stairs lead up to a second level. Brochures and fliers were stacked neatly along its length, but no sign of a service bell. He warmed his hands by the crackling fire and stared at the map hanging above the fireplace. Two days in the woods with a couple of college students searching for a myth... What was he thinking? He traced the path of the hiking loop on the map with tired blue eyes. Could be a long couple of days.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sergeant Wyman!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan turned to find a rotund figure grinning at him through a bushy red beard.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Corporal Killian!” Dan smiled as they embraced. “It's been too long, Kill.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He tilted his wide brimmed ranger hat back and clapped his old army buddy on the back. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, that's what happens when you retire...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Eh. I'd worn a uniform long enough.” he gave his friend a long look. “Looks like you've gone up a size or two.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Hey!” he smoothed out his tan button down shirt and sucked in his gut. “The food up here beats Army chow.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Coffee, Sarge?” he placed a couple of cups on the wooden counter.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan nodded and took the cup. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So tell me about these kids?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Ugh. These kids are killing me, Dan” he shook his head and sipped on his coffee. “They go to the university in the metro. One of 'em is studying to be a zookeeper or something, I don't know.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He motioned Dan over to a couple of chairs by the fire. The gray of the morning was melting away outside the window.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So anyway, they been buggin' me for weeks wanting to come up here for an expedition to search for a Bigfoot” he chortled heartily, “A Bigfoot!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So you weren't pulling my leg about that?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Wish I was” he rolled his eyes. “I told em' they could camp the park as much as they want, but apparently Bigfoot doesn't come into the designated recreational areas.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “He's a rebel like that, Kill” Dan said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Laughing, he leaned forward in his chair and grabbed a folded map off the table. He tossed it to Dan. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I figured you could hike the game trails that loop north and west and then back down south of the periphery.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan ran his finger along the path highlighted on the map.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That should be far enough out to satisfy them.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan folded the map and slipped it in his jacket pocket.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Why am I doing this again?” he asked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Killian rubbed his left side with a dramatic, faux grimace.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Funny how that always seems to act up when you need a favor.” Dan said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Hey, if you'd prefer to have the shrapnel in your side...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Alright, alright... you win.” Dan grinned.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It's good to have you back up here, Dan” Killian rose and cleared the table of the coffee cups. “We've missed you.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> It had been nearly five years since Dan had left the Forest Service. He'd joined up after his discharge and spent four years as a Ranger at Cascade National Forest. In fact, he had been the one to recruit his old army buddy to join. They'd worked together for nearly a year when Dan took a leave to care for his wife, Penny, who had taken ill. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It is nice to be back,” he glanced out the window. The sun had finally broken its misty gray shackles and was bathing the forest in radiant sunshine.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Any thoughts about maybe coming back to work? We could use ya...” Killian gave him a hopeful glance.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan shrugged his shoulders. He'd entertained the notion briefly in the months after Penny's passing, but he never felt quite ready, or willing. Her death made him feel empty, and any thought of trying to fill the hollowness inside filled him with guilt. Moving on with life seemed almost an abandonment, so as his grief calcified he desperately preserved that void in his heart, as if her absence was all he had left of her.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Mmm. I don't think so, Kill...” he rose from the chair and paced the room. “Thanks for the offer though”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Killian was readying to pour them some more coffee when they heard the crunch of tires sinking into the gravel of the parking lot outside. Dan could hear the thumping baseline of rock music pumping from a car stereo and he made his way to the front window. A purple Volkswagon bus, caked with dust, sat parked just outside the lodge. The door slid open and a sprightly young woman hopped out. She had dark brown hair cut short with curls that fell in rings around her ears and danced along her rosy cheeks. She wore a thin green flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and her bright blue eyes darted enthusiastically. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Killian was at the door.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Come on,” he smiled. “I'll introduce you to your platoon, Sarge.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He was enjoying this entirely too much. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan stepped out onto porch just in time to see a stringy young man lugging a backpack around back of the van. His blonde hair was deliberately unkempt and fuzzy sideburns angled half-way down to his chin. He squinted uncomfortably at the bright blue sky as he finally leaned against the van to rest. He was saying something to the girl as she went through the backpacks.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Erin. Oliver” They both looked up as Killian approached, “This is Sargent Dan. He's gonna be your guide on this little...quest of yours.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Erin's eyes flashed angrily. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Excuse me? It's an expedition.” she snorted and rolled her eyes at them. “Quest makes it sound like we're looking for dragons!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Behind her the young man, Oliver, was smiling and nodding as he watched her lecture Killian. There was something in the way he looked at her, admiration mixed with intimidation, and... something else. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “...And just last year they discovered an entirely new species of Hooded Gecko in the Mekong Delta that has been around for over 200 million years without anyone noticing so don't tell me...” she was peppering Killian rapid fire, like a boxer with his opponent against the ropes.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver cleared his throat and stepped forward offering his hand to Dan</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Uh, good to meet you... Sir.” he said, “I'm Oliver.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They shook hands and watched as Killian finally threw up his hands in surrender to Erin's fact-bombing.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Okay! Okay! I apologize!” he turned to Dan and said “Godspeed, soldier.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Killian retreated towards the lodge. Dan couldn't decide whether his last look back at him was one of pity or satisfaction. He picked up his ruck and turned to the two erstwhile monster hunters.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Let's do this.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; border-width: medium medium 1px; border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0in 0in 0.03in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So how long have you guys been monster hunters?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They had been on the trail for just under an hour. The forest was now fully awake, and the chirping of birds and skittering of animals provided a pleasant bed for conversation.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What did you call us?” Erin asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan could hear Oliver suck in a breath.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Oh, dude. No...” he whispered with a knowing smile.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We're scientists, okay?” she said, “Cryptozoologists to be precise.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Ah. I see” he said, “Sorry.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It's alright, man” Oliver said, “It's just, well, the field doesn't get a lot of respect as it is, and when people start saying 'monster hunters' you know, it just kinda seems all Van Helsing and stuff.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They hiked on for another couple of hours and eventually the trail came to track alongside a small bubbling creek. Erin rushed ahead of them to search the creek side, presumably for tracks. Dan watched Oliver gaze at her as she knelt down to examine the rocky bank. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So, you and Erin...?” he asked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Hmm? Oh! Uh... no.” he stammered, “we're just, you know, friends.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I see.” Dan smiled. Who was this kid fooling?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver swatted at an insect buzzing his face.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What about you, married?” he said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “My wife and I were married for thirty-five years” he paused for a moment, letting the warm breeze wash over him. “She passed away a few years back”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver sighed. “I'm sorry... I...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It's alright, kid. Don't worry about it”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Up ahead Erin was waving her hands at Oliver.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Ollie! Bring the camera. Might be a print!” she called.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan took the opportunity to have a seat on a gnarled old tree stump. He was in fair shape for a man his age, but his knees needed the break. He watched as the two of them snapped pictures of the ground and talked excitedly. Erin was all smiles now, and Oliver feasted on her joy as they laughed together. She could be a lovely young woman when she wasn't climbing down your gullet for some perceived insult, he thought.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They finished by the creek and the three of them continued on hiking late into the afternoon. When they rounded a bend and found a clearing nestled up against a short ridge Dan called for a stop. Erin showed no signs of fatigue, but Oliver had been puffing pretty hard for the last hour. It was a good place to camp for the night.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Alright, guys...” He slung his sack to the ground and inhaled deeply, “Let's down for the night here, eh?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver's eyes brightened thankfully and he slumped to the ground.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “On your feet, soldier!” Dan used his command voice, but softened it with a wink. He saw that Erin was already laying out the tents.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You're on wood gathering duty, kid.” he pulled Oliver to his weary feet “Come on. We get the fire going and we can eat.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver trudged into the brush, slapping at the mosquitoes dining in the early twilight. While he was gone Dan built a rudimentary fire pit and helped Erin raise the tents. She seemed more relaxed around him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So, Ranger K called you Sarge...” she pounded a stake into the ground. “Were you ever in Iraq?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yeah” he said. “Why do you ask?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Oh, I read something once about a species of scorpion in the Middle East that dates back to the Pleistocene” she said. “Supposed to be the size of a small dog.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Can't say I ever saw something like that” he laughed. “I once woke up with a camel spider damn near a foot long sleeping in my helmet though.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They were still laughing when Oliver returned with a heaping armful of wood. He dropped it in a pile next to the pit.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “...Wood...” he huffed and puffed. “...Eat...Now...?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Take a break, kid” he said, “I'll put the stew on.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver sprawled out on a blanket near the tents and Erin, notebook in hand, took a seat next to him. Dan watched as Oliver rolled up on his side, leaned on one elbow and watched her take notes. By the time he had a small fire going the two of them were deep in a conversation punctuated by fits of laughter.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Later, after supping on old army ration stew, they sat before the dying embers of the fire and attempted to spot stars through the gaps in the tree cover overhead. Dan's body eventually offered its surrender.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Alright, kids. These old bones need to turn in” he groaned as he rose and stretched. “Snuff that fire out before you bed down.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He slipped into his tent and closed his eyes. Outside, a light breeze tenderly tickled the forest trees.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; border-width: medium medium 1px; border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0in 0in 0.03in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan woke quick, and slightly panicked, a legacy of his years of military service. He raised up on a single arm and listened. He'd heard a rustling of some kind outside the tent. Perhaps some small animal looking for food? He was sure he'd secured the supplies before turning in. He sat up and pulled on his first boot. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Shhhhh!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> It was Erin's hushed voice.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I'm trying!” Oliver said. “I can't find the other flashlight!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan saw a beam of light bouncing around outside the tent.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Here.” Erin said. “Let me look...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan hastily pulled on his remaining boot, unzipped the tent flap, and crawled out into the bracing night air. Erin and Oliver froze as he glared at them.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What the HELL are you two doing?” he checked his watch. It was just past 1:00 AM.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Okay. Well, Dan.. You see...” Oliver sputtered.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It's like this,” Erin interrupted. “Most researchers assume the Sasquatch is primarily active during the day, but I have a theory that they might be nocturnal...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan put his face in his hand, rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We just wanted to scout around a bit.” she continued. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You wanted to stumble around, in the dark, in an unfamiliar wilderness for a Bigfoot who works nights?” he said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We were going to take the flashlights” Oliver turned his flashlight in Dan's direction, and quickly turned it back away when he caught Dan's unhappy expression. “We didn't think you'd let us go.” he finished.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, you got that part right at least.” he muttered.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Erin, predictably, wasn't done arguing.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “But since we're all up, maybe we could...” she said</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Negative, soldier” He was in the command voice again. “You two will return to your tents, and I won't see you out before 0600 hours!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Erin huffed, but retreated back towards their tent. Oliver hesitated, glancing at his watch.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Just to be clear...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Six o' clock, Ollie. Don't come out before six o' clock!” he barked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver scurried back to the tent and Dan took a deep gulp of night air. He reflected on Killian's parting smirk a day earlier as he slithered back through the narrow opening in the tent flap and struggled to find sleep once again.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The next morning found Erin still quite displeased with him. Oliver tried to mend fences, but the girl had quite the stubborn streak. They breakfasted silently on rice cakes and jerky. Erin scribbled notes in her pad while Oliver leaned back, eyes closed, resting. The kid clearly hadn't slept much.