Gary E. Weller: Fiction Repository

Pink Predilection

2011-11-04T19:31:00.000-07:00

Manicured fingernails tapped the screen on the pink Torchwood to close the article. Hove had really screwed up this time and she was going to let him know that he did. There was going to be none of his fast talk or back peddling this time. If she didn’t recover the two neo humans, Demiourgos would lose billions in research and development as well as the prototype clones. She knew what they could do, what they could cause. She would have to either set up a team from Demiourgos to recover them or recruit external assets from outside the corporation. Neither of the choices she ran through was suitable for her.

It would have been best if her Project Manager had worked with the Head of Research and Development instead of creating a hostile work environment with Lucas Fir causing one of her most brilliant assets to turn into a liability. Still, there was a possibility in turning her former Head of Research into a different kind of asset. She’d have to spin the sales pitch to the damaged Lucas Fir after he had recovered from the implant surgery.

She quickly tapped on the Torchwood and brought up the medical chart on Lucas Fir. His eyes and tongue were removed when the neo humans were set free by the infiltrator. The spine was tore up and sliced effectively turning the body that housed Lucas Fir’s brilliant mind into nothing more than a meat sack. The man was crippled and from the bottom line, it was going to cost more than the proverbial six million to put him back together into a usable asset. Even if Fir’s consciousness were downloaded into a virtual brain box, the cost was going to exceed ten million. It would be better for Demiourgos to have him walking around again though. It was better for morale.

A frown passed through her face causing her lips to pout slightly. Hitting another icon on the Torchwood, the screen coalesced into a chromed mirror. Angling the mirror up, she checked her lips, as pink as the Torchwood’s cover. They were full and looked moist. That worked for her. It was a powerful and subtle tool that she used to her advantage.

The pink frames on her glasses stood out against her face giving her an academic, almost businesslike look. This worked for her as well because most of her underlings who though with their dicks wanted the fantasy of the sex kitten hidden deep within the folds of the bookish number crunching geektress that she appeared to be. She also found that it had an equally disturbing effect on her female underlings as well. Some took her for granted; others just wanted to take her.

A custom piece of code that the woman had embedded in the Demiourgos chat feeds delivered the various feeds directly to her Torchwood. The woman thumbed the matriphone again and launched the code. The feed was instantly pushed to her without the knowledge of the two users.

2318-00091023 DGReyLinC: She’s got real DSL’s

1902-00400529 InvDia623: Yeah, she sure does. And Holy Jeebus, huge tracts of land!

2318-00091023 DGReyLinC: ZoZo’s got nothing on her, man.

1902-00400529 InvDia623: [WO]man, actually.

2318-00091023 DGReyLinC: Oh. Sorry

1902-00400529 InvDia623: Hakuna Matata M8. GNDN, you know?

2318-00091023 DGReyLinC: Yeah, cool. Thx.

1902-00400529 InvDia623: We all gotta eat, right?

Instinctively, the frown on the woman’s face increased. She brought up another app on the Torchwood and pulled up the chatter’s profiles. DGReyLinC served under her as a minor programmer in the Lexicon Grid. He was a resource that was easy to come by and not a great asset. His performance reviews hadn’t shown anything promising in the last quarter. DGReyLinC was right though, her lips were gorgeous; she had engineered them herself.

InvDia623 was another console cowgirl who was responsible for routing the traffic and incoming calls for the Plaza Level where the Corporate Apartments were. She was also declining in her productivity and could easily be replaced by a CGI subroutine.

The woman brought up a new app on the Torchwood and rifled off several memos. She knew that within minutes DGReyLinC would have to explain why suddenly his and his wife’s credit had been revoked, IRA holdings and Stock Options that they had worked so hard for after the last decade had suddenly vanished off the face of the Earth, and how it truly wasn’t him in the digital stills partying with the latest iteration of the ZoZo Bubblegum Girls that was sent to his wife’s message box.

Much the same was in store for InvDia623. Except that for her life partner, a series of warrants were put out for InvDia623 with suspicion of intent to distribute as well as several secured emails and transactions documenting her money laundering and embezzlement from Demiourgos for the past five years.

The woman smiled as she sent the last of her instructions. In the span of 15 minutes, she had cut a total of $150,000 from the bottom line for this quarter. It was really a pittance in the grand scheme of things, but every last dollar counted when trying to keep certain projects from leaking out to the competitors.

Projects being leaked out brought her back to thinking about Joseph Hove and his supreme ineptitude. The press team he put together did a decent job, but the Salicur City Police Department wasn’t going to buy the story for long. People were going to start talking. It was only going to be a matter of time before Alexander Samson was going to start finding the trail back to Demiourgos.

Hove needed to take point on this operation, but she felt that he had already lost his power. She was going to have to take it over and spin the release of information into a skein that could be both believable and removed Demiourgos from the investigation. She had a connection, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that Judas Blue was insane.

Semper Fidelis

2011-09-02T21:21:00.000-07:00

The knife was sharp. He made sure it was sharp. His father had taught him how to make the blade sharp. Gunnery Sergeant Greene wouldn’t have had it any other way. There was no other way. It was his way or the highway.

“John, never give your enemy any mercy,” he could hear his father’s gravelly voice in his ear, intoxicating his mind, punctuated with the Gunny’s fists.

Today was different. Gunny had taught him to make the knife sharp. Gunny had trained him to show no mercy. John stared at the knife in his father’s chest.

It was done.

Dak Kodak

2011-08-28T00:05:00.001-07:00

George Eastman watched his friends leave with a bit of sadness in his heart. He knew it was going to be the last time he saw them. They were good workers, businessmen and confidants. George was going to miss them all. Without them, he knew that the entire world would have already succumbed to the Dak. Very few actually knew about the species let alone see them in their natural form. George kept that secret to himself and a scant few within his company that was founded so long ago.

He only became aware of the Dak by accident. It was during the planning of the trip to Santo Domingo. The enormous amount of devices that he was trying to pack for the trip leaked into his spare clothes and toiletries. It was too late for George to not be affected by the chemicals that had already soaked into the silk pocket-square. With eyes burning from the combination of chemicals, George Eastman’s quickly and surprisingly came into focus.

The beings seemed to shimmer into an existence without the knowledge of everyone else around them. George looked up and down the street and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Between the men and women carrying about their business throughout the day were the unspeakable things that flickered in and out of reality. Strange pops and sizzles came from them.

All together too many of the beings seemed to group together communicating in a series of flashing lights from orbs circulating around their misshapen and lumpy heads. What George took as their faces were little more than a bristly series of insect-like antennae that absorbed the light from the circulating orbs. The bristles radiated colored sparks all along the misshapen head and then arced to another of the alien’s lumpy and bristled heads to start the process all over again.

Three of the things were in tow surrounding Roland Jenkins, one of his mother’s boarders. The man was bedraggled as the sparks passed through him from one Dak to another. Jenkins’ eyes were puffy and dark circles lined his eyes as if he were punched in the nose.

“Dak skzzzzzzzzzat.”

“Dikdak,”

“Dakdak stzkozat dek-DAK.”

As he approached the house, George could see the strain on Jenkins’ face. He often complained of headaches and now George could see the cause of them. The Dak were passing their lightning through his body and soul.

It was then that George Eastman knew God’s plan for him. More pops and sizzles sounded off from further down the street. Everywhere that George looked, there were more Dak slithering in that impossible gate near people passing their lighting to each other through the men and women walking about Rochester.

Divine Providence gave him the power to see the unholy monstrosities and he knew that God would give him the tools and knowledge to somehow destroy them. George didn’t know what else to do but try to get a picture of the beasts.

As quickly as humanly possible, George Eastman began to set up the bulky mass that he was to bring to Santo Domingo with his mother. The task was important, he had to capture the image on the glass plate and get the image developed. Others had to know that these creatures, these Dak were in the world. His destiny unfolded before him within colored snaps and pops from an alien race. Colors flooded his mind as he ran. Soon, he began to understand them.

“He’szh dak-shtzzzzzztak.”

“Kidakdek shzee us!”

George prepared the plate and slid it into the wooden frame and opened the aperture to illuminate the coated glass. Immediately he regretted it. The noise on the other side of the curtain was terrible and loathsome as the Dak seemed to stop in place. High pitched screams mixed with equally loud pops and sizzles began to fill the air.

“Kodak! Kodak!”

Slowly George came out from underneath the curtain as the image burned itself into the silver salts that were coating the glass plate. He let the aperture of the camera close as many of the Dak came to a halt in the street. The color faded from their orbs and the lightning passing between them ceased. The tentacled, deformed bodies did not move as the wind took their particulate like smoke from a stack.

“Tzzzze meat hazzzt kodak uzzt!”

The sickly voice came from behind George. Turning, he faced the Dak and stared. The imprint of the alien visage burned into his mind. The Dak squelched and popped ambers and reds at George. He could only smile at the feeble attempt at the attack. He could live with a headache.

It would only take three years of experimentation for George to perfect the next stage. He, Henry Strong, and the others that were brought into the fold fought the Dak at every turn – with every picture. The secret war began in earnest in 1888 when the Kodak Camera was given to the public for only $25.00.

George looked to the window and smiled at the light shining through it. It only took five decades to defeat the Dak in the United States. Still, there was much work to be done. Every amateur and professional photographer or shutterbug was destroying the Dak with every click of the shutter. Yes, they pressed the button, Kodak did the rest.

Pain lanced George’s hands as he grabbed a pen and wrote out the note for his friends and loved ones. The scrawl simply read, “My work is done. Why wait?” George knew that some wouldn’t understand the action he was about to take. His loyal soldiers would know too well. They knew the threat the world faced.

George had to concentrate to keep his hands steady as he opened a drawer in the writing table and withdrew the pistol. The fight would go on, but it would have to go on without him. George smiled again at the light, pointed the pistol at his heart and pulled the trigger.

Running the Numbers

2011-08-27T10:38:00.000-07:00

Running an analysis and finding patterns.

Based on the visits, here's what my readers are finding interesting based on their entry pages:

53 %	The Beast Inside: Introduction
16 %	Gary E. Weller: Fiction Repository
13 %	Bad JuJu
04 %	Buzzards in the Sun
04 %	Then and Now: Part I
03 %	Two Grave Robbers and a Swordsman
03 %	Unknown or Other
02 %	Mackinlay’s Samba
01 %	Halloween Knight
01 %	The Beast Inside: Vigilance

These are interesting results. I'm not sure what to make of the data at this point, but it gives me a good idea on what folks are actually interested in reading. Take a look around at what others have seen and drop me a line.

Thanks for dropping by.

XIII

2011-08-23T15:31:00.000-07:00

Skeletal towers stood in testament to what was left. The twisted metal was just as scarred and malformed as the surrounding land. Concrete held onto the superstructures loosely like necrotic skin that was waiting to fall off. The once great civilization of cooperation and peace was a now wasteland of corruption and pestilence. The only cure would be time itself just as time was the disease that caused the entropy and decay.

The once fragrant field that held the rapture of kings, queens, courtiers, and commoners alike now had a different aroma. Sickness enveloped the land in the effort to push progress to its limits and beyond. Cosmic bands that held pieces of the universe together were pressed and stretched until there was no other option but to snap allowing much more than the conservation of energy to be proven yet again.

A lone figure walked the contaminated world analyzing what changes were taking place. Remnants of inhabitation still existed if one knew where to look. There were smaller pieces of non-malicious technology strewn about. Brittle and delicate now after the many turns around the sun, but they were there hidden and protected in milky plastic. Decaying flesh had long been eaten by the new owners of the world. Bleached and broken bones littered the streets, corners and precarious causeways between the now twisted and bent skyscrapers that were left in the wake of what was heralded as, ‘The Greatest Discovery of All Time!’

The population truly didn’t know what the scholars and magi were doing or what they were unleashing. They weren’t ready for what was to come of their tinkering. They couldn’t have been. As usual, they were pushing the envelope to see what new discoveries could be made instead of trying to truly understand the knowledge that they had already unlocked. Mankind was its own destruction across too many worlds.

If anyone were still around, they may have seen the lone figure stop on a bridge that was barely attached to two of the giant skyscrapers and look to the heavens from underneath the black cloak that he always wore. A hollow wind brushed against the bridge causing it and its rider to sway. The black cloak billowed out like a great shadow under the power of the wind.

The implement at his side was more for protection against the change that now roamed the surface of the world rather than reaping a harvest. It was a tool, nothing more. The technology that was housed within the implement was beyond what many cognizant beings could conceive and they could only see the thing as what it looked like, not what it was.

He too, was often misconstrued as the agent of destruction, the killer of men, women, and all of life itself. In truth, he and his brethren were often the only witnesses to what was left behind. Collectively they knew it was their duty to encourage the change. Maintaining the change throughout the occurring entropy was more important than preventing belief in a mythos that was created long ago. His clan didn’t have the power to bring about the change. The Chaos Energy belonged to others within the Arcana. Mankind had yet to understand that simple fact. It didn’t truly matter in the grand scheme. Few things actually did.

Knowing that he didn’t cause this particular change didn’t make him feel any better. An entire civilization was lost. Their love was decimated. Their culture was thrown away. Their children would never know the sunlight or fresh flowers or the simple pleasure of sitting in a field of tall grass, pondering the existence of fireflies on a summer wind. It would be a tragically long time before that joyous and exuberant laughter would be carried along the wind. This world’s children were already taken by the chaos that their parents had called to them.

That was the real tragedy. The only comfort was that the children were no longer crying or in pain. That time had passed long ago. The true suffering of a child was the most excruciating piece of helping to manage the change throughout the universe. The wielders of the Chaos Energy did not have the emotional range necessary to know what they were doing. It is not their destiny to understand, just to implement the change.

Standing on the bridge high up in the air, the figure bowed his head and shook it back and forth in disappointment. So much promise was lost on pushing too hard and too quickly. The innate curiosity to understand was built into the genetic models. The science behind the magic always had to be discovered, to be known, to be exploited.

Such was the way of most of the worlds he had to come to visit. The lives that were so insistent on understanding didn’t yield to the one primal piece of knowledge and wisdom that was common throughout the universe. They couldn’t see that by seeking the ‘truth’ through means of intellect and learning only get further and further away from it.

The figure looked out on what was a great city as the sun dipped down towards the horizon. Orange and crimson streaks lanced outwards into the azure sky that was deepening to indigo. Lifeless mundane structures reached for the sky in an effort to hold onto the life that they once had. The crippled fingers of the cityscape only served to bolster the resolve of the cloaked figure on the bridge.

He knew he had to carry on and be the agent of change for this world and countless others. He and his brethren would carry on the traditions and practices that were necessary to give another chance to the beings that would take the world as their own. On a planetary scale, it would be a brief instant to bring them back until the next epoch where they brought the wielders of the Chaos Energy.

Still, he would be waiting. Death always does.

Bad Juju

2011-08-20T12:09:00.000-07:00

Bergeron didn’t want to go back to New Orleans. Somehow as the world evolved into the shadowed neon culture that had grown out of the global economic shutdown that had provided private conglomerates to basically buy out several governments around the world, the Big Easy had remained remarkably Cajun.

There were bits and pieces of more modernization along the riverfronts and throughout the delta, but for the most part, the denizens stuck to their roots and traditions. The money may have been coming out of Shanghai, but for those Cajun down in the Town, it was still, ‘laissez les bons temps rouler,’ rather than, ‘yǒu yuán qiānlǐ lái xiānghuì.’ Still, destiny was a funny thing.

He didn’t have a choice but to accept the job. Francis Bergeron knew it was going to be clustered seven ways from Sunday because it was New Orleans, but he couldn’t get by the picture. She had a winning smile and a fair complexion. It wasn’t the fact that she was a girl or the fact that she was cute. More than anything else, he took the job because of who she was.

The crest on the sweatshirt was unmistakable. Black and red backgrounds peeked from the middle of the teal and blank. Bergeron knew it was the Seal of Tulane before he saw the castles and the moons. Non Sibi Sen Suis, the words came back to him as if he had just walked out from his graduation ceremony. They were ingrained into what he did now – not for oneself, but for one’s own. Her name was Sheila Thibodaux, but Bergeron already knew that. Sheila was his cousin.

Tracking Sheila down wasn’t the issue, Bergeron had found here easy enough. He knew who to talk to and how to negotiate passage through the bayous and bogs. It came with knowing the area. The chrome in his body and the ocular implants just made it much easier to negotiate the price. It was still hard to believe that most of the folks in the Parishes throughout Louisiana were still frightened of the technology that was in use today.

Many of the folks he had to use to find her were sorely in need both a barber and a dentist. The undereducated and superstitious lot would often drop a broom over their doorstep when he left them or drew veve on the ground in ash and salt like he was some sort of Loa in flesh. Bergeron had no patience for their ignorance.

The harder part for Bergeron was the fact that when he found Sheila, she had seemed to leave a vacancy in her mind. Stage makeup and mud was smeared all over her face creating a skull emblem .Somehow she had either found or lugged a pseudo-silk top hat and matching suit out to the old plantation. It hung on her loosely, as if it were meant for someone else. Chromed mirrorshades were planted on her face and a long pipe stuck in her teeth slowly let aromatic grey smoke drift up.

“Sheila?” Bergeron knelt beside the slowly dying fire she had laid out. He stared hard at her seeing his frown in the mirrorshades straddling her nose.

“Passe’!” the word was almost spat out. Her voice was not her own. Bergeron readjusted his hand on the grip of the assault rifle he was carrying. She took another draw on the pipe and blew it in his face.

“Look Sheila,” Bergeron ignored the insult, “a lot of people are worried about you. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Our Sheila, she mal pris, her,” a smile came across her face, twisting the skull makeup into a grotesque mockery of what it should have been. “I in here now, me. All she wan do is fay dodo with tings she don unnastan, her. Fooyay, fooyay.” She took another long draw on the pipe and let the smoke out spill out of her mouth.

Bergeron felt the itch to end the conversation and get her to a hospital. It was obvious that whatever she had gotten into was pulling on some serious brain cells. The hallucination alone narrowed down the list of drugs that Bergeron could attribute to her condition.

“Ain no chem gris gris that do it, ma Grand Tahyo, you.” Another wicked smile crossed her face. “Mon Cherie, she tied fo true, but weren no chem, only voodoo.”

“All right,” Bergeron scowled, “enough of this ‘Boo Radley’ crap!” He reached up and pulled off the mirrorshades to check her eyes. Bergeron was no stranger to the multiple adversities and maladies of the human condition. As a bounty hunter and former soldier he had seen too many corpses in all states of condition.

Sheila’s eyes were glazed over. The green that was so vibrant were now milky and grey. Bergeron drew back and threw the shades down and raised his assault rifle. The dead eyes looked at him as the face smiled and bellowed out a great laugh that seemed to echo throughout the former plantation.

The body stood up from the place it was sitting and drew on the long pipe again. A twisted and decrepit smile flashed across what was Sheila’s face and then the corpse blew him a kiss, letting the pipe smoke out in a long stream.

“Now what you tink?” the thing asked Bergeron as it began to walk towards him. Bergeron opened fire. Flesh and bits of bone along with the suite and hat spat out from behind Sheila’s body as the former soldier followed his training. Still the thing kept walking towards him.

“How we gonna play Madame now, you?” a scowl crossed what was left of Sheila’s face. “Be cam now, you. We gonna go fay dodo now.” Bergeron remembered firing until he was out of ammo and then the sudden calm.

“Das right now, you,” the voice was his own, but not. “You jus listen to Baron Samedi now. Laissez les bons temps rouler, bebette.”

The Beast Inside: Vigilance

2011-03-03T19:04:00.000-08:00

I still have to monitor the beast in my blood. There isn't a cure for my condition, yet. Various science teams around the globe are working on finding the cure for my ailment. It will take time for the world to receive that gift that they're developing, too much time.

The beast still cries out in many of us. No, I'm not alone. There are many like me, millions within the United States alone are affected with the malady. They hunger just like I do. Their own beasts call out to them as mine does to me.

Every battle is personal. Every achievement is epic. Every failure is devastating. Control is the key. Self-discipline is a must. There is no other choice if we want to live. The beast is fatal if left unchecked.

I am in you.

Change is the challenge in most cases. In my case, it is a constant battle. I have to remember what I'm fighting for. I have to keep what's important in my mind. I cannot let my wife down. This is what drives me. I have to be strong for her because she is strong for me.

The beast isn't content to just take me. If I let it run as it wants to run, it will taint others with its blackness. It will create emotional holes in my loved ones that they would be hard-pressed to fill.

I cannot let its entropy overtake my family and friends. I have to be the strong one in order to stop it in its tracks. But I can't do it alone. I have to focus to keep strong.

Hehehehe.

Between the medication and the meditation, I can keep the beast somewhat dormant. It's not an easy task because I do have to be vigilant with it. One slip and I have to start from the beginning again. It is a powerful thing to try to keep reigned in, but others have been successful. I have to follow their path.

The concepts of control that I was taught are not difficult. The difficulty, as I've stated already, is the lack of focus or willpower. If someone like myself doesn’t have anything to fight for, then their battle is already lost before it has begun.

Understanding the beast inside requires an understanding of my body. I have to learn the signals in its silent language. Every twitch of a muscle, every fleeting thought, every slight twinge of pain might be an indication that the beast is laying in wait just underneath the surface.

I am in you still.

My family had never told me of the possibility that I might be different from everyone else. Family secrets and genealogy were really never discussed. It was either never the appropriate time or they were too dark.

It's possible that both my mother and my father had the genetic predisposition for the beast I carry within me. I truly don't know as my mother and I are estranged and I never had the chance to meet my father. My mother had left him when I was little and didn't bother looking back.

About fifteen years ago my father died. His ashes are scattered in the Pacific Northwest. I never got the chance to learn anything from him about my condition and my mother was about as useful as a bicycle for a fish.

Look at me, I'm inside.

I know it sounds harsh the way I speak about my mother. I think that I feel what would be considered love for her. I'm just not sure that I respect her anymore. There is a long history of baggage that comes along with my mother. I guess that's true for anyone though.

She really doesn't have much to do with my story about my beast other than her genetic donation. But, you see, that's what the beast does. It distracts me with trivial thoughts and tries to move my focus away from it. It pounds on my mental armor with any weapon it can find. It doesn't limit itself to hunger.

Any weak link in my mental fortitude can let it out to cause havoc and pain. It will use the anguish from my past to distract me. It wants to take me whole, but it will settle for pieces, breaking me down in the process.

When I'm weak, it takes over. It rules my body. It tries to destroy my life. I can't let that happen. Always Vigilant! Semper Vigilans!

Listen to me!

When I'm very still, I can hear it try to scrape through my psyche. I feel it coursing through my blood. The tingling sensation runs through my body at times. I can feel it trying to move through my hands and feet. Sometimes the top of my scalp tingles with the sensations from the beast on its way to bash against the walls of its flesh-formed cage. It's tiring at the best of times, debilitating at the worst.

It rushes through me with every heartbeat without pattern or notice. It's up to me to ignore its hunger.

The symbiotic link makes its pain my own. Its hunger is my own its rage is my own. It's up to me to force it back and make it retreat from the light. It may have always been up to me, but at least now I'm aware of the thing living inside, the bastard that it is.

Who didn't know his father?

When it does get bad dealing with the beast, I have to find a distraction that doesn't feed into its hunger or urges. Sleep works, but I can't nap my life away. Sometimes I can bypass it's treachery through jotting down words, other times I focus on the weight of the steel wedding ring on my finger. It helps remind me why I have to resist, why I have to be vigilant.

I'm not in this just for me anymore. I haven't been for quite a while.

All In

2011-03-02T21:02:00.000-08:00

Bad Movie Night!

What happens when the mind of an author uses the Seventh Sanctum’s Generators to write about over-the top imaginary action film plots from the blurb of a one-line movie trailer? You get ’Bad Movie Night!’

In a sinful world of deception, five gamblers seek hope and battle a cult of murderers intent on summoning an evil god

The felt lining on the poker table brought Jack an easy feeling. The fuzziness was comforting as he passed his fingers over it. The slick cards slid on the felt perfectly. It was synchronicity in action. It was beautiful. Jack’s deft hands dealt the cards around the table. Soon two cards were in front of him and each of the four others had two cards in the hole.

Jack was more at home at the table than he was in the RV that was parked out in the lot. Like the RV thought, the tables he had seen across the country did eat up hundreds upon hundreds of dollars if he wasn’t careful. Jack had learned long ago to respect the table and the cards. He’d done battle with them for too long not too be respectful of the tools he used to wage battle. The poker table was his arena.

The stone faces around the table revealed nothing about the cards that they held in front of them. It was as Jack expected. He had respect for the four others around the table. They were some of the best card players in the world, but more than that, the four other men and women around the table were the best paranormal investigators that Jack had ever had the honor of working with.

They were gathered for more than the game. The murmurings in the shadows were starting to get serious. More and more people were starting to turn up missing. Local law enforcement as well as FBI trackers couldn’t find the bodies. Jack and the others knew that the law would never find the bodies. They had already been drained and cremated. It was necessary for the ritual to bring It to our dimension.

Cigar smoke filtered up to ceiling and through the vents from the five of them gathered around the green felt-lined table. Jack peeled back the corner of his cards. The Jack of Hearts and the Queen of Clubs peeked back at him.

“You know they’ve already started the sacrifices.” Vijay’s mellow voice brought Jack’s attention up from his own cards. Her pink sunglasses clashed with her mocha colored skin. Jack laid his cards flat on the table.

“Three girls on the east coast alone.” Charles took a long pull on his cigar and let the smoke filter out on its own. His porkpie hat was tilted to the left. Jack could see the bags under his eyes. Charles didn’t like it when it was school kids that were abducted. “Fuckers are really playin’ hardball with us.”

“I burned out a nest in Iowa.” Roland added right before he drained another bottle of beer. Roland let out a belch and placed the empty bottle next to the other three he had already guzzled down. “Sombitches are puttin in the work all right.”

“Bet or fold.” Furlong was the only one of the five who seemed to take the game a little more seriously than the cult. Jack figured that Furlong was so serious because he had to pay for the suits that he was always wearing.

Instinctively, Jack reached for the pile of clay chips at his hand and threw out two black chips into the center of the table. One by one, the rest followed suit. A thousand dollars in chips contrasted against the green felt.

Jack burned the top card and laid out three more for the flop. The Jack of Spades, Ace of Diamonds and the Six of Clubs almost glowed under the smoke-filtered lamplight. Jack looked over to Vijay and nodded.

“Check,” her silky voice almost resonated in the room. “We can’t let them keep winning. We have to keep on taking them out, no matter what the cost.” Jack knew she was right. He looked around the table and saw the others could offer no arguments.

"It’s getting worse!” Roland slammed another empty bottle down on the table. “The Feds don’t even want a part of this, they’re gettin in the way more and more.”

“And they’re not playing nicely either,” Furlong nodded in agreement. “Their bureaucratic bullshit is hindering my operation in Nevada.” The large man frowned as he locked eyes with Jack. “They think I’m running drugs. The DEA has been trailing me for weeks. I can’t get anything done.”

Jack smiled at Furlong. His heart was in the right place after all.

“It could be worse brother.” Jack waited for the rest of them to either check or raise the pot. No more chips came in. Jack put out the turn. Queen of Hearts lit up the table. Jack could feel his heart want to race. Two pair could easily win the pot.

“Another two bills,” Charles sounded tired as he flung two more black chips in. Finding those girls really took the wind from his sails. Jack felt for him. It’s never easy reliving a tragedy. Charles’ own girls were killed by the cult no more than seven years ago. Jack knew the man was only fighting on to honor their memory.

Vijay nodded and slid another two hundred into the pot. Furlong followed. With practiced ease, Jack flipped his own chips into the pot.

“Too rich for me brother.” Roland let out another belch as he folded. Jack saw the glassy-eyed stare all over Roland’s face. He was worn out from the road and taking out the cultists in Iowa. Roland didn’t hide the stress as well as Charles did.

Jack flipped out the river. The Jack of Clubs stared out from the green felt. Jack knew he had the hand. Charles eyed the community cards and tossed in another two hundred.

“Fold.” Vijay slid her cards away. “If the Feds aren’t going to acknowledge what’s going on, what choice do we have?” She pulled off the pink sunglasses and sighed. “We’re all we’ve got.”

“So,” Jack looked over to Charles and Furlong “how we going to do it then?”

“We go all in.” Furlong smiled.

The Beast Inside: An Introduction

2011-03-01T17:55:00.000-08:00

I can’t trust my blood. More to the point, I can’t trust what’s in my blood. Inside there’s a beast inside that drives me into fits of mania and depression like a swinging pendulum. It thrives in my blood making its way from deep within my marrow through my veins and arteries and into my brain. It’s a lustful beast that constantly speaks to me.

Feed me, I hunger.

I can always hear its call. It becomes so loud at times that I want to scream! The only way to stop the whispering is to let it feed or to ignore it through high-grade pharmaceuticals. Well, that’s the only way I’ve found that will quiet the beast living inside of me.

When in a full frenzy, there is little that can slow the beast down. It is a vengeful and hungry beast and it truly has no preferences as to what is ingested, just so long as it feeds. Then, after the feeding, it does let me alone for a while to wallow in the guilt that I feel for letting it out.

The chant goes on and on in my head. It truly never ends. It seems as if the beast within will never be sated. It wants to gorge on everything in sight. I think if I let it, the beast would eat the entire world. It would surely try, of that I am certain.

I’m told it was a genetic predisposition that granted me the beast that squirms through my blood. I was told that it wasn’t anything I had done per se to cause the beast to suddenly come out of its dormancy and rage throughout my system.

I was told, “This just happens sometimes,” with something similar to a shrug.

Afterwards, I was pushed out into the cold stark light of a mid-winter’s morning to deal with the fact that I was now tainted and less of a man. I was something, else. I was vulnerable and small in comparison to the beast that I bore in my blood.

I couldn’t believe what I was told. I wanted them to be wrong. I was suddenly thrust into a cruel rendition of “Punk’d.” Only I wasn’t famous enough for that show. I was a nobody, just a regular guy. Only now, I had a beast within me.

I am so hungry.

The shock and awe left me hollow. The day seemed to be blanched of color and sanity. I didn’t understand why or how the beast came into play. I truly didn’t want to understand, I just wanted it gone. I wanted the joke to be over. I wanted them to be wrong.

I was given tools and techniques on how to try to manage the beast. Yeah, manage the beast, that’s still funny. They had no idea on how to do such a thing. They always go to the hardcore pharmacological routes.

“Take these and see me in two weeks.”

There are counselors and specialists that try to help in containing the beast when it screams, but unless they also have a similar beast roaming through their blood vessels, they do not understand the sheer fortitude and endurance it takes to contain a beast like that. They don’t have a fucking clue.

You see, because it’s all theory. All of it is conjecture because they don’t know why the beast is there in the first place. All they can tell you is that it exists! That’s when your world changes. There is no denying that it changes.

People will try to tell you a great many clichéd and canned responses, “it’s all mind over matter,” “you can still live a normal life,” or my favorite, “be strong.” Right.

The fact of the matter is that with my newfound condition, the mental regimens and tools that I put in place are tested constantly throughout the day. The beast wants out, it wants to roam and play. It wants to chew and eat! It wants to get fat on the sheer love of feeding.

I’m told that in order to control the beast inside of me, I need to regulate its feeding. I need to reduce the amount it feeds upon. I need to change it somehow.

The call is so strong. I can hear it all of the time. It drives me to the very brink and then tips me over the edge for fun. There are times I can feel it pounding through my headspace singing, chanting, demanding of me.

Let me out!

I can feel it pounding through me. No amount of resolve seems to keep my terrible and desperate beast at bay. It seems to only exist to taunt me, matching its constitution with my own. The battle of wills is agonizing. It rushes and recedes and rushes again trying to break through me.

I fight as best as I can, but I have to admit, sometimes I want to let it win. Sometimes I want to let it feed. Sometimes I can remember the ecstasy that it felt like to just let the beast do whatever it wanted.

There are times that the beast does win in spite of my best efforts. It is a strong competitor even through the meditation and medication. It pulls on the need to feed but also seems to tap into the pleasure centers as well. It doesn’t play fair in the least.

You are weak and insignificant. Feed me!

Through time I’ve learned to cope with the urges that the beast sends through my system. I don’t always succeed, but I do always try to keep the beast under control. If I let it run rampant then it will surely kill me. If I let it succeed, then I have given up, and I’m not ready to do that.

Giving up means I give up not only on myself, but my friends and family. It means that they suffer. They don’t deserve that.

Not at all.

Change Happens

2011-02-28T15:33:00.000-08:00

I believe that everyone wants the power to change their own destiny. They don’t want to leave it to some random chance hoping that the stars will align in just the right way to release a cosmic flood of energy to kick start a karmic engine.

Independent author Carolyn McCray is shaking her fist at the heavens and demanding attention today. She, along with a great many others are taking part in a movement called ”Best Seller for a Day”, and pushing her novel, 30 Pieces of Silver for just 99 cents!

You have the power to change someone’s destiny for less than what most of us pay for coffee in the morning.

This is going to be a huge opportunity for Carolyn as she may land herself a great agent in the process! In her words:

Because I have done all my leg work. Not only have I written a completely kick-a** thriller (or so NYT Bestseller James Rollins says), but I have lined up an agent who is watching my Amazon numbers very closely today.

If I do well enough, I'm agented by a major NY agent.

Let's make it happen and show that indie authors can be as powerful as any corporate sponsor.

Home and Other Strangeness

2011-02-27T10:11:00.001-08:00

‘Home.’

The word sounds almost alien. It is a fantasy word, a concept at best meaning nothing at all. It is an abstract construct much like ‘god,’ ‘family, ‘and ‘love.’ Words forged generations upon generations ago out of some sort of communal weakness when the man-children lived in a land that was wrought with danger and from a time where camaraderie was needed in order for the clan to survive. People need to be together so the hunt may go on, so that the gatherers have someplace to put their shit.

For them, ‘home’ acted as the protector from the denizens of the darkness. ‘Home’ keeps the beasties with the glowing eyes out of bounds. It holds the old fears at bay and creates new ones that are spawned from that quasi-dimensional space that only exists at the very instant between wake and sleep.

It is during the early years of the man-child that ‘home’ has the perverse oddity of being the entire world. Nothing exists beyond it. It’s just ‘home,’ and it is everything. It’s where Mommy and Daddy live, or maybe one or the other, sometimes neither. It’s where brother and sister play, if siblings are involved. ‘Home’ is the Alpha and Omega of happiness and security. It’s where the food comes from. It’s where the warmth comes from. ‘Home’ is where the toys are.

Instinctively, the man-child knows when they satisfied and satiated with their vision of ‘home.’ Their brains engage and they learn the language to ‘home.’ It is the beginning of a sublime culture whose seeds are dormant within each man-child that has been or will ever be.

The man-child will also know when that place called ‘home’ does not match that vision encoded into their racial memory. ‘Home’ may not be the end-all and be-all of security or happiness. It may be the antithesis. Food and warmth could be scarce. In these cases, ‘home’ is where the man-child wishes to be. Unconsciously, they will begin to mold their vision of what ‘home’ should be and start to pour energy into bringing that faint fantasy into some semblance of reality.

Younger man-children may hear words like ‘zoo,’ ‘office,’ or even ‘grocery store,’ but they are places that are not ‘home.’ They know this through sheer instinct and rudimentary understanding of both verbal and nonverbal communication. They often don’t want to go to these places. They want to either stay ‘home.’ They are ill-prepared for such a culture shock at a tender age. It is strange and frightening and the young man-children will often bring about events to acquire attention so that someone will take them ‘home.’

There is not necessarily any kind of loyalty that his keeping them tied to a particular geographic location. It’s that they do not want to leave their ‘home’ because they know it’s not safe outside. Outside is where the monsters with the glowing eyes live. Outside is not ‘home.’

It’s amazing how these primal instincts are lost as the man-child matures.

The metamorphosis to adolescence is a difficult process for the man-child. This pupal man-child rages against all that it had held in a reverent place. It is usually not an intended reaction, but instead it is more of an internal struggle trying to shed the tropes and traditions of their prior stage of life.

Books and toys are changed to more age-appropriate conventions as deemed by the changing man-child. They may still be books and toys, but they are now oft overpriced causing the parents some disdain and difficulty as they want to provide a better ‘home’ for their offspring than what they themselves had.

In most cases during this insane time of change, the world of the man-child expands exponentially. The offspring begins to keep secrets from the parents and other agents of authority. The offspring will push on previously established boundaries in order to test the resolve of their parents and agent provocateurs in order to find out a new definition of ‘home.’ Power struggles take place, but the man-child now has new tactics.

Hurtful words and actions spew forth from the pupae in rebellion to what they once were and in consternation of the change that they are undergoing. They see themselves caught between two cycles. They are a part of both, yet not completely. The pupae has no other tool but to be caustic to it’s surroundings. In a myriad of insane actions, it tries to destroy its ‘home.’

The offspring learns how to tap into that primal darkness. The shadowy seed that they were so afraid of, maybe mere months prior, fuels them into new places and extremes. Anger, fear and anxiety feed the man-child during this stage of their metamorphosis. As innocent as the younger man-child used to be, the adolescent is as dark. A bleak expanse is explored and developed. Tools are created in order to survive the monochromatic landscape that the man-child now sees.

Lines of communication cease between the adolescent man-child in their pupal stage and their parental figures. If conversation is to take place, it is often minimal and as monosyllabic as possible. More often than not, the responses from the offspring consist of a series of noncommittal grunts, gestures or silence.

Thus, the dance begins.

The offspring spends more and more time in that forgotten darkness that was so frightening during their earlier stage of growth. The seduction from this shadow calls to them and they listen because they are too much alike. That shadow caresses their wounded feelings, expanding and contracting like a darkened heartbeat that pumps life into new fears that have come to surface from that primal shadow.

The intensity of emotional turmoil at this stage is nearly incomprehensible for offspring and parent alike. It is always a personal battle against one’s own darkness that is taking place within the adolescent man-child. Parents can rarely help except to wait as the man-child goes through their painful metamorphosis in order to break through the chrysalis that they have wrapped around their psyche.

Sometimes, as in life, the offspring never mature out of this particular stage. They are stunted and lost in the darkness. They react, they run to just run. The destination rarely matters because the offspring is searching for something that they have inherently destroyed as they are struggling with their emotional chrysalis. They are running for safety from the darkness. They’re running ‘home.’

Pain and anguish course through the still developing mind of the pupal man-child. They know no other skill other than to rebel for the sake of rebellion. They often cruise through a world that is malnourished, malcontented and maladjusted, much like their primordial ancestors. Daily tasks seem to be an impossible task. Kindness is warped around a new vision and skill set that is being developed – abuse.

The darkened man-child now suffers from acute retardation as they hold onto that chrysalis that was designed to be disposed after morphogenesis. Development is at a standstill as ignorance reigns supreme. Everything is static at this point. There is no longer a dynamic learning as the man-child is set into a belief that they are now imago. Sadly, they are just stunted and not emotionally ready for such things as the imago deals with in their daily life.

Often, the kindest action towards one of these retarded man-children will result in an expectation of more and a clinginess that is difficult to sever. Once the kindness is refused, the malicious man-child will see the owner of that hand as an enemy. Retribution in those cases is egregious and swift on the part of the retarded man-child. Deep emotions run towards an antithesis of what is universally perceived as ‘love.’ It fills the same void and sprouts even more darkness.

This confused adolescent sees plots and scandals against them where none exist. Their vision is clouded and mind muddled because of the remaining ebbs of ebon tentacles that have an established stranglehold upon them. In an effort to escape from the darkness that holds them fast, they inadvertently rush further into the massive void, further away from true help and true light. They run headlong from what they could have become. They are not imago even if the man-child reaches sexual maturity.

The lost man-children are not alone on the path that they have chosen. If you ask them, they will say that the choice was forced upon them. They will often find others along the way much like themselves. These others have not yet broken through their own emotional shells as well. Kindred spirits in darkness, they begin to form bonds. These emotionally stunted band together in some mutated semblance of a ‘home’ as seen through scarred and tainted eyes. They will attempt to rebuild a ‘family’ that will be a dark mirror of what should have been.

This compulsion to return to a safe place within the vast and surrounding darkness is symbolic of the sanity that was once had striking out against the alien and barren environment. It is a response mechanism hardwired into the man-child. It is the last remnant, the last chance to be imago. The newly formed ‘home’ is not built on the things that one would call ‘love’ or ‘family.’ It is more a den of predators.

Animal hierarchy reigns in these hovels of humanity. It is not at all like a hive mind. It is less organized towards the prosperity of the collective. It is mammalian in nature. The goal is the advancement of the Alpha. There is a pecking order and harsh retribution for falling out of line. The relationships are abusive and severe. This is that ancient and racial memory surfacing to manifest into the physical world to attack the light. It fights and struggles within the human hosts, spreading like a virus infecting neighboring enclaves with a scant touch of an infected hand.

It is aberration incarnate.

Society as a whole breaks down with the onset of the darkness rising within their community, within what they consider their ‘homes.’ They want to run, but the infected are what they consider, ‘family.’ They want to rebel and defend themselves against the mentally immature yet fully grown man-children, but they feel a perverse form of what they call, ‘love.’ They are hopeless and pray to their omnisciently and omnipotently silent ‘god’ for guidance.

As the darkened individuals move about their misbegotten communes, their disease and entropy spread creating gaping holes in what was a once wholesome community. The ancient seeds of darkness and fear within these vessels plant themselves and grow to new heights as the light withers, shrinks and dies from the presence of the newly created shadows.

Voids are filled with the entropic visions of those malformed man-children. Decay flourishes within those existing shadows pushing on the boundaries of the light. The war is fought mostly in silence as those who were imago scatter from those who are not leaving more voids for the dark man-children to fill with their caustic cancers.

The feral mammalian beasts who live in the shadows replicate, generation after generation unable to find the security and safety that they crave. ‘Home’ is a lost and twisted concept at this point. They have been running and fighting for so long that this is what they see as the norm.

They know war and violence in defense of their ‘family.’ They know no tolerance towards their fellow man-children. They bear them no ‘love.’ They only wish to increase their own powerbase because it distances everyone else away from tender and shredded hearts and minds. The chrysalis remains attached to them, shattered and ugly. The sad little beings cannot fly.

Yet, they are still drawn a memory of the light.

They crave the warmth that they fought so hard to extinguish during their great rages. Deep within their broken and warped shells these grown man-children want to feel the ‘love’ that they had dreamt about. They want to have the company and passion that only an imagined ‘family’ of imago can provide. Sadly, they still defend their darkened territories and hearts with a fierce determination that is reminiscent of starving animal defending a fresh kill.

For fear of losing everything, these emotionally immature man-children follow the same patterns and lines that have been established by others that have gone before them. They cannot change because that change may be detected as a weakness. In their strangely lit world, weakness means death.

The cycles perpetuate themselves within the new ‘family’ until the fear has been forgotten or there is no fear to be had. This is usually when these stunted and retarded man-children finally slough off the remaining chrysalis to see the beautiful creature that they are. They have finally become the imago.

With tearful eyes, the newly created imago of man looks back upon the wretched path of darkness and often plays a game of ‘what-if’ with their memories. Some of the imago will immediately skitter back to the darkness because the revelation that it was their own choices that put them into that black and terrible space is too much for them. Fear still holds them. They are forever lost and now become the creatures with the glowing eyes that we are trained to avoid.

Those finally coming through the transition are never as bright as the imago that didn’t walk that dark and lonely path of destruction, but they have a radiance that cannot be denied. These imagines have power that is just as potent as their brethren, but are still looked down upon from society as a whole.

New trials begin for these man-children. They understand that they cannot go skittering back into the dank dark from which they came, so they have to learn to cope in a different way. The battle tactics are slightly different in the lit world where they have chosen to build their ‘home.’

The chrysalis that once warped their viewpoint and caused them to react is no longer in place. The new imagines can see the attacks for what they are. It is the fear from their more allegedly ‘pure’ brethren and those that they have left behind in the darkness. Even though the taint is no longer residing within these newly formed man-children, they are still seen with that stigma by the others.

They are truly bridging the two worlds at this point. Belonging to neither light nor darkness, these man-children are viewed as some sort of mutant half-breed belonging to both but accepted by neither.

The advantage that these imagines have though is the fact that they chose to change. They chose to become who and what they were instead of following the dictions or rules of society. Through brutal battles against their brethren, parents and themselves, they found a place where they felt comfortable. They found safety and camaraderie. They found that they had the power all along and needed to run nowhere. ‘Home’ was with them all along.

Hello, My Name Is...

2011-02-26T07:50:00.000-08:00

A week ago, I had put together a wild piece of fiction based on an off-hand comment that was made my one of my friends on FaceBook.

Go ahead and read it here, I'll wait. Back? All right.

Gary..
Another day, but what to write about? Thoughts?
at 7:20
o
Lizzo My life as Liz?
at 7:26am
o
Gary.. Two weeks, 2500 words, based on FB posts?
at 8:15am
o
Lizzo Aaaaaaaaaaand GO!
at 9:46pm
o
Gary.. Working on a different project, but I'll have it by the deadline.
at 10:07pm
o
Gary.. I must warn you, you may not recognize it as a true representation of your story. ;)
at 10:08pm

So, the ideas begin to percolate. I begin to go through what I know about my friend. She’s a strong woman who seems to have a bit of bad luck. She’s also a very determined woman who is not afraid to speak her mind. These scant strips of character are enough to start building.

There’s something else I need though.

Gary..
You on Twitter?
at 10:07am
o
Lizzo No sir....
at 2:03pm
o
Gary.. Well... doesn't THAT suck. Anyway... almost ready to start... you want a particular kind of story?
at 2:05pm
o
Lizzo Suprise me! I'm so excited! Lol!
at 2:06pm
o
Gary.. Hurm... surprise is something of an understatement when it comes to my writing... you have a favorite genre?
at 2:07pm
o
Gary.. ‎10 more min to respond for favored genre... then I start and woe be unto you, as you are my protagonist.
at 3:51pm
o
Lizzo How about some sort of fairy tale ending? That would be nice....
at 4:07pm
o
Gary.. You have actually READ my stuff, right? If not, you should or talk to Ren. Fairy tale ending... BWAH-HAHAHAHA!
at 4:14pm

And so it began. I plotted and revised and struggled to put together a piece of 2500 words. I had to pad words at one point, pare down at another. Random plotlines assaulted me as I plucked the correct tone for the scene I was about to write. Which ones was I going to suggest? Which ones was I going to be proud of?

I pushed through the afternoon wit a couple of breaks for dinner and to stretch my mind. In a prior time, this is where I would have relied upon a cigarette to clear my mind, but that old crutch had been pushed by the wayside almost a year ago. I still went outside to breathe in the fresh and crisp air.

My fingertips cruised over the keyboard and Pandora fed me lines and attitude. Somewhere along the line Elvis came on. He had inadvertently set the tone for this scene.

That is power.

When you can reach beyond the grave and into the future to put a slight spin on a complete stranger’s work, you are verging on the path to sainthood.

Finally, after about 8 hours of real time and perhaps 6 hours of work, including research, I was done! I was done with this beautifully dystopian vision taking place on the way to San Diego from parts further east and perhaps a bit south. The story had the right lines, showed the right amount of vulnerability and character and built a world that was just slightly out of sync with our own.

Sadly, there was one thing missing, a title.

Several have been suggested:

“Popcorn”
“Zombie Assholes”
“Not Again”
“Old Comfortable Shoes”
“Shi de...To Nowhere”
“Checkpoint”
“Not Again? More Popcorn for Zombies”
“Zombies for Idiots”

I’m going to extend this ‘Name Game’ Until March, 15, 2011. On the following Friday, I will choose the best title. Oh, and another little incentive on this, the winner of this little contest will take on the role of the protagonist in this story. I will either use their name (or any name they choose) and change he gender of the character of the story.

Who wouldn’t want to be immortalized in an unpublished short story from a veritable no one in print? It may not be you, but it will be someone!

Feel free to leave the suggestions for the names in a comment or visit my professional FaceBook page located here to leave a comment.

Good luck and enjoy!

Gary on Snozzberries

2011-02-25T20:51:00.000-08:00

People don’t always get what I’m trying to say with my fiction. Some might say that makes me a poor writer because I cannot communicate what I’m intending. I’m of a different understanding.

I just color outside of the lines.

The philosophy that I’m holding to is that I am writing for me and me alone. If folks pick up what I’m doing and like it, that’s great! If they don’t, there are plenty of other writers trying to vie for their attention. I’m just going to write what feels right.

Plenty of people have told me that I have talent. I’m not writing for them. Plenty of people have also given me strange looks when I try to explain my story (either in concept or the prose I’ve just written). I’m not writing for them either.

I’m doing this for me. If my passion within my own work is strong enough, others will feel it too. This is what writers do. They share feelings and infect others with emotion. They invite others into the dark recesses of imagination to partake in a shared hallucination of mind and spirit.

Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley said it best:

Come with me and you'll be
In a world of pure imagination
Take a look and you'll see
Into your imagination

We'll begin with a spin
Trav'ling in the world of my creation
What we'll see will defy
Explanation

If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it
Anything you want to, do it
Want to change the world, there's nothing to it

There is no life I know
To compare with pure imagination
Living there, you'll be free
If you truly wish to be

If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it
Anything you want to, do it
Want to change the world, there's nothing to it

There is no life I know
To compare with pure imagination
Living there, you'll be free
If you truly wish to be

Yeah… I color outside of the lines and I'm going to keep on doing it. I'm going to take the risks that may get me the odd looks, but it may also reap me the greatest reward, stirring feelings inside of you.

Waking Up

2011-02-24T20:28:00.000-08:00

Epiphanic thoughts seem to happen at random times.

Lately, as I’ve been coming to terms with my Diabetes, things are becoming clearer. The clarity did not come from some obtuse pilgrimage or other fantastic trial by fire that I went through. It was just something that happened when I was allowed to deal with everything that was going on.

A year ago (nearly to the day) I was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes. The common story for anyone who has been diagnosed with a serious illness is that their life had irrevocably changed. Well, it did and I was in a very dark dispassionate uncertain place for the last year or so. I am just starting to see my pathway out of that mire.

In November, I changed my job. This was the first step towards a lighter path. I changed employment because where I was at was only conducive towards those blackened and negative emotions, feelings and headspace.

It has taken me from then until now to start to clear out the Mites of Madness feeding the fear from Diabetes and a dead-end job and move towards a place where I could enjoy feeling and being who I was.

I gotta be me.

The new job actually treats me as a human being instead of a cog in a machine. I am appreciated. I am needed. I have window that lets the sunshine in during the morning and early afternoon. I have a desk that I don’t have to hot-swap with anyone else. I can keep a picture of my wife on my desk without worrying about other hands possibly disturbing it.

Like a wounded animal, I still remain silent during the day and sit at my desk without venturing too far. It’s an interesting feeling that I’m feeling, akin to waking up after a long and dreary nightmare. I don’t have the extreme hatred and nausea that I used to have when I entered my workspace.

This leads me to the epiphany.

I used to write to escape. It was a forced and detailed work that I did. I put too much stock in the opinions and thoughts of EVERYONE else instead of me. Who was I writing for? It was those folks. I was trying to supplant the lack of respect and praise in my former workspace with the pleasant words of a scant few readers.

As you may surmise, it didn’t work.

I’m reminded of a zen story that seems to accurately describe how I’m feeling.

One day, soon after his enlightenment, the Buddha was walking toward a man who, while not knowing who he was, could see that there was something different about him. The man came closer and asked the Buddha:

"Are you a god?"
"No," The Buddha replied
"Are you a magician, then? A sorcerer?"
"No."
"Are you an angel? Some sort of celestial being?"
The Buddha again answered, "No."
"What are you then?" the man asked.
The Buddha replied: "I am awake."

Yeah, I am awake and now can see when the epiphanies happen.

I have the power.

Now what to do with it? To start, I'm going to write for me. If you like what you read, let me know, or don't. If you don't like what you read, let me know, or don't.

I'm still going to write it anyway because writer's write.

The Trap

2011-02-23T18:32:00.000-08:00

Bad Movie Night!

What happens when the mind of an author uses the Seventh Sanctum’s Generators to write about over-the top imaginary action film plots from the blurb of a one-line movie trailer? You get ’Bad Movie Night!’

In a hellish city, three monks seek the ultimate weapon and fight demons.

“You don’t belong here!” The demon roared as it charged toward Altemere with an almost impossible gait. Its yellowing fangs protruded from its maw at odd angles preventing the demon from being able to close its mouth completely. It huffed as it bounded down the wrecked street releasing wisps of smoke every time the thing’s feet hit pavement.

“That’s not true,” Altemere almost whispered as she waited for the bulky demon to enter the trap she had set up with her men. “You are the one who does not belong, but soon you won’t have to worry about that.” A wicked smile was strapped on her face. This was the part she enjoyed, the anticipation. Throughout all of the lifetimes she had lived, it was always the anticipation.

Altemere faced the demon that was half running, half jumping down the street filled with the carcasses of the burned out transport vehicles and rows of dilapidated buildings with a broadsword in her hand. She flicked her wrist causing the sword to spin in her hand. The blade reflected flashes of firelight back down the street. The thing bellowed whenever the light hit its sensitive eyes.

“Big son of a buck isn’t he?” the cold and distant voice came over Altemere’s earpiece. Altemere’s eyes glanced towards the upper floors of what was once a dormitory to where Fade was tracking the demon. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there.

“If the buck had mated a steaming bowl of jelly, yeah.” Valentine chuckled. He was on the other side. Altemere focused back on the demon that was moving up to a full head of steam. It was easy being bait. It was not so easy to be live bait that escaped.

“That makes no sense, Val.” Fade started, his voice was carrying that recognizable argumentative tone that had always preceded the two of them getting into a fight. Altemere frowned. She didn’t need a lover’s spat over the comlink.

“Can the chatter and focus, boys.” Altemere growled. They needed to keep the goal in mind. If she wanted the thing dead, she would have just killed it outright. She only needed it wounded in order to interrogate it. Afterwards was a different story. Afterwards the demon would be just so much flesh, bone, blood and subcutaneous waste.

“Almost there,” Altemere whispered. Her eyes were drawn to the spinning blade. She found it soothing to watch the metal flash and reflect the light from the fires burning. She found melancholy in that peace. This was not the first time Altemere had seen the city, or twice for that matter. Millennia ago when it was in its prime, it was stunningly beautiful.

Before the demons came, Yasnez was a city of culture. It was a place of worship and thought. It was of peace. Solastran Monks walked the streets clad in pale blue sarongs and posited about the writings of Xem Ti. The city itself attracted the most revered thinkers and philosophers.

The most favored of all the writings from Xem Ti could be heard throughout the city back then, “Master yourself in every way and all you do will prove true.” It was something that Altemere had been sent to learn from the Solastran Monks. It took thirteen lifetimes to for her to learn that simple truth.

There were no tears or cries in the city when the demons came. It just was. It was accepted as the way of things. The pacifism of the Solastran was not limitless, but it was overpowering. The great bulk of the populace was enslaved and slaughtered by the demon hordes before the Solastran began to mobilize to protect and defend the city. That itself took three lifetimes to achieve.

It was only the three of them that were left out of the entirety of the Solastran. The others did not come back. They were lost. There was no time for tears now. Altemere knew that there would be time for that later. The only imperative was to find the devastating weapon that the demons kept hidden from them.

The anticipation was pressing down on her. She could almost smell the beast. Altemere was spinning her blade faster causing the sword to flicker as if it were on fire. She knew that Fade and Valentine were watching, waiting for the signal to spring the trap and gather up the demon in mid-air.

“Almost there,” Altemere cautioned them. She could feel their anxiety tinged with her own rage at what the demons did to her beautiful city. It wasn’t easy for them to wait. Fade and Valentine had built up a great hatred throughout their own lifetimes spent and reborn. It was nearly as vast and as deep as Altemere’s own hatred of the putrescent beings. She admired her two companions though. It took lifetimes upon lifetimes to achieve the purity that they once had.

Their souls still reflected that wisdom when the both of them allowed the peace to settle in and express itself. When she saw them during those fleeting times, it was as if they were still sitting around the great fountain in the city square drinking tea. She could see them in their pale blue garb contemplating how the water fell or why the clouds decided to take the shape of a weasel.

Altemere hated the demons for taking that innocence and purity of thought away from her brethren and subjects. It was for that reason that she would find the weapon to transform all of the demons into nothingness. They would see their power for the fleeting thing it truly was.

“Now!” Altemere screamed as she rushed the soldier demon. Thick, steel cables sprang to life from either side of the street cinching the great net around the soldier demon that was suddenly caught unawares. The demon screamed as it was hauled up into the air by the cables and net.

“Now,” she said to the demon, “prepare to be enlightened.”

Talking Soup

2011-02-22T17:42:00.000-08:00

I make good soup.

If you didn’t know that about me, that’s my own fault and I’d like to rectify that.

Hello, I’m Gary, and I make good soup!

So, what does that have to do with the blog you’re currently reading? Well the issue is of focus, time management and output. It’s also about less specialization. I don’t need to manage three different blogs to be who I am.

Okay, so maybe the issue is that I’m tired of trying to maintain three different web presences with limited to no success. I don’t need three different faces to let everyone know that I’m as rich and hearty as my soup.

I’m jam-packed full of flavor!

There are times when my presence is light and mellow, offering a pleasant and happy distraction. There are also times when I’m heavy and overpowering, dragging you along for the ride. I’m also everywhere else on any given day. My flavor may change depending on the ingredients I have – as it should.

There’s a great deal of information and guidance about how to develop platforms and presence out on the web. Some of it contradicts one another. After analyzing all of the data that I’ve come across, the only solution that I can come up with is a rather clichéd adage put out by Sammy Davis Jr.

Which was also updated for the younger generation by 23 Skidoo.

As of today, I’m putting a plan in place to accomplish me being me.

Hi, I’m Gary: Writer, blogger, rpg gamer, console gamer, diabetic, step-father, husband, friend, confidant, proof-reader, smiler, frowner, eater, cook, baker, ~~candy-taker~~, dancer, prancer, romancer, rhymer (no, wait, that’s someone else), foodie, ex-smoker, science-fiction/fantasy nut, storyteller, bread winner, digger, amateur philosopher, reader, psychologist, Landgrave of Charcuterie, Garde Manger and whole host of other things.

I make good soup.

California Dreamin'

2011-02-20T00:13:00.001-08:00

Dusk was falling as Liz revved the engine on the old Chevy Blazer around the bend of the I-8 heading up into the Laguna Mountains and the Border Patrol Checkpoint. Up ahead, near the sign warning about overheating was a newer looking Junjie Wagon. Its hood was up and she could see the back window of the station wagon was packed as full as a gypsy caravan. Steam wafted out from behind the hood that had a hand-written sign in Spanish, English, and Mandarin asking for help.

It wasn’t unusual for a car to need water when cruising up the mountains on the way to San Diego, but something about the scenario just tickled a nerve in Liz. The placement of the car and the sign was just too perfect. A man popped out of the Junjie and started waiving his hands. Liz moved her hand from the archaic MP3 player attached to the lanyard around her neck to the hand cannon that was holstered on her left hip. With a quick flick of her thumb, the safety was off.

Elvis came through on the earbuds.

There always seemed to be a pissing contest whenever she came into any town or checkpoint that was tucked away from a major sprawl like San Diego. The freaks always wanted to come out and prove something to the tourists. The only thing that it proved to Liz was how small their dicks were. They were just a bunch of assholes who didn’t understand that a maybe a girl just wanted to get a shower and eat a candy bar before getting some rack time.

They never understood. They didn’t even bother to try. There was a time and a place for the hardcore playtime, whether it involved a cock and clit, a knife and fist, or a simple game of, show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mine. She didn’t mind either or even all within the same night, but when just coming off the road from a long haul was not the time to play “Let’s poke Lizzo.”

Liz could feel her muscles tense. If this was a power play of some nature, she didn’t want to be caught with her big girl panties down. She wasn’t in the mood to be gang raped or ass-fucked by a squad from either the Bing Kong Tong or the 14K Triad. She definitely didn’t want to be shipped up to San Francisco to become part of a performing act on stage. It just wasn’t going to happen.

Not again.

The grip of the PT145 felt comforting in her hand. The Asian who had gotten out of the Junjie was still trying to wave her over. The white tank top fitted him rather well. Liz hoped that the encounter slip sideways as it often did. She wouldn’t mind a bit of the rough-and-tumble with the guy. He was slim, athletic and a ripe juicy piece of meat.

Liz let up on the gas and let the Chevy coast to a slower speed. The man flashed a brilliant smile that was too perfect. It had to have been sculpted in Los Angeles along with the rest of his perfect body. Liz hit the brake and let the engine idle. A perfectly molded face along with two equally proportioned chocolate colored almond-shaped eyes came up to the passenger window with and smiled that uber-white smile that could only be bought from a plastic surgeon.

“Nihao,” the voice was laced with sweetness. The eye candy was starting to look like a good prospect, “Ni ting dong ma?” Liz smiled her own crafted smile at the man and nodded. She understood all right. There was really only one reason that such a model was out on the side of the road. Liz shifted her weight making it easier for her to draw the Brazilian-made Taurus hand cannon.

“Ni qu sandiego ma?” the honeyed voice asked. It wasn’t hard to guess that she was headed to San Diego. It was an educated guess on his part, it wasn’t brain surgery. Liz was getting that creepy feeling in the pit of her stomach. The flawlessly crafted Asian wasn’t coming over to her truck to play checkers. He wanted something more than a ride to San Diego.

Liz cocked her head sideways and looked into his eyes and nodded again. The doctor did a great job on him. He was just so shuai! It was going to be pitiful to mar the doctor’s work. Liz could feel the hammer beginning to drop but she didn’t know how many of the pretty boy’s friends were in the Junjie waiting for the signal. She tightened her grip on the handgun.

“Shi de.” Liz responded. The words tasted funny in her mouth. She hadn’t spoken Mandarin since she left Californian Republic of China. “Ni ne?” Liz brought herself into the game. The pretty boy wasn’t the only one who could play scorpion and frog.

“Haojile!” the almond eyes widened as the word bolted out of his mouth loudly. Liz’s nerves switched from tickle to full awareness. That was the signal. Liz heard more commotion from the Junjie. Three more sculpted Asians jumped out of the gypsy wagon. This was the game she was expecting. Liz bit her lip as she locked eyes with the pretty boy at the passenger window of the Chevy – such a pity.

“Popcorn!” Liz blurted before she pulled the Taurus out and fired. Triplicate holes were ripped into the soft lines that were crafted into the gorgeous Asian face. There was a confused look of shock on the man’s face before the bullets broke into his skull pouring his brain out onto the rocky shoulder of I-8.

Loud ringing clouded Liz’s brain from the concussive blast of the bullets she put through the pretty boy. The earbuds protected her ears from some of the force, but they weren’t as good as the Caldwell clamshells she had packed in the back of the Chevy with the rest of her gear.

Liz didn’t know why but she felt a little sad for the beautiful thug for destroying his only thing of true value. She knew what he must have gone through to get that kind of pretty. It wasn’t cheap to get that LA looks and still have the better part of your freedom from either the tongs or the triads.

The body seemed to flay away from the side of the Chevy in slow motion. Liz watched the look of shock spread to terror and then change to the realization that his chi was no longer going to be contained within the fleshy vessel he had paid so much money for. It was no longer beautiful. It was now just a pretty piece of flesh for the bugs to eat. She’d have to wash the truck before entering the Border Patrol Checkpoint.

The other skinjobs just watched as their front man fell onto the side of the road. It took a moment for them to understand just what had happened. They didn’t expect to encounter someone like Liz. They were expecting tourists from Mexico or Arizona. They were usually easy marks. Liz was another story. She had been trained by the Ghost Shadows after she had been smuggled out of the Californian Republic of China.

“Aiya tiana!” one of them screamed. Liz could almost agree. She wasn’t totally without mercy, but this was going to be one kind of merciless hell for the pretty boys. They weren’t combatants. They didn’t have the instincts or the reflexes it took to drop in and out of the shadowy underworlds of Phoenix Metro or El Paso del Juarez. They belonged on a runway somewhere. Vegas would have suited them.

They were only pretty and petty thugs. They were nothing but living zombies feeding on the scraps that were led to them by the interstate. She couldn’t just leave the skinjobs to keep on feasting on the folks that happened to run into them.

“It starts.” Liz felt the words come out of her mouth but couldn’t hear them from the intense ringing in her ears. She let her training take over as she began to ascertain the surroundings to find the terrain’s advantage.

Zombie number one looked at Liz and then the body of his friend and looked at her again. No, they weren’t combatants and were barely trained to use what they had. Liz spotted the NP-20 in the zombie’s hand. The odd thought passed through Liz’s mind as to how the zombie acquired the Chinese Police Pistol. It passed, there was work to do.

The second zombie was rushing alongside the Junjie trying to hide behind the vehicle. It wasn’t going to work. She had him spotted on the passenger side huddling by the rear axle. She could almost smell their fear now.

“Aaaaaaaand, so goes my life.” The ringing was starting to subside. Zombie number three seemed to be the only one with a brain. He was heading off in the direction of the checkpoint, towards the Chinese soldiers who were defending their border.

Asshole.

Liz jammed the gearshift and threw the Chevy into park. The truck lurched as the gear was engaged. Zombie one flinched. Liz smiled the smile that the Hai San had given to her. Her flawless teeth and sculpted lips that were made to make men feel at ease peeled back into a snarl as the skinjob stared on.

Panic was in the man’s eyes. Fear was in his stance. As Liz watched, she could see the dark stain start to appear in his crotch and run down his right leg. He was worse than a zombie now. He craved nothing but the end. She had him.

Liz took a breath and held it. The zombie stood there like a game animal. He wasn’t thinking. His mind had shut down. The doe eyed stare was pathetic.

“Popcorn!”

Three more shots echoed through the cab of the Chevy. The windshield cracked as the bullets went through the protective glass and into the zombie’s central mass. A million spider web cracks laced through the glass blocking Liz’s view, but she knew she acquired the target. His screams were enough to tell her that he was down.

Liz opened the door and got out of the Chevy. Squinting against the shadows she could see zombie three running up the interstate. At least his flight instinct kicked in. Liz could almost respect that. She drew a bead on the runner.

“Popcorn!”

A quick burst from the Taurus exploded into the air and echoed through the Cleveland National Forest. In the distance, she saw the runner fall and then heard his scream.

“Three down. One to go.”

Liz dropped her arm and marched around the idling Chevy. Zombie one was whimpering from the chest wound that Liz had inflicted on him with the Taurus. She looked at him. His eyes were glossy and staring off into the distance. He was already lost. There was only one thing to do for a wounded animal.

“Popcorn!”

The fleshjob stopped whimpering.

White-hot pain ran through Liz’s arm causing her to drop the Taurus. Quickly scanning ahead she saw zombie two’s head pop over the roof of the Junjie. This one had the fight reflex.