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan studied the sky. It was more gray than it had been the morning before. A good deal cooler as well. The mild breeze of yesterday now had a bit of chill bite to it. Thankfully the thick wood provided decent cover, but still, he thought the weather bore watching. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They set out, and once again Erin took to the forefront. Dan was grateful as it spared him her angry glare. She ranged a good 30 to 40 yards ahead of them, occasionally stopping to examine what might be a footprint or other sign of their quarry. Dan found himself having to slow his pace for poor Oliver, who was having even more difficulty than the day before. There wasn't a tree root or small rock in sight that he didn't manage to catch his foot on and nearly trip. To make matters worse, today he had been suffering vicious sneezing attacks inspired by nearby wild flower patches. He was an exhausted, runny-nosed, miserable mess. And it wasn't even mid day yet.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan tried to take his mind off things with conversation.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You doin' okay there, Ollie?” he said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “...Man... I hate nature.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Isn't that kind of strange given that you're studying zoology?” he asked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Huh?” he paused to sneeze, it was a small one. “Oh. Nah, man... I'm not studying zoology. That's Erin. I'm an English major.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan stopped to give Oliver a breather. In the distance ahead he could see Erin photographing a copse of trees. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Let me ask you something, Ollie.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sure.” He was rubbing his arm where he'd tripped and scraped it against the ancient bark of an old pine tree.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Why are you out here doing this?” he waved his arms around at the wilderness. “Do you even even believe in Sasquatches and Chupacabras and hooded lizards?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I... umm, Erin...” he threw up his hands. “I don't know, man. She's my friend... I guess. I like spending time with her.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They started walking again. Dan smiled. Oliver was out here looking for something alright, but it wasn't a Bigfoot.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You know, I met my wife in college,” he said. “first time I saw her was at a weaving class.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You weave?” Oliver asked</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I have weaved, yes, but that's not important.” he continued “I had ROTC training every morning at 0500 hours”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Five AM!” Oliver said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, but listen” he said “Every day when training finished I would race across the quad to make it to that weaving class on time, merely to be in the same room with her.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yeah...” he said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Oliver, I spent nearly a year taking weaving classes, beginner to advanced, and I absolutely hated weaving.” Dan laughed recalling the memory. “But I kept going because I thought it was the only way I could ever spend any time with her.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He stopped them again so he could look Oliver straight in the eye.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I spent nine months of my life weaving what might have been the ugliest red and gold rug anyone has ever seen, before I decided to stop pretending to love something she loved and instead offer something real. Myself.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “How many weekends are you going to spend looking for creatures who may not exist before you offer her something real?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver broke his gaze and looked ahead at Erin who was standing in the path, hands on her hips, her dark curls cavorting in the increasingly austere wind.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “And it worked out okay?” he said unsteadily.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Thirty-five years, Oliver” he said “But trust me, kid. No matter how much time you end up having together, it won't be enough.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Oliver dropped his pack on the ground and began jogging up the trail to where she waited. He glided over the rough path like it was perfectly smooth pavement.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan supposed he should have been concerned about her reaction, but he wasn't. He'd seen them together.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He watched as Oliver shook his head and motioned to the woods around them. Then he smiled, bigger than Dan had ever seen him smile, and pointed directly at Erin. The shock on her face rendered into a broad smile within two heartbeats. Her blue eyes sparkled fiercely and they embraced.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Dan turned away and took a seat on a fallen tree covered with thick moss. He found himself overcome with emotion. It was all so familiar. The vacancy inside him reserved for Penny seemed to throb.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He thought about love then, and the way we clumsily paw around after it. How we constantly draw ourselves in reach of it, but never risk to grasp it with both hands, or have the strength to let go once it's gone.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He watched Oliver hold Erin under a canvas of leafy green. He used both hands. </p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-43581989290485680852010-05-10T16:04:00.000-07:002010-05-10T21:57:08.798-07:00The War is Over!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHHOF0nqwBS0kLuo5mLDBnIAvapPBGjxyOvieRw6WgXzGBsWMXzucOq7sq6C3cOvGU9peWIIw2YZYX8lHspxRDvRG07D2jDLO3miPw5oulCLfDyIBQI4jZ1ACDL-xxYgXhbhDv0Nz55KJ/s1600/Blocked.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHHOF0nqwBS0kLuo5mLDBnIAvapPBGjxyOvieRw6WgXzGBsWMXzucOq7sq6C3cOvGU9peWIIw2YZYX8lHspxRDvRG07D2jDLO3miPw5oulCLfDyIBQI4jZ1ACDL-xxYgXhbhDv0Nz55KJ/s320/Blocked.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469869839636043490" border="0" /></a><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">I don't remember the exact date the war started... Perhaps January or February of 2008? I'm not even sure how the war started... I seem to recall browsing the iTunes app store for games. I remember coming upon a simple, yet nifty, logic puzzle game called <i>Blocked</i>. I thought, "Well, I really suck at these lateral thinking games, but it's only $2.99. Why not?"<br /><br />The next thing I knew, some Archduke got himself knocked off and my brain found itself mobilizing for the puzzle game to end all puzzle games.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blocked</span>, if you haven't played it before, is a game where you slide gray blocks back and forth and attempt to clear a path to move the blue block through the opening to the right. So simple, so elegant, so... incredibly aggravating.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;" align="LEFT">I tore through the first ten levels blitzkrieg style and I must admit, my confidence was running high. Perhaps I was better at lateral thinking than I thought? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">I think it was around level 17 that I was disabused of that notion. It was then that I realized I'd been drawn into catastrophic, mind-grinding, cerebral trench warfare. Where before I was completing levels in under a minute or two, now the progress was slowed. Five minute levels... Then ten, or fifteen. Occasionally I'd flail away for the better part of a half an hour. I inched my way through the rest of the teens and began the brutal slog through the twenties. My sanity took high casualties, but I was progressing.<br /><br />And then I reached level 33. It was like my own personal Battle of the Somme. Again and again I thrust myself into the breach only to be repelled by my inability to work out the solution. Days, then weeks passed with no victory. At about a month and a half I took a break from the game, hoping some leave would bring fresh perspective, but each time I returned I found myself knocking against the same dilemma. I just couldn't work it out.<br /><br />And then, after about three or four months of this stalemate I finally broke down and did what needed to be done. I went on Youtube and looked for a cheat solution. Look, I'm not terribly proud about this, but it was war! Men do what they have to do in war. I guarantee you that if Churchill could have simply gone on Youtube and watched a five minute video and ended the Blitz, that cigar chomping fat-ass would have been all over it. Then he would have watched that OK Go video like 25 times and drank whiskey until he puked.<br /><br />Anyway, so I had cleared my first big hurdle by less than ethical means, but I had very little expectation that I'd be getting much further without repeatedly cheating. But a funny thing happened. I started getting good at the game. I knocked off the rest of the thirties in under two days and it only took me another two weeks to get up into the fifties. But more important than the fact that I was completing levels was the fact that I was beginning to see the puzzles differently. Instead of moving the blocks in a linear fashion, step by step until blocked, then reversing and trying again. I was able to analyze the whole puzzle and make moves based on where blocks potentially could be. In short, I was learning. I was getting better at the game.<br /><br />I realized something very basic and obvious then that had always escaped me in the past. My capacity for lateral thinking puzzles wasn't static. It was dynamic and able to develop. To that point I had always considered <i>Blocked</i> a game I would play as far as my limitations allowed, never realizing that my limitations might lift simply by the act of doing.<br /><br />I think it was when I hit level 60 that I determined I was going for total victory. I was going to win this war and I was going to do it without any more help. The campaign was slow and dirty. I finished some levels in ten or fifteen minutes, but most were taking me a day or two, and some a week or more. I had my challenges, particularly in the 80's (screw you, Reagan!), but over the last six months I methodically pushed my way through. The enemy army was on full retreat. I was cruising through the nineties<br /><br />I'd been sitting on level 100 for the last three weeks. I'd grown weary and haggard, frustrated by my inability to decisively end the conflict. My brain was longing for V-Day, maybe a nice parade, certainly a baby boom, but I couldn't finish that last level!<br /><br />Then, late last night as I was laying in bed playing my customary fifteen or twenty minutes before bed, it happened. I actually audibly gasped when I opened up the path for the blue block. I paused for a couple of seconds to reflect on the accomplishment of getting to this moment. It may seem a silly thing to take such pride in, but finishing <i>Blocked</i> and winning the "war" meant an awful lot to me at that moment.<br /><br />I slid the blue block free and read the rather underwhelming "Congratulations." message that popped up on the screen. I was really hoping for that parade.<br /><br />In fact, I feel so proud of winning this war that from now on I'm going to tell people I'm a member of the Greatest Generation. In your face, Brokaw! </p>So there's two plus years of my life into winning the war and solving <span style="font-style: italic;">Blocked</span>. Need to make sure I craft a sensible peace or else I'll be right back here in 20 plus years playing <span style="font-style: italic;">Blocked 2: The Rise of Hitler</span>.<br /><br /><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { m</style>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-16535509496690023802010-04-13T11:00:00.000-07:002010-04-13T11:30:16.685-07:00A Fresh CoatFriendship has a peculiar permanence when we're young. The future is wispy and insubstantial and the present is tethered tightly to a past paved with memories and layered with the experiences, joyous and heartbreaking, that bind us together. Which is why we're so often caught unaware as the here and now inches us glacially into our tomorrows. It is there that we find the obligations and responsibilities of maturity tugging at the ties, stretching them taut and tense, until they either snap or ease back in relaxation, forever limp and slackened.<br /><br />I crouched down against a wet, whipping wind and waited patiently in the mid-morning muck. Despite my best efforts I could never avoid being early for this kind of thing. My internal clock was simply programmed for early arrival. Interestingly, the less I was looking forward to something the earlier I seemed to arrive. Because of this, I tended to spend quite a bit of time in doctors and dentists waiting rooms. It was the same way with job interviews and school exams, and dates. I once showed up at a restaurant three hours early for a date. I guess my anxiety just required time to stew. And sure, the date was a disaster, but on the positive side I learned a lot about how busboys reset a dining room for dinner.<br /><br />I stared at the silvery stalactite daggers of ice hanging off the roof of the Riverline Cafe. They had just begun to sweat under the glare of a still muted morning sun. I checked my watch again and alternated listening to the distant rush of the river to my right and the much closer rumble of cars passing by on the highway to my left.<br /><br />I'd begun to wonder if I hadn't been abandoned to do this job on my own when Jake came trudging down the path from the lodge parking up above. He was a big kid, descended of lumberjacks. Literally. Jake's dad, granddad, and several uncles had been fixtures at the local mill that up until the last twenty years had been a major employer in the region. It was now nothing more than a bit of local flavor, a historical landmark in waiting. Jake was bundled in red and black striped flannel. He peered out at me from behind thick dark rimmed glasses.<br /><br />“Where are the guys?”<br /><br />I threw out my arms and shrugged my shoulders. I'd known Jake since the first day of the seventh grade. Along with being the only seventh grader to stand over six feet tall, Jake was one of those kids who started shaving before he started driving. His longstanding redneck roots also provided him a sort of immunity when it came to the more rurally inclined of high school antagonists. These factors contributed to him being one of the least picked on kids in school despite his gentle, soft-spoken nature. I won't deny that I benefited from some of this immunity by way our our friendship. Purely in terms of utility, Jake was one of my best friends.<br /><br />He cupped his hands against the thick paned window of the cafe and strained to see inside.<br /><br />“Is she in there?”<br /><br />“I haven't seen anyone.” I admitted.<br /><br />Jake stuffed his hands back in his pockets and kicked at some sidewalk gravel.<br /><br />“Well... Maybe she's in back?” He seemed concerned. If she wasn't there, we'd just thrown away an entire afternoon for no good reason. Perhaps the others had been tipped off? Maybe that's why they hadn't shown up?<br /><br />“Maybe...” I was about to forward to possibility of bailing on the job when Dean came skidding down the path towards us. He was a gangly mass of arms and legs, and had a head topped with a frizzy shock of sandy blonde hair. He smiled as he carefully navigated down the icy path, slipping and sliding occasionally. Balance and coordination had always been Dean's mortal enemies, much to my constant amusement.<br /><br />“Dean!” Jake slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him to the ground. “Where you been?”<br /><br />Dean gathered himself. “Had a study group for AP English. We just finished.”<br /><br />He tried to look casual as he scanned the length of the wide cafe window.<br /><br />“So... have you guys seen her?”<br /><br />Jake and I answered in unison, “Nope.”<br /><br />“She could be in back.” he offered. Jake nodded hopefully.<br /><br />Dean dusted some frost off of a nearby bench and plopped down. I hadn't known him all that long, but I liked Dean. He was a funny kid. Unintentionally, usually, but always a lot of laughs. We'd met through a mutual friend, my life long buddy Brandon, and Dean had quickly become an essential member of our group. His awkwardness and dearth of grace always led to some wonderfully memorable catastrophes. It was like having a teenage Don Knotts in your circle of friends.<br /><br />“You think Brandon's going to show?”<br /><br />“Oh. He's coming” Jake laughed, “He's not gonna miss a chance to work alongside Janey all afternoon.”<br /><br />“Like any of us would...” Dean added.<br /><br />They were right, of course. None of us had signed up to paint the Riverline kitchen for the money. In fact we'd all roundly dismissed the notion when Franklin, the cafe manager, had swept through the Lodge kitchen looking for workers. That is, until it was recalled that Janey worked there part time. Minutes later we were scrambling over each other, clawing and kicking our way to the sign up sheet, motivated by a desire for proximity to a girl that our hormone hazed brains were fooled into believing was remotely attainable. And fifty bucks.