“Haojile!” Liz screamed through perfectly sculpted teeth. “Tama de hundan!” The sick motherfucker shot her. She couldn’t feel the dull ache yet. It was still sharp from the entry and exit wounds that were in her forearm. She touched the wound tentatively and immediately regretted it.

Liz pulled the lanyard holding her MP3 player over her head and gingerly put her left arm through the loop of the nylon knit cord. She held the MP3 player with her teeth and tightened the cinch around her arm. Liz knew it wasn’t the best tourniquet, but it would have to do in a pinch

For the first time in a long time, Liz could feel tears welling up in her eyes. She could hear the zombie scrambling around behind the Junjie. He was banging the gun on the side of the car. Liz reeled from the pain lancing her brain from the through-and-through that had fortunately just destroyed the meet between her ulna and radius.

“Ta ma de!” his voice carried over the station wagon. “Stupid piece of goushi! Guaiguai long de dong?” Liz smiled through the pain. The pistol jammed. The mystery was solved. The pretty pieces of flesh bought defective handguns on the black market.

Despite the pain, Liz started laughing. It started in her belly and worked its way up to a full roar. Somehow, somewhere, she had paid in karma to turn the tables her way. The only fighter in the group had his one shot and he had missed the mark.

“I am your death little man!” Liz laughed. “I am one xiong tsan shashou and I will end you.”

The last zombie stood again and threw the NP-20 down on the shoulder of the interstate. His perfect face couldn’t quite do angry. He hadn’t learned how to use the newly crafted muscles in his face to perform on that level. The man tried to scowl but it came across like he was retarded.

“Jien huo!” the pretty boy spat. Liz only flashed her million dollar smile at the skinjob.

“The hell I am!” She slowly walked over to the man who was trying so hard to be intimidating. His face was just so silly. The eyebrow ridge and forehead came too far down on his head and the curl of his lips made him drool a bit.

“We’re done here, dong ma?” Liz looked the man in the eye working hard to keep her face straight through the pain and the work of comedy standing in front of her. “You’ve lost and I’ve lost. We walk away from this.”

The man slowly looked at the carnage. Liz waited for the understanding to sink into the skinjob’s obviously lacking brain. It was a good thing that he had a nice package in his lunchbox and some skills in displaying his looks. He could still learn a thing or three from a modeling coach.

“Shi de,” he finally said, nodding to Liz.

Liz turned and walked over to where she dropped her Taurus on the asphalt, stepping over zombie number one. She really didn’t want to go into the Border Patrol Checkpoint covered in blood. It was never an easy explanation. There were always questions. Right now, she didn’t have the believable answers to give to the officials.

She leaned against the front of the idling Chevy and watched the sky flame up as the dwindling sunlight reflected off of the Pacific. The fact of the matter was that Liz truly loved California. It was just the people that made it bad. Liz glanced over at the last member of the gang and motioned her head towards the checkpoint.

He nodded in understanding and started walking.

Asshole.

Mackinlay's Samba

2011-02-19T08:44:00.001-08:00

Paulo hated Rio during Carnival.

The crowd bounced along in the bleachers overlooking the samba runway. The cacophonous rumble of shuffling feet, wagging ass and procession echoed loudly throughout the Sambodrome.

Rio de Janeiro was fairly crazy when it wasn’t Carnival. During the season it was like the entirety of Brazil was hitched onto a crazy train. Feathers, beads and flesh pressed up against Paulo Souza as he slipped through the crowd following his target’s wake. The crowd smelled of hot sex drizzled with an organic aphrodisiac.

Paulo hated the tourists too, they were sad little sacks of baggy flesh that stank of ignorance, but they brought the money. Money brought jobs. Jobs brought more work and improvements. The improvements brought more tourists with a predilection to be parted with their money. It was a vicious cycle that Paulo understood but hated. He hated his participation in it.

The courier he was shadowing was plowing through the crowd with a determination that Paulo had rarely seen. It was as if the brute of a man was on the leading edge of a static bubble. The jubilant partiers divided at his slightest touch and regrouped around him. The courier was Moses made flesh as he made his way towards the mezzanine boxes in Sector 2.

The case containing the 300-year-old bottle of Mackinlay’s was secured to the courier’s wrist with a set of Titanium-3 handcuffs. The case itself was also secured with biometric security measures. The case, once delivered, would require the use of the recipient’s thumbprint, verbalized password and a blood sample to release hermetic seal storing the paper-wrapped bottle.

Paulo ran through the possibilities in his mind. The crowd could easily conceal any wetwork that needed to happen. The courier was likely to be skilled and heavily modified. Paulo was prepared for that inevitability. The sketchy part of the entire operation was retrieving the recipient’s thumb and the blood sample required to open the case, but that was up to another team of operatives. Paulo’s only concern was the case containing the Mackinlay’s.

Quickly, Paulo moved around the courier and placed himself in front of the huge man. Paulo waited letting the samba beat infuse his character. It was like he was a child again, before the modifications, before the choices that led him back to Rio. The samba school that was passing by was blasting out ‘Un Poquito,’ and Paulo moved with the rhythm becoming one of the thousands in the crowd.

The courier’s wake was starting to encroach upon Paulo’s position as he approached. Grabbing one of the scantily clad women in the crowd, Paulo jumped into the movement of a classic samba, making his own ripples in the sea of rhythmic flesh. Paulo put his hands on her hips and guided her movements to match his own. Her bright smile told him that she was enjoying the attention. Sadly, Paulo knew that the unspoken innuendo wouldn’t lead anywhere. She was simply a means to an end. She was a distraction at best.

Paulo felt the courier behind him as he and the topless woman bounced back through a spin. He and the courier locked eyes. The surroundings started to slow down as the synthetic organs tucked in between the natural ones released the flood of endorphins that activated his artificially enhanced reflexes. There was recognition in the courier’s eyes. The two had danced before, in Beijing.

With a quick flick of Paulo’s wrist, his perfectly sculpted companion had spun out and extended herself into the courier’s path. She never connected with the brute. The woman clad mostly in a chartreuse thong under impossibly scant and faded denim shorts had stopped mid-spin as the courier grabbed hold of her fragile arm.

Paulo felt more than heard the snapping of bones in her forearm as the courier smiled at him. In an impossibly slow instant only seen through the haze of heightened senses and artificial stimulants, Paulo watched the woman’s arm bend into an impossible angle before she was lifted and thrown out of the courier’s bubble.

Without a second thought, Paulo bent his body and jumped into a handstand and let his feet follow the natural momentum, catching the courier squarely in the chest. The impact jarred Paulo’s teeth. It was lick kicking a steel plate. Paulo pushed up from the ground and twisted, following his feet.

The crowd was at a standstill. His samba partner was still flying up in the air, her arm twisting into a gross representation of what it used to be. Unless she got medical attention, she would likely bleed out within 20 minutes.

Paulo landed with his knees on the couriers shoulders. The scarred pale face of his new dance partner hadn’t even changed. It was a mask of complete focus. There was no expression on the courier’s face as Paulo felt the reinforced knee strike his kidney. Paulo would be pissing blood for a week, but it would be worth it when he delivered the Mackinlay’s to the fence.

The force of the blow knocked Paulo forward, dislodging him. Paulo used the momentum and twirled his body, bringing his arms together to increase the spin. In practiced synchronicity, Paulo ran through flexing his calf and curling his toes to extend the heel spike implanted in his foot while simultaneously hitting the ground on his back and raising his leg upwards.

In a thought, Paulo brought his leg down, planting the heel spike deep into the courier’s forehead. The courier twitched briefly before Paulo retracted the weapon. Time was starting to speed up again. The woman was a few feet farther, her arm wagging as if it were made out of rubber.

Paulo flexed his hand to extend the hand razors and hacked and at the flesh and reinforced bone of the courier’s forearm. Three heartbeats later, Paulo had the case of holding the Mackinlay’s and was pushing back through the crowd the way he came.

Paulo hated Rio during Carnival.

The Final Belle

2011-02-17T15:34:00.000-08:00

Connor Wilkins stared at the back of the clock. Even though the room was dark, Connor had been awake for so long that his vision had acclimated to the point where he could see the outline of the clock perfectly. A soft red glow coming from the clock lit up the corner of the room that was slowly being etched into Connor’s brain with every tired blink.

“Goddamnit!” the word was absorbed by the darkness. It didn’t echo. It didn’t hang in the air. It was out and then gone. The pain wasn’t though.

White-hot pain lanced up Connor’s leg tracing a path as lightning did coming down from the sky. It went from his foot, through ankle and meaty calf up to his knee. It was there that it boiled up for a moment and careened upwards causing his leg to jerk involuntarily. It was trying to escape the pain that was lacing through it.

The lyrica wasn’t working. Connor had already downed a cocktail comprised of lorazepam, hydrocodone, aspirin and benedryl. A steady pattern of ache filled Connor’s eyes from the lack of sleep. Connor could deal with that ache; it was the randomness of the neuropathy that was really starting to seep into his sanity.

Within the last three months Connor had quit smoking, been pricked, prodded and drained of blood, told he needed to lose 80 pounds and told he was diabetic. On top of all of that, the one piece of solid happiness that Conner needed had been taken from him. The cat was dead.

Belle had run out into the road and found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Connor scowled at the red-tinged darkness. The hurt welled up deep inside when he thought of Belle. She seemed to always know when Connor was hurting and was just there so he could focus on stroking her fur rather than feeling the hopelessness that was surrounding him.

Pain jolted Connor’s again causing his leg to jump out from underneath the covers. Lost in the red-rimmed darkness Connor felt all of it at once. The creeping itch of a remembered addiction passed in Connor’s mind. He could almost taste the cigarette. He wanted it so badly. He wanted to not have diabetes. He wanted to get to sleep. He wanted the drugs to kick in. He wanted his mind to stop racing around in the darkness.

More than anything else, Connor wanted Belle.

He remembered Belle’s small footsteps padding up the other side of the bed. Connor looked over half expecting to still see her. He could still feel the bed moving as if she were coming to him. He found it comforting when Belle slept with him. It made everything just a little bit better.

Connor could still feel Belle coming to him. A raspy tongue licked his nose. In the midway between the pain of reality and the rapture of the dream-time, Connor heard Belle’s purring and finally slipped into unconsciousness.

Visiting Uncle Frank

2011-02-09T17:58:00.000-08:00

“They’re coming you know.” Miriam glared at her sister. She knew it was a mistake bringing her to the cemetery with Fred and the girls in tow.

“Who is Auntie?” Megan asked from her seat in the back of the van with that youthful innocence that made her just glow. Miriam loved it when she smiled.

“Yeah, who Aunt Maude?” Melissa chimed in from her father’s side in the front of the minivan.

Fred’s daughters were only three years apart, but Miriam could see that the two girls were worlds apart in demeanor. Megan was still in the realm of the innocent. She was sweet and pure. Melissa was on the opposite end of the spectrum. She was a monochromatic spot that was clad in black. Melissa seemed to push herself further away from the innocence that she once held and further away from her family. All Miriam could do was feel badly for her brother. He had a teenaged girl in full hormonal swing and another one heading in the same direction.

“Oh that would be telling now. There’s going to be a party.” Maude giggled like she used to when she was Megan’s age. Miriam could feel her own annoyance building within. Her sister was slipping further and further away and there was little she could do about it. Miriam saw the soft glow of innocence radiating from Maude and instantly felt guilty for being angry.

“Look! I told you we’d make it in plenty of time.” Fred’s loud voice boomed in the cabin of the minivan.

“Great.” Melissa released another black cloud of pubescent pithiness.

“Who are we visiting at the cemetery again?” Megan asked. Her eyes were wide with curiosity as she took in the view of the massive leafless trees sitting on rolling hills. Miriam remembered when they had buried her brother near the mausoleum. The scene was picturesque. It wasn’t grey and dismal as it was today.

“Brother Frankie called us,” Maude explained.

“Maude honey,” Miriam placed a hand on her sister’s arm. “Frank can’t call, dear.” Miriam fought to keep her composure through Maude’s look of hurt and confusion. “He’s dead, dearie.”

“Miriam!” Fred burst. Miriam could feel the sidelong glance coming from him. She didn’t need to look at him.

“What?” Miriam threw her own glare back at her brother. “Did I lie?”

“Tactful as ever,” Fred muttered as he nudged the minivan through the gates.

“Here we go,” Melissa shot out another angst-filed gust into the air.

“Mel, please!” Fred pleaded with the emotional terrorist that was his eldest daughter.

“Frankie’s not dead.” Maude beamed, “he called me.”

“He most certainly did not, dear.” Miriam looked into her sister’s eyes. They seemed clear, but her mind wasn’t. “He’s dead. He’s been dead for the last five years.” Miriam felt badly as she saw the light fade from Maude’s eyes. It seemed to Miriam that she was constantly breaking the news about Frank’s death to Maude. It was as if Maude couldn’t remember that he had died.

“Really, Miriam?” Fred bellowed.

“Frankie’s dead?” Maude’s face was frozen in shock. The innocent glow was gone.

“Yes dear.” Miriam stroked Maude’s hair. “Five years now.”

“He’s about to blow.” Melissa announced in a thoroughly bored monotone. Miriam turned to look at her in the front seat. The ebon creature that was her niece was staring out of the passenger window at the shores of the frozen lake that butted up against the graveyard.

“Stop it, Miriam!” Fred had already worked himself into a full lather. Miriam rolled her eyes. Melissa was right, ‘here we go,’ indeed. “There is absolutely no reason for that.”

“Frankie’s dead?”

“Yes dear.” Miriam patted Maude’s arm and then turned to her brother, “What would you have me do Fredrick? Would you have me entertain her fantasy?” Miriam could feel her jaw tighten as the words were coming out. “You’re never there Fredrick. You just don’t know.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Melissa asked in that same noncommittal voice.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” Miriam snapped her eyes to her niece. Melissa hadn’t even bothered to turn her head from the window. She was intentionally exacerbating the situation. “And I’ll thank you kindly to not interject your opinion when you know nothing of what is going on.”

“What’s going on?” Miriam finally got the girl to turn her head. The two locked eyes for the briefest of moments. “Whatever,” the younger girl exhaled and went back to the window.

“It’s not enough that you’re devastating our sister, but now you’re attacking my daughter?”

“Frankie’s dead?”

“Fredrick, Melissa doesn’t know what’s going on or what’s best for Maude.” Miriam felt her cheeks begin to flush. “She’s full of –”

“Of what, Aunt Miriam?” Melissa’s voice changed from the adolescent ambiguous to insecure indignant. “Am I full of shit? Is that what you were going to say?”

“Melissa, language!” Fred yelled at his daughter.

“And this is what you get Fredrick,” Miriam huffed. “You go and let your wife leave and this is what you get.” She motioned to her niece sitting next to Fred.

“You don’t know shit about my mom you stupid bitch!”

“Melissa Raney Jenkins!” Fred blustered.

“Frankie’s dead?”

“Such an ungrateful mouth,” Miriam shifted in her seat. “Do you see what I mean Fred? There is simply no couth in her.”

“You’re one to talk,” Melissa spat out another caustic cloud as she sat back into her chair.

“Melissa –” Fred started. The minivan lurched forward and issued a high-pitched whine before the engine sputtered and died.

“Great.” Melissa was back to her guarded monotone.

“You reap what you sow,” Miriam muttered, not caring if Fred and his raven-haired demon child heard her or not.

A high-pitched scream permeated the small space of the cabin. Miriam cocked her head and shifted again to look at Megan. The young girl’s face was flush with the effort it took to pierce the air with her tiny voice. Miriam counted, slowly. It took the Megan twenty seconds to stop.

“Yes, we can all hear you now.” Miriam began to rub her temples. It never did any good, but it was the first thing she always tried when she felt the migraines coming.

“Why is everyone fighting?” Megan asked between her sobs. Miriam looked at her sitting in the extreme rear of the now silent minivan. Her face was twisted in pre-pubescent anguish. Miriam sighed. Megan’s drama was only going to add fuel to an already blazing inferno.

“We’re really not fighting sweetie,” Fred tried to reassure his youngest daughter from his position up front.

“Yes we were,” Melissa threw out her contrary statement as she stared out at the darkening mid-winter sky.

“That’s not helping, dearie.” Miriam tried to sound calm. She could feel her composure slipping.

“You’re not helping either, dearie.” Melissa’s venom came back in a failed impersonation of Miriam. “We’re on the way to visit Uncle Frank’s grave. It’s cold. We’re stuck in the mud. And you’ve got such a stick shoved so far up your own ass that it’s not even funny anymore!”

“Melissa,” Fred pleaded.

“Well!” Miriam could think of nothing else appropriate to say. Megan’s sobs broke the sudden silence.

“Why are you crying sweetheart?” Maude whispered softly to her niece. “Don’t worry, sweetie. “They’re coming, you know. Frankie called me and let me know.”

“Uncle Frankie’s dead, Aunt Maude.” Megan said between her sniffles.

“Someone’s coming.” Melissa was sitting up now. Her hand pressed on the glass. Miriam looked up from Megan and out the side window and saw the figure approaching the minivan.

“Frankie’s dead?” Maude said with that same sense of surprise. “He called me and told me not to come today. He told me his friends were coming over instead.”

Miriam could feel the intense cold that was pressing into the shell of the minivan. She could almost feel the sinister intentions of the wind that had whipped up outside.

“Dad?” Melissa’s panicked voice trembled. More figures had gathered within the instant that Miriam had looked away. They were coming from the outskirts of the graveyard where the mausoleums were. Miriam could hear the clicking of the engine.

“Daddy!” Melissa was now hitting her father’s arm in alarm.

“Fred, start the engine.”

“Trying.” The engine gasped and faded into silence.

“Daddy, please!” Melissa pleaded.

“Fred, start the goddamned car!” Miriam heard her voice spit out the vulgarity as her eyes watched the shambling figures come closer.

“Oh, isn’t Frankie nice,” Maude squealed in happiness. “He sent his friends to come for us!”

They were impossibly fast. In an instant Miriam found herself in the middle of a nightmare. The dead figures had surrounded the minivan. Miriam could hear their soft moaning through the glass.

Maude began to giggle, “Frankie called me. I told you, but you didn’t believe me!” As the van started to rock Miriam could only hear her sister’s laughter.

It was the last thing she ever heard.

Regenisis

2010-11-21T21:13:00.000-08:00

Lucas looked at the two specimens within the growth chambers from behind his workstation. The two of them were beautiful in every way. The genecraft was absolutely superb. Damek was strong and handsome. There wasn’t a flaw on his body. He was sculpted to perfection. Zoe was the perfect mate for Damek. She was feminine perfection in a jar. Her body was soft and supple where it needed to be and just as strong as Damek. The flesh was just perfect. Lucas frowned. He had to admit it; his peer had done great work. Joe Hove had always done great work that seemed to outshine Lucas’ own.

Staring hard at the two clones, Lucas could already see how Joe would be skyrocketing towards a corner office on one of the top floors while he was going to be stuck in a lab. Joe would have a team and it was likely that Lucas would be one of the chief designers on that team. There would be no denying it. Lucas’ own skills were on par with his would-be boss. The only problem was that Lucas couldn’t spin his work fast enough for the suits up in the boardroom. Joe was quick on the draw in that fashion.

The sad part was that Lucas had more than a helping hand in creating both Damek and Zoe, but few would know that unless they happened to read the footnotes in the report that was going to be delivered topside in less than 12 hours. Joe had already streamlined and prepped the meeting agenda to not only exclude Lucas from making a face-to-face with the Powers That Be, but also to take the lion’s share of the credit.

It was how things were done. If your team performed, then you were promoted and romanced towards the great things in life. If your team did not perform, you were a pariah and the suits seemed to look the other way when you were approaching the elevators. Either that or your work was so expertly scrutinized that any little flaw within the design, execution or management of your project would become the most glaring inconsistency that was ever known to man and your credibility suffered for it.

Lucas analyzed the personality matrices that were loaded into Damek and Zoe. The imprints were from a long list of philanthropists including Li Ka-shing, Bill and Melinda Gates, William Henry Vanderbilt and Oprah Winfrey. The two were to be the models for future politicians, liaisons, diplomats, doctors, lawyers, social workers, and surrogate parents. They were to be the role models that society could rebuild upon. They were to be the human regenesis.

That was the plan before Joe had cut Lucas out of the limelight and his rightful place at the end of the long table up on the 165th floor.

Another plan was quickly put into place. Lucas figured that if he were to remain in the lab for the rest of his days, he would rule in the dark recesses. It would be his work that they praised unless they wanted something rather unpleasant to happen that would forfeit the timelines, forecasts and possibly hundreds of millions of dollars in man-hours and research funding. He would be the shining example of success within the forgotten floors where the suits did not dare to tread.

Lucas’ fingers glided across the keyboard loading up the other imprint matrices that he had built. The traits that Lucas had built were not built around compassion and the loving of mankind. They were different. These imprints were built from humanity’s hatred and included Jane Toppan, David Berkowitz, Ed Gein, John Wayne Gacy and the Bloody Benders. If Joe was going to try to impress the board with his new creations, they would have a terrible and swift surprise coming for them. From behind the workstation, Lucas smiled.

Beads of sweat formed on Lucas’ brow. The HVAC within the labs had been on the fritz all day. Lucas grabbed the bottle near the keyboard and chugged what was left of the water in it. That had been his third liter bottle within the last two hours. He didn’t know exactly why he was so incredibly thirsty. Lucas chuckled to himself as the upload completed. Damek and Zoe would now be complete. The new imprints would give the two clones balance.

Reaching into the small refrigerator underneath the workstation, Lucas pulled out another liter bottle of water. Snapping the seal, he drank in long swallows letting the cool water course down his throat. Lucas’ eyes went fuzzy and he didn’t feel good. Something was wrong.

Stumbling around the workstation, Lucas headed for the door. He had to get to the infirmary. The room was spinning. Trying hard to maintain his balance, Lucas fell sidelong into the chair that he was using. His muscles hurt and it was getting harder to breathe.

A clapping echoed throughout the laboratory. Lucas squinted to try to bring the looming figure into focus. Black suit and a bright neorganic tattoo of a radiation symbol covering his left eye. Caucasian. Big. Dangerous.

“Now that you’ve completed your task, I can complete mine.” The man laughed maniacally.

“Who?” Lucas croaked through his swelling throat.

“You can call me Blue,” the man knelt down and patted him on the face with a gloved hand, “Judas Blue.” His assailant looked over at the clones and then back to Lucas. “And these fine two are now going to be free. Isn’t that wonderful?” Judas laughed his maniacal laugh again.

“I’ve brought them something,” Judas informed Lucas. “Do you see it, can you see?” Judas brought Lucas’ face in line with a fuzzy red blob that he couldn’t quite make out. “Look!” Judas slapped Lucas’ face hard. “Do you see it?”

“No.” Lucas pleaded as his vision came into brief focus on the apple that Judas held in his hand.

“Yes, you understand!” Judas laughed again. “I doubt they’ll ever be the same again!”

New World Heroes

2010-11-21T17:00:00.000-08:00

Bad Movie Night!

What happens when the mind of an author uses the Seventh Sanctum’s Generators to write about over-the top imaginary action film plots from the blurb of a one-line movie trailer? You get ’Bad Movie Night!’

In an infernal empire of ghosts, four rangers battle crime.

The sloppy mess on the ground was Sergeant Mark Johnson’s former Lieutenant. Back in the world, Sergeant Johnson would have had to have answered to a court-martial. Articles 90 and 128 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice would have seen that he would have been doing a stint at Leavenworth. But that was back in the world. Sergeant Johnson wiped his bloodied mouth with the back of his fist and spat in the Lieutenant’s direction.

“We aint back home Lieutenant,” Sergeant Johnson was breathing heavily and staggering. The soldier bent over and placed his hands on his knees for support and spat on the ground again. “We are out here on our own!” The words came out through sheer force of will.

Sergeant Johnson glared at the rest of the squad that had managed to come through the broken desert and into this world. The three of them were fresh out of Benning. They bought into the Lieutenant’s mind games and power trips.

“What in the green hell are you three looking at?” Sergeant Johnson barked. “If you blue heads can’t get it through your brain buckets that the rules of engagement have changed,” Sergeant Johnson spat on the ground again trying to get the taste of his own blood out of his mouth, “then you may as well bend over and kiss your collective asses good-bye!”

“PFC Daniels!” Sergeant Johnson stood and approached the soldier with renewed vigor. “Tell me what you saw.” Daniels looked towards the rest of his squad and then back to his sergeant. Sergeant Johnson moved in close to the young soldier and bellowed, “Tell me!” Sergeant Johnson heard the droplets of spittle land on Daniels’ face.

“Sarge, it aint that simple,” Private Daniels started as he wiped off his face. “I don’t know what happened to the Lieutenant,” Daniels’ eyes flicked over to the corpse that had landed in an undignified position. “And I don’t suppose it matters much now seeing that he’s like them now.”

“What the hell is going on Sarge?” another soldier within the trio asked. “Not mor’n two days ago we were bustin hump outside of Kandahar when we got caught out in …” Private Anton trailed off, looking for the words, “in what-the-fuck-ever that was out there.”

Sergeant Johnson moved to face Anton. He stared hard at the confused and frustrated soldier. Ranger training didn’t exactly prepare soldiers to combat alien ghosts or deal with planetary displacement. What it did do was prepare you to lead the way and finish what you started.

“You got a point to make, PFC?” Sergeant Johnson growled at Anton.

“Yeah Sarge,” Anton locked eyes with the Sergeant. “I do. We’re God-knows-where fighting an enemy that seems hell bent on trying to take us out and possess our bodies. It’s criminally insane to stay here!” Anton’s hands were shaking. Sergeant Johnson kept eye contact with Private Anton. Now was the critical point. The last thing he needed was to have one of his own turn on him like he did with the Lieutenant.

“You got somewhere else to be?” Sergeant Johnson asked in a low rumble. “Better yet PFC Anton, you got somehow to get somewhere else to be?”

“Goddamnit Sarge!” Anton screamed. “Why are we doing this? We are in a metric-fuck-ton of shit and on an alien world possessed by fucking ghosts!”

“Specialist Petrovski,” Sergeant Johnson addressed the final member of what was remaining of his squad. “Why are we doing this? Why are we fighting so hard against the crime that we’ve seen here? Why do we have to be the heroes of this farce of a fairy tale?”

“Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of the Rangers.” Petrovski sounded off. Sergeant Johnson kept his eyes locked with Anton.

“Keep going.” Sergeant Johnson could hear the Specialist lick his lips.

“Acknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster and fight harder than any other soldier.”

Private Anton began to shake his head in disbelief. A deep frown crossed his face. Anton’s knuckles grew white as he gripped the butt of his rifle. Sergeant Johnson knew he was about to fade out.

“What’s next, Anton?” Anton just looked at him. “What’s next?” For a moment, Sergeant Johnson thought that Anton was going to fire on him and the rest. He kept staring at Anton, keeping the Private focused on his eyes. All he could do was keep Anton focused on the new mission. “PFC Anton!” Sergeant Johnson growled again, “What the fuck is next!?”

“Never shall I fail my comrades.” Anton blurted in shock.

“Continue.”

“ I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be. One-hundred-percent and then some.”

“Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow.” The others chimed in along with Anton.

“Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.” The three were yelling.

“Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.”

“That’s right soldier,” Sergeant Johnson put a hand on Anton’s shoulder and smiled, “Rangers lead the way.”

A Flock of Cranes

2010-11-14T17:00:00.000-08:00

Bad Movie Night!

What happens when the mind of an author uses the Seventh Sanctum’s Generators to write about over-the top imaginary action film plots from the blurb of a one-line movie trailer? You get ’Bad Movie Night!’

In a faraway world, in a time of wickedness, three archers and a fletcher try to save a detective.

“The Pinkerton lives?” Leopold Crane asked his younger brother in a winded breath. Leopold was fighting with his bow, testing its give and pull as he drew back on the string.

“Of course he lives!” James looked up to the eldest of the four brothers. Leopold saw the urgency in his eyes. Being the youngest, he had not yet earned the right to use the bow as his weapon, he was still on fletching, but he was the best damned fletcher between the four of them. When James did get his bow, there wouldn’t be anyone better.

“Come on Leopold!” James was tugging on Leopold’s sleeve. “We’ve got to move fast.” The elder of the Crane Brothers looked down onto his younger sibling. He could see him growing up all over again. James’ freckles were fading but they would be coming back during the long trip. The sunlight brought them out and turned his head blonde.

“James, the Pinkerton learned how to take care of himself long before you were even thought of,” Leopold held fast as he nocked an arrow and fixed his eye to the target. James pulling on the sleeve of his thermal shirt didn’t help Leopold aim.

Leopold let out a breath. It was long and held the scent of the garlic from the cold spaghetti that the four of them had for breakfast. He had already seen where he was going to put the arrow within the straw target that was on the far end of the barn that the group used to practice their art. Leopold let the arrow fly and felt the weight of the bow follow the spent up energy as the arrow sped onto the path that Leopold had already seen.

The flight lasted less than a second, but Leopold watched the shaft spin as the feathers caught the wind. The tip had a hunting blade on it. Four delicately crafted razor blades punctured the straw target with little sound but much fury. Leopold smiled as he saw the stuffing come out of the back of the target. It was a clean shot and he was proud.

“Can we go now?” James was still at his side and still trying to pester him into action. He was growing into a passionate man. It was that passion that was either going to get James killed or make him the greatest archer on the planet. Leopold hoped it would be the latter, but with the way his younger brother was badgering him, the inclination to let him go and save Pinkerton by himself was becoming more and more to the forefront of Leopold’s brain.

“James,” Leopold pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “The detective is going to be fine until Reynaldo and Evan finish what they’re doing. There is no way I’m going without them to try to save the Pinkerton. We are Cranes which means that we think our way through things. We don’t go off half-cocked and unprepared.”

Leopold glared at James seeing that he didn’t want to understand what he was saying. James must have been showing the same frustration that Leopold was showing on his face. Passion was going to kill the boy one day. Leopold could only hope to save him from his own passion before it became terminal.

“But,” James started.

“No, James!” Leopold slapped his younger brother on the back of the head. “Think!” Leopold could feel the dark frown on his face. His muscles were tensing up in the unconscious effort.

“If we go without everything in place, what’s going to happen?” Leopold could feel his cheeks beginning to flush. He was using his diaphragm to nearly bellow out the words. James stood silent, his own face turning red. It had been a long time since Leopold had to box his proverbial ear. “Answer me, boy!”

James’ lip started to quiver as he held back the thoughts and words that so desperately wanted to come out. His breathing became heavier and more rapid. His fists were clenching and unclenching. Leopold knew how to push the young man’s buttons. There were times it was completely necessary.

There were times when wickedness was not just the right tool, but the only tool. It had been years since Leopold had to use it on James. Leopold instantly felt guilty, but the dolt wasn’t learning any other way. James kept letting his passion control him instead of controlling the passion and using it to his advantage.

Leopold raised his hand again and cocked his head as a warning to his younger brother. James stared up at Leopold, puffing his cheeks as his rapid breathing increased. This above everything else proved that James needed to spend another few years making the arrows instead of learning to make them fly.

“Then we could all die.” James let out in a failed attempt at something between a snarl and a growl. It only came out as a hurt tone that reflected the ignorant childish passion he was feeling.

“Go on,” Leopold let his hand down but kept the lock on James’ eyes. “What else?”

“It would probably mean the end of the Pinkerton as well.” James sounded congested. Leopold wasn’t surprised. The boy was huffing and puffing like a lizard in the sunlight. It didn’t make him tough. It only raised his blood pressure and caused his sinuses to become inflamed.

“That’s right,” Leopold put a hand on James’ shoulder. “We four are all the family that we have.” James bowed his head in embarrassment. Leopold breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had actually gotten through to him. “There is no way I’m going to rush off and let you or any one of us die in their hands. Besides, the Pinkerton wouldn’t have hired us if we couldn’t pull of the job. We’re Cranes after all!” Leopold smiled down at James.

“And that means we don’t fail.” James mumbled to the ground.

“No James, that means we’re family.”

Apocalyptic Visions

2010-11-07T22:28:00.000-08:00

Bad Movie Night!

What happens when the mind of an author uses the Seventh Sanctum’s Generators to write about over-the top imaginary action film plots from the blurb of a one-line movie trailer? You get ’Bad Movie Night!’

In a world of virtual reality, a nun and a seer hope to avert the apocalypse.

Sister Magana rode the ebbs and flows of the Interweb desperately looking for Theresa. The brain box that she was plugged into gave Sister Magana the ability to cast her avatar beyond the walls of the Temple of the Triumphant and into the planetary communications system collectively known as the Interweb. She could feel her eyes flicker beneath her delicate eyelids. The orbs rolled back and forth accepting the data that was being fed into her visual cortex through the specialized implants that were placed into her cranium and soft fleshy brain tissue so very long ago.

She scanned the virtual landscape looking for the signal that both she and Theresa had agreed upon. It was an innocuously small icon that was supposed to be unobtrusive, but instead had grown into a cult status. As Sister Magana stared out into the landscape, she saw that Theresa’s small icon, the signal between them, had grown into a most popular logo that many of the avatars out in the virtual reality of the Interweb. Hundreds of thousands of humanoid shaped avatars now held the image of an upside down triangle with an eye in the middle of the black triangular field.

Unconsciously, Sister Magana bit her lip in consternation. It had been a simple graphic placed within the myriad of colored flash that had been born on the Interweb. It was the antithesis of what the other graphics were. It was plain, but in its simplicity, it was attractive to those who had enough with the constant barrage to the senses in order to attract traffic. Instead of a hidden message, Sister Magana had to sift through hundreds of iterations of the same symbol on twice as many avatars that were roaming her section of the Interweb.