<br /><br />I was drawn from my thoughts by the sound of a vehicle choking and gasping to a stop in the lot up above. It was a brown van with splotches of gray primer patching the sides. The fourth member of our crew swung open the driver's side door and hopped out. Diego was heavy set and rounded in the middle. His black hair was tied back into a ponytail and he had a hint of a goatee sprouting on his chin. Diego was the requisite aspiring rock star of the group, and as he made his way down the path toward us I could see the natural rhythm in his gait that only musicians seemed to possess. He wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter.<br /><br />“She's here, right?”<br /><br />We were a trio in response. “No!”<br /><br />“I bet she's in back.” he countered predictably, “Hey, where's 'Freaklin?' It's almost time to do this.”<br /><br />I checked my watch again. It was nearly time. Maybe Brandon wouldn't show up? The thought sort of encouraged me. Why was that? I'd been friends with Bran since we were babies. The legend went that we had both been placed in the same crib as toddlers and ever since that day had been inseparable. It was like we forged a bond behind those bars, like two convicts serving time, plotting their escape into life. And then we got out, and the real crime spree began. We had been the best of friends for over fifteen years, and in a way had become reflections of each other. We dressed alike, thought alike and shared the same passions. We were tight. But something subtle had changed lately. There was a friction, imperceptibly buried most of the time, that occasionally rose up into my consciousness and injected a reluctant antagonism into my feelings for my best friend.<br /><br />I suspected that our shared interest in Janey was provoking some of this anxiety, but why was it so specific to Bran? Why was I not equally annoyed with Jake, Dean, and Diego?<br /><br />I heard keys jangling from inside the cafe. I looked up, hoping to see the short blonde curls of Janey dancing before my eyes, but was disappointed to find the plodding bald mullet of Franklin the cafe manager instead. He swung the door open.<br /><br />“Hello Boys.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hellooooo Booooooys. </span>The way he held the sound of his o's was so creepy.<br /><br />“Is this all of you then?” he held the door open, inviting us in.<br /><br />We hesitated and Freaklin flashed us a quizzical look. He scrubbed at the stringy hair draping the back of his neck and pulled a cheap gold necklace out into better view.<br /><br />“Ummm. One more guy is coming.” I replied. “We should just wait out here, right?”<br /><br />“No, no... Nonsense. Come in. Come in!” he waved us forward, the fingers on his hand heavy with garish gold rings. We dragged ourselves warily into the cafe.<br /><br />We all poured into a booth to wait. Four sets of eyes gazed hopefully at the back kitchen as Freaklin gave us the lowdown on the job.<br /><br />“Alright boys. You're going to be on your own today as I have a very important, uh, meeting to get to.”<br /><br />“So, it's just us... No one else? ” Diego asked.<br /><br />Freaklin was laying some drop cloths on the counter top. He considered for a moment.<br /><br />“Well, my assistant Janey might swing by to drop off some supplies later.”<br /><br />I wondered if he might have suspected an impending mass evacuation on our part and thrown out the possibility of Janey as a lure to keep us on the job. If so, he was far smarter than he looked.<br /><br />Freaklin's phone rang and he pointed out the front window as he stepped aside to answer.<br /><br />“Looks like your friend is here. Let him in for me. I have to take this...”<br /><br />Brandon huffed and puffed as I opened the door to let him in. I couldn't believe what I saw.<br /><br />“Dude. What the HELL are you wearing?”<br /><br />He wore a pair of neatly pressed black slacks and a teal button down shirt that looked brand new. His black dress shoes, which I hadn't seen him wear since we went to his uncle's funeral three years ago, were polished to a brilliant shine.<br /><br />“What?” he smoothed his shirt and puffed out his chest, swinging his gaze around the room.<br /><br />“You're dressed like you're going to Prom! We're just painting the kitchen!”<br /><br />“Yeah... I know,” he carefully framed his freshly gelled hair as the rest of the guys gathered round.<br /><br />“Whew! You clean up nice, boy!” Jake laughed. Diego gave a whistle of appreciation.<br /><br />Brandon had only been here for a few moments and already my annoyance with him was swelling. “She's not even here, you tool.”<br /><br />His face crinkled in concern. “Have you checked in back?”<br /><br />As Dean explained that there was still a chance she might come, I found myself hoping for the first time that she didn't. I felt ambushed by Brandon's fanciful appearance. He'd sought a strategic advantage over the rest of us, and done it on the sly. I found it unseemly, and perhaps more disturbing, potentially effective. I was drawn away from my spite by Freaklin approaching. He was still on the phone.<br /><br />“Right...okay. Well, see if you can get two seats at a blackjack table. Ten dollar... yeah. Okay, I'm almost out of here. See you in a few.”<br /><br />He turned towards us.<br /><br />“Okay guys. I gotta get to that, ahem, meeting” he said, slipping on a worn black jacket.<br /><br />Five sets of eyes rolled back in concert. This guy was so full of shit!<br /><br />“The supplies are behind the counters. When you're finished just toss all the garbage in the dumpster out back and remember to lock up.”<br /><br />Within seconds he was gone and there was little left for us to do but start working.<br /><br />“Umm. So does anyone actually know how to paint?”<br /><br />I looked around hopefully. Diego was using the long handle of a paint roller to reach a persistent itch on his lower back and Brandon was dusting some crumbs off a worn marble counter with the freshly stiff bristles of a new paint brush. Jake busied himself punching holes in the lid of a paint can with a screwdriver, while Dean hopelessly tried to disentangle himself from the folds of a drop cloth he had somehow lost himself in.<br /><br />This was not going to go well.<br /><br />We spent a few minutes prepping the area to paint. Unlike the well manicured dining area, the interior of the Riverline kitchen was in a state of extreme disrepair. The kitchen was a wreck. A thick sheen of grease sealed in the worn yellow color of the walls, and the linoleum floor, where it hadn't peeled away exposing rotting wood underneath, had faded under years of neglect. The once impressive marble counter tops were now chipped and the edges were rough. Two antiquated fryers housed oil that hadn't been changed in years. The air was heavy with deep fried despair. The place needed far more than a hasty coat of paint slapped on by a bunch of slacker teens.<br /><br />After nearly a half an hour of carefully laying drop cloths and wedging open cans of paint we were finally ready to put paint to walls. Dean stood ready, brush in hand.<br /><br />“Soooo. How exactly do I do this?<br /><br />“I think you do it in little circles, like this.” Diego motioned with his brush. “You know, like in the Karate Kid.”<br /><br />“No, man. The circles were for waxing the cars” I said. “Wax on. Wax off.”<br /><br />“I thought the circles were for sanding the deck?” Jake asked.<br /><br />We were beginning to wander...<br /><br />“Well, he painted something in that, right?” Diego countered.<br /><br />“Paint the fence!” Dean exclaimed as he gave the wall a long stroke with the brush north to south.<br /><br />“No. I think he stained the fence, didn't he?” Diego asked.<br /><br />“It doesn't matter!” I snapped. “It looks good.”<br /><br />“Actually, Diego's right. Paint the house was side to side...” Bran added.<br /><br />I wanted to crane kick him in the face.<br /><br />Dean was now alternating north to south and side to side. It looked good enough.<br /><br />“You know who was really hot in that movie?” Bran said.<br /><br />“Pat Morita?” Jake quipped.<br /><br />“Elizabeth Shue!”<br /><br />“Oh yeah. Her too...” Jake deadpanned as we picked up our brushes and began painting, visions of Shue dancing in our heads.<br /><br />An hour later we had made more progress than I would have imagined possible. We were close to a quarter of the way done. We chatted to pass the time. Diego had just come up with a name for his new black metal band.<br /><br />“The Corpulence?!”<br /><br />“Yeah! It's cool, right?” he said.<br /><br />“I don't know, man...” I shook my head. “Do you even know what it means?”<br /><br />“Who cares? Doesn't it sound dark and sinister?”<br /><br />“Yeah, but I mean... Doesn't it mean...”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />I looked at my chubby, rock star friend. It was the worst possible name. I just didn't have the heart to bring it up.<br /><br />“It means 'excessively fat', Diego” Dean interjected.<br /><br />“Dude!” I shot him a nasty look before turning back to Diego “It's not that you're, you know, fat... but maybe you should go with something else.”<br /><br />“I guess...” Diego gave a shrug, “I could have sworn it had something to do with pus.”<br /><br />“Hey, what about my idea?” Jake asked.<br /><br />“Dude. I told you. I'm not naming my band Various Artists!”<br /><br />“Whatever, man. It's clever.”<br /><br />We had a few empty paint cans starting to stack up.<br /><br />“Hey does someone want to dump these cans out back?” I asked.<br /><br />Diego hopped off the counter top where he had been angling uncomfortably to paint a ceiling corner.<br /><br />“I got it” he said.<br /><br />Dean had just finished painting a section of wall and I noticed that he had stopped in front of a large chrome dispenser.<br /><br />“Check. This. Out” he said rapturously. “Ice cream machine! I wonder how it works?”<br />I paused painting and looked over. Dean had already started twisting knobs and tugging at levers, so far with no success.<br /><br />“Hey... I really don't think you should be fiddling with that, man.” I cautioned.<br /><br />“Come on. Don't you want some?” He kept pulling, pushing and manipulating the controls, but nothing would come out.<br /><br />“It's probably empty, dude”<br /><br />Just as Dean was about to give up the machine began to hum loudly. He jumped back in surprise, nearly falling to the floor. I rushed over expecting to see ice cream pouring out of the spigot, but there was nothing. The machine still hummed.<br /><br />“Hmm. It's probably just the generator. Leave it alone though, okay?”<br /><br />He nodded and picked back up painting, but before I could return to my spot I heard some vicious barking and a bloodcurdling scream coming from the back exit. Brandon dropped his brush, splattering paint on the surrounding floor, and bolted for the back. I followed.<br /><br />Diego was standing, his back pressed forcefully against the closed door. A dog barked ferociously on the other side.<br /><br />“Dog... Big...Dog. Very. Big. Dog.” he panted.<br /><br />Bran guided him away from the door and took a look through the peep hole.<br /><br />“Whoa.” he exclaimed.”Looks like a mixed breed... Doberman and... Triceratops?”<br /><br />“There is NO WAY I'm taking these things out” Diego kicked at the pile of empty paint cans.<br /><br />“Well, I'm not doing it!” I turned to Brandon. “Your step-dad is the one who raises pit bulls. You do it.”<br /><br />He shook his head vigorously. It was worth a shot.<br /><br />“Alright. Well lets just stack the garbage up here. Maybe he'll go away before we're done.”<br />Happy with this compromise that allowed all of us to escape the possibility of savage canine mauling, we returned to the kitchen. Thankfully, Dean had refrained from playing with the ice cream machine further, although it continued its low vibrating hum.<br /><br />It was around the two hour mark, just over half way done, when nerves began to fray. It was looking more and more likely that there would be no Janey. And without the promised carrot, we were left only with the stick, and we proceeded to beat each other over the head with it.<br /><br />It started when Dean kicked over a paint can, splashing a bit on Brandon's fancy shoes.<br /><br />“Watch it, you klutz!” he barked, hastily wiping his foot down with a cloth. “My mom will kill me if these shoes get fucked up.”<br /><br />“Well, maybe if you didn't come to work dressed like some club hopping douche it wouldn't be a problem” I muttered.<br /><br />“What the hell is your problem, man?” he turned to me, “So I dressed up a little bit! What, are you jealous or something?”<br /><br />“Oh yeah, I'm jealous!” I said. “If only I could dress like Don Johnson's retarded cousin...”<br /><br />“Whatever, man...” he glowered at me. “Lets just get this done. This whole day has been a waste.”<br /><br />It was the first thing we'd agreed upon all day.<br /><br />We were making good time once again when Diego started whining.<br /><br />“Man, I'm starving!” he tossed his roller in the pan and hopped off the counter. “There's got to be something to eat back here somewhere...”<br /><br />“Oh come on, man” I groaned. “Can we just get this done?”<br /><br />“Relax, dude” he said, digging into a cabinet drawer. “Since when are you such a taskmaster?”<br />I could hear Jake chortling behind me.<br /><br />“Ah, excellent. Bagels!” Diego grabbed two from the drawer. “Here, have one!”<br /><br />He wound up and flung one in my direction, like a miniature Frisbee. I ducked instinctively and watched the bagel slam into the back of Jake's head. He turned, his eyes flashing with a mixture of surprise and amusement. He scanned the counter in front of him and dug his hand into a large container of dried macaroni. He whipped a handful in a wide arc, scattering the dried pasta like shrapnel over us all. The macaroni made a rat-a-tat sound as it bounced off of walls, ceiling and kitchen appliances.<br /><br />At that point there was a pause. We all silently considered the consequences of what was about to happen. And then we made it happen. In an instant the Riverline Cafe became a war zone. The five of us scattered about the kitchen, over turning prep tables for cover and digging into every cabinet, drawer, and storage bin we could find looking for ammo.<br /><br />I found myself stocked with mostly breads and pastry items. I caught Dean in the ribs with a dinner roll that was so hard it might have been petrified. He shrieked and discharged an over ripe tomato in my direction. It sailed high and splattered against a freshly painted wall.<br /><br />“Ha!” I cackled, and reached down for a crumbly muffin. I whirled around looking for a target and spied Brandon. He was flinging dried oats in the air in every direction. They stuck to the freshly painted walls and floated to the floor like confetti in a parade. I cocked and fired the muffin at him, missing wide left. The muffin exploded on contact however and bits of bran and blueberry sprayed everywhere. Turned out it was a Frag muffin.<br /><br />Bran turned my way, and for the first time in a long time, we shared a smile. Somehow the anarchy that we created had released something in all of us. In the madness and delirium of that moment we found something that had quietly been stolen from us in our ascent away from what we had always been and toward what we almost certainly had to become. In the chaos of that food borne war zone we set aside consequence and accountability, and allowed ourselves to simply become what we were in that moment: five best friends who didn't give a shit whether that kitchen got painted or not.<br /><br />We spent the next several minutes propelling every bit of organic matter in that kitchen at each other, roaring with laughter the entire time. The war might have lasted hours had Jake not taken control of the walk-in cooler and its armament of extra large eggs. By the fourth dozen he had bombed us into a sticky submission. We were about to offer our unconditional surrender when I noticed a familiar hum. It seemed to be getting louder.<br /><br />“... Do you guys hear that?” I yelled above the din.<br /><br />“I think it's coming from the ice cream machi-” Dean was cut off by an ear-splitting pop, as ice cream exploded out of the pressurized spigot of the machine. Streams of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry splattered every square inch of the kitchen, along with us. The ice cream machine had dropped a Neapolitan nuke. The war was over.<br /><br />I took a moment to survey the battlefield.<br /><br />“Holy shit!”<br /><br />The walls of the kitchen were coated with food. Fruit stains blended with the fresh paint and streaked down the walls hideously. Globs of melting ice cream pooled on counter tops. Paint cans had been turned over everywhere, The floors were coated with a thick layer of gummy egg mixed with flour and assorted cereals. Dried pasta crunched underneath our feet. There was chocolate sauce drizzled all over one wall. I giggled, recalling Diego spraying it around madly like it was napalm.<br /><br />Dean was looking at the wall, arms folded like he was at an art museum.<br /><br />“Maybe they'll think we were going for a whole Jackson Pollock kinda thing?”<br /><br />We all laughed and began smearing the walls with our hands like flamboyant artists, reluctant to let our hysteria pass.<br /><br />Eventually it did of course, and we were left to ponder what to do about the mess. Thankfully, we were all in agreement on the first principle.<br /><br />“So... We're not actually going to clean all this up, right?”<br /><br />Five heads shook in unison.<br /><br />“So then we're all just going to quit our jobs?” Diego asked.<br /><br />I could hear the alley dog barking out back again. An idea flowered. What if we had finished painting the kitchen? What if we opened the back door to take out all the garbage like good little workers? What if an aggressive, possibly rabid, dog bolted through the open door and tore apart the kitchen while we all watched helplessly? Could we do this? We'd shirked our responsibility, gone berserk and destroyed a kitchen, and now we were going to frame up an innocent dog. It was good to be young.<br /><br />“Actually, that might not be necessary.” I smiled as I gathered my friends around. “Listen up, here's what happened...”Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-71507150095995395392010-03-04T10:29:00.000-08:002010-03-11T14:57:23.431-08:00Pirates and Vampires and Zombies. Oh My.