The last message she had gotten from Theresa was encoded in a simple algorithm and laced within a picture of the Kaysapper Waterfall at daybreak. When Sister Magana decrypted the message, it shook Sister Magana to the core.

“And I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and seven trumpets were given to them.”

Sister Magana had met Theresa through one of the rare outings that she was allowed out in the real world. The pilgrimage was to remind the sisters that there was more to life than what was represented out in the maelstrom that was the Interweb. The people behind the virtual construct had real flesh and bones and needed to be cared for spiritually. It was an exercise in spirituality and humility. It wasn’t something that Sister Magana preferred, but it was necessary.

The grubby hands were callused and cracked. They worked hard for the credits that came in. Sister Magana didn’t look up to the faces that owned the hands. It was part of the pilgrimage. Instead of being blinded by the sight of the eye, the sisters belonging to the Temple of the Triumphant were to see with their hands, just as the workers did. The sisters were to feel the hands and weather-worn faces of the workers. They were to feel their way along every crack and crevice on their sometimes blistered hands and feet in order to gain a sense as to what was being sacrificed for the temple.

Theresa owned a set of those callused hands and blistered feet.

Sister Magana felt a tingle as she touched those hardened fingertips. With practiced ease, the nun took Theresa’s fingers and dipped them into the bowl of perfumed mineral water that all of the sisters carried down from the temple. The shock of the tingle took Sister Magana by surprise as she coated Theresa’s hands and worked the soothing minerals into her flesh.

A horseman bound through Sister Magana’s mind. He sat tall on a white stallion. His crowned head gleamed in the daylight. From out of the shadows being cast, a black horse came into existence, its rider held out a pair of scales. In contrast, a red horse appeared as the glint of the white horseman’s crown blinded Sister Magana. The rider of the red horse held out his sword and had an evil smile. The ground buckled underneath her within the vision. A pallid and bloated hand punched up through the grassy knoll and caused the rent in the earth to increase and collapse. The sickly skinned horse smelled of death.

Sister Magana was suddenly aware that here mouth was open and she wasn’t performing the necessary and required ministrations to the hands that were in front of her. The four stood in front of her as if she were plugged into the brain box. She could see each of them quite clearly. The only difference between the vision and the virtual world was that she could actually smell the decay of the last pallid rider, feel the heat from the rider on the red horse and the chill of the rider on the black shadowy horse. There was a certain sweet taste coming from the rider on the white horse. It reminded her of victory.

“What is your name?” Sister Magana asked quietly, not lifting her head or opening her eyes. The visionary riders stared at the nun, challenging her to disbelieve.

“Theresa,” the cracked, but young voice said. Sister Magana began to work on Theresa’s fingers and hands again. Rough patches on her hands drank up the mineral water. The pinched and wrinkled fingertips seemed to swell up as the soothing minerals flowed along natural paths to begin the healing.

“What is it that you do?” the nun fought off the vision in her head as she worked on Theresa’s palms and wrist. The calluses were prominent where the fingers met the palm. Sister Magana was always amazed at the contrast in the flesh. Her fingers were soft and cushy in comparison. The horsemen chuckled at Sister Magana. The nun focused on Theresa’s wrist and forearm hoping to drive the vision away.

“I am a seer, and you and I have a destiny.”

Two Grave Robbers and a Swordsman

2010-11-07T19:39:00.001-08:00

Bad Movie Night!

What happens when the mind of an author uses the Seventh Sanctum’s Generators to write about over-the top imaginary action film plots from the blurb of a one-line movie trailer? You get ’Bad Movie Night!’

In an amazing galaxy of enchantment, two grave robbers and a swordsman hope to stop the destruction of mankind.

The howling wind swept over the dunes carving and reshaping them to its own desire. Two figures hunkered down underneath a well worn tarp attempting to escape the onslaught that the wind was unleashing onto the desert. Sun bleached and sand blasted, the tarp looked as if it would give way at any moment.

It bent with the wind and collected the tiny bits of sand that were pushed deep into the weave of the cloth. It wouldn’t be long before the tarp, and the two men underneath it, would be buried. Their preposterous task still loomed ahead even though the storm showed no signs of stopping. The tomb had to be breached, there was no other choice.

“I told you this would happen.” Surat frowned from beneath his mask and goggles at his younger brother. “You had to be the hero!” he yelled at the younger goblin. Surat knew that Senot would ignore him and blame the lack of response on the howling wind even though the strength of the soul-signaler that they both wore was turned to eleven.

“Hey!” Senot looked back at his older brother. “What’d you do that for?” Surat imagined that a hurt and quizzical look was hidden beneath the protective gear. It was wasted. He knuckled his brother’s head again, this time making sure that the younger goblin felt it through the Zephyr Guard Kits that they were both wearing. The specialized equipment covered nearly every inch of skin against the abrasive sand as well as what lurked in between each and every grain.

“Because you wanted to be the hero,” Surat kneeled in the uncomfortable sand with the RangeDiggr Ectoplasm Tunneler between his knees. There was no way to use the ET in the storm. It would bring the spectres, and that was what they were trying to avoid. “It’ll be easy, a milk-run.” Surat looked down at his brother. “We just go out into one of the older tombs we’ve already robbed and give the swordsman a false trinket. Then we’ll have his silver!” Surat brought his heavily gloved fist down again on Senot’s head. “Do you remember that?”

“Well,” his brother whined across the soul-signaler. “I didn’t know the pirate would have access to a Forensic Augury Scanning Template.”

“You’re useless.” Surat began to brush off the fine sand off of the ET for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Mother should have left you in the Academy of the One Hundred Plasmic Banes. Maybe there you could have proven your use.” Surat shook his heavily clothed head. “Yato preserve us,” he swore.

The wind howled outside of their shelter. It couldn’t fill the silence between the two of them. If Surat listened closely, he could hear the spectres out in the sandstorm. It was their howling that he really feared. It wasn’t the pirate of a swordsman back in the Church of the Spirits that he feared either. At least the ugly pasty-faced craven was only human. What Surat feared most was the day when the spectres would take him and his brother across the void.

“But he said that he was trying to save the world.” Senot’s sad little voice came across the soul-signaler. Surat looked at his brother. The younger goblin had grabbed up a handful of sand was letting it sift out of the heavy glove of the Zephyr Guard Kit.

“Men say a lot of things in order to get their way.” Surat put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “They can’t be trusted.” Surat immediately felt the guilt for being so hard on his brother. He really didn’t know any better. Senot had spent his time learning about the spirits and spectres rather than living in the real world.

“I know,” the response came from the younger goblin. Surat still heard his brother wanting to believe in the pirates from the church. “It’s just that I know we can find it.”

“Senot,” Surat was beginning to feel the annoyance begin to rise again, “seriously?”

“The readings from the Neuro-Sense Pack show that it’s below us!” Senot’s voice became more excited. “All we have to do is wait out the storm!”

“The myth?” Surat began to count slowly. He could feel his blood beginning to burn. Surat couldn’t believe that his brother was actually falling for the pirate lies. “Let me get this straight,” Surat had to take a breath in order to remain somewhat calm, “you actually think that you’ve found the Tomb of the Bloodstained Princess?”

“Yes, I do.” Senot’s voice was full of hope and promise.

Surat’s lips curled underneath the Zephyr Guard Kit. If the two of them had been in the City of the First Citadel instead of in the middle of the Fallen Wastes, Surat would have grabbed his little brother by his pointed ear and marched him back to the Academy. It was definitely where he belonged.

“Fairy tales and legends of an enchanted needle will not save us from the pirates that have enslaved our world!” Surat couldn’t contain his anger any longer. Lifting his hand from Senot’s shoulder, the older goblin balled up his fist as best he could from within the protection of the thick gloves and smacked the younger goblin on the side of his head.

“Yato knows I’ve been patient with you and your silly beliefs that were crammed into that yammering unmuzzled clay-brained head of yours!” Surat smacked Senot again, harder this time. He could hear his younger brother’s sobbing coming over the soul-signaler, but he didn’t care.

“You,” Surat peppered his blows in between the words. “Ruttish,” another blow. “Whey-faced,” more of Senot’s sobbing came over the soul-signaler. “Scut!” Surat screamed over the howling wind.

“Stop!” Senot’s whimpering caught Surat off guard. “Look!” his brother pointed at the ground where he had grabbed the handful of fine sand. Surat’s eyes widened as he watched the rouge sand bubble up between his brother’s legs.

“I’ll be poxed!” Surat swore. “You did find it.”

La Canción del Pirata Tortugas Santo

2010-03-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

herever the brigands gather to drink and sing, they speak in low tones from the terror Los Tortugas bring. All along the Spanish Main the four Captains roamed bringing death to those stealing from the Spanish throne.

The four Dons of the Spanish Main flew on the briny sting guarding the treasures of gold and silver-plate bound for their King. Monsters, they were me lads, with a cutlass flash and wheel-lock crack, those that sought the King’s treasure guarded by Los Tortugas never came back.

No lads, they nae came back.
No lads, they nae came back.

e was a Captain of the Eastern realms, the ship called Azzar Mewt. The Portuguese called him El Desfiadaron, “Master” to his crew. Behind a mask he preyed on the ships in service of the King of Spain. The crews and men that served dear Philip grew fearsome of his pain.

The sword he carried was forged of folded steel, his mask made of blades. The colors he flew held a great red spot behind a skull that didn’t fade. A bloody swath he cut on the briny deep as he hunted along the Main those accidentally left alive sung the songs to increase his fame.

Aye lads, they sung to his fame.
Aye lads, they sung to his fame.

he, the daughter of an Irish prince, came to serve on the seas. He, a Privateer of English descent, came to her on one knee. Together the two sought to bring justice on the salty blue
Not just for those who slaughtered the innocents, but for each other too.

The Jones’ sailed on in the employ of righteousness, without King or Queen. Their path was set before them, written in the briny green. It wasn’t a governor or priest that profited from their quest their booty was for all of mankind, the poor, the wretched, and all of the rest.

Sing to them Lads, all of the rest.
Sing to them Lads, all of the rest.

Halloween Knight

2009-10-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

The push broom made an awkward noise when the rhythm was applied to it. The swish-thump, swish-thump, swish-thump echoed against the halls as it gathered the dust that settled on the linoleum tiles. It was just another day. Nothing much changed in the LBI Coffin Hotel. There were always the floors to sweep and tubes to clean. The showers were another story. They had to be disinfected with a super-duty cleaner that killed every virus or bacteria known to man, metahuman, or dragon. Franco smiled slightly at the thought of all of the people pulling together for a toilet cleaner. But it had to be done. The travelers and commuters really didn’t like the idea of catching some kind of STD from the crapper. Franco pondered the floor again. There were only two more floors to go until his shift at the front desk.

Somewhere on the second floor is where Franco had found a little puzzle box. The thing was just sitting in one of the tubes that was rented last night by a Mr. Johnson. Like they all weren’t rented by Johnson’s every now and again. The Ork smiled to himself letting his tusks fully show. It was one of his favorite facial expressions. It really drove the norms mad when he did it. Franco liked to think it was ‘tusk envy.’ If Freud had been alive now, he’d have a whole hell of a lot to work with besides his Id, Ego, and Superego. But what did Franco know, he was the janitor?

The little cube had etchings all over it. He didn’t know how it worked. There were no switches or jacks on it at all; just the etched bronze metal that lined all six sides of it. The light danced along the sides of the metal surface. There were no input leads or anything like that on it. The little box puzzled Franco. It looked like a puzzle cube he’d heard of. It was the height of envy nearly 75 years ago. The things were running about 5000 nuyen in good condition and about double that in mint. But the little box didn’t look like a normal Rubik’s cube. All the angles for movement were wrong; and this one was made of bronze and steel rather than the standard plastic.

The cube didn’t have the little colored stickers either. The lines were just a bunch of etched designs. Triangles, stars, rhomboids were plastered all over the thing. The normal Rubik’s cube was just a bunch of squares. His grandfather had one when he was smaller. He smiled warmly remembering the fascination that his grandfather looked on as Franco kept solving the puzzling cube in less than two minutes. Franco thought that he might have to call one of his collector friends to get it appraised. He’d have time to ponder the thing later. There were still more tubes to clean.

The sound of boot steps coming from the stairwell told Franco that he was about to have company. He continued on with the rhythm of the push broom. The sounds mingled together as if they were married to the same source. Swish-thump, click-clack, swish-thump, click-clack, the sound repeated another dozen times before the foot falls stopped. Franco turned expecting to see they poor slob unloading gear into one of the tubes he had just cleaned. The Elf standing behind him kind of smiled oddly.

“Good afternoon,” he spoke softly. The condescending tone came through very well. Franco eyed him up and down. Black silver-toed boots stuck out from blue denim cinching at the Elf’s waist. A puffy white silk shirt covered the Elf’s torso. Wrapping up the ensemble was a burgundy long coat with buttons on the lapel. The package was complete when he got to the Elf’s head. Bright red hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail with a small braid of the licorice colored hair braided down the left side of the Elf’s face. White face paint was caked onto the confines of the Elf’s face. The guy looked like a clown without a circus. Then Franco remembered - it’s Halloween.

“And what? Trick or treat?” Franco blurted to the Elf, holding the push broom in his good hand and ready to act if necessary.

The Elf’s hollow smile widened. “Yes,” he chuckled, “Tricks and treats. I had almost forgotten about this day.” His eyes danced around the corridor; “Of course it is up to you which one you receive.”

“Look Chum, I don’t know why yer here, but you might want to start explaining yourself before I hafta bust open yer head.” Franco drove his finger into the Elf’s chest emphasizing his words.

The gleeful glimmer in the Elf’s eyes turned hard. “So, this is the choice that you make,” the Elf started, “Some associates of mine seem to have - misplaced a very important item and I was wondering if you had seen it anywhere?” the Elf leaned up against the wall. He was too comfortable, too cocky. Franco thought about cracking his emergency card to call LoneStar.

“Look here pal,” Franco motioned for the Elf to follow him towards one of the open tubes. “You see this here sticker? ‘Light Bearer Industries bears no responsibility for lost or misplaced items left after your stay.’ Do you understand that?” Franco asked plainly. The Elf let out a laugh like no other Franco had heard. It was a full belly roll laugh that had the Elf holding his stomach. Had he not been leaning against the wall, he would have surely doubled over and fallen to the floor. He caught the Ork’s blatant stare and held up on hand as if to ask, ‘just a moment, please.’

“Oh, now that’s a good one!” The Elf announced. “What next, ‘Knights of the Crimson Spire’ action figures? Oh how the mighty have fallen,” he continued, Franco thought he might smear his face paint with the tears. “would that our Order had heard that one.”

“Look, I dunno what your chipped on pal, but I don’t want no trouble here.” Franco explained to the nearly hysterical Elf. “You have about five seconds to leave before I crack the card to get the Star out here.”

“There’s no need for that,” the Elf said, finally recouping from the laughter. “I’ll be going. Here’s my card if you find the item I’m looking for.”

Slender hands reached inside of one of the pockets. Franco immediately moved his hand to the badge that he wore. The LoneStar security card was attached to the lanyard that held his badge for LBI. The Elf produced a card and with a flick of his wrist, sent it sailing towards Franco. The Ork caught the card and examined it. There was a stylish ‘H’ on one side of it and what looked like a jester on the other side. It looked like a playing card, but the dimensions were the right size of a business card. Fragging loony! What was he supposed to do with this card? There was no LTG number, no matrix mailbox, nothing!

“And just how am I supposed to get in touch with you?” he asked. Silence answered him. Franco looked up and the question just hung there. The Elf was gone without a trace. “Fragging wonderful!” Franco seethed through his clenched teeth. “Happy Halloween.”

Franco finished up the sweeping without another incident and headed down to the booth with the armored plexiglass that LBI Coffin Hotel used to check in the ‘guests’. The young guy who he relieved was already itching to get out. The disheveled hair and crumpled T-shirt told Franco that he didn’t do his laundry again. Spike was a good kid, but not responsible. Franco didn’t know why he was hired. He was just another warm body behind the glass to make sure pre-deceased ‘guests’ didn’t check into the hotel. That’s about all he was good for anyway. It happened, but not often this close to the corporate buildings.

“Heya Franco!” he beamed. “I was wondering if I could bolt early,” Spike began to explain, “ya see there’s this party down in Redmond that’s having a live band and an honest to God fortune teller.” Spike pleaded with all of his soul. Franco shook his head. Kids, he thought, always looking for the thrill in life - no wonder the trid was full of shadowrunners. ‘Longshot and Raptor - Runners for Hire’ was one of the most popular shows on ‘Must see Wednesday.’

“How did I know this was coming?” Franco asked rhetorically.

“Well?” Spike asked, impatiently.

“Yeah, get outta here.” Franco smiled his special smile at the teenager.

“Dude, put those things away,” he chided Franco, “You’re gonna damage somebody with those things.” Spike grinned.

“Yeah, but the ladies love ‘em!” Franco winked at him. “Oh and I found something up there in the tubes. Take it to your party; let the fortuneteller have a look-see at it. Let me know what the results are.” Franco tossed him the bronze cube.

“Sure Franco,” Spike looked at the little box quizzically, “I’ll see you later then.”

“Now scat!” Franco growled, urging Spike out of the booth. “Go have fun, and Happy Halloween!” he called after the young man. Spike waved to him as he headed for the monorail station. It was still early enough to catch the rail to Redmond. The sun hadn’t quite fallen from the sky. Dusk was approaching. Franco fished around in his coveralls and found the Elf’s card. Chills ran up his arms. Maybe he should have given the little puzzle box to the Elf with the flaming hair. It was too late now.

Hours passed as he watched the traffic in the inner city slowly cut itself down to an inconsistent drip instead of the flood of headlights. The only thing constant was the changing of the language as he checked in the clientele. “Bonsoir!” and “Merci beaucoup” were for the ones coming from Paris. “Guten Abend” and “Vielen dank” were for the ones coming from Berlin. “Konbanha” and “Bansha” were for the ones visiting Renraku. “An-nyong hashimnika” and “Tedanhi kamsa-hamnida” were for the Seoul men. “Wanv sháng haov” and “Fei cháng gàn xie” for the ones coming in from Red China - it was all the same, “Good evening” and “Thank you very much.” Faces passed by the glass and left promptly. The clouds covered over the sunset and the blackness encompassed the metroplex. Life was good behind his bulletproof glass.

Franco watched the Matchsticks roam around hiding from the LoneStar patrols. The cat-and-mouse game lasted for awhile before one of the leather clad freaks decided to pull a piece on the cruiser. That was a big mistake. Doors flew open and the ganger went down in a spray of bullets and gun smoke. It wasn’t a pleasing sight, but that drew out some of the other gang members. The Yellowjackets were flying high and quickly illuminating the area until the firefight calmed down. The ghetto birds had a strict pattern in this secured area. It didn’t stop the chipheads looking for a thrill though. Franco frowned deeply at the thought. He was glad that Spike wasn’t in one of those stupid go-gangs. He was a good kid. He didn’t need that kind of life or that attitude of nothing to live for except the ‘shadows.’

More out of boredom than anything else, Franco flipped on the little police scanner that he bought at a pawnshop. He tuned it into the LoneStar frequency with a little work. He wasn’t supposed to have that freq., but when you work the night shift in a coffin house, you get to meet people in the know. The chatter was normal for Halloween. The Barrens were having several block wars and the seedier parts of the ‘plex had bonfires going. Firefights and body counts were officially noted in someone’s log file. DocWagon was having a hefty night with all the normal weirdoes and the additional strain of supporting All Hallows Eve. Franco knew that life was good behind his bulletproof glass.

It was coming up on midnight when the group walked through the sliding glass doors of the LBI Coffin Hotel. There were five of them, all norms. Four of them were male, the last female. She was the obvious leader of this group. The last two were as wide as Trolls, but normal height. Their skin-weave must have cost them some big nuyen. The one in the middle was an oddity. The youngster had datajacks behind both ears. He looked about fourteen. Franco shook his head at the shame of it. That boy probably had a future once, but instead, he threw it away to live the life of ‘Longshot and Raptor - Runners for Hire.’ Their demeanor was obvious. They were the scum that the corporate types used to play their power games. They were the ones who corrupted the future and aided in the declination of society. They were shadowrunners.

Franco remembered a quote that his grandfather used a lot, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, why’d you have to come into mine.” It was made by another shadowy character named Rick, Franco remembered. His father chuckled at Grandpa whenever he said it. Franco really didn’t feel the meaning of the words until they walked through the door. So much for a nice quiet night, he thought silently.

“Are you Franco?” the woman inquired. Short, abrupt and to the point.

“What’s it to ya?” Franco replied, holding his hand under the counter near the red panic button.

“We got a message for you.” She looked like she’d been through hell and back. Her hair was matted with sweat and could it be blood? Blood was seeping through her shirtsleeve. Franco noticed that she was grasping a meat arm with one that was chromed and solid state of the art. He also noticed that in the meat hand was the puzzle box that he had found earlier. It was opened. The Ork’s eyes opened wide.

“Wh-where did you get that?” he asked the woman, pointing to the bronze box in her hand.

“You Franco?” she asked again coyly. The Ork nodded in silent response. “Then take your hand off of the joy button and let’s talk.” Franco complied; still astonished that this group of mercenaries had the puzzle box that he had given to Spike several hours ago.

“Box, Lox!” ordered the older male to the two skin jobs, “Secure the hotel. No one in, no one out.” Franco eyed the two. They were like bookends guarding the only exit to the outside.

“Rightey-O, mate!” one of them said.

“All’s tidy here Lance,” the other finished.

“Zipper, find a matrix point and get jacked in. We need all the warning we can get.” Lance barked to the youngster.

“I’m on it,” was all he said. He was gone in a flash to one of the data lines that brought in the live feed for the executive coffins. In a flurry of motion, the kid reached in his bag and dropped a toolkit on the floor. Within two minutes he was wired and jacked in. The security camera nodded. The kid was wired into the building security system. Franco just stared.

“Secured Captain.” Lance informed the woman as he drew out two very large pistols from behind his back. Franco recognized the Predators. All he kept thinking was, “This can’t be for real! This happens on the trid, not in real life. Shadowrunners just don’t come up and hold your place of business hostage. That was terrorism. The law didn’t allow terrorism in the metroplex.”

“Look,” the Captain explained, “we’re tired. We don’t want to alarm you, but I see we’ve already done that. My name is Sylvia. Here’s my face. Get a good look because I don’t know how much longer we’ll be alive here.” Franco’s eyes went wild; his hand went for the panic button instead of the shotgun that was hidden under the desk. “No! No! No! Please don’t do that.” It was already too late. Franco’s hand hit Big Red and waited for the phone call. LoneStar would be here in less than two minutes if he didn’t pick up the line. “Slag it all to hell!” the woman screamed. “Zipper, you got an intercept ETA?” Lance shot a hand to his ear, trying to block out the other noise.

“Tee minus two and counting, Captain.” Lance reported in lieu of the jacked-in teenager. The phone began to ring. Franco didn’t make a move. LoneStar could handle these slime balls. Sylvia screamed in pain. Franco’s eyes focused in on her. The little puzzle box was moving on its own. Turning, spinning, and sticking razor-sharp edges into her meat hand.

The living bronze shrapnel dropped from her hand as the fingers came loose. “Shit!” she cried out, “It’s too fragging late! They’ve found us.” The lights dropped in the LBI Coffin Hotel leaving Franco and the rest in complete darkness.

In the foyer, a bell went off. Vile, black and crimson rays of light shot out from the opened puzzle box. Sylvia was on her knees in pain. Faint music could be heard echoing off of the tiled walls of the foyer. Rotating pillars of wood came through the floor. The sound of the wood and metal scraping through the tiles tore into Franco’s soul. He felt rendered from the inside out as the chains attached to them started whipping about catching the humans in the foyer. Angled chains of black metal shot out from the ceiling, floor and walls. The foyer was now a web of twisted metal and hooks.

“We didn’t even open the box!” Lance pleaded to the air within the foyer. New chains shot out of the ethereal, piercing the flesh in his hands, pulling his arms up. The scream he let out was half finished when another hook shot out from behind Lance and shredded his throat. Blood bubbled up from his mouth clogging the scream.

“You didn’t open the box,” a raspy voice thundered, “and what was it last time? ‘Didn’t know what the box was.’ And yet we keep finding each other, don’t we? Perhaps you’re teasing us. Are you teasing us?” It asked through grotesquely pierced lips. “No more delays. No more teasing. Time to play.” The thing raised its arm and snapped its fingers. Three more hooked chains flew into Lance. His scream was barely audible.

Lance’s body was pulled in five different directions at once. The razor sharp hooks attached to the twisting metal links of the chains were holding him above the tiled floor. Pain wracked the shadowrunner’s body, Franco could tell. He had a full view of Lance’s face. Dark blood seeped through the armored vest he was wearing only to collect on the underside of his torso before it fell to the floor. Lance’s eyes pleaded with Franco to do something, anything. The Ork stood still behind his bulletproof glass. He could do nothing to save the shadowrunner. Entrails and bits of bone splattered the plexiglass as Lance was rendered into several pieces. Franco leaped backwards as the guts of the shadowrunner hit his bulletproof shield.

Franco studied the thing that had just disemboweled the man. Dark leather was sewn onto the thing’s body. The course leather stitching could be seen plainly. The thing turned, giving Franco a better look. It was focusing on Sylvia now.

“For God’s sake,” she exclaimed, “what in the hell do you want?” The thing smiled in response.

“That is an interesting question, Sylvia.” It responded coolly. Franco could see the miniature chains attached to its eyelids, undulating through the bone and muscle in the face to link up with the hooks piercing the creature’s lower lip. “But to rephrase, it is not ‘what in the hell do you want,’ it is ‘what does Hell want with you?’” The thing laughed. Small bells hanging off of the beast’s neck rang off as Sylvia started to cry. Streaks formed on her cheeks where the mascara was running down her face. “No tears please. It’s a waste of good suffering.”

Near the doorway, Franco witnessed the two skin jobs were spread eagle on the rotating cylinders. In front of them was another leather-clad demon whose head was tattooed with an intricate grid. Franco noticed that the intersections had jeweled pins that were sticking through the beast’s skull. The thing turned to face him and stuck out its tongue at Franco. The tattoos didn’t stop at the surface. The muscle was also lined with the grids and had the pins sticking out of it. With a light, breathy voice it called to Franco, “We have such sights to show you.” The voice was almost shrill, like an excited girl.

The leather clad demon spun the wooden cylinders faster and faster. The chains attached to each pole were cutting the opposite shadowrunner. The two had to be twins to look that much alike, Franco noted. It was a pity that they were going to die together as well. Hooks cut and flayed the flesh off of the two big men as they passed each other. The Pinhead just stood there, reveling in the amount of blood and flesh that was coming off of the two bodies. “So eager to play, so reluctant to admit it!” the Pinhead seethed with glee.

A third demon was in the opposite corner closing in on the young decker. All the fat beast would do was grunt at the near comatose teenager. Its bald head was scarred beyond belief. Dark glasses found a home on the ugly face of the thing. The Fat One was interested in Zipper’s datajacks. Chubby fingers were toying with the input from the cyberdeck. Blood was staring to run from the interface. Zipper screamed.

“Your pain will be legendary, even in Hell.” Chain-face quipped as it turned to Franco. Locked in the booth, Franco knew that it would take an immense beating to get through the armored plexiglass. What he didn’t know was if the plexiglass was enough to keep the demons out.

“Well, ya know what slick?” he asked the Chain-face. “I aint ready to go to Hell just yet. I’ve got things to do and people to see.” Franco was nearly foaming at the mouth. He didn’t know where the words came from. Just that he was comfortable with them. The demon seemed to be taken aback from his response.

“We have an eternity to know your flesh,” the Pinhead joined in, leaving the two bulking masses still chained to the twirling posts. The Fat one grunted a giggle and removed the glasses from his head. Leather binds were sewn over his eyes to keep them shut. Franco dug into his pockets trying to find something, anything that would ward the demons off. His hand happened upon the card that the Elf threw at him earlier in the night. Quick fingers bent the card in half in his pocket. A perceptible snapping came to Franco more through his fingers rather than his ears. He hoped this was the way to contact the clown.

A faint whistling could be heard above the din of chains and torment. Franco heard the familiar sounds of the Elf’s boots as he walked calmly on the linoleum. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, and then the footsteps stopped. “Now how did I end up back here?” the painted Elf asked himself. “I surely don’t remember wanting to be here. But here I am nevertheless,” he explained to no one. The Elf glanced through the foyer of the coffin hotel and his eyes widened. “I need another drink.”

Franco pounded on the bulletproof glass trying to get the Elf’s attention. He now understood the importance of the little puzzle box. It was some sort of magical juju gateway to whatever nether realm that these demons came from. Lamentation poured over the Ork for not giving the damned box over to the Elf in the first place. Spike was probably dead, and all his friends. The party in Redmond turned into a bloodbath because he sent the box there. All those people, all those deaths, on his hands, Franco should just step out of the booth and let the demons have their way with him.

“They solved the box, Franco,” a new demon started. Franco looked towards the voice. All he saw was a hooded robe and gray skin underneath; “We came.” Slender arms lifted the hood off of a bald head. Thin wisps of hair were left, but not much. Scar tissue ran all over the head of the new demon. The voice was husky, but definitely feminine. “Now you must come with us,” the She-beast taunted. Franco could see her bare feet shuffling underneath the dark robe as she was walking towards the booth. As she walked, bare knees showed themselves from within the dark confines of the robe. “Taste our pleasures,” the She-beast offered as she spread her arms out revealing her nude body underneath the robe.

Franco was stunned. The She-beast’s skin nearly glowed in the carnage that was taking place in the foyer. He could feel his heart starting to beat faster. Sweat was starting to form on his hairline. Franco knew he was going to die tonight. ‘Just as well,’ he thought, ‘I’ve been the cause of the death of so many others this night, why not me as well?’

“Because!” yelled the Elf from across the room, “It wasn’t your hands that opened the box, Franco.” The Ork’s mouth dropped open. How could this Elf clown read his thoughts?

“It is not the hands that call us Caimbeul,” the She-beast explained, “it is desire.”

“Well,” thought the Elf, “that is one way to put it.” Slender hands drew a broadsword from a sheath on his back. “But I really don’t think that these poor fellows desired death and dismemberment quite so soon,” he chuckled to the She-beast.

“We’ll tear your soul apart, Caimbeul!” the She-beast seethed. Chains launched at the painted Elf from all directions. He parried and jumped away from most of them. Franco stared as the battle was commencing. The Elf’s sword began to glow as the chains bounced off of the steel blade.

“You’re welcome to try,” he retorted, “but you’ll find out that it wouldn’t give you as much satisfaction as you think.” He winked at the She-beast. The torrent of barbed chains continued throughout the foyer of the hotel. Franco watched the Elf block the barrage of twisted unholy metal to his best efforts, there were times where the hooks sliced through the burgundy long coat leaving raised welts of blood.

There was no mirth left in the Elf’s eyes as Franco witnessed the battle. Waves of flashing light glanced off of the blackened metal of the chains. The rebounding echoes sounded like a morbid song consisting of chimes and bells. His hands were shaking so badly that he didn’t bother to stop them. Franco’s eyes ate and swallowed the macabre scene surrounding him. Pieces of entrails and much blood stained the walls and tile floor of the foyer. The slime trail left by Lance’s intestines was still on the plexiglass in front of him. His hands had a mind of their own; Franco let them wander. They found the shotgun.

Franco held the gun close to him more out of comfort than self-defense. The chains had latched into the Elf’s left leg. The Ork could see the skin bulging from the amount of pull on the chain. These demons didn’t want their prize escaping, Franco could see that clearly. Movement was becoming harder for the painted warrior to maintain with one of his legs out of commission. His sword still flared as he blocked off another volley of snaking chains.

The Fat demon was out of the picture. The scarred head had been neatly cut off from the rest of its body. Dark glasses sat askew on his bloated cheeks. That left the Elf with three of the things, all doing their damnedest to nail him with whatever they had. Franco eyed Sylvia sitting on the floor still trembling. Her face was streaked black from her tears and makeup. She was more a wreck than Franco had figured a shadowrunner should be. Sylvia was leaning most of her weight on the cybered arm while reaching out with her meat arm for the little bronze box.

The Pinhead must have sensed her movement because four chains came out of nowhere to string the shadowrunner up just has they had done with Lance. Her screams were loud. Franco tried to cover his ears but it didn’t work. He heard the screams in his soul. Zipper was leaning against the wall huddled into a little human ball. The jack at the end of his input was a bloody mess lying on the floor. The kid needed to get to a hospital. The damage was already done. Franco didn’t know much about how the melding of meat and machine worked, but it couldn’t have been good to have a piece of your nervous system just yanked out.

“You will learn to know the difference between pleasure and pain,” cooed the Pinhead to the outstretched Sylvia. “And we have all eternity to explore the pleasure of pain.” The beast was licking her face with its pinpricked tongue. Sylvia shook all over in response, further driving the hooks deeper into her flesh. Franco’s hands found the keypad for the door and opened it. The Pinhead just chuckled.

The Elf was still having problems defending himself against the assault of Chain-face and the She-beast. Franco heard sirens in the distance. ‘Great,’ he thought, ‘more bodies to throw in the fray!’

“Not this time!” Franco bellowed loudly. The Pinhead turned as the Ork pumped, cocked, and fired the shotgun. The Pinhead continued the turn and fell.

“At last!” the Elf cried out, “our Halloween Knight has arrived!” With new energy, the Elf flipped the sword around his body gathering as much light as he could with the strokes. The chain snapped with a shower of sparks as the sword bit through the black links. With four more shots Sylvia was freed of the tension that was ripping her body into pieces.

“No!” the She-beast screamed. “Her soul is ours for the taking. It was offered and we accepted,” she demanded. Her arms thrust out and sent more chains flying, this time towards the Ork. He wasn’t as fast as the Elf. The razor chains struck him in the sides. Franco frowned. Now he was mad.

“Light Bearer Industries bears no responsibility for lost or misplaced items left after your stay.” Franco informed the demon and pumped the rest of the shells into her face. The She-beast dropped like a sack.

“Well met!” the Elf cheered. “Well said!” Chain-face was still trying to get at the Elf. Chains ripped up from the floor and the ceiling in vain. The clown dodged the oncoming metallic snakes and picked up the bronze box.

“We’ve waited long for you, Caimbeul. You will be astounded at the sights that you will see. We do have such sights to show you.” The Elf’s body moved too quickly to be ensnared by the warping reality around him. Franco’s sides felt like they were being pulled out from the inside. A burning started in his sternum. He cried out in pain.

“Here!” the Elf cried out to him as he tossed the Ork the puzzle box, “Work your magic Halloween Knight!” The barely conscious Ork felt the box hit him in the chest. The cool metal screamed to him. His right hand dropped the shotgun and grabbed for the already falling etched cube. It fell into the palm of his hand without effort.

The patterns called to him. They spoke their own language. It was if the box was telling him which sections to turn. The triangular piece, then press on the circle, rotate just so. The bronze metal was no longer cool. It burned the tender flesh on his fingertips. Franco shook his head to remove the sweat stinging his eyes. His hands were locked in their own combat with the puzzle box. All at once, it flew out of Franco’s hands and landed on the floor. A small ring-shaped piece lifted, rotated and then declined of its own accord. Screeching tires could be heard from the street outside. It was over. Franco dropped to the ground as the chains and the gore of the carnage disappeared.

Hobbling over, the Elf grabbed the bronze puzzle box. He stared at it for a while, pondering the thing. “Happy Halloween,” he finally said.

“What now?” said the Ork.

“You go to the hospital, and I disappear.” Franco watched the Elf fade from existence as the sliding doors opened up in front of the LoneStar patrolmen.

“Are you OK!?” one of them asked Franco.

“I quit,” muttered Franco, “the hospitality industry is just too fragging weird on Halloween.”

Princess

2009-10-19T21:28:00.001-07:00

Lindsey drove up to the house already mad at Kirk. He was supposed to call her about dinner earlier, and as usual, blew her off. He was probably in the house lost in that damned Halo ODST game again. Ever since he had bought that game, Kirk had been playing it nonstop. There was always just one more level, just one more save point to go. She had really had enough and tonight the XBOX 360 disc was either going into the trash or find itself in several shards. Lindsey thought about it and decided on both choices.

She just didn’t understand why he had to be like that. Lindsey always made time for him and his friends and their interests. It wasn’t as if she didn’t take an interest in his job or family. Just last week she had stopped by to visit Kirk’s mother to take over some brownies on one of her rare night’s off.

Juggling baking brownies between two jobs and having a life with Kirk and having to deal with his friends over all of the time was difficult enough. Trying to manage to get some time with her best friend to loosen up as well as planning the wedding that was in eight months was taking its toll, and now to be blown off again for that video game? She was going to let Kirk have it. It was just inexcusable.

The plan was to have dinner and catch the revival of Shirley Temple’s The Little Princess at the Jackson. Lindsey was still fuming when she slammed on the brake to stop in front of the house. Her Acura lurched on the rocks and dirt that made up the driveway. Kirk’s dilapidated Gallant was already parked, of course. Lindsey threw open the door and killed the engine. She had a thought to slam on the horn just to give Kirk a warning, but a smile crossed her face as she thought of the ecstasy she would feel by ripping the disc out of the console and smashing it against the wall.

She placed her palm on the hood of the red Gallant as she passed it to the front door. It only had the residual warmth that came from being parked in the sunshine. He hadn’t even gone to work!

“Fucker.” Lindsey blew out the word as she clenched her jaw.

Putting the key into the lock of the deadbolt, Lindsey didn’t feel the familiar resistance of the tumblers against her key. The door was unlocked. She could hear the sounds of something loud coming from the upstairs media room. Lindsey threw down her purse and began to stomp up the stairs.

The sounds were loud, but it wasn’t that stupid ODST game. They were words, dialogue.

“I insist that every room be searched.”

“Sara. Sara.”

“Daddy?”

The lines jogged harshly in Lindsey’s memory. They were from The Little Princess. Why would Kirk be watching that movie here when they were supposed to be going to the Jackson to be watching it on the big screen? She kicked the door open with her foot to startle Kirk. The volume was so loud that he couldn’t have possibly heard her coming into the house or even up the stairs.

“Kirk, what the…” Lindsey stopped. The TV and XBOX were off. Kirk was sitting in his NEO Boom chair staring at the dead television with a blank look on his face.

“Daddy? Oh, daddy. I missed you! I found you! I found you! They said you were dead, but I know you weren't. I knew you'd come back. Oh, daddy. Hold me. Hold me close. You won't ever go away again, will you? Will you, Daddy? What's the matter, Daddy? Why don't you talk to me?” The line was so loud. Lindsey could almost feel Shirley Temple’s high pitched voice reverberating in her head.

“Sara,” he said.

“Don't you know me, daddy? I'm Sara. I'm Sara.” The reverberations of the tiny voice assaulted Lindsey again as she walked into the room and around Kirk and his video game chair. Lindsey stopped when she saw the doll.

“Sara. Where is my daughter?” Kirk moaned as Captain Crewe did at the end of the movie.

“Kirk, what the hell is going on here?” Lindsey screamed at his near comatose form. He didn’t respond.

“I don't believe it. I don't. I don't. My daddy has to go away but he'll return most any day. Any moment I may see my daddy coming back to me.” The doll turned its head and stared at Lindsey. “And now you’ve ruined the ending. We shall have to start over!”

Lindsey’s head was spinning. The small eyes tore through her. She couldn’t move or run away. Lindsey couldn’t take her eyes off of the small doll that was splayed out in front of Kirk. The tiny voice echoing loudly in her head, “We shall have to start over!” The small chuckles that came from the doll boomed in Lindsey’s mind.

“Yes, we shall have to start over,” Lindsey said knowing that she couldn’t resist the pull of the demonic doll reaching for Kirk.

“Why are they sending so many soldiers, Daddy, if it's only gonna be a little war?” the doll’s voice echoed.

Without You

2009-10-15T23:28:00.000-07:00

Michael ripped open the plastic pouch with the Alkafizz in it and dropped the two pellets in to his club soda. The headache was promising to send him to the ground soon. It was six hours into his day and there was another eight or so to go. Dance auditions were hell, but they had to be done. He waited for the fizzing to start and then picked up the tumbler and swallowed hard.

Over five hundred dancers showed up for the chorus audition. All he needed was three and three - three blokes and three birds. He really didn’t care what racial subset they came from, as long as they could dance and learn the songs. Other than that, Michael didn’t care. The club soda and Alkafizz made a nasty combination in Michael’s mouth. His face screwed up into a wrinkled ball as he grimaced and continued to chug the mixture.

Michael could hear the grumbling from the dancers on stage. “When is this going to be over?” one asked. “I heard this guy’s a slave driver,” the other responded. Roger, his stage manager was doing his best to weed out the worst of the lot on stage to get the next group ready for Michael. That’s why he was hired, thought Michael, to get the weeding done. Michael stood from his makeshift desk in the seats and turned off the overhead light. His job was just to watch his stage manager now, until he weeded them down to an even dozen.

The black and yellow sweatshirt was cut off at the midriff and the shoulders. Roger was a gigantic bumblebee floating around on stage irritating the dancers. His horns stuck out nearly half a foot and curled around to meet his head again. Bleached curly hair topped the Troll’s head. Roger’s ensemble was completed with the standard black leggings. He was all that Michael needed. Roger had enough flair to give the miscreants on stage some comic relief and enough toughness to let them think twice about crossing the Troll who dressed like a drag queen. Michael smiled to himself. The two have put on more productions, both live, recorded and in SimSense than the leading Moscow teams. They’d earned more Tony awards than the leading choreographers in the UCAS.

“No, no, no!” Roger bellowed from downstage. “Watch the green tights; at least she can do this right.” The other dancers fanned out around the girl in the green tights, Roger was right, as usual. Michael smiled again. “Yes! She’s got it. Keep watching her. From the top,” he called out. “Five, six, seven, eight!” the music blared again. The group was asynchronous as their heads were turned and focused on the limber female instead of their own dancing. “Ok, ‘Green-tights,’ ‘Red-bandanna,’ ‘Stripes,’ the rest of you,” the huge Troll sighed, “thank you very much. Next group!” the Troll called out coyly.

The shuffle of dancers ensued again, and again, and again. More dancers were singled out with every shift. Roger knew which dancers Michael wanted. It was as simple as that. The two were unstoppable and the dance world knew it! There was very few who could take the brass ring away from Michael and Roger, that’s what drove Michael’s concern when the death threats came.

Extra security was hired on in the dance hall to watch out for ‘suspicious characters’ as the local constabulary told him. Michael wasn’t shocked as the Colonial police demanded to search all of the dancer’s bags and clothes, just disgusted. The constable in charge was apparently knowledgeable in the areas of death threats and security routines. Michael wasn’t sure that home was much better. Scotland Yard would have told him the same thing and demanded the same procedures. But at least it would be at home instead of the Colonies. New York was so dreary. The pace was too hectic, the people too abrupt. He longed for his flat in Cardiff. Michael let out a heavy sigh.

The first letters were in green scented envelopes with a serene script telling Michael all the ways he could be filleted - and how easily. As the psychotic grew more in love with the fantasy, ticket stubs from Michael’s various shows were included. The flowing script would tell Michael how much that he enjoyed the shows and the dance routines. Rhythm and grace flew from the cards. This person was obviously affluent and educated. Michael was told this from the private detective that he had hired.

The profile also included that the psychotic was a male, between forty and fifty years of age, due to the refinement of stationary and eloquence of words. His education suggested a medical background, because of the precise details involved with the disemboweling and dismemberment of Michael. His money was not the ‘new’ money of this millennium. It stemmed from a prospering family that had been making money for decades. He had a passion for the musicals that played on Broadway and those throughout the world. And now he had a focus for his hatred. It was Michael.

Michael was the one to make a success of himself by following his passion instead of Mr. X. Michael was the one who was on the trid accepting the awards for his work, which according to Mr. X, “was sweet and descriptive, but too downplayed and dumbed down for the masses.” Michael was the one who was mentioned in the newsfax all over the globe where Mr. X couldn’t get away from him. Michael LaMont was the focus of Mr. X’s obsession. Mr. X wanted him dead. Michael still didn’t understand that one.

Mr. X was focusing his own sense of failure into a competition with Michael. It didn’t matter to Mr. X that he had material wealth and education. Mr. X had a passion for music and dance that was taken from him by either parents or school – or a combination of both. Mr. X wasn’t satisfied to sit back and enjoy the show. Somehow in his blackened heart, Mr. X that he could do better than Michael LaMont. Michael had to die to let Mr. X’s obsession die. Michael had an extremely large problem with that.

Michael wasn’t ready to give his life and his livelihood and his passion so that Mr. X could fall asleep at night. Michael was now determined to plaster his productions on newsfeed everywhere. There were times that Michael worked sixteen and twenty hours a day refining and re-refining the productions for video and SimSense. There wasn’t an avenue left that didn’t advertise for Michael. Mr. X would not be sleeping soundly. Michael made sure of that. The newsfax, junk email, advertising banners in the tubes, the banners on the blimps at the sprawl-ball games, all were working for Michael and his production company.

It was all part of the game. Michael wanted to draw Mr. X out – it was the suggestion of the Private Detective. The local constabulary agreed. Being an international guest, the Secret Service had a detachment attached to Michael and the case at hand. Mr. X was not happy. The next volley of death threats was not consistent with the first set. These were pure anger. The cut up newsfax sent a message to the profilers that were working the case. The man was volatile, becoming more dangerous, and knew where Michael was – even if the location was unannounced. Michael knew that with the first scented letter telling him that his eyes would come out extremely easy with the Hotel Amberlaine’s grapefruit spoon.

The investigation then led across four continents speaking with three ex-wives and several ex-girlfriends. Many of them had motive, Michael agreed with the detective, but none of them lacked scruples. The detective wasn’t so sure. The drab Yank then focused his area in tighter. As if someone in the LaMont Dance Troupe would actually wish him harm! It was a preposterous notion. Still, Michael allowed the investigation to continue. That was up until three months ago. Michael remembered calling the detective into his office to inform him that his assistance would no longer be necessary.

The stubble-faced Yank threw up his hands in disgust. “Don’t come crying to me when you wake up on the wrong side of alive, pal!” the detective exclaimed with all his American wit, or lack thereof. Michael just handed him the certified credstick for the retainer fees and the expenses. All together it was forty-five thousand. Michael needed to cut his losses and move on. As they said in show business, the show must go on. It was time for Mr. X to be a forgotten memory.

Michael sighed again; Mr. X had sent him another kind word. The message arrived in the daily stack of mail that was delivered to the theater. Enclosed was a playbill for the show. Michael’s name was crossed off of the list as producer and choreographer. A simple line through his name excluded Michael. The writing was not the bold black characters that were cut from newsfax, but instead it was in the charismatic script that Michael had grown accustomed to. It was brief and to the point. “You die today.”

When he got the note, he immediately showed it to Roger. The Troll then made all the arrangements necessary to increase the security of today’s performance. The constabulary informed Michael and Roger that there were no fingerprints on the envelope except the people who brought the mail. This was the usual routine. Mr. X was quite careful when he sent his correspondence. The postmark was from Brooklyn. He was in the city. Michael almost regretted letting the detective go, almost.

Michael sloshed the Alkafizz and club soda around in the glass tumbler trying to get the motivation to slam the rest of the concoction. Roger kept the balancing act going until at last, there were twelve. Twelve dancers out of six hundred thirty-two made it to the last cut.

His eyes were aching and his stomach was starting make itself be known. The sick feeling just sat there like a brick. Every so often he could feel the weight of the stress in his gut move into his chest and into his arms. Just stress, he told himself. Watery eyes glanced down at the brown paper in the darkness. Michael wouldn’t let Mr. X have his day. This was his show.

“Mr. LaMont,” someone called from the stage, “do you think we could take five?” Michael looked up towards the stage and focused his aching eyes. It was the dancer in the striped leotards. Her name was Janelle Richards. She had worked for the LaMont Troupe before. Roger had made another excellent choice with her. Michael knew he’d be lost without him. The troupe would fall apart without Roger’s expertise.

He thumbed the switch for the microphone; “We’ll take five when I take five.” Michael retorted bluntly. The dozen dancers sighed. They were tired. He was tired. It had already been six hours into the day that seemed to have started centuries ago. Roger came barreling off stage towards Michael’s place in the seats. A look was on the huge Troll’s face that was a combination between annoyance and constipation. It was a look that Michael had learned to be concern. “Here it comes,” Michael muttered under his breath.

“Michael LaMont,” he began like his mother with his hand on his hip, “let them take a break. For God’s sake, you haven’t even had lunch yet. How can you expect them to carry on when you haven’t given yourself a break since this morning?” Michael knew he was right. He needed some time to look over their portfolios anyway.

His thumb hit the switch again, “All right people,” his voice boomed over the sound system, “let’s take lunch. Give your orders to Roger. I want you frosty in forty-five minutes. So eat light.” Roger smiled at him. The perfect, chiseled smile that Roger had paid for filled up the Troll’s face. Sculpted features, including orthodontia, cheekbones, and Permaware eye enhancements cost Roger a pretty penny, but such was the price of his vanity. Roger was the most handsome Troll in the dance world. He had paid for it.

“Any word about ‘You-know-who’?” Roger whispered leaning over to Michael. The letters started up again when they had hit New York.

“No.” Michael responded flatly. “And frankly, I’d rather not discuss it.” Michael frowned deeply. “And can you get the heat turned up in here? It’s bloody freezing,” he asked, grabbing up his sweater and pulling it over his shoulders.

“Sure thing.” Roger assured him sweetly laying a giant hand on his shoulder before walking away. Michael watched him as he tore across the theater. He was concerned, that’s all. Roger really didn’t know how to express himself in stressful situations. It came across as awkward. Michael smiled at the Troll.

Michael’s hand shook as he hit the switch for the overhead lamp. He needed to get a good look at the portfolios before the twelve dancers came back. It was going to be hell deciding which six he wanted. But that was life in the business. Stress was an early morning snack to eat with his biscuits and coffee. Decisions were sometimes brutal, but usually ended out correctly. Michael had to trust his instincts with this show. It was going to be the biggest one on Broadway since the closing of ‘Guns in the Sky.’ The thin plastisheet portfolios with the headshots were blurry. Michael rubbed his watery eyes with shaking hands.

“God! I can’t afford to catch a cold now,” he muttered at the portfolios. “Candy,” he thumbed the switch for the intercom, “Can you get me some hot tomato soup?”

“Sure thing boss,” her reply was short and to the point. Michael appreciated that about her. Hearing the heaters kick on, Michael hunkered down and waited for the soup. A fever was not going to stop him now. All he needed was some rest. Michael lifted the arm of the cushioned seat and put his feet up. It was so cold. Michael pulled the cashmere sweater around his body. The softness took him. A wide yawn escaped his mouth. Michael wondered how long it had been since he had taken some time for himself. Too long! Michael let the black void take him.

Blurbs of voices trailed in and out of Michael’s dream. Candy was there asking about his soup. Roger was there trying to prop his feet up. Many of the dancer’s voices buzzed in and out expressing their concerns. What was their concern? Only six of them would make the final cut to opening night. What was the problem here? It was so cold. Michael snuggled in closely with the cashmere. Security was humming throughout the lobby chasing shadows. Michael was still cold, hadn’t they turned up the heat yet?

Sirens tore through the fog in Michael’s brain. There was a telltale whine buzzing through his ears as the claxon was going off. He blinked trying to clear his eyes. Tears gushed down the sides of his face. The vision came into focus. Dark brown pseudo-carpet was in front of him. He felt straps holding something to the front of his face. It was hard.

“We’ve got a pulse!” someone shouted. Michael looked around with wild eyes. There was an Ork in a dark blue jumper. One fang wouldn’t stay inside of his mouth. The symbol on his shoulder patch struck recognition in Michael’s mind, DocWagon? Someone was squeezing his hand hard. Michael looked. It was Roger. The big Troll was hunkered down in the ambulance with a concerned look on his face.

Michael smiled to his friend and gripped his hand tightly. With the other hand, he removed the oxygen mask and motioned for Roger to lean down. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Rog.” Michael coughed. Roger’s face screwed up in grief. The sculpted face still looked good, even if all the muscles were threatening to tear it the wrong way.

“It’s a pity that you tell me that now, Michael.” Roger whispered. “The poison is too strong, I made sure of it. This whole thing could have been prevented.” Michael gripped the course hand tighter.

‘What did you just say?’ Michael screamed silently, unable to actually voice the words.

“I wouldn’t have really dug your eyes out with a grapefruit spoon. You have wonderful eyes, Michael,” the Troll caressed the smaller, weaker hand. “It was my show, really,” Roger continued to explain. “I chose all the dancers and the routines. All you did was lounge in the seats in the dark to play God. No one has the right to play God, Michael. Don’t you see the irony of it all?” the Troll smiled his paparazzi smile. “You die today.” Roger said under his breath and kissed him on the cheek. “The show must go on,” Roger sobbed, “without you.”

“Flatline!” the Ork yelled. “The stimpack boosted him too much.” The DocWagon veteran pushed Roger out of the way and started working on Michael again. “Drek!” he finally yelled to the driver. “Call it.”

“Time is 13:02,” the driver yelled back to the Ork. “Central, this is DW-0431. Contract for Michael LaMont is DOA. Repeat. DOA.”

3 Cloves of Garlic

2009-10-09T09:08:00.000-07:00

George Welts sat in a refurbished Laz-E-Boy recliner that had seen better days. He sat smoking the last cigarette out of a now crumpled package laying on the worn end table next to him. The antichrist was visiting again in the form of his wife. It was more often than not these days. George couldn’t remember a day when she wasn’t screaming at him for something.

He was either too skinny, too dirty, too lazy, unmanly, slimy, useless or any other string of hateful adjectives that she used on an almost hourly basis to describe how he failed her as a husband. Today was no different than any other day in that respect, only the subject had changed. Today, it was about garlic.

“Why can’t you just do what you’re told George?” he looked at her when he handed her the powdered garlic in the plastic shaker bottle no more than twenty minutes ago. “I can’t use this!” her mouth formed more words, but George tuned her out. It was something about his stupidity, his lack of attention to detail, stemming from his lack of manhood. That was her favorite, to insult his manhood in both spirit and body. She made it clear in no uncertain words that he was one of the smallest men she had ever been with and how that she had made a mistake in marrying him. You see, her mother had told her so.

“Fresh garlic, dumbass!” she continued her tirade, “I needed three cloves of fresh garlic!” Alice’s eyes rolled for the countless time in his direction. George stood there for a moment and listened like the dutiful husband that he was supposed to be. “How can I make my Bruschetta Pomodoro with powdered garlic? Now Richard and I will have to stop of at the market before cooking class?” At this, George went into the living room to escape her mouth through watching television.

“Yeah, walk on out like you always do George.” He could hear her voice resonating off of the chipping, yellowed paint. “You are a total and complete waste of flesh George Welts. It’s amazing that you remember to hold you cock when you pee.” George switched on the TV with the remote and started flipping channels. He didn’t care where he ended up; it was the motions that were important. This was something that George knew that he was in control of. The TV didn’t berate him, or chide him or even cheat on him with Richard Hammet from work. ‘Cooking class’ was code for their dates. It started off maybe once or twice a month, but now it was once or twice in a week. Adjusting his glasses with his middle finger, he brought the cigarette and took a long pull on it, feeling the smoke burn through his throat and into his lungs.

“Yes, George Welts, sit there and smoke. I hope you get cancer!” Alice bent over him, trying to get a reaction. When he didn’t move or even look in her direction, she stood in front of the television. George sighed and made eye contact with her. “Did you hear me, George Welts? Why don’t you just die of cancer and do us all a favor, won’t you?” George looked into her eyes and found the extreme hatred burning there. He wondered briefly if she had ever truly loved him. “Good God, why did I marry you?” her breath already stunk of gin. Her makeup was already caked on her face, her hair up getting ready for more applications from the Tammy Faye Techniques of Fashion. Richard liked her looking like an over-painted porcelain doll.

“Because you told your mother you were pregnant.” George mumbled, casting his eyes down.

“What?” here was the antichrist again, painted and awaiting her ministrations from her man of choosing, “What did you say to me, George Welts?”

“Nothing dear.”

“That’s right.” She grabbed the remote from his hand and threw it against the yellowing wall. “That’s exactly right. ‘Nothing dear,’ that’s what you are, my little ‘nothing dear.’ The man who is ‘nothing dear’ to anyone.” The television flared to life, volume now uncontrollable.

“A little bit of E-V-O-O and three cloves of garlic,” Rachel Ray instructed before the TV switched again, slamming into George Welts’ soul.

“And my favorite, some gah-lick, to take it up a notch and BAM!” Emeril Lagasee followed through, his audience clapping in the background, before the TV switched again, slamming into George Welts like a hammer blow.

“Just put the garlic on a sheet pan, peel and all and roast them until their nice and brown. They’ll get that nice sweet and nutty flavor that will add a depth to…” Rick Bayless was describing before the TV switched again. Another slam into George Welts’ heart and soul.

“I love garlic!” Martin Yan announced with his own brand of passion, “You don’t need to slice it, just place it on the board, like this, and like this, and like this and take the side of your knife and bam. See, it’s easy. Just like that. I love it!” The TV died, sending one more shunt into George Welts.

“Now, why don’t you just sit there and think about what you’ve done now, George Welts!” Alice snarled at him with her gin-soaked breath. “I have to get ready now and Richard is going to be here any minute. And now we’ve got no TV to watch until you get a new one. Like that will happen any time soon!” Alice left George in the dilapidated Laz-E-Boy and slammed the door to their bedroom.

George Welts sat there for a moment and tried to grasp what had just happened. A knock on the door came, bringing him out of his daze. He knew it was Richard Hatten coming to pick up Alice for ‘cooking class.’ George knew his place. Stiffly, he got up and answered the door.

“George!” Richard greeted him. He always was overdoing the greeting. George guessed that he was overcompensating for the fact that he wasn’t supposed to know that Alice and Richard were having an affair instead of truly learning to cook. George grasped his outstretched hand and shook it limply, as he always did. “Is Alice ready, or is she running late again, as usual?”

“You know Alice as well as I do.” George said flatly.

“Yeah,” Richard laughed that fake laugh that he always brought to bear when he was trying to be smug. “I guess I do, huh?” Richard nudged him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Richard, is that you?” the antichrist yelled from the bedroom. She had on the sweet voice now, “come on in here, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” George knew that this was the pre-game. They got some sort of thrill by playing grab-ass while he was in the other room. Another joke, he guessed.

“Sorry George,” Richard brushed him out of the way, “duty calls, you know.” Richard gave him another smug laugh accompanied with a wink. George played dumb, he always did. Richard walked through the living room as he had done countless times before and entered into George and Alice’s bedroom without hesitation – as he had done countless times before. George watched him stroll through the doorway and close the door behind him. Alice giggled. It was the only time he heard her laughter and knew that it was genuine.

George walked into the kitchen. The foodstuffs were all there for the ‘cooking class.’ Tomatoes, basil, Italian bread, just no garlic. The brown container of powdered garlic he had brought to her was lying sideways on the floor from when she threw it. George bent down to pick it up and was temporarily blinded from the glare coming off of the hanging knives on the wall.

“And just a rough cut,” Rachel Ray informed him.

“Power down through it with a downward stroke, bringing the knife towards you,” Emeril Lagasse instructed.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, it will add character to your dish,” Rick Bayless tried to give confidence in his small, weak voice.

“And you cut it like this, and like this, and like this,” Martin Yan echoed in his particular way.

Without another thought, George stood up and grabbed the 11-inch chef’s blade hanging from a magnetic strip installed on the wall. It felt good in his hands, like a natural extension. It wasn’t the first time he held a knife, but this time was – different. He turned and walked into the bedroom, glistening steel in his hand. Rachel, Emeril, Rick and Martin guided him through the wet work that needed to take place. Crimson rain exploded in the room.

After the work was done, George slipped on his worn leather coat, grabbed up his Zippo and walked out of the door of his shabby apartment. A light tune came to his mind as he bounced down the stairs. He needed cigarettes anyway.

Destiny's Wings

2009-10-06T23:16:00.000-07:00

I remember the day Sara and I first saw him. The old trench coat seemed to just hang off of his frame like a tarp on a coat rack. His scraggly beard was filthy and matted. He walked with overhanging stoop that seemed to accent his age. The hump in his back just enhanced the fact that he was too thin for the jacket. The jeans he was wearing had so many greasy stains that the water from the rain just rolled off of the denim. The old biker hat the once tall man wore seemed limp and lifeless upon his head. It was an extension of the leathered face behind the dirty beard.

His eyes were always moving. Despite how he looked, I could tell he was constantly thinking. Of what, I never knew, but he was more than just a bum in an alley. He could have been more than a great philosopher, or politician. Instead, he chose the appearance, to be who and what he was appeared to be. It was not by his choice alone, but he never let himself fall from his own grace.

His slow walk seemed to exaggerate the fact that he was in pain. The mellowness of eyes brought enlightenment to the alley. It was a hard life he had chosen and he lived every minute of it. The shuffling of the worn out soles against the rough pavement gave me an eerie feeling. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. I understand far more now.

Father didn’t approve of me volunteering for the ‘Blankets for Boxes’ campaign. He didn’t like it one bit. Now that I look at it through my older eyes, I know that is exactly why I volunteered. My sister idolized me at the time, as little sisters do, so she followed and helped. I knew she was sick, but she had insisted to come with me. Dad was going to kill me for it! Sara still believed in Santa Claus then. It was the last time she did.

“Blanket mister?” I prompted myself to ask. I didn’t realize how nervous I was at the time. He looked at me queerly for what seemed to be eternity. Finally he accepted the blue comforter.

“Thanks kid, what do I owe you for it?” the stranger replied. Michael was always blunt. He knew no other way. I can still remember my shock at the question.

“Nothing, it’s all a project for school that I’m working on.” I sheepishly told him. Again, he looked at me with those strange eyes. They stared right into my soul. Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile cracked the worn leather of his face.

“Come back here tomorrow, I’ll be able to pay you for the blanket then.”

“No, really, you don’t have to do that. You deserve the help.” He looked at me for a short time. I saw the foolishness of my statement as soon as it was out of my mouth. I was young then.

“I have earned nothing, boy!” Michael seethed. “I don’t need any handouts from some rich, little, snobby, brat-faced, snot-nosed, got-involved-because-he-wanted-to-piss-someone-off-punk! Either you come back tomorrow, or I’ll burn the blanket in that can over there.” Michael pointed to a large oil drum cascading open flames for the people to warm themselves and to cook on. Then he looked deep into my eyes and said, “Do you understand me, boy?”

“Yes sir!” I blurted. All I can remember from our first meeting was the intenseness of his blue eyes. Seeing me, the real me. Michael saw past the school, my father, and me all in one whack. In truth, I was scared. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I was young. It was then I remembered Sara right by my side. She was coughing badly. I knew she shouldn’t have come. But Sara would have snuck out anyway, that’s the way she was.

She had been tugging on my coat sleeve all during the conversation with Michael. I knew that he had looked into her too. He saw her fears, hopes, and dreams all wrapped up in pink fluff. Michael also knew that I was there to protect her. As we left his alley, Michael smiled at Sara and reached in his pocket. “I’ve got something for you little one.” he said sweetly. She just looked at him. Sara was scared too; I can’t blame her for that then or now. She was only seven. I was sixteen and unstoppable. That’s the way youth goes.

“Mama told me never to talk to strangers.” Sara flatly stated, as if stomping her foot.

“Well then, my name is Michael,” he said as he outstretched one of his gigantic hands to shake hers. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Sara Gilmore.” she beamed. That’s what mother had taught her. I shook my head at her innocence; she would make friends with the whole world if she could. Guess that’s why Michael took a liking to her right away. Everyone loved Sara when they met her. It was her gift to the world.

“I’ve got a little present for you. It’s made for little girls. An old friend of mine named Maria gave it to me and told me to give it to the first little angel I saw. Little Sara, you’re the first, best, little angel I’ve seen since then. Would you like to have it sweetie?” Michael smiled at her. I was shocked; it was a real, full-blown, smile. He almost looked handsome. His face softened and seemed to grow strong.

She looked up at me and I nodded my head to say it was all right. Cautiously, she went up to Michael. He was fishing in his pocket again. I was shocked to see what he pulled out. At first all I saw was the chain, then the locket. I remember it was gold, and played music as he opened it. The only picture I saw was a black and white picture of an old lady in a shawl.

Sara beamed when she saw it. The entire alley seemed to brighten with her enthusiasm. She reached up around Michael’s neck and hugged him. He smiled down at her and patted her head affectionately. Then he looked at me again.

“Don’t you dare take that away from her, I’ll know if you did. Don’t let your parents know that I’ve given it to her. It is for her. And you be back tomorrow,” he said gruffly. I knew he meant what he said. Hesitantly, I agreed. I know now that I was scared and would have said anything to just leave. I grabbed Sara by the hand and left the alley way as fast as I could.

Dad had told me about those crazy people in the alley. He told us that they were just out to make a buck off of Uncle Sam. They wouldn’t get real jobs to try to make an honest effort on their own. I fought with him on that. Dad couldn’t understand that they were still people who deserved to be treated like people. Instead of being thought of as useless and worthless, as an overstock of human cattle. He chalked it up to my youth and being ‘ignorant’ of the world.

I remember thinking he might have been right. Sara and I ran all the way back to the van a few blocks away. Michael was creepy. I could not get the sight of those twin blue orbs out of my head. They were watching me. Michael’s eyes had pierced straight through to my soul. Still, every now and then, I can feel the intensity of Michael’s stare on that first day. It keeps me balanced in my work.

When we finally got to the van, Sara took out the locket that Michael had given her. The tune was a sweet melody that I couldn’t recognize. After all these years, I still can’t. It was the kind of song that brought sadness at first and then brought you up towards the end. It told of love and discord and glory. It told of life.

I could see the gold inlay of the pendant. The thing reminded me of a cameo. Sara just stared at the antique locket listening to the music. From my view I could see the picture inside. It was slightly faded and worn. The lady in the shawl wasn’t old; she was quite beautiful. Her hair was done up in a bun and wrapped in the shawl was a baby. A sweet smile crossed her lips as she looked down at her child. I remember the sense of comfort that was brought to me by the old photo.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Sara asked me tenderly.

“Yeah,” I started. “It is. What are you gonna tell Mom and Dad?”

“I don’t know Ian.” she looked up at me with those pitiful eyes. I hated when she did that. I knew I was going to be in trouble for this. That sad, puppy dog look was always followed by the same phrase. She didn’t know how convincing she could be when she wanted to. “Please don’t tell Mom and Dad Ian. Please, please, please, please don’t tell them.”