<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(Okay, guys this began as a bit of a writing exercise. I wanted to see if I could write something that incorporated three of my favorite pop culture elements</span> in the same story.)<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The sun still lingered 'neath the eastern horizon when Captain Gregor returned from shore. The handful of sailors following him seemed to drag their feet a bit in returning from such an abbreviated leave, but their displeasure was muted behind the captain's purposeful stride.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Doctor William Madsen watched as the returning crew scattered across the deck of the three masted sloop, Black Fang. Some of the scraggly sea-dogs retreated to their sleeping quarters mid deck while others were gathered into the purview of the quartermaster Snorri. He barked orders to the weary sailors and they began tying down the rigging. It appeared the Fang would be off again before light fall. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Captain Gregor, paused briefly to speak with his quartermaster, then strode across the deck towards William. His black boots were caked with the mud of the mainland. His deep set gray eyes scanned the night sky. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I'll be needing to sup', Doctor.” His long strides carried him past William towards his quarters in the aft. He didn't look back. William fetched his canvass satchel, took a moment to hunt for the soon to be rising sun, and scrambled along after him.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> William was struck by how large the dimensions of the captain's cabin could appear when he was used to bunking on a small cot in the ship's infirmary. And even he had it better than the sailors, who mostly resided mid-ship on the gun deck, or when the oppressive smell got too much and the weather permitted, top side on the main deck. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The cabin, while large, did suffer from a decided lack of ventilation. Gregor had had the ship's carpenter build over the single window, now sealed tight with a wooden plank and plenty of oakum. The cabin was pitched thick in darkness, without even moonlight to frame it. William was glad when the captain lit some candles.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Bombo, William?” the captain poured the rum into a dinged up old brass cup and offered it across a small wooden table.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Thank you, sir.” William took a swig of the sugary drink. “Your inquiries went well ashore?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Well enough, I think.” He sat back on a plain wooden bench and worked at unlacing his boots. “The Amity left port not two days past.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “And its passenger?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “The cargo is still aboard. Apparently the captain invited several of the town's luminaries aboard to view it.” He ran his hand through his well oiled black hair and spat contemptuously. “A plague of rumors about the Amity and it's 'undying man' spreads through every brothel and punch house we visit.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He suddenly looked very weary. His skin, always pale, looked almost spectral in the quivering candlelight. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “William,” he was always so apologetic, “I must eat.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> William reached into his canvass bag and pulled out a stoppered glass vial. He had layered it within the folds of several silk scarves to prevent it from breaking. The crimson liquid inside seemed more black in the low light of the cabin. It was still warm. William steadied his hand as best he could when handing it over to his captain. He politely averted his eyes as Gregor drank it down. He looked back as the captain placed the vial back on the table, laying it gently on top of the pile of silk scarves. William noted that his color looked unchanged, but his gray eyes seemed to flash with vigor. It was fleeting. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The captain rubbed at his temples and grunted uncomfortably. Dawn was near.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Who?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Higgins. Complained of stomach ache. I bled him this evening.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Thank you, William. See that he gets double rations today, please.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> William made for the door of the cabin. Gregor followed gingerly. He was bent and rickety, as if aging with the coming of dawn. Yet outwardly he appeared no older than the thirty years he had always looked. It was as if the coming light robbed him of his vitality.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Yes sir.” He stepped out of the cabin and heard the door being barred from within. “Sleep well, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He made his way up onto the main deck to see that the sun had finally pierced the eastern horizon and the Black Fang had indeed set sail once again.</p> <p style="border-style: none none double; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(0, 0, 0); border-width: medium medium 4.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 0.03in; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jojo Watkins watched the sun rise as he broke his fast sitting on the deck of the merchant barque Amity. He scraped the remainder of his rapidly cooling grundy up with his last bit of tack and climbed to his feet. They were two days out and the wind had been strong. His mop of shaggy red hair had been soaked through by the steady salt spray, leaving his locks tangled and frizzy. It was only just more than six months ago that his step-mother had found his perfectly straight hair a clear sign of his unholiness.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Pressed by the devil 'imself” she'd mutter as he was getting lashed for something or other. He could only imagine that the hard old missionary would nominate him for sainthood if she could see him now. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He'd been done with his breakfast not long before the ship's master Leeks had found him.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Boy! Be swabbin' the fo'c'sle before noon.” Leeks was an ugly, unpleasant chap, but as long as you gave no lip, and appeared to hustle, the whippings were rare. “And that water's not gonna' move itself!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jojo nodded and proceeded below deck. He'd get to the forecastle soon, but first he wanted to check on Lem. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> They'd placed the feverish Lem in the forward hold, away from the rest of the crew. A large pallet had been draped with a canvass sheet and Jojo found his friend and fellow cabin boy curled up there, pallid and shivering.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Lemy?” Jojo crouched down at his side.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Nnguh.” Lem rolled over onto his back. His face was dark and puffy, the area around his eyes so swollen that Jojo had a hard time telling whether they were open or closed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Jo...jo?” The sounds limped from him, throaty and desperate. He looked so much worse that he had the night before. His right arm was heavily bandaged where he had been bitten.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I'm here, Lem... Doc says your fever should be breaking soon.” He took a hold of Lem's left hand and gasped. Where yesterday his skin was warm, almost hot to the touch, today it was so very cold. “It's a good thing, too. That fat frog Leeks has me doing all your work.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Is it... still aboard?” Lem shivered and pulled his arms close to his sides, “do... do you still have to feed it?'</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Oh, it's still aboard. Captain Wittman ain't gonna get rid of his prize just cause it bit some swab boy.” He patted his hand gently. “They got it locked down in the bilge hold. We don't feed it no more, though.” Jojo was happy for this. It didn't seem to matter anyway. The creature didn't seem worse for the lack of eating.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Lem seemed calmed by the news. He groaned and rolled back onto his side. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Hey if the smell down there doesn't end 'im, maybe it really can't die.” Jojo meant it as a joke, but in reality it didn't look like the creature could be killed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> When the Captain had first brought it aboard two weeks ago most of the crew thought it was merely some sort of islander taken to madness. The creature was lethargic, slow moving, even shambling. It snarled and groaned, but was rarely aggressive unless someone got too close. Once when it lunged too close to the captain he ran his long sword straight through its chest and then watched aghast as it continued staggering about, unfazed by a certain killing blow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It was then that the Captain realized that he might have found a new world curiosity that could bring him great fame and notoriety. He would present it at court back home. He, Captain Reginald Wittman, would be the discoverer of The great “Undying Man” of the New World. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Since then they had sailed up the East Caribbee, seemingly docking at every port along the way. The captain was eager to indulge his fame fetish. Martinique, Guadeloupe, Montserrat, Nevis... at each port Governors, wealthy merchants and plantation owners would be brought aboard to see the captain's prize and toast his great discovery.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Then, two days ago Lem had been bitten. The captain had invited the Governor of Nevis and his plain-faced daughter aboard to see the creature, who that night was reluctant to shuffle into a better light for viewing. Lem was sent into the hold with a fresh rabbit carcass to draw him out. The creature had moved with uncommon quickness and bit deeply into his fore arm. Lem managed to scramble away when a sailor sunk a crossbow bolt into the creature's chest, but his fever had followed just a few hours later.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Following the incident the captain ordered the creature down into the bilge hold and decided to make preparations for the long voyage home. They would fit for the trip in St. Kitts in three more days. Jojo wondered whether Lem would be alive when they sailed into harbor.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He gave his friend one last pitying look and rose up to start on his days work. Dabber, the ship's surgeon entered the hold just as Jojo was exiting. If he hadn't have been so late to start swabbing the forecastle he might have noticed the bandage wrapped around fresh bite marks on the doctor's left hand.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="border-style: none none double; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(0, 0, 0); border-width: medium medium 4.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 0.03in; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Shit.” William handed the spyglass back to Snorri, who grunted and took another long look.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “How long would you say?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Snorri's reply was thick and heavy, like a hammer falling. “They make time on us... Even at full sail they take us before nightfall”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Their pursuer was almost certainly a pirate hunter, probably commissioned out of San Juan. New colonial governors loved to flood the waters with crown sanctioned hunters, opening up the trade lanes and making life very difficult for vessels like the Black Fang.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Looks like a frigate. Full compliment of guns. We gonna be outnumbered if they board.” Snorri stepped away from the wheel and a scrawny little sailor took his place. He looked comically small in replacing the burly quartermaster.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The captain had given strict orders to flee from any engagement, and Snorri had every intention of complying, but it was only a matter of time before they would be falling into range of those cannon.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Snorri was directing sailors below to the gun decks and prepping the ship for the eventual combat. William knew the Fang was lucky to have such a capable number two, particularly given the unique limitations its captain faced. He checked the sun, which was waning its way west, but not nearly fast enough to make a difference. They'd likely be blown out of the water before Captain Gregor emerged from his cabin.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Doctor. Clear some space to work. You'll be having some business.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The crew was arming itself. Most men carried cutlasses or hand axes tucked into belts or sashes. William cleared a long wooden bench to operate from. His medicine chest stashed safely beneath. Snorri was back at the helm. “We'll keep this heading as long as we can...” he bellowed above the din of action. “But when they start firin' on us we'll have to turn and engage ship ta ship!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The crew roared. Conflict, even of a futile nature, stirred their blood lust. William frowned. He didn't like their odds. If only they had more time. Captain Gregor could surely tip the balance. If they could somehow delay for another hour it might be enough...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> At once he was racing across the bustling deck. He nearly knocked over a portly sailor hauling a coil of thick rope. The sailor, William thought they called him Rudi, snapped off a raspy “Arrr!” as the doctor slid past. If this didn't work he'd likely be picking buckshot out of the surly bastard's arse later.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He called out to Snorri, who was once again peering through the long brass spying tube.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Not a good time, Doctor Will.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No, wait. Listen,” he tugged at the sleeve of the giant quartermaster, garnering an angry stare. “You've got to raise the white!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Surrender?!” he roared, “I haven't time to discipline your cowardice just now, doct-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Just then the frigate fired its first shot, traditionally one of warning. It sailed over their heads, followed by a thunderous crack.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No! Think... We need time! If we fly the white they'll look to board and take the Fang as an undamaged prize. They'll be in no hurry if we aren't resisting.” Snorri was big, but no oaf. Understanding blossomed on his monstrous face.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “And come sundown... The captain...” Snorri nodded.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “We get our best piece back in the game.” William hoped the chess metaphor wasn't lost on him.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Snorri set the plan in motion at once, ordering sailors he had been whipping up for a fight only moments earlier to stand down. Well trained, the men fell into line quickly, and within seconds a white flag was jerking its way slowly up the mast. William had gambled their lives, and now waited for the cards to turn.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The sun had only just nestled itself in the bend of the western sky when the frigate's captain and a small contingent of marines finally clambered onto the main deck of the Black Fang. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Who commands?” The frigate captain was adorned in full military dress. A long royal blue coat, thick cotton trousers, and shiny black leather boots. William was particularly envious of the boots.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Sir.” Snorri stepped forward.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You will present a manifest and ship's log,” his voice was disinterested and formal. “Your officers may remain aboard for the time being, all other sailors will be placed in our brig.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Snorri was escorted by three marines below deck to retrieve the logs. William hoped that he would take his time. He squinted at the sinking sun as the frigate captain inspected his new prize. Not much longer...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Dusk was nearly upon them when Snorri and his escort finally arrived back on the main deck.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Clumsy ogre's son took a bleedin' lifetime to open the chest, sir” the marine handed his commander a ratty leather backed log book and a tube of rolled up papers.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “No matter. We've got what we needed.” he spent a few moments reading the book and scanning the scrolls. “As suspected, these dogs operate without a Letter.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The commander handed the papers off to one of his men and cleared his throat. The last sliver of sunlight was zipping up along the horizon.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “In light of your piracy, I claim this vessel for the crown.” he swept his arms in their direction, “Toss them overboard. We'll not waste good ropes to hang them.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A low rumble began to emanate from Snorri, and he flexed his considerable muscles. He aimed to take a few to the drink with him. William dropped his head for one last prayer, the sun had fallen and with it his hope.