All I could do was roll my eyes, I was already a goner. I had been expecting that to come out of her mouth. I looked down at her and sighed heavily. Her smile almost stretched from ear to ear, she knew I wouldn’t tell them. I couldn’t.

“All right Sara, I won’t tell them. But you have to promise not to play with the necklace around them. It will have to be a secret between us. OK?” She looked up and nodded at me. I was relieved that she understood.

My German teacher, Herr Krause, had sponsored the campaign. He thought it would be good of us kids to go out into the world and see what it was really like out there. Honestly, I didn’t think it was that bad. I knew about the homeless and how they should be treated. I learned that day what it was to live in fear. Fear turned people against the homeless. My mind was full of questions. Why do they have to live like that? Why do we fear them so much? Are they really so different? I didn’t have any answers.

No one was at the van when we got there. I hoped Herr Krause would be soon. I remember letting my hands shake when we got to the van. Others would be around soon; I knew we would be safe. Being alone in that alley was like being transported to another world. The smoke from the fires clouded the area. Steam from the water pipes filtered out and added to the queerness of the place.

I leaned up against the van to wait. Sara was still mesmerized by the locket. I think it was then that I saw the inscription on the other side of the photo. The tiny lettering was stylized with a nearly gothic script. All it said was “Mother and Child.”

Herr Krause was across the street getting some coffee when I finally spotted him. The rotund man easily stood out in a crowd. He was big and his snow white beard marked his face like a beacon. I remember him always having something nice to say. Even now, when I think of Herr Krause, I smile. He was so jovial. He was so generous. The project was his idea, his extension to the people. There was some controversy surrounding ‘Blankets for Boxes’ before it even got started. The principle wasn’t too happy, even when parental permission had been granted.

“Well Herr Gilmore,” Krause said sipping his coffee, “it is a bit brisk. Aren’t you glad we started so early in the day, you?” Krause’s accent had always been terrible. The hard language didn’t seem to fit into that man.

“Yeah, there are a lot of people who’re cold out here today.” I could already feel the numbness in my nose and cheeks. Sleeping out in the streets is something I never imagined until then. I looked up at him and he seemed ready to burst with enthusiasm and pride.

“And that is what counts! If you have learned what these poor souls go through, even a little, you can make a difference for the rest of your life. This was a good project for the school.” Krause exhaled proudly, knowing he was right.

“Those people are kind of creepy Herr Krause. I just don’t understand why we ignore them.” I growled. “I know the fear that some people have of them. They’re strange, and weird, and well, creepy. It doesn’t make it right that people like my Dad think they way they do.”

Krause’s face darkened. I think that was the first and only time I had to see that face.

“Your father is looking out for you. He may have different views, but he is still your father, Herr Gilmore. This does not make him your enemy because you choose to rebel. If you feel you are right in your decision to help, and not rebelling, that is the difference.”

I stood silent for a long time after that. I was embarrassed because of how I acted. He was right. I was being a selfish little brat. I didn’t care why I was rebelling, just that I was. I hated my father for always working. He was always concerned about his job and never about us. I’m sure Sara felt the same way. Maybe she didn’t. I wasn’t sure then.

Herr Krause let us in the van and fired the engine up. Soon the biting cold was fading from me. I began to feel a little better. Herr Krause didn’t bother me as I sat and contemplated myself and my actions. He must have known quite a bit more about me than I did at the time. The old man seemed to hit the right buttons, all the time.

Other kids involved in the project started showing up out of the winter afternoon. Herr Krause greeted each one, as he always did. He never forgot their names -- not even once. I really don’t understand how he could keep all of those names straight. The man must have had a memory like an iron trap. I could ask him the names of a particular class five years ago, and he would remember. I checked one time. Herr Krause got them all right. The man was amazing.

Sara leaned on me all the way home. Her head was hot and clammy. I knew she shouldn’t have come! Dad didn’t like the fact that I had taken her, not at all. I remember the ‘talking to’ I had gotten! That stern look was so serious. Michael was right though she did look angelic, especially when her little eyes closed and just looked peaceful. I can always remember that look. Sometimes it’s necessary.

We arrived home shortly after sunset. It was already dark, and Sara was still sleeping. The fever really knocked her out. I always thought it was funny how light she was. Now, with the dead weight, Sara was a lot heavier than I remembered.

The yard was filled with the snow from the storm two days ago. The thick blanket of white just looked so serene. Perfect and untouched, except for the walkways and driveway I had shoveled earlier. The crispness of the air filled my nostrils with the clean scent of the snow. Virgin tranquility contrasting with the blackness of the winter night stopped me.

The overwhelming awe of the scene touched something deep within my sixteen-year-old self. Possibilities of life from the void of everything filled my head with visions of the eternal conflict, life versus death. Light reflecting from the house cast an eerie glow upon the snow outside. I stood for a long time just looking for the house. All of the memories came flooding back.
I remembered when Mom and Dad brought Sara home. She was so small, even for a premature baby. All the equipment scared me at first. The tubes, and the lights, and monitors were all cluttered around Sara’s room. It was never a nursery. It was just an urgent care center at home for her.

As I grew up, I got used to the constant monitoring of her. At first I was jealous, but I grew out of it once I understood. She was a sick baby, but Sara had the best humor as a toddler. Mom and Dad used to fight often, they still did then. I knew that it had something to do with a problem that Mom had during her past. All I knew is that Dad seemed never to forget. He never forgot anything, or let go.

I would be in a bunch of trouble if Dad had found out, like he always did, that Sara had snuck out with me. She wasn’t supposed to leave the house, and now she had a fever. I found at the last minute, there was no other recourse but to just walk in the front door. I looked at the walkway I had shoveled. I knew I would be leaving on that same path soon. I had to.

As I walked up to the door, the porch light came on. Dad knew. He had to have. Sara couldn’t stay hidden all day on a Saturday afternoon. No way. I should have taken her home when I found out she was shadowing me. I let her come. It wasn’t her fault. It was a bad judgment call, Dad, I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise. No, I’ll take her up, no worries there. I’ll take care of it.

I could already see his glare. He was already upset with me because I was acting ‘irresponsibly’ by participating in the project. Now I was bringing home my baby sister sick when she wasn’t supposed to leave the house. Dad was going to blow a gasket, big time.

“Responsibility begins with your own personal honor,” he would always say. “It requires your full attention. Honor and responsibility make up a person. As long as you have honor and responsibility, you are a man Ian. That’s what makes men. Yes,” then Dad would pause and look up in the sky, “that is what makes us men and separates us from the animals.”

I hated those lectures. They would last forever. I knew I would get one tonight. I just knew it. Dad would be ablaze for a chance to ‘straighten’ me out again. The last time was when I told him about the project. I could see him getting angrier when I was adamant that I was going to participate. I thought it was right.

The walk seemed longer at that moment in time. I guess it was because Sara was sick, and I was expecting the worst. When I looked up at the house again, all I could see was a blue hue reflecting off of the snow and the moonlight. It was the same blue in Michael’s eyes. It was perfect, peaceful, and serene. Full of heartache and pain, but so willing to give and do the right thing. The old man was definitely different. There was something about him.

I walked up to the door very deliberately. What else was there to do? I knew that I would get lectured, and soon Sara would be in her bed, warm, comfortable, and safe. Dad would think I’m irresponsible. So what? I knew when to take the blows for her. She couldn’t handle it, so I would.

I shifted Sara’s weight so I could open the door and it pulled away from me. There he was in all his glory, my father. I could see the rage and disappointment in his eyes. He held nothing back in that glare. I had opened my mouth to explain, and he snatched Sara from me.

“What in the hell do you think you were doing? You know she’s sick Ian. Why do you have to insist on defying me at every turn? Is there some problem that I don’t know about? Is there something that I’m not doing for you? Please, let me know!” He grabbed with his other arm and shoved me into the house.

“Dad,”

“No, not now! No explaining. No nothing. This is the last time you will ever do something like this. I’ll make sure of that!” The look had changed in him. I could tell. Something about it made me frightened. I ran up the stairs and into my room, making sure to lock the door.

Downstairs I could already hear him yelling at Mom. I covered my ears. I didn’t want to know what he was saying. Soon I heard the door slam. Dad had left. He always did. Honor and responsibility, yeah right! The anger growing inside me had started to burn and warm me from the winter chill.

Questions filled my head. Why did Dad act that way? Why did he seem to care more about appearances than anything else? Why did he seem to be so stable one minute and ballistic the next? Why was I cursed to endure this? Why, why, why? There were always too many questions. It fed my anger.

The questions roamed my angry mind until I fell asleep. All I remember seeing were Michael’s eyes just staring through me. Piercing twin beams searching for the truth in my soul. He had found it. He knew all about me in three seconds. I looked around and all I could see is the chaos and confusion in my life. Michael seemed to be the only true focus of the entire scene.

But he had changed. He no longer wore the ragged clothes of a homeless transient. A brilliant light shrouded his outline and figure. I knew it was him because of the intensity of his eyes. I knew it was him. The same feeling of familiarity hit me when the dream vision stared at me. I couldn’t lie to him. He would know it wasn’t true.

“You did good Ian.” the vision spoke. It was a harmonious voice that penetrated deep into my head. “Sara will be safe. Have no doubt about that.” Then Michael had that same knowing smile on his face. “You are upon the forge of life young Ian. To achieve your true potential you need to face the flames and do not fear what is about to become into existence for you.”

My eyes flew open in a shudder as sleep escaped me. I don’t know what it was exactly, but I know the sheets were soaked. I remember my body tingling and the sweet scent of winter in my nostrils. Clean, fresh, pure air escaped me. Sweat dripped off of me forming pools in the shallows of my body. Something was wrong, very wrong. Sara?

I could smell tension in the air. The static charge of it made the hair on my arms and neck stand on end. I could feel the oppression of it trying to weigh me down. I felt sluggish as I tried to wake up. My mind was still in the fog of dreams and I could still smell the scent of winter. Time seemed to slow down as I stood up from my bed.

Blood rushed from my head nearly causing me to sit back down. I could feel and see that my equilibrium wasn’t quite right as the room tried to right itself in my vision. Waves of energy backwashed against me and were impeding me from getting to Sara. I had to get through. I had to get to Sara.

Muscles strained against the force that was blocking me. Each step took more effort than the last. I was a machine plodding on to my door. Legs acting like pistons, making me walk. I reached out for the door and at last felt the doorknob in my hands.

It pulsated with the rhythm of something alive. Instinctively, I drew my hand away. Streaks of blue light trailed from my hand as I lost contact with the cool brass. I could hear footsteps outside of the door. Steeling myself up, I reached out for the doorknob again.

Whatever was out in the hall stopped in front of the door. I reached out for the doorknob and felt the intenseness of the creature outside of the door. The door flew open, knocking me back nearly all of the way to my bed. That’s when I first looked upon it.

My eyes were nearly blinded by the beauty of the thing. Its intense radiance filled my vision. I could see the gold-flaked scaly skin shimmering with all of the glory of its evil. I was drawn to the thing’s eyes. The fire, fury, and hatred encompassed me. I wanted to feel the power inside the rage of the magnificent beast in front of me.

The almost phosphorescent eyes of the beast stared at me. Twin pools of green saturated me and invaded my soul. It too could see me, the true me. Fangs appeared as the thing opened its maw. I was hypnotized by the presence of the beast. It was so malevolent and evil. I stood in awe of its evil nature. I wanted to be consumed by it.

Then it moved on down the hall towards Sara’s room. A primal glint tore through me as if to say “She is mine.” I remember standing there for a moment, not caring at all if the beast got to Sara. She would be better off and the thing would be satiated. It would feed upon her soul and I would bask in the darkness of its wake.

Something cold hit me. Twin beams of translucent blue focused on me. “The shaping of your destiny is at hand. Seize the moment or forever be lost in the chaos of mortals. Accept and trust in your skills and worth. Save her.” His voice was so pure. Like the first falling of winter snow, it thrilled me. I could not let that happen. I had to stop this thing from getting to her.

I was awake, truly awake. I was standing near my bed and my door was open. I remember the sweat dripping off of my body. My jeans were soaked. I ran through my door, I had to get to Sara. Legs and feet were working like well-oiled machinery. They no longer felt like lead weights in a torrential rainstorm.

Out in the hallway, the shock hit me. It wasn’t a demon walking towards Sara’s room, but my father instead. All I could do was look. Was it all a dream? A cold, numbing sensation ran through my veins. Could my father be that evil? My father?

He turned around and looked at me. Those same green eyes were now in his head. The same sardonic smile was on his face. How long had he been this way? What was inside of him? Eating away at his soul and making him twisted and evil. As I stared at him, I could see the presence of the demon that possessed him. The vile thing corrupted his soul, turned him against his family and all that he had cared for. Now they were one and heading for Sara’s room.

“And what are you going to do about it, Ian?” the voice seethed with animosity. They were right. What could I do? I was just a boy and they were ungodly in power and intention.

An inner voice tugged at me, “Be who and what you are Ian. You are on the soul-forge for a purpose. Have faith in yourself and your abilities.” Michael gave me the strength to look up at the demon once more. That was all I needed.

I stared at them, hard. I could feel the tension building between us like a thick smoke. It burned my lungs and stung my eyes. Soon the façade of a mortal body left and just the demon stood before me in the hallway.

“You will not take her.” I whispered with an unknown calmness.

It backed off for a moment. I could feel its weakness, its insecurity, and its unbridled rage. That would be its undoing. This malevolent beast could not be allowed to exist within the mortal realm any longer. I knew then that I could defeat the thing.

Somehow I could sense my own defenses rising. Hair stood up on my neck and my arms. I could feel waves of energy like I’ve never known before pulsing through my body. I could also feel the rage inside of the demon growing.

The air lightened around me for an instant, like a cool winter breeze. Everything took on a pale blue tint as the pounding ripples of energy crashed through me and locked with my heartbeat. Tendrils of ethereal smoke rose from my body. My body burned in the fire of the soul-forge and I screamed.

The cursed thing may have taken the resounding yell as a weakness. Its face screwed up into an evil mask and it lunged at me. Instinctively, I drew back and raised my arms at the thing. Wisps of smoke formed into cohesive beams of energy shooting out from my hands and impaled the monster’s arm.

Howls of pain and ego ripped through the walls as if they were made of soap bubbles. It swung wildly at me for a moment, and then grinned. “Sothar-corinden malikan shojun ka!” The voice that came from the beast seemed to echo in my head. Then it disappeared.
I could see the faintest of vapor trails in the hallway. Then my head went through the linen closet door.

Deep laughter resonated from behind me. I could feel the fire in me burn deeper and hotter. Claws raked down my back. I could feel the blood flowing from the wounds. I screamed for what seemed like an eternity. That’s when I felt my own rage meld with the burning within me.

The door came away from me in splinters. I couldn’t see the beast, but I could still sense him. He was headed back for Sara’s room where she slept. Dizziness swept me up. My stomach tied itself into knots, as the hallway seemed to warp out of shape. The view was spiraling away and something else seemed to warp back in at the same time.

When the nausea faded, I was standing in the middle of Sara’s room facing the monster again. Twin holes oozed from the damage I had done to it. Its arm seemed to be holding together by bone and sinew alone. The arm seemed to dangle and hang just a bit as it moved towards her. The thing turned around and bellowed at my mere presence.

“You will not take her,” I said confidently. The thing reared its head and showed its maw bristling with sharp fangs. I took a step forward and I felt the intense gaze once again. The vehement beast seemed to will me not to come towards Sara or itself. My will clashed with that of the demon. I would walk forward and I would defeat the beast. My will was strong. It is stronger now, but then, I was just learning.

I could feel it summoning the dark power from within itself. I countered focusing on the peace and harmony of the winter breeze that I had experienced when I saw Michael. The beast launched an attack and before I knew it, I had responded with my own. The impact of the conflicting energies nearly tore my soul asunder.

I felt disjointed, out of place. Somehow I stood up to face the beast again. I took another step. The beast retreated, still demanding his own will against mine. With a motion, I blocked the oncoming psychic attack. He would not win this day, or any other if I had it my way. I took another step towards the beast, positioning myself between it and my sister.

With its good arm, the demon pointed at me and shouted, “Have no doubt of who and what you are Ian. You were spawned of my loins and the woman you call your mother.” Its voice seemed to become slightly more human. “You are my child, this is your destiny.” it finished bringing his arm down, showing himself to me.

“If you are what I am to be,” I seethed, “and she is to become. Then I will forfeit my soul and take hers with me to the grace and perseverance of all that is pure and wholesome. I will not be as you. Preying on the souls of the innocents to suffice something else’s needs and whims is not within our destinies.”

“Pure and wholesome?” it laughed. “Do you really think that the powers that made me would allow that? Do you think that the Other would want you? You? I don’t think so. Search yourself Ian. You know who you are.” Again the beast seemed to be showing more and more of itself to me.

Doubts clouded my mind. Was Michael using me to destroy all of us? Was it true what the demon had said? Was I, at least partially, like it was? Was that thing truly my father? I stood stunned for a moment. The unimaginable thought that somehow I was like that beast revolted me. Every fiber in my soul told me that it was wrong. That’s when the thing came at me again.

A gigantic scaled fist landed on me and threw me across the room. I could feel the tendrils rising in me again. I willed for them to come. I prayed for the strength to carry on. I prayed for the fortitude to defy his assault. I prayed for the soul of my sister, for it not to become some dinner in the belly of this beast.

Blue light surrounded me. I felt its warmth and comfort. The open wounds on my back knitted together and healed. I could feel a metamorphosis from within me. My back was still in pain, but it was different now. My shirt ripped open from the back as two bone fragments plunged outward from my shoulder blades.

The pain was intense, nearly crippling. I willed my self to go on. I had to stop the beast. This foul demon would not survive the night. I would make sure of that! I launched the tendrils of energy at the monster again. Impact with the demon brought on the same soul ripping sensation.

Again, I launched the rippling energy from my body towards the demon. Again, I felt the impact within my soul. I could feel the beast writhing in agony and pain. The protrusions from my back seemed to grow and I could move them. I focused upon the beast once more and focused the beams upon it. Its body smoldered from the impact of the blow.

“You will not take her!” I spat. Something in my voice seemed to change. It was not a threat or a rebellion. It was more like a command. The thing had no choice. It seemed to grow smaller as my will expanded and grew. The protrusions from my shoulders seemed to move on their own accord now.

I felt the gush of wind behind me. I could sense the fear in the beast. I could see it in the demon’s eyes. The gaze no longer frightened me. I had won. The beast would not feast on any souls tonight. I felt the energy crackle within my palms. I knew what it was for now.

“By all that is holy and forthright, I banish you to eternal damnation and never to walk upon the mortal earth again!” The voice was mine but not mine. It was then that I had realized that I was in mid-air. The beast had not grown smaller, but it was I that had changed my perspective. “Go now and never return. You shall not be of any consequence to me or to any other being ever again.”

I felt an immediate sadness come over me as the beast whimpered. Slowly, it got up and dematerialized into nothingness. The wind was still whipping at my pant legs. I concentrated on stopping the motion and I dropped to the ground. I stared in amazement the first time I saw my own wings. White plumes encompassed me. They were soft as down and seemingly strong as steel. They were good wings.

I looked around the room in hesitation. The blue haze was still clouding my vision. I looked upon Sara and knew she was to die tonight. Sadness and pain racked my body. My sister was so young. The amulet was glowing; its protection was strong. Michael knew what he was saying.

I felt another presence in the room with me. I saw the softness of white robes before I could see Michael’s wings. I bowed humbly, deeply before him.

“Arise.” he spoke softly. I looked upon his face and saw the peace and kindness there. I also remembered the terror he had caused in me before. “You have indeed proven yourself Ian. You have earned the privilege of our ranks.”

I knew I was different now. My life would no longer be the same. “What happened to my father?”

“What the beast told you was partially true Ian. The beast was your father. That is how I became aware of you. Life is a balance Ian. How would you ever know success without failure, or good from evil? Or right from wrong? You had faith in what was right. This is who you are. Now, I must go.”

I watched him walk over to Sara and gently wake her. Her eyes were beaming with the recognition of Michael. He solemnly took her hand and lifted her out of the bed. She was so innocent, so pure. She was going to a better place now. I knew that now. She would be taken care of; she would be safe from the evils of this world.

A fierce blue light appeared to the right of Michael. My mother stepped out of it and looked out at me. Her sweet smile beamed through and touched me. I knew she was proud of me. Her son was now so very different from what she thought and hoped for. I knew that they were both going with Michael. They would both live in harmony and happiness forever.

Slow melodies of a wind flute filtered through as the scent of the winter breeze came into the room. Perhaps it wouldn’t be my destiny to go there, but to help others go to that place of peace. Michael looked at me and smiled.

“Now you truly understand Ian. Ours is not to decide to go through the gate on our own, but instead to ally ourselves with the resolve and justness to help the others to go on through. When we are summoned, you will know. Then, and only then, will you be allowed to go through.” I nodded to him in understanding.

I felt the portal open. I could feel the intense happiness washing through to this side of the gate. I remember it feeling like being wrapped up in joy and care. It was love, pure unconditional love. I saw them walk up to the gate and look back. I longed to go with them. I knew I could not. The blue light increased as Michael stepped foot into the aperture.

The figures seemed to grow smaller and smaller as they walked through the portal. Michael and my mother were holding Sara’s little hands. Just like that, the portal snapped shut. I remember feeling joy like no other. I flew out into the night. Days later, I remember seeing a news clipping that I had trapped in the alley that I had taken up residence in.

NEW JERSEY POLICE ARE STILL BAFFLED
The disappearance of an entire family seemed to go unnoticed through the Christmas Holidays in Eastern New Jersey. According to one source, there were loud noises emanating from the house as well as strange lights flashing through some of the upstairs windows. Local authorities are still asking for help in the matter and are asking citizens to come forward with any information that they may have. If anyone has seen or heard from any of the Gilmore family, contact your local authorities or your regional FBI offices.

Personal Demons

2009-10-03T01:42:00.000-07:00

A shadow moved in the narrow alley way. In a blurred and practiced motion, Isaac had the butt of his Colt in his hand. A smile crossed his face. He had a hunt tonight. Isaac would at least eat well. There had been a lot of nights that he didn't, Mexican Nights. Mentally flipping the infrared sensors on in his optics, Isaac followed the heat trail of his prey. Magenta footsteps escaped further into the alley.

Living in the shadows and underbelly of society was not what Isaac had always hoped for himself. Once, he wanted to be a Shaman like most of his family. His father had different ideas and goals for young Isaac Bearshield. A flash of heart-felt remembered pain hit Isaac. It wasn’t the physical pain he could deal with, but a pain of a soul, of memory. Isaac fought with the vision, but the memory retaliated and took the seat of his consciousness.

He remembered the day he left his family. His father, or what his mother thought had passed for one, had sold Isaac’s custodial and human rights to the Apache-Navajo National Army for quite a good profit. Never again did he see or hear of his family, not that he had ever wanted to hear from his family after that day, but often Isaac wondered about them. Wondered about what he did wrong and about what kind of father sold a son to strangers. Yeah, Isaac’s father was only human, but it was something Isaac wasn't anymore – human.

Steam rolled out into the cold air from Isaac’s mouth like a vent from hell as he bellowed loudly into an uncaring night. Father had done this to him. The newsboys too, the cops, even the damn ripperdocs on the street. Isaac hated them all. He had retired more than his fair share of each, but he especially the corporations, governments and private armies using people as expendable commodities. They were all fucking fascists. Isaac was more a machine than muscle and blood now. Dear sweet ANNA, what a bitch she was, but ANNA was all Isaac had to hold onto. His training had gotten him through more scrapes than he’d care to admit. Despite everything, she taught him how to survive.

The Shamen in boot camp taught him to revel in the sanctity of the totems of his people. “The spirits of Mother Earth and Father Sky will protect us. We are their people.” They would preach. Many of the young Indian boys believed them. Isaac didn’t. His own people didn’t protect him.

So it was with the totems. Wolf, Deer, and even Bear had forsaken his company, lost in the sacred Mexican jungles where even a GPS Tracker couldn’t get a signal. Puma, Snake and even Bat had abandoned them all. Even the Christian God had turned his head away from them. Only a handful of them even knew how to appreciate the ancient totems. The rest were as good as White animals trying to fit into a ceremony.

Isaac’s belly growled. He was relieved to feel something physical instead of drowning in a past that he couldn’t change or comprehend. Focusing back on the trail, he saw that the footsteps kept on for a bit then changed somehow, growing cooler. The magenta images were slowly fading to chartreuse then emerald. His prey was eluding him. Whoever it was, he was a big son-of-a-buck and fast. Isaac had no doubts that the man had something of value on him. Everyone did, it was just a matter of what you could sell, and to whom. Boots could be sold at the food lines at the shelters. Everyone needed a good pair of boots. Clothes could be sewn into a blanket or worn if they would fit. Healthy kidneys and lungs could be fenced to the ripperdocs for quite a tidy profit. Nothing was to be wasted. It was as it should have been.

Isaac grew impatient with the quiet hunt. He knew his prey was nearby, but his nerve boosters in his adrenal gland surged at the shadows. Enhanced muscle weave and the durable poly-carbon joints in his legs put his running speed to nearly 15 KPH if he didn’t try hard. On the trails, he was clocked at nearly 28 kilometers per hour when he was pushing it. The winding alley raced by as Isaac followed the trail of colored footprints. The breeze of his wake blew his hair back like ebony fire.

The shiny socket in his wrist where a durable sheath surrounding several hundred fiberoptic cables that connected his Colt to programmed software in his brain glinted in the passing glow from the lamplight filtering in from the street. Isaac strained the sensors by squinting at the cooling trail, trying to find the heat signature again.

Stopping every so often, Isaac would scan the ground and soon the trail began to heat up again. This mother was fast. Oranges and yellows soon began to blaze with deep magenta almost going to a blood red. Isaac grinned. Sweat began to pour out of him as he slowed to a stealthy stalking speed. He remembered the training. When hunting for prey, become your surroundings.

Isaac leaned against the rough brick and broken plaster of a wall. His movements became slow and deliberate, almost heavy. “I am the nature of stone”, he thought.

Behind his eyes, his mind was working, not missing a thing. A busy street was no more than 50 meters away. A drug deal was going on just beyond his line of sight around the other corner. A rat scampered off as Isaac stepped on its dinner. Isaac was not hunting for rats tonight. He had much bigger prey in mind.

He rounded the corner and finally saw him. His prey apparently had just gotten comfortable in the seat of an ancient motorcycle with a chromed tank sporting a white paint job that did not mar the flashy effect. The thing was sexy. The gas powered beast roared loudly as the White animal started it up. The bike heated up fast. It was in better than mint condition. Isaac knew exactly where to hock the classic. Mentally he switched to the light intensification as the veteran soldier drew a bead on the White man with his Colt. The crosshairs were already locked within his optic sensors. There was no missing the soon to be dead meat.

The chiseled face, the dark glasses, even the matching leather vest painted the Anglo as a trend follower. Style more than substance seemed to carry more weight anymore. It had been that way for as long as Isaac could remember. The White animal had obviously gone to a few surgeons and specialists for that body. It was designed perfection. A tattoo on his right arm seemed to complete the ensemble. It was a Christian cross with the letters INRI embossed underneath it. All of the imagery was surrounded by a circle with wings coming out on either side. The whole thing glowed with bioluminescence. The skin job was superb. Isaac decided that he didn’t care where this biker came from, but he did know where he was going.

Isaac walked out of the shadows that were concealing him. The White Animal was not going anywhere. There was no fear in the animal’s body language. The White man looked at him and smiled one of those Chiseled-paid for-perfect-Adonis smiles. Straight white teeth and perfect cheekbones made the man look like a computer drafted model. The man was CGI come to life. Isaac immediately hated him for being so vain and himself for envying that perfection. There were too many scars from too many surgeries that raced up and down Isaac’s body. Two shots from the Colt blew out chunks of plaster and brick dust from behind the perfect White animal. Isaac didn’t want to really kill him if he didn’t have to. He just wanted the bike.

The White animal turned and looked at Isaac with a practiced sidelong glance from behind the dark sunglasses. Lifting his long legs, he got off of the bike and examined the bullet holes in the wall, ignoring Isaac. The leather-clad man his hand to his glasses and took them off and leaned in to the wall to get a better look. After the man finished examining the wall, he turned to Isaac. Blue within blue eyes stared through the glow of the streaks of lamplight. Isaac snorted at the man. They were another part of the perfection that the White animal bought. Isaac knew that vanity was one of those diseases that made a body sick. Oh but to have that body for just a while, to be someone else for just a moment!

“You missed,” he said flatly. “And you’ll miss again, until you finally let go of the anger inside of you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about animal?” Isaac spat. The White animal’s demeanor wasn’t that of typical prey. He was cool and collected. Isaac couldn’t feel the fear wafting off of him. There wasn’t the familiar scent of sweat and urine that came off of the usual prey that was unlucky enough to cross his path.

Isaac debated dropping him right then and there to just to prove to the White animal that he was in Isaac’s jungle now. The crosshairs were in the middle of the White animals head, just between the perfect blue eyes, but Isaac couldn’t squeeze the trigger, mentally or physically. Something about the White animal was different. This animal wasn’t afraid to die.

“Everyone’s got anger. Look around ass-wipe. The city is a slum about to fall. You White animals should have never taken the land. You killed it. You raped it. You sodomized it and then sold it piecemeal to the highest bidder. Fucking lunatics. Short sighted and short dicked.”

“Yes, the city and the country and the world for that matter are full of anger. I didn’t cause it. It wasn’t even me who desecrated your people or their beliefs. I believe that was you.” he replied walking slowly towards Isaac with a solemn grace.

“Christ! You are a dumb animal!” Isaac seethed. “You insult me for taking pity on your poor ass. Then insult my intelligence with that White propaganda that our people sold themselves out to you. Jesus man, prepare to be grease spot on the ground.” Isaac aimed the optical crosshairs in the man’s central body mass. He was going down.

“It’s funny how those who don’t believe in God always use his name in times of stress. Isn’t it?” the chiseled face smiled, still coming closer. “How many times have your people turned their faces to our Lord?” A few steps more. “How many times have our people done the same? God gave man the right to chose between good and evil and all the grey areas in between.” The man was an arms length away. “And still those who forsake him still use his name when they are weak.” again the molded plastic face smiled. “What do you really believe?” The artificial visage that the White animal had paid for grew ashen with the question, almost sorrowful.

Isaac recalibrated his aim to have the crosshairs nailed in the center of the man’s forehead. Sweat beaded upon the Isaac’s head. It ran down the sides of his face and into his eyes. It still stung after all of the surgeries. Science still couldn’t beat that out of a horse. The grip became loose on the butt of the hardwired Colt. Isaac’s hand began to sweat. Endorphins were racing through the Navajo’s body. This White piece of meat had to go down. Keeping the boosted nerves in control caused Isaac’s arm to start shaking.
The chiseled face smiled down on him again. Brown hair and blue eyes stood nearly a head taller than Isaac, and half again as wide. Isaac couldn’t let himself lose it. War torn memories of friends dying on the battlefield defending the Mescalero from the White animals flooded into him. Fragments of forgotten pain lanced his knees where the land mine had gone off taking his leg. Its shrapnel is what stole his sight and crippled him internally. Isaac felt strong hands on his shoulders; calm hands, warm hands, comforting hands.

Focusing on the man in front of him, he shook off the embrace. Again, the soldier raised his pistol and placed it upon the forehead of the animal before him. Young men had died for the cause of war; for protecting the land from the White animals. All they would do is abuse it. Use it to its last dying breath. The White animals could not see the beauty of the autumn wind, or the symphony in the chorus of the finches and swallows, or the lure of a deserted landscape where buffalo used to be plentiful.

All they saw was a thing to rape and pillage for their own use. Blue eyes pleaded and offered sympathy. He did not want pity from the man. Isaac just wanted his goods. It was fair and just. All the White Man ever wanted from his people was goods, the goods of the land and of the people. All they gave in return was sorrow.

“Take off your boots.” Isaac demanded quietly, his arm still shaking from the adrenaline rushing through his system.

“If that’s what you truly want.” the man held his hands up and bowed his head slightly, as a parent would to a child who was making a mistake beyond which counseling could reach.

“And give me the keys to the bike, or so help me I’ll make you into a perfectly crafted dead body.” Isaac flinched at the man, pushing the gun barrel into his head.

“And by the grace and glory of Our Lord and Savior, I’ll give you one more thing.” the man sighed. Before Isaac knew it, the man had touched him in the middle of his own forehead. The brief shock was reminiscent of a forgotten pain. A hidden pain that had never surfaced during all of the days and weeks of service or the months in rehab, one that was gone before nerves had a chance to register it. One that was imaginary. White light blinded Isaac, even through the flash suppressing optics that ANNA had installed.

Peacefulness encompassed Isaac. I was like hunting within the Bosque for quail or a child’s view on a summer day within the Mescalero with the hot sun beating down upon naked skin. Where a cool breeze wafted off of the Rio Grande eased the heat from the summer sun. It was the smell of the pine in the forest. Isaac was in a place where fauns and does lapped up water in the afternoon swelter never knowing the bite of a steel bullet. It was the memory of the feel and sound of the pine needles crunching underfoot. It was the call of birds high within the trees. The cool blue water calling to Isaac from within the dream, it shimmered and shifted in the brightness of the day, almost blinding him.

Isaac’s optics cleared. The various enhancements had shut off automatically as a safety precaution to the sensitive nerves connecting the hardware to Isaac’s brain. The light was still blaring, but not as badly as before. Soon it dimmed down to acceptable levels again so Isaac could look around. The man’s big shoulders were silhouetted by the enormous feathered wings behind him. A slight aura of light surrounded the being before him. Chiseled face and perfect cheekbones smiled. Blue within blue eyes looked upon him with confidence instead of pity.

“God has not forsaken you little lamb.” he comforted. “Or should I say little bear?” he laughed gently. Isaac stood there, dumbfounded. The Shamen had taught him never to believe in Christian angels. Only to believe in the totems of the tribe, that’s what he was taught. The old stories didn’t have any meaning to Isaac anymore. The legends of Wolf and of Little Mouse seemed to have no bearing here. The White animals had the choice in the beginning. They chose the rifle instead of the bow. That’s how they became the animals that they were. This was sacrilegious. It was myth, but also in front of is face, a proving reality.

“Why me? After all of these years, why me? Why now?” Isaac roared to the angel in front of him. “Where were you when ANNA took all of those boys? Where was your God when my own father sold me off to pay for his new condo in Rio Rancho?”

“He was walking the path with you Bearsheild. You were chosen to receive the gift. The other souls were there to mold you into God’s tool on Earth.” the angel explained. “You have earned a place in the Kingdom in the way you have handled your life through the trails that you faced. You carried the mourning of brothers lost and forgotten. You didn’t forget. You couldn’t allow yourself to do that. I am here to ease the bitterness and hatred that got you through those rough times. Even though you professed to turn your back on the Lord, he knows that you didn’t. I was sent to help you see that.”

Thunder boomed loudly in the confined space of the alley. It drew closer with every breath Isaac took. He looked up at the beautiful thing in front of him and saw something out of place. A strange look crossed that angel’s face. It was more than a resentment or anger. It was annoyance. The noise approached and Isaac recognized it as the sound of a new Mitsubishi Katana. The whine of the twin turbo thrusters on the motorcycle pierced Isaac’s ears and rumbled in his chest. The familiar, choppy sound of the idle came from around the corner and then increased to the whine of the turbo kicking in.

Isaac barely saw the blur in time to move out of the way of the oncoming bike. A studded black boot caught the angel directly in the chest knocking him into the wall some five meters away. The angel coughed as it impacted with the wall that Isaac had, no more than moments ago shot. The angel glared at the demon. The animosity of a thousands-year war between the two was almost palpable.

A crackle of energy barely surged through the air as the rider spun the bike around to face Isaac. A thin mustache lined the rider’s upper lip coming down to a goatee dangling off of its chin. Mirrored glasses covered the eyes. A series of small horns dotted the temples of the demon rider. Long, flowing hair was tied into a pony tail in the back of the demon’s head. Leathery black wings came out from behind the heavy black jacket it was wearing.

“Do you really believe that shit Bearsheild.” the demon taunted. “I am here to ease the bitterness and hatred that got you through those rough times. Even though you professed to turn your back on the Lord, he knows that you didn’t. I was sent to help you see that.” it continued, mocking the angel, holding its hands together as if in prayer.

Feathered wings spread to a full 5 meter span against the wall as the angel raised its arms to challenge the dark rider. Isaac saw the demon extend his hands like a cat and watched the talons pop out like implants. Even the metallic sound was there. The disguise was almost perfect. The demon looked and acted like any one of a number of motorcycle gang bangers out on the streets that Isaac had come across before. The only things that were out of place were the wings and the smallish horns on the side of its head, and even those were not too uncommon. It had camouflaged itself perfectly.

“By your own law Cyrill, I demand equal time.” the demon scolded. “Do not bring battle before he has made the choice. It’s the law.”

“Equal time doesn’t involve knocking me out of my own speech Maurizio.” Cyrill shot back. An azure flare built up behind the angel’s eyes. Isaac could see the muscles tense and relax and tense up again on the powerful arms. Maurizio dropped a hand to his sunglasses and slid them down onto its nose. A black vortex flared up before the demon in answer to Cyrill’s display of power.

“Do not bring the battle yet angel. I still have time.” Maurizio scowled knowingly. “You know the consequences if you do Cyrill. Those wings of yours become my war trophy as I take you to Hell.” Cyrill backed down and released the focus on his Holy Might knowing the demon was right. Free choice and free will were given by the Lord for precisely that reason. Man had to decide which path to follow.

Isaac looked up into Maurizio’s eyes and felt the intenseness of the glare coming from within the black-brown orbs. Dark foreboding thoughts welled up inside of the former soldier. The Shamen were wrong about the devils too. Coyote and Crow were not the only evil within the Mother Earth and Father Sky. This evil thing was not Snake or Buzzard. It was the epitome of malevolence. Isaac could sense that within the beast.

“Where was Wolf or Sparrow when you needed them Bearsheild? Where was the Christian God when you called out his name over and over again? Do you really believe that something with that much power cares about something as pitiful as you are now?” the demon growled vengefully.

“Something was watching over me. He showed me that.” Isaac responded pointing to Cyrill. All at once the demon was on him, holding his head in his hands, prying open Isaac’s eyelids ensuring that they stayed open. Its dark, coal-like eyes locked into Isaacs own Nakamura, poly-carbon sensors.

“Let me show you another side Bearsheild.” it said with contempt and hatred. Yellowed talons gripped his head even tighter, nearly breaking the skin. Isaac tried to fight the psychic attack. He was weak from hunger and stress. The visions flooded his mind like a bad download of information. The psychic virus tore at his memories and ripped at his soul. The pain was so great that Isaac cried out before the demon. Maurizio pressed harder, until it was in his head.

A black spiraling vortex engulfed Isaac, filing him with pain and agony. All the while he could feel Maurizio’s grip upon his skull. The former soldier was falling deeper and deeper into the void of lapsed and forgotten memories. Images flew by so quickly that Isaac couldn’t even comprehend them.

The demon’s head warped. It had mutated into something not resembling a humanoid form. The eyes were in strange shapes. The forehead seemed skewed as if Isaac were looking at it through a heavy lens. The demon’s skin twisted in to unknown textures, it was a beast in and of itself sliding all over Isaac’s face. Isaac felt himself collapse into the demons grasp.

Isaac was standing on the ground in the Mescalero again. He saw his father’s truck up ahead. The whole thing felt too familiar. His father sold the truck years before Isaac was inducted into the Apache-Navajo National Army. Isaac looked around him and saw Maurizio, still decked out in his biker leathers.

“Watch this Bearsheild.” it said flatly. A young boy came running from around the truck. A denim jacket covered his scrawny body. Isaac instantly recognized the vision as himself at a younger age. His father leaped over the truck and tackled the small boy. The young Isaac fought back with a tenacity that would have rivaled most of the platoon that he was assigned to. Isaac remembered the feeling of his father beating him. Fury started to rise into the elder Isaac Bearsheild.

“For the last time, no!” his father bellowed through the blows landing upon him.

“I don’t want to stay with you anymore. All you care about is getting your dick wet since Mom died. You didn’t even care for her when she was sick. You were just out with that bitch you found.” Isaac screamed through clenched teeth. His father kept on repeating the left, right combinations to Isaac’s head.

“You inconsiderate little bastard! How dare you accuse your father of that? I give you a home, an education, and a life. Is this how you repay me?” Bearsheild bellowed vengefully. “Fine then, run away. I don’t care for you anymore. You are no longer my son.”

“Fuck you, you old bastard!” Isaac seethed when his father let him up. “I don’t need your shit anyway.” Isaac ran as long as he could that day. He wound up at his aunt’s house. After a couple of weeks she sent him back home again to his father.

“Where were your Gods then Bearsheild?” the demon inquired flatly. Isaac felt his father’s rejection again. “I’ve a few other places yet.” Maurizio finished. The swirling black mist rose up from the ground and blocked out the sun. Isaac was traveling again through his own mind.

It was another day at his father’s house. It was the day his father sold him under Indian Law. The recruiter came to the door with two pair of shackles and a whipping crop. He was dressed in the traditional ANNA outfit. The White man was kitted out in dark green, so dark that it was almost black. The shirt and trousers were pressed and impressive. On his head was a beret tilted just so. Isaac looked up at the man and knew what his father had done.

Isaac saw his younger face. The boy looked up at the White man with a cold stare that could freeze a heart. Isaac remembered the pain of that look. The recruiter gazed back and hit him across the face with the crop. The pain stung, but not as bad as the laughter from across the room coming from his father.

Isaac looked long and hard at his father and vowed never to be like him. Not to treat others as tools and commodities to be bought and sold at a whim. His father froze at the vicious gaze coming from his 15 year old son. Isaac had reached deep inside of the man the way Old Long Hawk had taught him. He had shown his father that he was a man. Isaac knew his father could no longer intimidate him or make him little anymore. His gaze caught his father by surprise. Isaac saw how worthless his father’s life had become.

The recruiter snapped on the titanium cuffs to Isaac’s hands and feet. Isaac knew not to fight him. He was now property. His father had sold him out again. Father was a pitiful human who didn’t care what was right, as long as he got his meal ticket. Isaac looked one last time into his father’s eyes and spat on the ground as he left for the last time. His father had become a White animal.

“And then, Bearsheild? Where were they to protect you?” the beast laughed. “They sure as hell weren’t with you then, now were they?” A dark shroud filled Isaac’s vision and he knew that they were on the move again. Isaac was beginning to feel sick. Thick smoke was beginning to form. Isaac coughed as the acrid fumes washed against his throat and lungs.

The smoke cleared and they were beside a foxhole behind a fallen pine tree. Isaac recognized the uniform he was wearing. It was the field uniform for the 72nd Infantry. He was now during the Mescalero Invasion. The White animals had come from the newly re-opened Fort Bliss. At least that’s what reconnaissance had reported. Isaac still had his flesh legs and arms then, he was still human.

He could see himself trying to call in the air strike against the invading animals. Fires burned for days within the Mescalero. The range was on fire along with the rest of Isaac’s world. His group led some of the Shamen to bless the forest and purify it again. They were ambushed by the White animals. It wasn’t there forest. They didn’t belong in it. Their kind had already taken the Aztec fortification. He had to stop them. Knowing what was about to happen, Isaac tried to stop his human self from running out, but the ghost passed right through him. Isaac Bearshield knew what came next.

The flash from the land mine was bigger than he remembered. Isaac’s flash suppression in his Nakamura implants almost came online out of instinct. Remembered pain lanced through his legs. Isaac could almost feel the pain of the burn again with overwhelming accuracy. Isaac’s legs buckled from the memory of living through the explosion and witnessing the cause again. The wicked memory knocked him down to the ground. Looking up, he saw Maurizio shake his head in mockery, then burst out into laughter. The demon laughed so hard that it had to take the mirrorshades off in order to wipe its black eyes. Isaac knew the thing was wholly and completely evil; it too was a White animal.

Isaac remembered calling out for the brothers of his company. He was blind and couldn’t move. Pain wracked his body. He remembered screaming to die. Anything was better than living. Two ANNA medics came and got him. Isaac remembered not wanting to live, not wanting to be saved. It was the S.O.P. A good soldier was always rejuvenated with new technology. ANNA’s commodities weren’t to be wasted on death. She made sure of that.

Again the blackness rose from the ground, surrounding the trees. It surrounded the battleground and the soldiers. It surrounded everything, except the pain that Isaac felt. It couldn’t surround that. The black force intensified the pain, made it come to life again. Isaac knew what was coming next. A brief flash and they were in Mexico. Isaac and his new company of Chrome Berets were reinforcing the Mexican Aztec-Incan Army. A special group of ANNA’s best, brightest, and bravest were to serve under the Aztecs for jungle training. That’s what dear sweet ANNA had told them. The bitch lied.

Maurizio gestured for them to go forward. Isaac had no other choice. His body knew what to do and where to go. It went. The Whites had learned something of jungle warfare from the last one they were in. They had lost that one, and weren’t about to lose another one. The entire company had gotten captured. It was a well placed trap. Powered armor units held the Chrome Berets at bay while normal infantry took care of the meat soldiers. Many died that day, many more died in prison camps.

The White army had built cages suspended above the ground. For those that had enhancements, it was the various pits in the ground. No food or water was brought for many days. Some of the Aztec and Mayan Shamen purified those that had died. This was to be food for the rest of the soldiers. Isaac stiffened at the horrible memory. He knew the foul demon couldn’t stay away from this one. It was too powerful.

Isaac had refused to eat the consecrated meat. He couldn’t do it. The soldier fought for the bugs that would tunnel into the pit instead. Once, he had tried to climb the sheer surface of the walls, but ANNA had only equipped him with speed and small arms weaponry. Talons or even small climbing claws would have been too much of a foresight for that lousy bitch. The White animals laughed and egged him on. That’s when he killed one of them with a hidden dart in his left hand. The group waited another week without food in response to Isaac’s indiscretion.

Maurizio’s blackness started rose again, Isaac fought it this time. The swirling blanket of nothingness seemed to try even harder to block out his vision. Isaac focused on the White man at the top of the caged pit. Coagulating clouds of dark fear closed in on Isaac. He stood through it and kept his focus. Finally he saw the White soldier change. Small dotted horns came out from his head at his temples. Unclean, dank wings sprouted from the green uniform. Isaac finally let the darkness encompass him.

They were in the litter strewn alley way again. Cyrill was standing over Isaac looking back at Maurizio. The intensity of his glare nearly filled Isaac’s vision. Crackling energy formed a line of light and dark between the two ethereal warriors. The demon was against the rough brick wall sitting on the ground. A small trickle of blood left a trail down the side of its fanged maw.

“Cyrill, you broke the law.” it smiled a toothy grin. “Concede now or face the tribunal.”

“I will not concede. The time span was more than equal. You shall not dominate the mortal any longer. I am sanctified in this act.” Cyrill growled at the demon spitefully. The angel’s gaze intensified. Maurizio stood and bowed his head knowing the angel was right.

“The choice is yours Isaac. Which path will you take?” the angel asked tenderly. Isaac looked long and hard into the being’s eyes and knew the truth. Everyone has to make the choice on which path to take. His father, the White soldiers in the prison camp, and even some of the generals within the armies fighting the war chose the demon’s side.

Isaac remembered how pitiful his father looked the day he had left for boot camp. He was an old, worn out, tired shell of a man. Isaac searched himself. He was still more human than his father ever was. He looked up at Cyrill and smiled.

“Here are your boots and the keys to the bike, my friend. Take them and use them well. You have earned your place.” Cyrill whispered softly. Isaac focused again on Maurizio. The demon knew this fight was over in the eternal war. The Mitsubishi whined again and the thing was gone.

He looked again and Cyrill was gone too, the only things left were the white boots and the keys, and the better than mint, sexy old Harley. Isaac quickly slipped out of his old boots and donned the new ones. They were a perfect fit. Isaac knew they would be.

Walking over to the bike, Isaac ran his fingers along the tank and the leather of the seat. The thing had a shine on it that couldn’t be blocked by the shadow it was parked in. Isaac straddled the bike and fired it up. The roar of the engine growled into the night. It was also a beast, a White animal that Isaac had overcome.

A surprising burning sensation caught Isaac off guard. His right arm went numb. Quickly he ripped off the sleeve of the tattered flannel shirt he was wearing. Isaac had to smile again. A new tattoo had been emblazoned upon his arm. It was a Christian cross with the letters INRI embossed underneath it. All of the imagery was surrounded by a circle with wings coming out on either side. The whole thing glowed with bioluminescence. The skin job was superb.

The Homecoming

2009-09-23T01:15:00.001-07:00

The young superstar sat across from the television flipping channels more out of boredom than interest. He had muted the sound long ago. All of the media hype surrounding his accident was the same. Only the guards outside the door changed. If it had been anyone else, the story would have been counted as another situation and statistic in drunken driving history. But it wasn't anyone else.

He listened to his heart monitor, its monotonous beeping in two-four time, it was driving him insane. If he could only get away from himself, not be himself. If he hadn't been so gung-ho for the joyride, he wouldn't have hurt that girl. The last he had heard, she was in critical care. He wondered what kind of rhythm her monitor was keeping.

Some trashy magazine show was showing footage of his estate. The tweets out on the web were ablaze with a combination of rumor and truth. The grounds were trashed with debris from the wreck. It was her fault anyway; she was the one who had come through his driveway to turn around. Maybe just to look at his house, who knows? He had just bought the estate and was having a party with a few close friends. Then she came along out of nowhere.

He looked at his leg in the cast, it hurt. His whole body hurt. The last thing he actually remembered was leaping from the motorcycle, hearing the two vehicles collide. Then the landing, his left leg was a bundle of pain. It had crumpled from the impact with the ground. He must have slid a good thirty feet before he finally stopped.

At least it wouldn't go on forever, the pain would go away. He would think about moving and his leg hurt. Breathe -- hurt. Sleep -- hurt. Eat -- hurt! A morphine injector was connected to his IV, all he would have to do is hit the button and in minutes, all of the pain would go away. It would be nice if you could hit a button and the media would go away. Damn Ryan Seacrest and his sleaze reports! The man chuckled at the thought and hit the power button on the remote. There, the media gone at the touch of a button. The whole world could go away at the touch of one big red button. Poof!

Nuclear warheads, death, and dying, he didn't like where his mind was taking him. America and most of the “civilized” world was dying a slow death anyway. Cannibalism or nihilism is what the governments were practicing these days. The fake truths about peace negotiations and cease-fires gave way to civil unrest and the UN peace keepers. What a bunch of crap! If this broken leg wasn't keeping him down, he would have walked out of his private room and started a mosh pit. Starting with his guards!
Yes, he was a truth seeker. His lyrics and guitar licks got through to the underground revolutionaries long before the mainstream adored him. No, he didn't sell out; some DJ in Scranton, New Jersey finally woke up and gave “Raining Fire” some air play. The young man smiled in reflection of how the song took off. The media dogs thought that rap artist with the song about killing cops was bad . . . “Raining Fire” was banned from Wal-Mart and Target due to its explicit nature, not its explicit lyrics.

The song cast a spell over the nation's youth. Greenpeace and other activists had a rallying cry. The now known rock artist soared to super-stardom quickly. Now a different sect of activists had a rallying -- MADD and SADD. His little incident with Jack Daniel’s and a motorcycle would be his downfall. Maybe he did deserve it.

The fans, he had to make it up to them, as well as himself. He didn't know what to say or do for the girl's family. They were normal mainstream American folks. Hell, her father was a police officer. The man kept grasping for words that just would not explain how he felt about the incident. What do you say to a woman in tears because you put her daughter in the hospital? How do you deal with the combative glare from the father who has access to everything about you? And he doesn't understand your views on the system in governments and law.

The growing rock and roll star didn't want to be known as a “one-hit-wonder”, he couldn't bear it. The man rolled over and grabbed the familiar pencil and spiral notebook and instantly began scribbling as the morphine took hold.

The more he thought about it, the more he knew he had to see the girl. He had to talk to her, even if she couldn't hear him; he had to be with her face to face. Her parents would surely not approve of the act, but he couldn't afford to worry about that problem right now. He knew he had to go.

Slowly, he sat up. The pain nearly knocked him back down on the bed. Sweat started to form on the man's forehead. One more time, this time he hit the injector button on his IV. A reeling sensation hit him and he knew the morphine was in his system. Pain would not be a factor now. The room was starting to look funny as if someone had designed it to be slanted.

The man grabbed for his wheelchair and promptly missed. Now he knew the hospital had to be at an angle, his chair rolled away from him. He reached out with his good leg and felt the seat of the chair. It felt solid enough. The man tried to grip the seat with his toes. Getting a good fix on the cold synthetic leather, he carefully began to pull the chair to him.

Voices from outside the door caught his attention. The guards must be changing shifts. Not another good chance like this for hours. Focusing on the chair, the man made a defiant half leap, for it. The chair was stable, and caught him. He patted it for staying put. Good chair.

The room still looked a little off, but the man could bear with it. Rolling slants and fuzziness made his eyes complain. He shut them. For a moment, he was all right. He heard the door open and close. Footsteps came towards him and stopped just short of the chair. The artist struggled to open his eyes to see who it was, but they were not yielding.

“No, it is better if you keep them shut.” The voice was cool and soothing, much like his father's. He complied with the voice, who was he to argue? He felt the presence move around behind him and grip onto the wheelchair.

In an instant they were moving. It felt like a warm breeze from summer. He liked the summer. Summer was full of June bugs, hot dogs, and lazy days of just doing nothing. Mostly, he wrote songs in the summer. He would stay up all night to get a riff right. His father usually complained if he did this on a school night. But that had been many years ago. His father died in an auto accident also related to drunk driving. Tears welled up in the his eyes. He felt his face contort in a pain that he thought he had buried long, long ago.

“Father,” the young man cried, “Why did you have to go?”

“Your father is right here, Sebastian, right here.” Sebastian felt a warm hand on his wet cheek. He opened his eyes and could see nothing but a shadowy blur. He smiled up at the blur, feeling his love and warmth. Sebastian settled into the chair and let his father push.

The winding corridors lead out to the observation deck. Sebastian could feel the open air and feel the sun on his face. A streak of pain hit him. His leg was complaining again. Slowly, Sebastian opened his eyes, everything was still a bit out of focus, but it was coming together. The trees looked a little more like trees than big green fuzz.

The rock star turned around to face his father and something was shoved into his right hand. It was cold and had the slick feeling and texture of steel. Sebastian’s brain couldn’t process the thing in his hand. The thing fit his hand sweetly, like a glove. Quickly he looked and saw the girl's father in front of him raising his weapon. What do you say to a parent who sees you as the Antichrist?

“Do what you have to do.” Sebastian whispered to the aging man holding the pistol at him.

For a while, the girl’s father did nothing. He stood there looking at the rock star with hatred in his eyes. Sebastian knew that he was responsible for the girl and something terrible had happened. The only thing that Sebastian felt was the intense pity for the old man in front of him. Looking down, Sebastian saw the thing in his hand. The handgun was sleek with a chromed barrel. The rock star looked up at the man again and knew the plan. The girl’s father was sacrificing his own life to take Sebastian’s. Somehow it seemed justified. It wasn’t right, but it was justified.

“No.” Sebastian stared hard at the old man in front of him. He was a father doing what he thought was right. He couldn’t have another life on his conscience. “I’ll do what I have to do.” Sebastian raised the chromed barrel to his head and squeezed.

The sound was deafening. There was a ringing in his ears much like the ringing after the last concert in Atlantic City. As Sebastian drifted through the shock and pain, he forced a smile on his face. He could feel his life ebbing away. Everything seemed to slow down into an extreme slow motion. It was like flying over a car or being on morphine, just a bit more real.

The Everburning Wick

2009-09-20T22:50:00.001-07:00

Stone is scraping. The rumble of the ancient mechanism alerts us all to the inevitable descent of the invaders from the prime plane. Their God has sent new warriors to retrieve the Everburning Wick to relieve a feeble decision made long ago by one of their own. The party will fail as did the last party and the last party before and the party before that. Those attempting to navigate our temple are destined to fail. Their bones will serve as a warning to the next party that their old God decides to send through his gate from his world into ours. Their deaths will be a celebration! A feast will be made of their flesh. The pitiful prime races have always been food to our kind. It is the way of Sigril-Na, survival of the fittest.

Glory be to the scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na

The warriors, we have found out, have always been on a quest to prove themselves to their foul God. They were to not only extinguish the Everburning Wick, but cause undue pain unto Sigril-Na by absconding the relic away from our temple. The Pearl Knights, as their God has named them, were clad in pearlescent spangle like that of the inside of a shell from our dried seas. The foul God has been sending in these Pearl Knights of his for eons. They seem to be never aware of the constant turmoil that the foul God had brought upon our once beautiful and fertile land. The battles between the gracious Sigril-Na and the fetid Unnamable God have exhausted the spirit of our realm and laid waste to the countryside.

All of the life that was decimated was for an artifact of legend – the Everburning Wick.

Sigril-Na, the Great Salamander, has kept the Everburning Wick out of the hands of the polluted Unnamable out of sheer defiance. It is the Everburning Wick that keeps our realm living. Without it, our lands will perish. It is the life-bringer to our realm. It alone sustains the little warmth that keeps all of us living. It is the very essence of the Great Salamander himself. If it should be extinguished, there would be no rebuilding of our world. We would fall astray from the path that the Great Salamander, Sigril-Na has laid before us. For that, we would extract a high price and declare a war so reverent and holy that the various pantheons of the prime races could not deny us the head of their Unnamable God. Then we scaled warriors would feast upon the flesh of the foul god in hopes that the benediction of his death would revive Sigril-Na back into the Great Salamander; much like the phoenix rising out of the ashen earth, our fires would burn brightly again!

Glory be to the scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na

Stone rumbles again. By the sound of it, the rumblings are still from the door atop the temple. They have found the turnkey in the Atrium Chamber. Could it be that these chosen of the rotting Unnamable were the cowards that we have always known? It is more than likely that they are curious as to how the ancient mechanism works. Perhaps one of them knows our language and has activated the mirror exit, which leads to the outside of the temple. It has been known that the Pearl Knights were taught the language of Sigril-Na. It is a tactic that the foul God relishes. He feels that it may cause tension in our noble warriors to hear one of the soft-skins speak our words. His feeble plan does not work – our warriors are only incensed to increase their attacks.

I have crawled up through the viewing passages to the Atrium Chamber. I can see them. It is my job to report back to Leved Gix, our own Noble Salamander. He wishes updates on their movements throughout the temple. It is our Noble's job to guard the temple with his life. One of our holiest of Nagas is laid to rest here. The Sainted Chomal was given the task by Sigril-Na to infiltrate the denizen of the wretched Unnamable and poison his family. Chomal did not complete this task. Instead the Sainted Chomal executed a far better plan in the eyes of Sigril-Na by not only capturing the one of the hateful Unnamable’s daughters, but also dismantling her bit by bit, bone by bone to feed to our most noble warriors. The pain seen in the Unnamable’s face was exquisite. The fury of the soulless God destroyed what was left of our oceans. His heartbreak was as great as his hatred.

Glory be to the scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na

The invaders have already opened the passageway to the Receiving Hall. Our mephits are already salivating for the taste of soft pink flesh. The abominations of the Unnamable God have no idea what waits for them in our temple. In the name of Sigril-Na, I hope they burn like none other. One of the Pearl Knights is an elf. We've not seen the elven since we partook of the Unnamable’s daughter. They were also elven and her flesh was exquisite. The feast was as luscious as the fair maiden and as bloody as her father’s heart. They descend slowly, somehow knowing that they are soon going to die.

The passageways coursing throughout the temple are small and winding. They were built for us smaller salamanders so that we could report on the goings on to our Noble. I hear the sounds of combat. No doubt the Pearl Knights in all of their inglorious hue have employed the most base of reactions. To the prime races, all battle is fought with the blade, bow or blunt. To we of the scale, it is fought with tooth, tail and tactics. This is why the mephits are stationed within the Receiving Hall. The mephit warriors can summon their own kind if their magic is not interrupted. Soon the Pearl Knights would be in retreat as the mephits overrun the primes.

Glory be to the scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na

In getting to the viewing hole in the Receiving Hall, I can see the foul Pearl Knights have thwarted our mephits' summoning magic and have taken up standard battle practices. The elf has the power; I can see it in him. The others have a scant touch – but not as much as this elf. The Unnamable may have prepared them. I feel the urge to leap out of the viewing hole to sink my teeth into the face of the pointy-eared prime. I cannot join the fray even though my mephit brethren of the scale are being beaten. It is my job to watch and report to my Noble.

I crawl through the tight space and sound the alarm to the patrol of fire newts in the Meeting Chamber and the Barracks. The plan is now to overrun the Pearl Knights with sheer numbers. These paltry warriors are the cannon fodder of our Noble. These newts are one of the first lines of defenses available to my Noble. I can feel his calm presence in my mind. My Noble is aware of what I am seeing. He is not afraid. He knows that he will taste their flesh and bones. These Pearl Knights will fail as the others before them have. There is still one of the foul Pearl Knights locked up in the Laboratory that is adjacent to the Meeting Chamber. His nobility and pride vanished when the assault started on his group of Pearl Knights. He committed suicide with a Wand of Frost. He was a coward of a gnome.

The Pearl Knights have a slight advantage with their strength and power granted to them by their foul God. Our newt warriors are burning as best they can, but the malevolent presence of the Unnamable is in the room and following the cursed Pearl Knights around. I can feel the newts panic. I can see them fall. Scales and blood seep into the stone flooring. I can feel the rage building inside of me. I want to strike them down and taste their flesh. I want to constrict their bones with my tail. I want to see their eyes fill with their own blood and then pop from their skulls.

My Noble calms me. He soothes me. He tells me, "This is all part of the plan little one. I am drawing them into my trap." My blood is still boiling, but I concede. He is the Noble, not I. I do not lead; it is my job to report my findings. Glee!

Glory be to the scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na

I follow the invaders down the hallway towards the Fountain Room. I know that I'm smiling because my teeth are dry. One of our noble warriors, Kelass, is praying to the likeness of Sigril-Na and partaking of our holy water. He will take out the foul invaders. My Noble feels proud of me.

One of the Pearl Knights attempts to peer around the corner, but his sword connects with is pearlescent spangle. It is enough of a noise to alert our noble salamander warrior. The battle ensues with the three Pearl Knights. He is quick and strong. Kelass launches into a flurry of attacks with his flaming great spear and his tail. These primes have no idea how to fight one of our warriors. The iron in the spearhead is set aflame with the heat coming off of the warrior. Their weapons do little against our hides.

Glory be to the Scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na.

The elf is posing a problem. His blade, enchanted with some foul magics from the Unnamable seems to be actually hurting my brother. Some elemental lightning trapped within the blade is reaching through the toughened hide of Kelass. The two humans attempt to jump into the fray to help defend the foul elf. One of the humans has disarmed my brother; the other has kicked the spear away. Again, I can feel my blood boiling, but I feel the calm reassurance of my Noble. It is his will that I bend to, his and that of Sigril-Na.

Another of our noble warriors has heard the sounds of battle and watches carefully from the hallway. Gevad is evaluating the situation and waiting to strike. Such is the will of Sigril-Na. One of the humans has noticed the statue of Sigril-Na and seen the relic that he has left our people. The Shield of Sigril-Na is poised on the statue as a warning. The mirror on the shield is meant to distract our enemy and help to reflect our holy flame. What the human doesn't know is that the mirror is cursed by their wicked Unnamable God. The mirror now only reflects the pain and suffering that He feels for the loss of his daughter. It is now mirrored magical acid instead of bright steel.

My noble brother waiting in the hallway has made his decision and joined in the combat. Quickly he strikes the foul Pearl Knight that had kicked the spear away from his partner. The nearly bald human is now wrapped up in the tail of the salamander warrior. My own tail coils in excitement. I can almost feel the life draining out of the outsider. It is always a good day when a foul servant of the Unnamable God dies.

Glee! The elf, in an attempt to strike Kelass has thrown his accursed blade directly into the Shield of Sigril-Na! The curse that the Unnamable had laid upon the holy relic has destroyed the elf's blade and released its magic. It is no more than steel now. The human standing in the fountain, let him be cursed, noticed that the shield has performed the miraculous act of warping the scimitar accidentally thrown by the elf.

Curse his eyes, curse his eyes, curse his eyes! A spark of intelligence ran across the face of the bearded human. Horror! He is desecrating the statue of Sigril-Na! He is attempting to hack off the arm holding the mirrored shield. The Pearl Knight cannot be allowed to succeed. If he uses the shield against the two noble warriors, hope may be lost.

My Noble calms my mind again. "Patience," he whispers. My Noble's thoughts turn to ire when the foul elf pulls out another enchanted blade. How many blades did the foul Unnamable God give to this prime?

The bald human is dropped to the floor as the constriction and spear jabs from Gevad have brought death to the Pearl Knight. Glee! Only two of the foul emissaries of God remain. Kelass and Gevad are now flanking the elf. He will soon die.

Glory be to the scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na

A scream of pain and agony come from the statue. Glee! The Pearl Knight has discovered that the Shield of Sigril-Na is cursed by his own God. Four of the warrior's fingers are now steaming masses of flesh and bone. I can smell the blood in the air. I can almost taste it. I want to run up and chomp down on the injured hands. I want to taste the flesh of the Pearl Knights.

Oh horror! The six-fingered Pearl Knight has picked up the Shield of Sigril-Na and is rushing towards Kelass! I start to scream out, but the firm hand of my Noble keeps my voice silent. "It is Sigril-Na's will as to what happens." I repeat our benediction in my mind.

Glory be to the Scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na.

Kelass is beheaded by the shield in a short amount of time. His hide is bruised and blacked in parts from the foul acid touch of the Unnamable. Gevad is aware of what is going on as well and redoubles his efforts to entangle the elf in his tail. A quick move gives Gevad the advantage and soon he has the foul elf in his tail and begins to squeeze. I can feel the life force ebbing from the foul elf. He collapses soon. Elves are known to be frail creatures. I can almost taste his sweet flesh. I am salivating.

The six-fingered Pearl Knight with the cursed Shield of Sigril-Na is the only Pearl Knight left. His own blood stains his pearlescent clothing. The shield touches Gevad's flesh and I can smell the burning of our noble flesh. Curse his eyes, curse his eyes, curse his eyes! If only he had never pulled the shield from the statue. If only he had never seen the curse in action.

Glory be to the Scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na.

My jaw falls open. Gevad has fallen. His hide is marred by the acid touch of the shield. How I hate the Pearl Knights. How I hate the Unnamable God. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! The six-fingered Pearl Knight has dragged the two other fallen and revived them to life in our fountain. A pox on them, a pox on all of the primes!