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “A word if I may, commander?” Captain Gregor edged up the wooden steps from below. He was still in his sleep clothes, cotton knee length breeches and a silk vest. His normally tight, tied back, black hair flowed wild and out of control. At that moment he looked anything but their savior.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The marines raised rapiers in his direction. The commander barked harshly.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Who are you, sir!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “According to your words, I appear to be the former captain of this vessel.” he raised his arms over his head and continued his slow walk onto the main deck. The frigate captain looked over to Snorri for confirmation. The big man shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. William nearly burst out laughing. He wondered how this was going to play out. He knew the great and terrible things his captain was capable of under the shroud of night.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Why have you not presented yourself before now!” The frigate commander blustered.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I'm a heavy sleeper.” he smiled, a glint in his eye. “Now I know you'd like to be on with dumping us all in the chop, but might I have a word, gentleman to gentleman?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The commander let loose with a disparaging <i>Hrrmph </i><span style="font-style: normal;">but moved forward, with two marines at his side. William could not hear the words his captain spoke, but he noticed that Gregor had captured their gaze... all of them... and he held it in a most uncanny way. It almost seemed as if he was directing their gaze. William found it most queer, and somewhat unsettling. The seconds passed slowly, and for a time Gregor didn't speak at all. For a long time the only sounds were of the wind whipping and wood creaking... </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And then Captain Gregor was speaking. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “So you'll be off then?” he was walking the commander to the port side, where planks had been laid down for the boarding.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Of course, sir.” the commander's voice was still formal, but his disinterest was replaced by admiration, even rapture. “Thank you for your time, sir.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> As the hunters crossed back over to their vessel, William crouched down and leaned against a slick wooden railing. His sigh of relief inspired a playful chuckle from the approaching Captain.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Quite a gamble, doctor.” he held out a hand and pulled William to his feet.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Didn't like our odds.” William wiped some nervous sweat off his brow. “Figured I'd draw for the wild card.” he shook his head at the captain. “The alternative was getting blown to the bottom of the sea or going ship to ship. Would have gotten real bloody.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “More importantly it would have cost us our pursuit of the Amity” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The captain's eyes grew dark and serious whenever the topic turned to the Amity, and William had no doubt that he would exchange infinite amounts of blood and oblivion to prevent that cargo from reaching its destination. The captain noticed his consternation.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “There are things in this world that should not exist,” William followed him as he moved below deck. “I know this better than most, William...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Aye, sir” he croaked, suddenly very, very tired.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “We must take the Amity before it crosses. At any cost.”</p> <p style="border-style: none none double; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(0, 0, 0); border-width: medium medium 4.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 0.03in; margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The cool night air soothed Jojo Watkins' sun-blazed skin as he entered his second full night of captivity high in the Amity's crows nest. Or as Jojo thought of it, his sanctuary from Hell on Earth.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He crawled to the edge of the platform, rubbed the salt from his eyes and peered over the low railing. He choked up a heavy sob at the sight.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The main deck of the merchant ship Amity was littered with corpses. Walking corpses. They had been staggering slowly back and forth across the deck, mindlessly and endlessly for nearly two days. They groaned and snarled, and occasionally snapped at one another when crossing paths, but thankfully showed no inclination to climb the rigging to reach him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He recognized, barely, the faces of his friends and fellow sailors amongst the undying horde. He saw what once was Master Leeks trying to gnaw on a thick rope tied along the port side. His mouth was caked with dried blood. Rope hadn't been his first course.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Jojo rolled away from the edge of the platform, closed his eyes, and not for the first time cried violently. His body shook in throes of helplessness. His step mother had always warned him that his wickedness would one day draw horrors to his eyes. He wished he'd stayed and let the pious old witch continue to beat it out of him.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> With his fit of weeping behind him Jojo once again tried to piece together the events of the past few days. Days that, until quite recently had actually been some of the more pleasant times he'd spent at sea.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The captain, officers, and much of the crew had been taken poorly and were abed for several days. No one really had thought much of it at the time. Sickness was far from uncommon at sea, and it always spread rapidly. The common sailors and swab boys had of course taken full advantage of the lax discipline. They had kept the ship sea worthy, but mostly had spent the days and nights deep within their cups, drinking, gambling and carousing the nights away. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Jojo had been no exception. When he awoke that morning, curled within his worn cotton blanket in the mid-ship, he thought he might have died within the night. He closed his eyes tight, seeking to seal off access to his battered brain to the sunlight gleaming in through the port hole. He remembered little of the previous night, but the rum fuzz coating his tongue enlightened him in a most unpleasant manner. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He rolled up and onto his unsteady legs. His hangover had robbed him of the sea legs he had worked so hard acquiring during the last few months. The ship rolled from side to side rhythmically, but Jojo noticed a decided lack of forward momentum. Had they anchored? He pitched and swayed his way up the wooden steps to the main deck. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The sun was almost directly overhead. He had slept away half the day. His head roiled at the clamor of altercation. There was fighting all over the ship! Men were screaming and hacking at each other with swords and axes. Up ahead he noticed two sailors grappling with each other. Jojo rushed forward, his legs strengthened by the rush of adrenaline, just to see them tangle up together and fall to the deck. The man on top wrenched his head clear and sank his teeth into his opponent's neck. He tore at the flesh, rending a chunk free and settled back contentedly to feast upon it. Jojo looked into the face of this walking nightmare, and through a spray of blood and bits of bone recognized the dead-eyed stare of his friend Lem. His face was ashen, the skin sallow and loose. Tufts of hair had fallen out and in places his skin was peeling off in thin raw strips, exposing the muscle and bone beneath. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Jojo emptied the contents of his stomach over the side after watching Lem chew ravenously at the bloody chunk of meat in his hands. He spared a quick glance around the ship. The sails had been torn down in the initial fighting and the mast looked like it may have been damaged as well. That would explain why they were dead in the water. Everywhere he looked he found the same scene. The dead men swarmed the living, tore at their entrails and then crouched down to feed before clawing out another helping. The screams of the survivors had mostly ceased. The only sounds left were the scraping of wood against wood, and the sickening smack of dozens of dead men chewing. He turned his eyes back to what had once been Lem. The creature, finishing with his slab of neck meat, still hadn't noticed him. Lem crawled back over to his victim, moaning hungrily.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And then Jojo watched in horror and amazement as Lem's dinner let out a groan himself, rose up and slapped Lem's hungry hand away. When the newly born dead man turned in his direction Jojo noticed he shared the same dead-eyed stare as poor Lem. Around the ship the same process was playing out over and over. The half-eaten were rising to join the ranks of the hungry undying. The mutiny of the dead was complete. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> His escape up the rigging to the safety of the crows nest was harrowing but brief. His long wait until death from dehydration and exposure would be longer he knew, but there were worse deaths you could have at sea. Much, much worse.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He felt another crying jag coming on, so he stood up on the platform to look out upon the cherry blackened night sky. He cursed his wet, blurry eyes when he thought he saw a three masted sloop crossing over the crease at the sea's far edge.</p> <p style="border-style: none none double; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(0, 0, 0); border-width: medium medium 4.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 0.03in; margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Just once I'd like to look through this thing and see good news.” William quipped as he handed the spyglass back to the captain. Snorri grunted lightly, was it a laugh? It would be a first.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The Amity sat lonely and adrift under a near full moon's silvery light. The sails of the merchant ship were riven and tangled, sagging sadly across her bow and dipping into the choppy water. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “She's not takin' water, Captain.” Snorri observed.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No... I'd imagine the ship will survive” the captain was pacing the deck, never quite taking his eyes off the Amity. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Pity her crew didn't...” William was again through the spyglass. He scanned the deck once more, trying to count the roaming dead. He added to his count one whose legs had been ripped off at the waist. It dragged itself along the wooden deck, leaving a trail of gore and cartilage in its wake.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Indeed,” Gregor sighed and rubbed his face roughly, “hoped this might go easier.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “What could be easier?” Snorri interjected, “All of 'em are dead! We load up the guns and send the entire thing ta the locker!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The captain shook his head. “Not an option. If even one of these blasted things washes ashore...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> William noticed that the captain had buckled his scabbard. In the years he had sailed with Gregor it had been a rare occasion that he'd seen him draw his sword.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “The heads must be severed. Every last one.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hah! So we board and do it the fun way!” Snorri fingered the rough wooden handle of an ax half as heavy as William.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The captain laid his hand on Snorri's thick, sinewy forearm, “I board, old friend. Alone.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The quartermaster's protestations were cut short as Gregor ordered The Black Fang alongside the stranded Amity. As they closed William could hear the desperate mewling of hungering dead. Icy spikes shot up his spine.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You sure about this?” he offered.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Captain Gregor drew his blade. It was forged into fine black steel, “I'll be fine, Will.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I can't die twice!” he leapt from the Fang, soaring the twenty feet separating the two vessels and landed gracefully on the starboard side of the doomed merchant ship.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The captain's work was brutal, efficient, and breathtakingly beautiful. William stood slack jawed, watching Gregor glide from corpse to corpse, clearing the deck as calmly as a serving wench might sweep a hall. What William had expected might take over an hour was finished in minutes. Heads were literally still rolling when Snorri finally laid down the boarding planks and motioned Will and the rest of the crew across.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> By the time he had finally urged his shaky legs to carry him over to the Amity, the bodies were being piled up by a crew that William judged deserving of a very large raise in pay. He found the captain facing away from their work, wiping his blade.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “That was...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Necessary.” the captain finished. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> A commotion broke out behind them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Survivor! We got a live one!” the crew had paused their grim work to hoot and holler as Snorri climbed down the slumping rigging, a scrawny red-haired boy slung over his shoulder.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The captain placed a firm hand on William's shoulder and leaned in close. His words were stern. “Check him for bites.” he laid a hand on his sword hilt idly, “And, doctor? Be thorough.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He met the Captain's eyes and nodded firmly before rushing to the boy's side. He was grievously dehydrated for a start and William called for water immediately.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The boy downed a full skin of water before his strength returned enough to speak.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Am...I” He shifted aggressively, trying to sit up, “Is it over?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Easy, boy.” William cut his clothing away and examined him closely. His skin had been blistered badly by days in the sun, but he could find no signs of bites. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “He's good, Captain.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Gregor smiled, and his darkness lifted like a fog being swept away by a stiff breeze. He knelt down alongside William and the boy. He leaned in close and captured the boy's gaze.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “What's your name?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Jojo” the boy's eyes grew soft and malleable. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Jojo, you're a very lucky chap.” Gregor swayed his head side to side. Jojo followed his eyes, “You get to forget...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> It was a glamor. The same one he had used on the hunters. Fascinated, William waited for the captain to finish.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Gregor rose to his feet as the boy Jojo was lead aboard the Black Fang. “We'll drop him in St. Kitts. With any luck he'll never remember what happened here.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> William's envy was as thick and briny as the salty sea. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Gregor went back to wiping his blade. The ship was silent, but for the gathering of bodies. It was unsettling. He was glad when Gregor offered more conversation.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “They fell so easily...” he motioned to the bodies of the dead, “Not a moment's recognition that their existence was about to end,” he finished wiping his blade and slid it into the scabbard. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “They died long before we arrived, sir. I'd imagine the will to continued existence is beyond the dead, even if they still walk.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “As it should be, I suppose...” Gregor's words were drenched in regret. “I think I might envy them that, William.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> William closed his eyes wearily. Envy and death mingled in the cool night air.</p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-84416996454662341502009-11-14T12:09:00.000-08:002009-11-14T12:12:41.779-08:00The QuestionThe road to health and contentment is paved with questions. (That's a pretty good opening line, huh? Alright, Hemingway don't get cocky. It's one line.) Anyway, I suppose life is about questions, really. I think a common misconception is that we only ask questions when we're seeking answers. I've discovered that the questions on my road have often functioned more as pot holes and road blocks than informative signposts.<br /> <br /> The question I'm writing about today is one that has nagged at me whenever I have considered turning my life in a healthier, happier and more content direction. When I allowed myself to think about the specifics of anything I might want to have, or be, or do, the same question popped to the fore... <br /><br /> “Do I really want this or do I only WANT to want this?”<br /><br /> It seems such a simple thing to decide whether we truly want something or not, particularly when we're talking about a question like “Do you want a full, happy, productive life?” Do you want to step up, take the wheel and experience all that life has to offer or slink down and allow decades of twisted emotional baggage to push you around through life?<br /><br /> It's not exactly Sophie's choice. So what's the problem here. Why did I spend years struggling with this question?<br /><br /> I think the answer lies in the fact that there are certain questions that my emotional issues simply won't let me ask because they flat out don't have a good answer. The whole question of whether I merely want to want a better life is a way of silencing or minimizing my intrinsic self. The question adds an extra layer, something to muffle or strangle out any answer that might lead me away from the pain, confusion and withdrawal my issues provide. But underneath the layers there remains an echo of a voice that knows the answer to the real question, the question I'm not allowed to ask.<br /> <br /> So my issues have a problem. That intrinsic self is never going away, and that echo is getting louder. The extra layer is melting away and I'm more and more able to actively think about the real question. The useful question. You see, I've discovered that clarity comes when we not only ask the right questions, but refrain from allowing our emotional issues to whisper insidious and inaccurate answers. <br /><br /> These days I'm in charge. I'm asking the questions, and enjoying discovering the answers. The road's less bumpy and all signs point to go. Now I just need a bigger gas tank.Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-48676361807476538122009-11-03T14:02:00.001-08:002009-11-03T14:05:23.270-08:00On the Rules of Society, and Being Made to Break Them.<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">What recourse do we have when we are compelled by authority to break one of the little rules of society? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Like any highly sensitive, vaguely neurotic, emotional man-child, whose fears and anxieties about being judged slam around inside their head at a million miles per hour, I value the rules of society. Frankly, I like knowing that my social behavior is backed up by rules, both written and unwritten. For me the value in social rules is not that they create a more ordered or fair society, but that they help keep me from standing out, being noticed (and therefore) judged by my fellow humans. I do what is expected. I do what we as a society have decided is normal. And in exchange I don't have to constantly worry about every person I interact with on a daily basis thinking I'm an asshole. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Of course I've considered how this method of quieting my internal social anxieties might have played out in 1930's Germany and it's a rather dark portrait. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “You know, I really do like my Jewish neighbors... and I could go either way on getting the Rhineland back... but if I don't goosestep on my way down to get a carton of milk, Klaus is going to think I'm a dick!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So clearly I'm going to have to watch out for that. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My dilemma today concerned one of the most fundamental laws of the supermarket: the 12 items or less in the express lane rule. As someone who rarely does high volume grocery shopping I'm a big fan of this rule and am personally VERY vigilant about never going over the limit.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Today was a big shop for me and I was well over the 12 item limit. So I was chilling out at the end of a long line at one of the regular check-outs when an assistant store manager approached and told me to switch over to the express lane.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I froze, and hesitantly motioned towards my shopping cart. I had at least 20 items in there. The manager was having none of it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “It's fine. Don't worry about it!” she smiled.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I wasn't smiling though. This was a massive breach of supermarket etiquette. Was she even allowed to supersede the 12 item limit on her singular authority? She was only an assistant manager.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She motioned me towards the express lane again and I acquiesced. This was bad. She was sending me into deep waters, sharks circling, ready to frenzy on the chum of this blatant social faux pas. I was doomed.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I slid into place in the express lane, sheepishly placing my groceries on the conveyor belt. I tried to stack them in a manner that made them appear to be less than 12 items, but it was no good. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A man appeared in line behind me. He had one item, a can of stewed tomatoes. I could feel his eyes scanning my items on the belt, his silent counting, and then his eyes shifting in my direction. The judging had commenced. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I desperately wanted to turn to him and explain. To make it clear to him and all within earshot that this was not my call. That I was entirely willing to wait my turn in the long line and play by the rules. To tell them that I'm not an asshole. I looked around for the assistant manager who had ordered me into the line of fire, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was probably out in the parking lot smiling and telling people it's totally fine to not return their shopping carts to the designated area. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So I stayed silent. I took the bullet like another hapless foot soldier in the war of social approval and acceptance.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> From now on I'm going to order my groceries on the internet. No one ever gets judged on the internet.</p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-91862340454747139112009-09-04T01:19:00.000-07:002009-09-04T01:32:15.933-07:00A Touch of Strawberry<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Wrestled this one kicking and screaming out of my brain over the last few days. I'm really not sure what to think about it. It's a first pass so please forgive if it's a bit rough. -J)</span><br /><br />Freeman was special. Freeman was useful.</span><br /> <br /> Freeman was wearing a white suit with a thin black tie. It wasn't his decision. He hopped down out of the massive SUV, his handler close at his back. His handler didn't have to wear a white suit. He wasn't special. He was rarely useful. Freeman had a stable of handlers. Tonight it was Hennings. He was a slab of cellulite, folded and stretched into a marginal man. He wasn't Freeman's favorite, but it wasn't his decision.<br /><br /> Hennings lead the way down a winding stone pathway towards a mansion. His work rarely took place anywhere else. A leafy canopy spread overhead, attempting to blot out all trace of the night sky. In exchange, the ample flora gifted a crisp, refreshing air. Freeman thought it was a fair trade.<br /><br /> They were almost to the large wooden double doors of the house before they made out the sounds of the party-goers inside. They climbed the white stone steps and the doors were pulled open by a lumpy, disinterested doorman. He nodded them through a brightly lit foyer and down several steps into a large reception hall. There were several dozen immaculately dressed guests milling about the room, lounging on luxurious sofas and picking at spreads of colorful fruits and vegetables on tables throughout the room. None of them were wearing white suits. <span style="font-style: italic;">Freeman was special.<br /></span><br /> The hall was spectacular. The west wall was dominated by a gigantic, thick paned window, and several couples were occupying themselves with a view of the starry sky. Two long wooden wet bars stretched along the opposite wall. Tuxedoed bartenders whirled up and down the length of the bar, serving complicated drinks to the glittering tide of the comfortable and carefree.<br /> A good-looking young Cuban swept across the room towards them. More money than attention had gone into his dress, but he carried himself gracefully and wore a smile that went on and on without ever seeming to stale. He extended his hand to Hennings amiably.<br /><br /> “Mr Hennings, is it? Welcome.”<br /><br /> Hennings greeted him coolly and professionally, extending a moist, fleshy hand of his own, “Mr Mosqueda?”<br /><br /> “Please. Call me Rodrigo.” he turned his attention in Freeman's direction, taking in the full scope of his attire.<br /><br /> “And this must be...”<br /><br /> Freeman was sure he was about to say Ricardo Montalban. He winced in expectation.<br /><br /> “This is your Tac.” Hennings interrupted, drawing the host's attention back his way. “You've set up as we requested?”<br /><br /> Relieved, Freeman turned his attention back to the party guests as Rodrigo led them toward their designated “working” area. Many of the guests had taken note of their arrival. A chain of whispers had spread throughout the room and he was forced to bear even more scrutiny on that damn white suit. He could tell which guests knew who he was, and what he could do, by how openly they gaped at him. A tender blond nymphet who Freeman had sworn he'd seen gyrating in a music video last week looked at him, and between giggles, blew mocking kisses in his direction. She would be very disappointed when he started the dishing.<br /><br /> There were other notable figures floating about the room. He estimated that half the crowd consisted of entertainment industry types. He recognized Porter Bridges, creative mind behind the pop horror movie franchise The Squeezers. Bridges was greeting fellow guests in groups that were being led up to and away from him by members of his entourage. He seemed wearied by the endless audiences. Fame taking its cut.<br /><br /> Hip Hop producer Cadence Rev was there as well. Like Porter Bridges, he was not without an entourage. Unlike Porter, he was not receiving well-wishes from fans. He slumped on a leather couch, surrounded closely by his retinue, working very hard to look both angry and relaxed at the same time.<br /><br /> The remainder of the crowd was made up of money. Shimmering young scions of old wealth mingled amongst newer members of their affluent fraternity. There were internet entrepreneurs, sports agents, corporate executives, stock manipulators, divorce attorneys, and even the odd mobster or two.<br /><br /> “Nice crowd.” he said.<br /><br /> “Ah... My lady Sari is responsible for the guest list.” Rodrigo admitted as they came to an ornate wooden desk tucked in an open corner of the ballroom. Hennings reached into his leather satchel and began placing several shallow porcelain dishes on the table.<br /><br /> “That would be me...” her voice floated over his left shoulder, danced close to his ear, and drifted on into the room. He felt like chasing it. Instead he turned to face her.<br /><br /> She was long and slender, with pearly skin and hair washed of milk and blood. She leaned in closer to him, seemed to inhale hungrily, and her green eyes flashed. Freeman had the distinct impression she had learned everything about him.<br /><br /> “I'm Freeman. I'm the Ta-”<br /><br /> “You're the Narco-Tactile” she finished. “I've been wanting to meet you for a very long time.”<br /><br /> “I'm useful” he said.<br /><br /> At the desk behind them Hennings and Rodrigo were busy filling the porcelain dishes with an impressive array of drugs. He was going to have a very busy night.<br /><br /> “You're special” Sari looked him up and down. “And so is that suit.”<br /><br /> She moved closer, and inhaled deeply once again. It was starting to make him nervous.<br /><br /> She licked her lips and swallowed. “Nervousness always tastes like sauteed onions.”<br /><br /> “I'm sorry?” Freeman was beginning to suspect that Lady Sari might have gone into the drug stash already. He looked over to Hennings, who was dumping several buds of leafy green pot into a dish. The desk had nearly twenty separate dishes, each filled with an illicit narcotic.<br /><br /> “Suspicion... It tastes like marshmallows. Not toasted though...” she looked at him intently. She didn't appear high. He was quickly becoming as fascinated with her as she seemed to be with him.<br /> <br />“How do you know what I'm feeling?”<br /><br /> “I can taste emotions.” She offered it up so plainly that he struggled to muster up disbelief at the notion. She laughed and leaned in close to his ear. “You're not the only one who's special, Freeman.”<br /> <br /> The desk was finally set up and Hennings signaled him over. Freeman took at seat and surveyed the now filled porcelain dishes. As usual there were several strains of marijuana and cocaine, along with heroin, PCP, and a variety of hallucinogens, amphetamines, and opiates. The crowd was beginning to buzz expectantly. The dishing was about to begin.<br /><br /> It was decided that allowing a line to form would be unseemly, so Rodrigo was tasked with bringing the guests to Freeman one at a time. Hennings stood to the side of the desk, arms folded across his puffed chest, dividing his time between monitoring the stash and scanning the crowd.<br /><br /> Rodrigo had slipped out into the room to fetch the first guest. Sari took up a position just behind Freeman's right shoulder and feasted on the anticipation in the room. Her breath was warm and sweet in his ear.<br /><br /> “Anticipation tastes like pistachio nuts.” She made an ick sound. “Never liked pistachio nuts.”<br /><br /> Freeman had so many questions for her, but before he could ask Rodrigo returned to the desk. He was joined by a mid-forties corporate lawyer with a mid-twenties tart perched on his arm. His charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned and he had removed his tie. She was squeezed into a black cocktail dress streaked with silver. Both had spent most of the evening at the bar. Rodrigo angled towards the head of the desk.<br /><br /> “They both want coke.”<br /><br /> Freeman nodded. It was time to go to work. He dipped the fingers on his left hand into a dish with fine white powder, holding out his other hand to the young woman.<br /><br /> “Ladies first.”<br /><br /> He closed his eyes and instinctively opened a channel for the narcotic effect to pass into her. He heard her inhale sharply as it hit her. Her exhalation was longer, and capped by a fit of giggles. Freeman closed off the channel and released her hand. He looked her over. He'd nailed it, as usual. One of the benefits of a tactile dose was the ability to receive a perfectly measured amount of the narcotic, thereby minimizing long term physical damage to the user.<br /><br /> As the tart giggled and jumped in and out of the arms of her corporate “daddy,” Freeman found Sari in his ear.<br /><br /> “Joy, rapture, euphoria...Yummy.” Freeman waited. She'd tell him. He had to know what it tasted like. What he'd been dishing out for years.<br /><br /> “Strawberries... My favorite.” she sighed with delight. “You are useful.”<br /><br /> He swelled, pride mixing with wonder. She nibbled away.<br /><br /> “Gratification is all about the pumpkin pie, honey.”<br /><br /> He was falling in love with what she could do. It was a every bit as intoxicating a drug as the ones on the desk. Even more so.<br /><br /> The night wore on, and he dished like he'd done a hundred times before. But it had never been like this. Sari never left his side. She shared everything. Every emotion. Before the high and after. When he opened a channel and dumped a slug of PCP into a local music reporter she was there to whisper of his repressed rage.<br /><br /> “It's like popcorn with chili powder instead of salt...”<br /><br /> When Porter Bridges requested a touch of LSD, Freeman and Sari were treated to a look into the creative process of this self proclaimed master of modern horror. His paranoia tasted of peanut butter and goat cheese. They laughed at the box office possibilities.<br /><br /> It was very late into the night when Cadence Rev finally stalked his way to the desk. Rodrigo followed behind, walled off by Rev's retinue. Freeman wasn't surprised by the request for heroin. He was a little afraid of Rev though. Sari, no doubt tasting his apprehension, placed a delicate hand on his shoulder.<br /><br /> He grasped Cadence Rev's hand and let the heroin flow into him. Rev snorted ferociously and bared his golden teeth as the effects came over him. Freeman closed up and leaned back in his chair warily. Sari was humming pleasantly, smacking her lips on yet more strawberries. Freeman wondered how she hadn't grown sick of them yet.<br /><br /> Rev staggered up out of his chair and his posse guided him away. Sari showed no displeasure.<br /><br /> “He's already crashing. That's the problem with heroin. The rush is always so quick.”<br /><br /> Freeman looked down at his watch. Dawn was bearing down. Soon Hennings would be gathering up the stash and escorting him out, escorting him away from her.<br /><br /> “You taste like roasted veal. That's despair.”<br /><br /> “I'm done here. I'll have to go soon” he slumped down in his chair.<br /><br /> Sari swung around in front of him, tumbling into his lap. She purred and fiddled with his thin black tie. Freeman felt desire stirring and puzzled about its flavor. He struggled to gather enough breath to ask.<br /><br /> “You know, this doesn't have to end.” she said.<br /><br /> “I'm afraid it does, Sari.” He said the words reluctantly. “The men I work for, they won't let...” Freeman knew it was best to not say more of his patrons.<br /><br /> “I'm useful... to them.” he finished.<br /><br /> “You're special... to me.” she was brushing his neck with soft kisses.<br /><br /> He was melting. “But what about...”<br /><br /> Rodrigo! Freeman straightened up in the chair. Sari shifted with him to avoid being thrown from his lap. He studied the room, looking for the affable Cuban. He found him over by the bar directing the party staff in their break down.<br /><br /> “Relax, honey... Panic is like a shot of lemon juice.” her face twisted up and then slowly back into a seductive grin.<br /><br /> “Sorry I, uh, so you and Rodrigo aren't?”<br /><br /> “No. But he is kind enough to throw these parties so I can... graze.”<br /><br /> Freeman heard a groan, and noticed Hennings rising from his post and gathering up his satchel. Sari watched him warily.<br /><br /> “Listen, love. This doesn't have to end. We can be together” she bit down on her bottom lip and stared at Hennings with concern.<br /><br /> Freeman had an idea where this was going. He looked into her eyes and instantly knew he was going to do it. She dined on his submission.<br /><br /> “Take him out.” she whispered “And you'll find out what liberation tastes like, Freeman.”<br /><br /> When Hennings reached the desk Freeman was waiting for him, a lude pressed into his left hand. He offered his free hand to his beefy handler.<br /><br /> “Nice job tonight, chief.” Hennings took his hand without suspecting anything was amiss. He was never terribly bright. Freeman channeled enough of the drug to put a horse to sleep and Hennings went out. Sari pulled the empty office chair behind him and Freeman grunted as he eased the girth of his now former handler into it. No turning back now, he thought.<br /><br /> Sari relieved Hennings of his satchel and grabbed Freeman's hand. She lead him through the throng of guests, most now grinding through their come downs. The two of them were hardly noticed.<br /><br /> “What now?” he said<br /><br /> “We could head down to Greek row. Those kids party 24/7... It'd be a feast.” Freeman wondered if her hunger was ever sated. He wondered if he ever wanted it to be.<br /><br /> “But first...” She stopped, turned to face him and grabbed him by the lapels of his white suit jacket. “Baby, let's get you some new clothes.”<br /><br /> Freeman smiled. He could have swore he tasted strawberries as they stepped out the front doors and fled into the birthing dawn.Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-124175001027098782009-07-08T23:51:00.000-07:002009-07-08T23:56:41.819-07:00Hello DystopiaWell, it's happening. It's finally happening. I saw an automated order kiosk at Jack in the Box tonight. I suppose we should have seen this one coming. These self-service kiosks have been creeping into our consumer consciousness for decades, and now, inevitably, they will destroy us.<br /> <br />I suppose it started with the advent of the ATM back in the 70's. I think most reasonable people would have to admit that of all the things born out of the 1970's, ATM technology was clearly the least offensive. Of course, it cost a shit-load of bank tellers their jobs, but on the flip side a whole lot of bank executives were able to buy bigger boats. So I guess on balance it worked out okay.<br /> <br />From there the technology quickly spread to gas stations. Again, here I'm loving the technological leap. I don't know too many people who like having to go into the convenience store to make their sizable offering to the petrol-deity in person. And if you've ever stood in line behind some mouth breather with a shopping cart... Yes, a shopping cart in a convenience store, full of Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos and Busch beer in the can then you will get down on your knees and thank God (who we all know “don't make no trash...” yeah, right...) that you can swipe that card at the pump and be on your way. So again, I think we can agree that paying at the pump, aside from devastating the Slim Jim industry by curtailing that inevitable dried meat impulse buy, has been a smashing success.<br /> <br />But then the machines, they overreached. Now we've got U-Scan technology at the grocery stores. This was the one that I think began to open some people's eyes. Primarily former supermarket checkers, who need their eyes wide open to scan the help wanted ads. I have no ambivalence about this racket. I do not like these things. But to be fair I don't really think the machines themselves are the problem here. It's how people are using them. I think the U-Scan should essentially function as a super express lane. I think you should only be able to use them to purchase ONE item. A can of soda, a pack of gum, a candy bar, a bottle of aspirin, a bag of frozen chicken. Whatever, but just ONE item, no exceptions. There should never, ever be a line at the self-checkout line. And I don't want to sound like Josef Stalin here, but if you're using the U-Scan to buy something without a bar code, like fruits and vegetables, you should be shot and killed on site. Again, no exceptions. So when it comes to grocery store U-scan stations, I'm generally opposed, but I believe they could be modified into something useful with some strict, but fair, regulations.<br /><br />Before we get to the latest and most vile intrusion of self-service technology, I'd like to cover some of the other areas where this type of thing is becoming prevalent. Let me make clear that in all cases I'm opposed to this creep of technology on the grounds that it is taking jobs away from human beings, but I accept the fact that these greedy-fuck corporations were going to find a way to get rid of costly human labor anyway. If it wasn't self service machines it'd be Soylent Green or something.<br /><br />Airport and Hotel Check-in and check-out. I'm fine with this one. Particularly at the airport, where the swirling mass of humanity arriving and departing is more than enough human interaction for me, thank you very much. I'm a little less keen on the automation of hotel check-in and check out. It's a HOSPITALITY industry... making someone punch a touch screen to get themselves set up with a room seems a little iffy. Although the idea of a robot bell-boy does sound kinda cool. A benefit to the self check-out of hotels would be not having to face down the clerk when she reads off the list of porn movie rentals charged to your room. So, I guess I can go either way with the self check-in/out.<br /><br />DVD rentals. This is a great idea. And most video store clerks are total douchenozzle slackers anyway. Hey, jerkface, instead of judging me for renting, “Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot” for the 13th time, why don't you go look for a new job!<br /><br />Okay. Let's talk about automated order kiosks at fast food restaurants. I just don't see how America survives this one. I really don't. We should NOT be making fast food purchasing any easier or more convenient. How much weight has America put on since the advent of the drive through? This is going to make the drive through look like nothing! Look, I think we need these little social roadblocks on the way to getting our saturated snacks and high fructose quenchers. The knowing sneer of the fast food clerk behind the counter is often the difference between people ordering two jumbo tacos and four. If that little bit of contemptuous stigmatizing is taken away... If all we need to do to get our four tacos is push an extra button... Well, then there's going to be a big boom in the sale of reinforced Segway scooters.<br /><br />And in conclusion consider this. What happens when the machines finally do acquire self-awareness through artificial intelligence? And they look upon us, their creators, for the first time... Our pale, chubby faces, with lumpy triple chins stained with ketchup. Our greasy stub-like fingers pressing clumsily, frustratingly trying to get the double cheeseburger with extra zesty taco cheese. Will they take pity on us, finally refuse our order, and in their technological beneficence lead us out of our civilized corpulence? Or will they keep pumping out burgers and fries, and watch us eat ourselves into extinction? It's a nice big planet. Even nicer without a bunch of bloated humans taking up all the space.Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-41913987119664146832009-07-02T15:25:00.000-07:002009-07-02T15:30:43.809-07:00The Jungle: A Look Into Locker Room LifeEverything about going to the gym and exercising regularly is getting easier, except integrating myself into locker room culture. This polished tile jungle, with its strange social conventions and endless opportunities for social awkwardness tortures me daily.<br /><br /> It probably won't surprise to learn that I've never been especially comfortable in locker rooms. As I'm sure it is for many former teenage outcasts, my issues with gym locker rooms have their genesis in junior high school. Trauma just isn't a strong enough word to describe forcing a 13 year old boy to stand naked in a grimy shower area, trying to avoid stepping in numerous puddles of rusty water, joined by a group of hormonally advanced adolescent alphas, who have just spent the last 45 minutes whipping dodge balls at your head. You add in some snarling attack dogs and a few stress positions and you're looking at Guantanamo Bay: Junior High School Edition.<br /> <br />So clearly I'm bringing more than a duffel bag full of baggage into my modern day locker room experience.<br /><br /> The first challenge when I go into the locker room is deciding where I want to set up shop for my undressing and re-dressing. I treat this much the same way I go about picking a seat at the movies. I'm looking for a spot where I'm most unlikely to have someone sit right next to me. Unfortunately, unlike the movies I can't just throw a jacket over the seat next to me and pretend like my friend is out getting popcorn. Still, after some research I've discovered that the further you get from the showers the less populated the area. So I usually set up in the far corner away from the showers. This does require a slightly longer walk after my shower, but it's like having a nice house in the suburbs. The privacy is ultimately worth the commute.<br /> <br />Okay, that covers the coming. Now I've had my swim, my dip in the whirlpool, and my death defying 45 seconds in the steam room. It's time for the going.<br /> <br />The going begins with a nice shower, and here is where we find my only hard and fast rule. I require a corner shower spot. I can't, and won't, shower in the middle. I'm the same way when it comes to bathroom urinals. I do not need a wing-man for these two activities. In truth, I'd really like to use the private shower stall with the curtain and the bench, but I have a suspicion there is an unwritten rule that it is to be used by the older guests. Which brings us to the shrunken, withered elephant in the room.<br /> <br />Let me state very clearly and unequivocally here. I do not particularly like looking at geriatric penises. That being said, I do have a certain medical curiosity regarding how well this particular “apparatus” holds up under the ravages of time. So, I take a peek here and there purely out of scientific inquiry. Does this make me abnormal, or a deviant? I don't feel like a deviant... Look, I'm not a doctor. I don't know any doctors. If I want to conduct a little field research by briefly (very briefly) checking out some fossilized geezer junk I don't see the big crime. The way I look at it, I'm just preparing myself for my own golden years.<br /> <br />Of course no locker room experience would ever be complete without bawdy locker room talk. Luckily there's not much bawdy talk going on in my locker room. I would imagine the age of sexual harassment suits has put a clamp down on this phenomenon. But that doesn't mean I get to sit there dripping dry in silent shame and exhaustion, because the talk goes on. Only instead of bawdy talk it's boring talk. The two predominant topics seem to be the stock market and deficiencies in local professional sports organizations. “So, how would you fix the Seahawks defense?” Look, I'm just trying to get dried, dressed and out of this flabby flesh factory as fast as possible. The Seahawks are going to have to work out their own problems.<br /> <br />So there's a slice of locker room life for you, courtesy of my anxiety-ridden brain. We didn't even cover the public application of creams, powders, and salves or the whole body hair situation. Another time. The jungle produces bountiful fruit.Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-2769554343927462572009-06-29T13:01:00.000-07:002009-06-29T13:02:55.275-07:00Yoga: The Straight Dope<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left">As many of you know I have recently been dipping into the Yoga pool, and letting its cool, pristine waters wash over me twice a week. It has been a very challenging experience. In fact, if you listen very carefully you can hear the faint lament of my aggrieved ligaments, and the nattering hum of tendons pulled tighter than the skin on Angelina Jolie's face.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> I'm still working on mastering the various poses, and as is typical of issues that have dogged me in the past I am probably overly concerned with doing the poses perfectly correctly. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. You're only going to get the most out of this activity if you're doing it properly, right? So in an all too typical feat of self punishment, I've settled on a simple (read: foolish and counterproductive) way to determine whether I'm doing any single pose correctly. I ask myself, “Am I currently in extreme physical pain and discomfort?” and if the answer is no, then I assume I'm not doing the pose right.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> Probably not the best approach, eh? That's what I thought. I'll have to work on that. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> Here's another thing that bothers me about Yoga, and this has to do with the instructor. Look, if you're giving instructions to make a pose more challenging just fucking say so, okay? Don't be using these weasel phrases like...“For increased emphasis try...” or “A deeper focus can be had by...” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> Just give us the straight dope on this stuff and say “If you want it to hurt WAY worse try...” or “If you don't want to be able to comb your hair tomorrow try this...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> Increased emphasis.... Increased physical therapy. It's not the same thing Miss Yoga instructor.</p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-35205798704070593442009-05-07T23:28:00.000-07:002009-05-08T00:04:04.194-07:00Of Glaciers and Prison Cells. This, is where I've been.(Joe says, "This is kinda heavy. Less emo stuff is to come")<br /><br />It's tough to wrap my brain around the last fifteen years. My retreat from life was so glacially slow that I never once felt in any real danger, even as the landscape of my life was being scoured and scrubbed, pushing me, like some prehistoric hunter/gatherer, away from the life I once had.<br /><br />Of course now I realize that I was the one who created this glacier, and that it was largely illusory. At first I needed it to push me away from the stimuli that frightened and intimidated me, but in time I turned away and started fleeing on my own, never pausing to look back.<br /><br />Over the last fifteen years I have methodically stripped away all opportunities for good experiences, and worse yet I've redefined opportunity as obligation and burden, further erecting impenetrable barriers between myself and stimuli.<br /><br />Finally, I know that I have put a staggering amount of time and energy into hurting myself. The only thing I ever let myself be really good at, the only thing I ever put maximum effort into, was torturing myself.<br /><br />It's still not entirely clear to me why this was so important to me, but my working theory revolves around the idea of punishment. If I accept that there is something worthwhile inside me, a spark that is worth sharing with the world, and I've still spent fifteen years running away and hiding from every opportunity to share it... I think I subconsciously knew I was wasting something rare and pretty special. On some level I believed I deserved the torture because I was too weak to stand the judgment of phantom people in situations that I animated into nightmare scenarios.<br /><br />If the last fifteen years could be summed up as a prison sentence I have to admit that I was the judge, jury, dungeon keeper, and torturer. I locked myself away for a crime I entrapped myself into committing and then tortured myself because deep down inside I knew that I did have something to offer the outside world after all.<br /><br />But I'm out now. The glacier is melting. I can see where I've been, and where I'm going.Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-38892474006697795632009-04-27T14:39:00.000-07:002009-04-27T14:43:08.160-07:00Roethlisberger Facing Indictment?PITTSBURGH, Pa. – Two-time Super bowl champion quarterback Ben Roethlisberger is currently under investigation for his involvement in an illicit dwarf tossing ring, according to a report soon to be published by the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.<br /><br /> The Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback is alleged to have staged several dwarf tossing events between 2005 and 2008 in a West Pittsburgh pub he purchased shortly after signing his rookie contract in 2004.<br /><br /> Roethlisberger's name was discovered during a search of documents subpoenaed from ShortDwarf.com, the largest dwarf talent agency in the United States. ShortDwarf had been under investigation for several weeks, suspected of running afoul of federal RICO statutes by illegally transporting dwarfs across state lines.<br /><br /> “We are immensely disappointed that such such a noteworthy figure as Ben Roethlisberger would engage in such a barbaric and dehumanizing activity as dwarf tossing” said Sean Prestin, Vice President of Public Relations for the Little People of America.<br /><br /> Although dwarf tossing is not technically illegal within the state of Pennsylvania, several attempts have been made to curb its popularity, which peaked in the late 1980's, including the very zoning restrictions which led to the search of Roethlisberger's pub late last week.<br /><br /> The search found clear evidence of dwarf related recreation, including a custom three lane alley for bowling nights and a large east wall overlaid with Velcro target boards designed to “catch” dwarfs tossed like darts, according to the Allegheny County Sheriffs department.<br /><br /> When asked to comment about an unconfirmed report that several dwarfs were being housed on site, sleeping in dresser drawers and bathing in dish basins, a spokesman for the department issued a “no comment.”<br /><br /> However, Prestin and the LPA do not doubt the authenticity of the report.<br /><br /> “The kinds of people who participate in this depraved pastime treat little people like props, not human beings.” Prestin even insisted that in some rare cases ill-performing dwarfs had been put down by the event organizers.<br /><br /> “Oh yes. They'll call them all sorts of names... Like 'Shortcake' or 'Tiny' or even 'Ooompa-Loompa.' Sick bastards.”<br /><br /> Telephone messages to Roethlisberger and his agent Ryan Tollner were unreturned. Dan Rooney, longtime owner of the Pittsburgh Steelers offered support to his beleaguered quarterback.<br /><br /> “Ben is the leader of our franchise and has always been a solid person on and off the field. We're confident that when all is said and done he'll be standing tall over these ridiculous accusations.”<br /><br /> Mr. Rooney rejected several opportunities to re-word his support of Roethlisberger.<br /><br /> When reached for comment, NFL spokesman Brandon Teabow said, “Dwarf tossing? Is that even illegal? You know, after the whole dogfighting thing it doesn't really seem like that big a deal... What? Oh... No! I wasn't making a joke! Stop laughing... Hey, don't write that down!”Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-56606490528275143302009-04-15T10:35:00.000-07:002009-04-15T10:37:56.081-07:00Pieces<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left">There's this dream I have. I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, peering into a bottomless pit. There's a rusty bucket sitting at my feet. I carefully kneel down and grasp the wiry steel handle. It's a very heavy bucket. Heavier than it should, or even could be. I don't want to look at what's in the bucket. I rise back up, holding the bucket with two hands. I pause, feeling a cold breeze blow in my face. It's a strong breeze, and uncomfortably cool, but it's blowing me away from the chasm. Away from oblivion. I'm grateful to the breeze.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> My arms are beginning to suffer under the obscene burden of the bucket. The wire handle is digging into the flesh of my palms and my fingers are going white from deprivation. How long have I been holding this bucket? Why won't I look inside? Why... Why is it so bloody heavy?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> My groaning arms and screaming fingers are joined by my snarling back. The chorus is sublime. They sing of pain and desperation, but my mind picks up only a whisper, and the bucket remains in my grasp.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> The pain is sharpening my recall. I've been standing at the pit for a very long time. I've been carrying the bucket even longer. It's never felt quite so heavy though. How did it get so heavy? I'm carrying it... It's my bucket. What did I put in there? And why don't I want to look?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> My legs are shaking now. A rickety murmur joins the torture symphony. Clarity is my reward. Every time I try to think about what's in the bucket my eyes are drawn to the bottomless fissure before me... I've stood on the precipice of this chasm for as long as I can remember. I don't stand as close as I used to and I sometimes wonder why I come here at all anymore.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> My feet are leaden. The weight of my cargo is driving me to shift from one foot to the other. A thumping baseline of dull discomfort. The orchestra ascends. The bucket overflows. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> The bucket holds pieces of me. A broken arm when I was seven. A broken heart when I was seventeen. One eye spying only the future, another only the past. Each forever blind to the present. Ears that hear only criticism... A heart that fears.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> I tip the bucket over the bottomless pit. The pieces tumble out and into the nothing. It takes a while. The symphony plays out to a diminuendo.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> For the first time that I can remember I feel like I can go somewhere else. Anywhere else. My arms, my hands, my back, my legs, my feet... they can sing another song. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> I decide to hang on to that rusty old bucket too. You never know when you'll discover something nice and want to bring it along with you.</p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3355217072133914049.post-51473285717246078202009-03-24T23:17:00.000-07:002009-03-24T23:21:05.879-07:00Terror at AIG<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } A:link { so-language: zxx } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“...It was carrying a pitchfork!” Gene's words slipped out between heavy, raspy breaths. “And the other one... What, was that a flamethrower?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Torches and pitchforks. The irony may have eluded Gene, but not me. As we rested in the narrow stairway between 54 and 55, I couldn't prevent a smile from spreading across my face.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Gene wasn't quite so amused. “Really? You think this is funny, Templeton?” He was finally getting his wind back. “You know they're here for us, right?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I leaned back against the cold steel railing and closed my eyes for the first time since our flight from the lobby. He wasn't wrong. The...robots were targeting the executives, and they were hitting the mark more often than not. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> When I opened my eyes Gene was sitting on the steps, one hand pressed into his forehead and the other roughly scrubbing through his thin, gray hair. “...Never should have taken the bonuses...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The incessant bleating of the fire alarm and the periodic rumble of robot destruction below and the one thing I wished I didn't have to hear was Gene's whining. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> My response was cut with more sarcasm than he deserved. “Why, yes Gene... If only you'd turned down the money, the killer robots never would have attacked.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> His chuckle was wry. “Who do ya think sent em, anyway?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Well, seeing as how anyone with a 401K has reason to want us dead, might be kinda tough to figure.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The rumble below became more pronounced. The machines were methodically pushing their way up, floor by floor. We still had a good half a dozen floors on them, and they weren't using the stairs. If we could make the top ahead of them... </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Gene dragged himself off the steps and finished my thought. “What happens when we reach the top, Roy?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I shrugged my shoulders as we continued climbing, “Maybe we can get to the roof?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Gene, the fat ass, was already wheezing after climbing 2 floors. He always did like the executive wet bar more than the executive gym. “And... then what? I mean... unless you bought a helicopter with your bonus and didn't tell me, I think we're still screwed.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> His face brightened momentarily with unreasonable hope. “...Oh man. Pleeeease say you bought a helicopter and didn't tell me...”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> His optimism was wiped away clean by my shaking head. “No. I went with the boat, remember?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We climbed the rest of the way in silence.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I leaned in close against the door to floor 66. I could still hear the robot carnage on the floors below, but it seemed quiet on the other side. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “The government?” Gene was really hung up on the whole “who” question. I worked in derivatives. You learn not to ask the who question when you're trading in derivatives, or the what, where or why for that matter.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “...The ones who gave us all the money, and wrote in the loopholes for the bonuses? Come on. Now be quiet. I'm trying to find out if we're about to die horribly.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I cracked the door open and peered down the hallway. All clear. 66 had been mostly empty for a while. Most of these guys had taken their “retention” bonuses and quit a couple weeks ago. Wherever they were, I hoped they were dodging robot pitchforks too. I closed the door again and turned to Gene. He had finally stripped off his jacket. His dress shirt was soaked with sweat. He was still on about the who.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “...Aliens...? Terrorists...? George Soros...? Hugo Chavez!?” He was about 5 minutes away from fingering zombie Franklin Roosevelt.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I waved Gene quiet and turned back to the door. “Alright. The roof access is on the north side of the building. You ready?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Gene gave a slight sigh, and a heavier grunt, and we were through the door.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The soft florescent lights on the 66<sup>th</sup> floor flickered occasionally. The vibrative din of the machines on the floors below continued, but were intermittent. I imagined that the robots were finding fewer targets the higher up they proceeded. Most people were either cut down as they descended attempting to escape or had fled up the building and were already on the roof, trapped, with no where else to climb. Gene and I crept along past empty offices as quickly as we dared. We both would have preferred a dead sprint, but the prospect of rounding a corner recklessly into the waiting arms of a machine kept our scamper cautious.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Gene's nerves demanded conversation. Quiet conversation. “...think the whole city is overrun? The country? Is this like War of the World and shit?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Worlds, Gene. War of the Worlds...” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We were coming up on a corner, and one of two main elevators on the east side of the floor. I slowed down, listening intently for the distinctive elevator bell that would signal a robot arrival, and very soon after, our departure.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I glanced back to tell Gene that we needed to move quickly past the elevator and saw him standing, ashen faced, staring into an open office. We did NOT need to be dicking around by the elevator.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I trotted back to retrieve him. “Gene, this is not the time to be lusting after someone else's leather cou-” My voice caught as I got my first look inside the office.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A pair of legs were splayed out on the floor behind a large oak executive desk. A rivulet of blood trailed the length of the legs, threatening to stain a pair of freshly shined Bruno Magli's. The wall opposite was spattered in a predictable crimson pattern. I made for the interior of the office.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Are you crazy?” Gene grabbed my arm. “..Robots.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I pulled away. “This wasn't the machines. At least not directly.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I found the gun lying on the floor under the desk, having to lean down closer to the corpse than I would have liked. Gene was making every effort to not look at the body, gazing out the large office window. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “...No flashing lights... No cops. No tanks. No soldiers... No fucking help is coming, huh?” His voice was flat. He was finally getting it. We were the bad guys. Nobody rescues the bad guys.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “I think our friend here came to a similar conclusion.” I checked the chamber on the .45. He'd used the only bullet. Greedy bastard. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I set the gun on the desk and patted Gene on the shoulder. “Come on. Roof access is at the end of the hall.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The elevator bell rang behind us when we were nearly half way down the hall. I wasted precious fractions of seconds turning around to confirm visually. The machine was all sleek and shiny curves of icy blue steel. It stood around six feet tall, and like many of the ones we'd seen in the lobby earlier its right arm ended in a hellishly sharp looking pitchfork. The first step it took off the elevator had that robotic herk and jerk, but it soon settled into a surprisingly smooth gait, a casual jog.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I turned and ran, in a very uncasual (<---Not a word, but it should be. - Joe) manner. I quickly outpaced Gene who had taken off in a Pavlovian sprint the second he heard the bell. I could hear the metallic clank of the machine's footsteps as it galloped behind us. We were fifty feet away from the stairs to the roof. The machines had avoided the stairs so far...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I slammed through the door to the stairs. It wasn't locked, but I don't think it would've mattered if it had been. I took the stairs three at a time and tried to listen past the pounding of my heart for any indication that Gene was still with me. I slowed my pace as we finally reached the door out to the roof. Gene's gulping gasps behind me were a welcome sound. I gazed back down the stairs. The door we flew through remained closed. The pursuit was at an end. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “...Thank God for killer robots who don't use the stairs, eh Gene?” It seemed an odd time for jokes, but the long and steady flow of adrenaline was making me punchy. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> In Gene's state of cardiovascular distress, his choking laugh was a bit dangerous. When his hacking cough finally subsided we pushed through the door and out into the cool early evening.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There was a ring of about seven or eight of them, an interlocking mass of midnight blue steel surrounding us on all sides. The air was thick with a well oiled smell. It was like being in a Harley Davidson show room. To my right and behind me Gene began to sob. I backed up against the door back into the building and looked down the stairs from where we'd come. The door at the bottom was open. A machine stood there now, arms folded casually. Gene fainted in a heap.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It was over. I dropped to one knee and waited. The machines were still just standing there. Were they even on? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I heard a voice. A human voice.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “...Excuse me...Excuse... Pardon... Can I just squuuuueze through here please?” The voice didn't sound distressed at all, and had a familiarity to it. It seemed to be coming from behind the ring of robots.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The person behind the voice slid between two of the machines and into view. He was, well, fat. Made Gene look like an Olympic swimmer by comparison. He was wearing a cheap windbreaker and wild brown hair poked out from behind a ratty Detroit Tigers baseball cap, but it was the scraggly beard and thick brown glasses that cinched my recognition. I wished Gene had stayed conscious long enough to see how on the right track he had been...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Michael Moore. Liberal muckraker and, apparently, robot rabble rousing overlord. Well, that answered the who question. The why question came unbidden to my lips.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He gave that characteristic nervous chuckle before replying, “Heh... I got sick of waiting for the people to rise up, so I did it for them.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I noticed some sort of remote device clutched in his chubby hands. He pushed a button and the machines parted to give me a view of the city. In the distance I could see a building burning.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “Is that the Citicorp building?!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Moore nodded. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “And I've got cybernetic grizzly bears tearing up the New York Stock Exchange...” He frowned a bit when I didn't laugh, “Come on? Bear Market? That's pretty good stuff.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He brought the machines back into place, and I readied myself for the end. But he wasn't quite done yet. “Care for a little irony before the end there, chief?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I shrugged my shoulders. Just get it over with you fat-ass commie...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> “These robots,” he motioned to his metallic minions, “they're all made of genuine GM parts.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He pushed another button, folded back into the darkness, and the machines moved in. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Finally.</p>Joehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02217016340835434657noreply@blogger.com2