"It is Sigril-Na's will as to what happens," echoes my Noble.

They are now able to move back and retreat to the Atrium Chamber. They collect the dead bodies of our smaller warriors, those of the fire newts and the mephits. They have holed themselves up in the Atrium Chamber and are eating the flesh of our fallen. It is sacrilege.

"I will taste of their flesh," my Noble assures me.

Glory be to the Scale. Glory be to Sigril-Na.

Buzzards in the Sun

2009-08-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

The first thing that hit Special Agent Benjamin Franklin Baxter was the fact that the sprawls in Texas were just different. There were the same neon colored skylines, the same Corporate Zones, the same kinds of gangs; there were always the Goths, the Fashionistas, the Ethnicios (no matter what the flavor) and the Themers. No matter which metroplex you happened to be standing in, they were all represented in one way or another. One of the favorites that Baxter had once had to deal with was a gang out of Arlington in the heart of DFW. Their leader had the inane idea to revamp old Batman villains from over a century ago.

He couldn’t count how many times he had put down a Themer decked out in a purple suit, painted face and wielding a great big titanium mallet. Baxter swore that if he heard, “Riddle me this,” just once more from a moron who thought he was clever, he would twist the Themer’s body into a question mark and leave him there for the DFWPD to collect – meta or not. The thing that struck Baxter most about the Seattle Sprawl though was the lack of authentic barbecue.

There were altogether too many Asian barbecue restaurants and street vendors, but they didn’t really know how to properly cook a slab of beef. Most of the food in Seattle was geared towards the Asian lifestyle; it was all chopsticks, rice wine and dim sum. Mainly it was finger foods wrapped in wax paper or plastic boxes made up to look like cardboard cartons for those up-and-comings on the go. There was always a meeting to go to, or a new haute place to meet your chums. The sheer speed of the Seattle Sprawl was a lot faster than what he was used to in the Dallas Metroplex.

Business was business everywhere in the world, but the overall feel of the Dallas Metroplex, locals still called it DFW even though the metro extended far beyond Dallas, Arlington, and Fort Worth was one of what Special Agent Baxter called home. It was familiar in its particular strangeness. It always reminded him that he was a part of something bigger. DFW was big enough on its own, but Baxter knew where his family was and where he was from. He knew the streets in DFW and the surrounding megasuburbs that were once cities in their own right. Waco and Austin were incorporated as part of the metroplex in the early 80’s. Sweetwater and Abilene followed soon after. Wichita Falls, Gainesville and Paris were incorporated into the ‘Plex just before 2099. Mt. Pleasant and Longview followed the next year and the feather in the Dallas Metroplex’s proverbial hat was Palestine.

Palestine was special for the DFW ‘Plex for a variety of reasons. It was one of the best places to get grits and secondly it held the only private facility to house and rehabilitate metahumans. The guards there were trained through much of the same programs that were in place with Project SILVER, but the facility wasn’t funded through any kind of government subsidizing and overseen by a Senate Committee. The Cornell-GEO Group bought the old Texas Department of Criminal Justice facility and revamped it to hold metahumans in 2075. It was a huge success and revitalized the economy of Palestine. The only drawback was that sometimes Palestine was sometimes called ‘Little Gotham’ because it seemed that all of the crazies centralized there for some reason. Baxter really hated doing jobs in Palestine, but it was better than being in Seattle.

Even though DFW was huge and impressive, the people there still remembered where they came from. For nearly eight hours on every Sunday, the entire sprawl shut down for Sunday dinner. It was a revamp from an old state Blue Law that required business to be closed on Sundays. It was family time then. It was time for real barbecues and sitting with your Grammy to understand where you came from and who you were and mostly where you were going. You could always count on your family for that kind of advice.

Those were the times that Baxter held onto when he had to be away from his home in DFW. When his aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and other extended family members would get together at Grammy Baxter’s condominium out on her veranda on the 45th floor, the time was more than magical, it was family time. Baxter felt that he could see the entire Metroplex on those Sundays. He later learned that his fantasy was an impossible dream, but the memory was awe inspiring at the time. The crisp neon glowed with the warmth that was unusual for a cityscape that size. What made it special for Baxter was his Grammy.

Grammy Baxter would tell him about how in the early part of the century that all of the skyscrapers that he saw weren’t even in existence. He couldn’t believe it at the time. This was home. It was eternal and constant. It couldn’t have been any different. He didn’t know at that time how frightening and exciting change could be. He didn’t know how often change occurred. It was too far into the future for him to imagine. His own change was waiting for him around the proverbial corner.

His father would fire up the barbecue grill on those special Sundays and plop down the Argentinean ground beef patties and spice them with chili powder, paprika, garlic, black pepper and then top it all off with Texas chili and pepper-jack cheese. What made the burger special was the pretzel roll he used to finish off the sandwich. It was the best hamburger that Baxter ever remembered having. Nothing could compare to his father’s Black Sabbath burger – nothing that he had found anyway. Much like DFW, the memory of the taste and smell of his father’s Black Sabbath Burger reminded him of home and how far he was away from it

Special Agent Baxter frowned from underneath the neon that lit up the Seattle Sprawl. He wanted to be in Texas, away from all of the Asians that infested the Pacific Northwest. They didn’t know anything about the Black Sabbath burger or why one wanted to cook a steak medium rare in butter and not some sort of sesame-soy oil combination with an accompaniment of ginger and wasabi. The chefs didn’t understand why he wanted to have a fork and a knife with his steak instead of chopsticks and sake. He wanted a cold Texan beer with a steak fried in butter.

“Butter, you know, from a flippin cow?” he explained once to a slant-eyed server fresh into the Corporate Zone. The Korean just looked at him as if he had grown a third head, which wasn’t that unusual, but Baxter’s manifestation didn’t work that way.

Sure, his connection to the Kurtzberg Dimension did change his body, but he couldn’t grow extra appendages like some of the other metahumans tuned into the K-D could. As a K-Type Changling, Baxter’s body radically changed. Great Granddad Baxter explained it to him at one time before he died in 95, “It’s not that you yourself change, it’s just your body.” Young Baxter didn’t understand what he said at the time, but that was nearly twenty years ago and half a country away from where he was now. As he grew older Special Agent Baxter had a completely different understanding. Baxter and his alter ego vied for control of the one body they were both granted. There were times that they didn’t share well.

Now, in the rain, in the Seattle ‘Plex, under the undeniably oppressive grayness and thick as mud cloud cover reflecting a veritable electric and neon rainbow from the prolific use of brightness used to advertise anything from acid washes for your skin to overcooked ziti sold on rancid little street corners by Ukrainian refugees, looking for an unregistered metahuman, Special Agent Baxter waited. He was a hunter and his trail had gone cold.

The reports were initially difficult to confirm due to the constant mutilation and dehumanization that the general populace of the world was undergoing, but when the scanners picked up unusually high K-D activity in the area, Baxter knew that he had to board a parabolic from DFW to SeaTac. There really was no other choice in the matter. It was his duty to his country and his fellow metahumans. It was better that Project SILVER find the skimmer than one of the other various organizations and private corporations. To them, the skimmer was nothing but a test subject.

The Local Enforcement Officers in the ‘Plex could have handled the unregistered metahuman, but Baxter and his handlers higher up in the chain knew that Project SILVER had to have a presence on the scene before the Seattle Police Department mysteriously “found” a dead unregistered meta. It was Special Agent Baxter’s job to find the metahuman and save them from society. They just didn’t understand. There was no way they could.

If it wasn’t the LEO’s that were going to kill the skimmer, then it might be the private corporate armies that would freak out and shoot before asking questions. They were all paid goons anyway. Many with freakish cybernetic implants to enhance themselves up to Metahuman standards or underwent some zoomorphic procedure to give them an advantage. Sure, they were trained in the arts of paranoia and paramilitary maneuvers and tactics, but they were also amped up with too much emotion and just a smidgeon of skill. In short, they were dangerous not only to themselves, but any metahuman they came across.

Yeah, they were all card-carrying and registered in the Project SILVER database, but that didn’t stop them from using their acquired “powers” to make a grease spot of an unexpected, unregistered intruder on private property. They were wannabes in a world of genuine articles like him. It was sad, really.

A chime sounded off in Baxter’s ear. He knew it was his handler. Adjusting the brownish black Stetson that had seen better days, he hit the small stud on the earpiece he wore to extend the small holographic screen in front of his right eye. Due to his particular relationship with the K-D, he couldn’t use many of the normal implants that many of the Special Agents used within Project SILVER. The metamorphosis he underwent would rip apart any machinery that was normally installed. Minor implants such as a subcutaneous cell phone were even out of the question. Some K-Type Changlings could channel their inherent power linked from the K-D to store things for them, like clothes, but Baxter had never learned that particular skill. Too often he wound up naked after a job. He didn’t mind thought, he was all natural, well as natural as any metahuman could be.

“What’s the status, Rictus?” Gina Grey’s tiny little voice flew into his brain. She was emphasizing the importance of finding the skimmer through her own talents as a P-Type Telepath. Her psychic ability was registered at over 7 Polchinski Units. The standard had been developed at the University of California, Santa Barbara in 1999 by Dr. Joseph Polchinski when he was studying the connection and theories related to metahuman connections to the K-D and its relationship to his take on M-Theory. Baxter knew she was holding back when she was tested. Special Agent Baxter frowned darkly; paying homage to the codename he had been given (it is what the Beast had always called itself). Quickly he ran through a montage of the latest pornography he had been subjected to on the parabolic flight from DFW to SeaTac. “Good God,” she squawked over the earpiece, and only the earpiece, “did you have to do that?”

“Yes.” Baxter replied. “I had his scent, but I lost it. And he is a ‘he.’ What’s scanning on your end Blue?” Baxter knew it wasn’t the most creative name in the world, but he liked it. It described her eyes when she went into her P-Type show. A blue aura surrounded her eyes like nothing you’ve ever seen. No neon lamplight could ever match that. No cyberspace media junkie or digital software wizard could ever capture it correctly. It defied the normal parameters of the color. It just was, and so was she – Blue.

“There’s cross-talk with the LEO’s and the Kitsume’s over at Nin-Ban,” her clear voice was as calm as any other handler that Baxter had had before, but there was that something extra that she had always put into every conversation that she had. Perhaps that was why he loved her. “Aw, you’re sweet too,” she giggled.

“Let’s keep this nice and professional-like, okay Blue?” Baxter sent another image of the professional-grade hentai from the plane. “And then maybe we can get together later for some steaks and beers at Ruth’s Cris.” Just the mention of the steakhouse caused internal pangs of homesickness. “God, I hate Seattle!” Baxter yelled at the top of his lungs.

“No need to yell Rictus.” Immediately he could feel mental fingers sliding down the various pressure points, calming him instantly, “We don’t need him just yet. Save him for the Kitsume’s over at Nin-Ban. Local chatter says the LEO’s just lost about half a dozen down there in the Corporate Zone. Your skimmer has been busy. The blue brotherhood is going to be out for blood and the Kitsume’s are going to be down on the ground level soon. You’d better hustle down there Rictus, because that’s where your skimmer’s at!”

“Shit!” he began to run. He wasn’t that far from the Corporate Zone, but getting into the zone when it was hot was another thing all together. He didn’t want to tap into the K-D and release the Beast sooner than he absolutely had to. There was always hell to pay afterwards. “Ok Blue,” Special Agent Baxter yelled into his microphone, “I need…”

“Already on it, love.” And she was. Immediately street maps and schematics popped up and ran across the holographic field in front of his eye mapping out the quickest route to the Nin-Ban tower. A news feed scrolling along the bottom of his field of vision gave Baxter the transcribed updates to what was going on down in the Corporate Zone.

Looking up, he could see the one-man Dragonfly Gyros thundering overhead. Their floodlights cut through the grey skies as they flittered around the tall superstructures that began the Corporate Zone. The LEO’s were already out for blood. They were of a pack mentality, like buzzards in the sun; they circled around the Corporate Zone. They were following the trail of carnage and blood that had welled up from the gutters of the street. The floodlights on the Dragonflies were scanning the darkened corners and alleyways leading up to the Corporate Zone. The place was soon lit up like a main event. Everyone knew what it was though, it was streaming death. People always loved a good manhunt. It was in their nature to be voyeuristic; they couldn’t help but watch the train wreck streaming into their consoles and vidscreens.

Ratings and web hits jumped through the roof according to the ticker scrolling along his holographic screen. Anytime that there is a police action or any other egregiously publicized event that the media caught wind of, everyone seemed to sit down and jack into the net or watch the streaming video on their console walls. It made Baxter sick. They were all opportunists just waiting for the chance to watch their city and people die. Waiting for the rotting remains to just hunker down and shake for the last time.

Street corners raced through Baxter’s field of vision overlaid with the holographic maps that Blue had been feeding into the unit. Long trails of reds and greens from the neon signs streaked by as he channeled and focused on his connection with the K-D. A snarl plastered itself across his face. It was an aftereffect of letting the Beast within gain a little control over his body. He bumped into people sending them careening into walls and bouncing off of the reinforced bulletproof plexi that lined the unidentifiable store fronts. They yelled, he growled in response. The Beast wanted out to play with the meat sacks. It was going to be a red letter day, an E-ticket ride paid in blood.

Baxter could just see the reports that would filter up the chain of command from the Seattle Police Department to Project SILVER. Phrases like, ‘resisting arrest,’ and ‘public endangerment’ came to mind. Already he could feel his anger building. ‘Failure to uphold the Federal Vigilance Act,’ was prevalent in those reports. In his mind they were all just wannabe’s taking potshots at the real heroes that were left holding the responsibility for all of humanity. Some of them still had the hero mentality, but they were few and far between.

“Those fleshbags wouldn’t know what to do if a fully trained metahuman actually advanced into their city and started to take control.” Baxter growled into the microphone. He could already feel the Beast trying to claw its way out.

“Not just yet, Rictus,” he could hear Blue’s voice coming from the earpiece, keeping him calm for the moment. “Tech reports that Nin-Ban has K-D Nullifiers in place. Scans from the media hounds confirm that our boy has been pacified for the moment. I’ve got the techs working on how to disable the K-D Nullifiers in place. They’re telling me it’s not impossible, but you know what that means coming from the techs.”

“Yeah,” Special Agent Baxter agreed sourly, “it means I’m on my own with my dick hanging in the wind until they figure out how to drop the firewalls at Nin-Ban, and then the fun begins!”

“Strike Team Seven is prepped and ready. ETA is about ten.” Blue informed him. “And save that pillow talk for later, lover boy.”

“It’ll be over in five, and you know it.” Baxter blew her a mental kiss as he leapt up over a 40 foot wall that blocked off the Corporate Zone from the rest of the ‘Plex. “See you on the flipside Blue.” Static filled his ear and small holographic screen as the jamming frequency broadcast throughout the Corporate Zone took effect. They were officially on lockdown and he was officially cut off.

Immediately he felt the nausea and pain overtake him as his own connection with the K-D was simply cut off. It was the worst feeling. Like being cut off from your own body, or being really rip-roaring drunk. Clear thoughts came, but enacting those thoughts into actions was a different story. His nerves tingled with the sudden loss of communication to the K-D. Out of the corner of his eye he could see small cameras tracking his path downward from the wall.

Baxter hit the small metal stud on his earpiece and turned it off. The holographic projection rod retracted before he landed on the ground. Baxter knew he had to keep moving, but his body didn’t want to respond. The Dragonfly Gyros were lighting up the area in harsh floodlights like huge ghetto birds wanting to get to the kill first. He could feel the downdraft of the titanium blades whipping the air, dust and other detritus into assault vectors for anyone on the ground. His eyes stung from the blast of wind and dirt.

“Well, we’re in it now,” Baxter said to himself knowing that his connection with Blue had been cut off. The Beast heard him though, Baxter could feel him chuckling inside. Silently he hoped the techs found a way past the Nin-Ban firewalls to shut off the K-D Nullifiers. He felt like hammered shit and there was a whole heap of work to do yet.

The floods from the LEO gyros spotlighted the target. Fighting off a particularly nasty wave of nausea that caused his gut to wrench as if it were being ripped out with a vise and twisted through a hole the size of a quarter, he drew his sidearm and opened fire on Seattle’s Finest. Sweat began to form on Baxter’s brow as he steadied the pistol more through force of will rather than combat training. A few shots missed their mark, but soon the floods were out and he could see again.

The officers in the Dragonfly Gyros responded. Within the Seattle ‘Plex, they were used to being assaulted with small arms fire. The armored cockpit protected them with a 90% efficiency rating from the random potshots coming up from the streets. Baxter watched almost in slow motion as their weapon systems came online. Short burps of 10mm rounds opened up from the nose of the Dragonflies, chewing up the concrete in the courtyard.

Baxter forced himself to run. His legs felt sluggish and his stomach wanted to heave itself out of his throat. Stumbling from the sudden bout of vertigo that penetrated his brain, he saw the skimmer. The boy couldn’t have been more than 17 or 18. He was a new manifestation in the world. Baxter could see the look on his face. It was a mixture of wide-eyed fear, confusion and embarrassment akin to being walked in on when you’re masturbating. It was frightening and exciting all at the same time. It was change.

With a supreme force of will, Baxter rushed the boy who accidentally found himself in the Corporate Zone. The boy’s clothes were a wreck. They were disheveled as if they had been ripped off of his body. Nearly naked skin glistened with sweat and fear. Special Agent Baxter knew what that was like. He knew all too well. He was pacified for the moment. The skimmer wasn’t used to the effect of the K-D Nullifiers that had cut his natural connection off. He was bent over vomiting on the ground. Baxter felt a slight pang inside. The boy wasn’t going to be a virgin for long. The first time was always the worst when being disconnected from something that is vital. Nullifiers were bitch no matter how many times you were exposed to them.

An ear-splitting tone blasted out from the loudspeakers set into the walls of the Nin-Ban Tower. It fluctuated up and down the hertz scale. Special Agent Baxter knew this game. It was designed as a deterrent and helped to induce fear and terror. Often, victims of such a sonic attack couldn’t think clearly. It was a non-lethal prelude to what was going to happen next.

Seattle’s Finest in the Dragonflies lifted out of the area. Through the undulating frequencies, Baxter frowned at them. It was called plausible deniability. The gambit was always the same. Once the algorithmic harmonies started, the LEO’s would scatter. When it came to Corporate Law, the legal eagles employed by the Seattle Police Department didn’t have the chutzpah to contest criminal trespassing and the subsequent use of deadly force.

There was a break within the piercing sounds. “This is private property,” a recorded voice came over the loudspeaker first in English and then in Japanese. “Use of deadly force has been authorized. You have exactly ten seconds to vacate the premises.” There was a two second delay and then the whine continued from the loudspeakers. The target had curled up on the ground in a fetal position with his hands pressed firmly to his ears. The sonic attack was quite effective for most, but Baxter had learned long ago how to deal with that kind of attack. For him, it was mostly a mental exercise. If Baxter had not learned to calm himself and combat this kind of attack, the Beast would have a great deal more time to cause the mayhem that he loved so much.

Special Agent Baxter pushed through the waves of nausea and pain and took his mind into the mental model that he had built over the years to avoid the screeching tones coming from the loudspeakers. First he visualized the chess board. Each of the 64 tiles was made of alternating ivory and ebony. He could see the smoothed tiles; see the imperfections in the flat stone squares. He placed the tiles one by one into the mahogany setting that held them in place. Small strands of gold inlay separated the tiles from the wooden frame. Next, he brought the chess pieces into existence, placing them one at at time onto the board. Slowly they were carved into the model from his memory beginning with the White King and placing each piece onto the board. By the time Baxter had gotten to the King’s side knight, he did not hear the tone anymore. Baxter did hear the boy screaming, rolling on the ground while holding his ears.

Grabbing the boys face, Baxter locked eyes with him. “It’s going to be all right,” he yelled at the boy. Baxter knew the boy couldn’t hear him, but he formed the words slowly enough to hope that the boy could read his lips. “I’m with Project SILVER. Hang in there, kid and we’ll get through this.” Special Agent Baxter flashed the boy one of what Blue would have called his most endearing smiles to try to ease the boy’s discomfort. The boy nodded, Baxter didn’t know if he understood the words, but just hoped that he did.

The huge glass doors of the Nin-Ban’s Seattle office building opened unleashing nearly a dozen of their own private army. The Kitsumes were decked out in battle dress armor that looked as if they were designed by an engineer who had read too much manga as a child. It was all shiny and red with bulky looking plates that accentuated where muscle groups were on the human body. What was worse was the head and toe. Their boots looked something like combat high heels and all of them had a twin antenna array on their helmets. Baxter couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the sight of them. There was no doubt in his mind that they were dangerous and well trained, but not everything in this world had to be about style over function.

“This is private property,” one of the trooper’s amplified voices came through both on the main loudspeaker as well as through their communications array built into their demonic looking helmets. “You are in violation of publicly posted notifications and are subject to deadly force if you do not vacate in five,” Baxter knew that the Nin-Ban lawyers required the five-second countdown.

Baxter grabbed the boy up with his free hand and brought him up to his feet. There wouldn’t be much time to find cover within the courtyard. Looking up to the sky, he wondered if Strike Team Seven was going to show before this was already over.

“Four,” the trooper continued. They had separated into three squads. It was a classic pincer maneuver. They were going to surround them both and then try to take them down in crossfire. Baxter quickly calculated his inventory. He had four clips of 10mm armor-piercing tunguskium jacketed ammunition. That was nearly 60 rounds. He had an inexperienced and incapacitated civilian at his side. He had no backup and no access to the Beast that dwelled within him. Overall, Baxter knew that he was hooped seven different ways from Sunday.

“Three,” Special Agent Baxter drug his package along. They both stumbled as the Nin-Ban Kitsumes flanked them. A Zen park was in the middle of the courtyard. Big rocks were surrounded by pebbles. A koi pond added to the serenity of it all. Somewhere he heard a fountain trickling water. The boy still covered his ears as best he could. Baxter frowned deeply. It didn’t make moving him any easier. Baxter watched the troopers in their armor. They moved with practiced precision. None of them were stumbling as he and the boy were.

Baxter knew that the sound dampeners in the Kitsume armor were defending them from the amplified sonic waves coming from the tower. That and they were naturals. They didn’t have a connection to the K-D. It was the definitive way to level the playing field. He had to give it to Nin-Ban, they did their homework.

“Two,” Baxter moved towards the pond. His stomach heaved. The energy he had was tapped. Moving his eyes to the left and right, he sensed more than saw the Kitsumes keeping track of the two of them with ease.

“This aint gonna be pretty,” Baxter growled.

“One!” Special Agent Baxter pushed through the weakness overtaking his body and threw the boy into the koi pond as he dived for cover.

“Open fire!” Muzzle flash erupted from the Kitsume troopers that were lined up behind the huge rocks in the middle of the rock garden. The smaller rocks lined up in patterns became not much more than dust as the caseless rounds impacted near where Baxter landed. “Go, go go!” the command came from the lead Kitsume on Baxter’s left flank. Baxter’s frown deepened as he drew a bead on the mercenary and gently squeezed the trigger. Three rounds burst out of the Colt and landed in a neat one-inch pyramid in the lead trooper’s chest. Baxter knew that even with the tunguskium casing, the bullets wouldn’t penetrate their armor, but he also knew that the mercenary felt every shot. He went down cursing. His squad scattered for cover waiting for a better opportunity.

Baxter rolled and crawled to the pond where the boy was. To the right, the backup was coming. It was going to get thick soon if Blue and Strike Team Seven didn’t arrive soon. Sinking down into the water, he waited for the Kitsumes to choose the new tactic. Scanning across from the koi pond to the rock garden, he saw the two remaining squads taking up positions. Eight troopers were fully functional and heading towards them. One was down for a little bit, Baxter knew he wasn’t dead, just bruised and possibly broken a little bit. One trooper would stay with the leader. That left two others unaccounted for. This was sizing up to be one hell of a day. Baxter shook his head as he thought about the godforsaken piece of neon hell that he was in, “At least the tourist intel wasn’t wrong, something amazing always happens in Seattle.”

Two Kitsumes rushed the koi pond as the others opened fire. Ducking down further, he let his body float in the four feet of water and held his Colt out and fired at the incoming troopers. He knew he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell in hitting them with any accuracy, but one tended to try to dodge random gunfire heading your way.

White-hot pain lanced up through Baxter’s body. The muscles in his legs cramped from the intensity of the shock running through his system. Baxter’s back arched painfully as the electricity ran through it and up to his chest. The reflex trigger on his Colt reacted to the constant pressure and emptied the rest of his magazine into the air in a fully automatic spread aimed at the sky. Forcing the muscles in his neck to move where he wanted them to, Baxter found the two missing troopers. They had regrouped and shoved their shock sticks into the pond. He hadn’t counted on that.

The boy was screaming in pain, not only from the sonic attack coming from the Nin-Ban Tower but also the electrocution that he was undergoing. Baxter yelled as the arcing electricity flowed through the water and into his legs and spine. He couldn’t let go of the Colt and his other arm was slowly losing grip on the edge of the koi pond. The smell of boiled fish permeated the water as steam wafted off of the surface. Large koi bobbed to the surface like huge orange and white turds.

Baxter’s hand convulsed briefly and he sank into the pond. Brackish water followed his path and slid easily into his mouth. Baxter tried to cough, but more water rushed into his lungs. Through the murky green water, Baxter saw the boy going through convulsions. Through the blackness that was coming over Baxter, he felt the slight change in the universe around him.
The earpiece lodged in Baxter’s ear squelched an inane frequency in response to the Nin-Ban jamming going down. The techs also knocked out the K-D Nullifiers. Baxter could feel his skin reacting to the electric attack. The Beast’s presence announced itself.

“Let me out!” it screamed at him at the same time Blue was chiding the techs on her end.

“…or I’ll make sure that you’ll remember your third birthday as the one where you dressed up as a little girl and danced a strip tease to the ‘Macarena’ as the boys threw dollar bills up on the table!”

“Connection is live, Ma’am!” came another voice over the earpiece.

“Confirmed, Nin-Ban auto-defenses are down.”

“Initiating ramp up on tube transport. ETA in four minutes.”

“Rictus, come in.” her voice came through the earpiece. Baxter could hear her concern coming through. “Rictus, respond!”

“Can’t respond.” Baxter sent the message to Blue. He could feel her in his mind along with the Beast. “Busy with not drowning.”

“Let me out of this shell!” the Beast screamed again. Tapping into the Beast’s strength, Baxter fought against the shocks coming through the water and stood up. His chest was feeling tighter. Immediately Baxter puked out the water, took in a deep breath and puked again. Inside he could feel the Beast clawing at him. It wanted out.

Looking around the pond for his target, he saw the already changing body of the boy leap from the water and grab the two Kitsumes that had their shock sticks dipped into the water. His now massive arms came down on the two troopers causing them to buckle at the knees. Claws raked the red armor leaving behind deep furrows in the kevlar and tunguskium plates. Shavings coiled down as the boy dragged his claws down the front of the two unsuspecting mercenaries. In a flash, the boy grabbed an ankle from each of the troopers and dragged them into the murky water.

“Spread out!” Baxter heard the yelling from the Kitsumes. “Nullifiers are down, repeat, nullifiers are down. The metas are active! I repeat the metas are active! Set Condition One throughout the compound! Take them down!”

“This aint gonna be pretty,” Baxter coughed.

Baxter watched the water foam up from where the boy had taken down the two troopers. Through the brackish water he could see the boy twisting and turning keeping the bodies together underneath the small area. Baxter could smell the blood coming up through the water. Baxter rushed the boy and the two dying Kitsumes in a half leap, half dive as the rest of their team opened fire on the koi pond.

The 10mm rifle rounds hit Baxter in the back and lodged into his armor. Baxter yelled as the impacts from the Kitsume rifles hit the tunguskium weave. The impact knocked him face first into the water on top of the boy. The two Kitsume bodies floated up as the boy targeted Special Agent Baxter. The boy growled in response to Baxter’s presence and the loss of the two troopers. Baxter grabbed him and could feel what was left of the soft flesh of the boy change into roped and knotted muscle underneath his fingers.

”Rictus?” the earpiece squawked again. “Rictus, respond!” Baxter could feel the boy changing in his wet grasp; he was slowly loosing grip. Skin was changing into scale the young face and jaw was changing into an angular shape. The boy’s change in girth was beginning to force Baxter to lose hold. A tail began to flail around splashing the blood-infused water from underneath the two metahumans that locked in deadly embrace.

“No time Blue,” Baxter yelled between gritted teeth. “Aw shit!” he screamed into the microphone, “He’s like me, Blue!” Baxter struggled with the last of his will to hold onto the new reptilian beast that was writhing underneath him. “He’s like me!”

“Roger, Rictus.” Blue responded with a professional coolness in her voice. Baxter knew what she was thinking. She couldn’t help but broadcast it. She was keeping her emotions in check. Operation: Duck Hunt was in full gear.

“Get that tube online but quick, Blue.” Baxter struggled with the boy-beast tearing at his long coat and armor with razor sharp claws. With a great roar, his mouth came down on Baxter’s neck. “This aint gonna be pretty.” He informed as warm blood flowed from his neck. “Aw shit, Blue. This aint gonna be pretty!”

More gunfire from the Kitsumes flashed through the air at the two combatants grappling in the water. Baxter screamed as every impact hit. Quickly he brought his focus and training into play. More chess pieces formed in his mind, but they weren’t helping. The warm blood flowed openly from the impossibly sharp teeth still lodged in his neck. He could feel his armor beginning to tighten around his body. Everything felt small.

“Fleshbags got you down, Benji.” Baxter could hear his sardonic voice. “Let me take care of them.” From deep down in his belly, he could feel the Beast laughing. “Aw, come on man. You know I live for this.”

Special Agent Baxter fought for control of his mind. He could hear the tunguskium weave rip as his own body changed. The Alligator-Boy’s teeth scraped and tore his new grey-mottled flesh as the metamorphosis took place. The wound stung worse than anything that Baxter could remember.

“He shouldn’t have done that, Benji.” The Beast raged in his mind. “That hurt us.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Baxter yelled. “You know what that’s like.”

“Yeah, I do,” the Beast chuckled, “but the difference between you and me Benji, is that I don’t care.”

“Well I do care!” Baxter seethed. The pain of the manifestation from his normal body into the Beast was always new. It didn’t matter how many times he had made the change. Something about the knitting of bone and the growth of new muscles and fusing of thousands of yards of tendons and ligaments was just something he couldn’t get used to doing. “This is my body that we share, you’re just a guest. A parasite at best.”

“I’ll show you a parasite, you waste of flesh!” the Beast roared in his mind as the final snap of flesh and bones took to the new body. “Your great grand Baxter told me the same thing. You see how that played out, don’t you Benji? I am as eternal as the night bucko, so get over yourself, fleshbag!”

Gammaplasm secreted through glands in the Beast’s body as he gained his full connection to the K-D, giving him a slimy texture. The giant grey face was twisted into a permanent scowl. Black eyes underneath a huge brow burned with hatred. Special Agent Baxter withdrew into the tiny hole that he knew was waiting for him. The Beast was loose again. God help them, the Beast was loose.

“Foxes will die and the fleshbags will bleed! Angels will cry as Rictus is freed!” the Beast roared as the final transformation took effect. The Beast sniffed the air, “Ah, Seattle! Something amazing always happens in Seattle!” The Beast chuckled evilly as he put his attention to the Alligator-Boy that was attached onto his neck.

“Kid,” the Beast growled in deep rumbling voice that echoed his hatred for the world at large, “you should never bite off more than you can chew.” The Beast let loose of the scaly hide and grabbed the angular head that was latched onto his neck and pressed. Thick fingers found their way towards yellow eyes. The boy howled in pain as the pressure built. The Beast could feel the boy’s eyes pressing inward towards the small reptilian brain that was in control.

Howling in pain, the boy let go of the Beast’s neck. Thick black blood mixed with the natural secretions flowed down the Beast’s neck and onto his arm. Still the Beast pressed in and down on the boy’s head. Methodically, he began to pound the boy’s head into the ledge of the koi pond smashing the decorative rock to dust.

Great hammer blows forced the angular head inches into the ground with every strike. The water of the pond rippled and shook as the Beast ground down his enemy with every strike. Wails of pain were let loose from the Alligator-Boy. The Beast could feel him writhing and undulating in panic and pain. Powerful claws raked across the Beast’s body collecting gammaplasm and blood as they drew across his grey flesh.

Underneath the Beast, something shifted. In a flash, the Beast found himself flying through the air spraying the courtyard with the irradiated slime that naturally secreted from his body. Arms flailing in the air, the Beast twisted and tried to maneuver his body and brace for the impending impact. Twisting his head, he saw the building a microsecond before he face planted into the fourth story.

“Aw sh—” the Beast uttered the words as the reinforced bulletproof plexi gave underneath both the force in which he was thrown and his own great weight. Insulation, steel, concrete rebar, several office chairs and a reverse-osmosis water cooler followed his path into the building as the Beast’s impact created a great rent in the side of the building.

“So, that’s how you want to play it, huh kid?” the Beast shook off the concrete chunks that had stuck to the slime covering his body as he stood up. “All right then, no more Mr. Nice Rictus.” The Beast growled as he drew his energy inward, forcing more of the slimy gammaplasm out of his body. “Get ready for the beat down of a lifetime. Cuz it’s time to play!” he roared as he felt his power increasing through the connection to the K-D.

With more speed that should have been possible, the Beast released the stored energy he was building and launched himself back through the hole he had just created in the side of the building. To watch the Beast move was similar to a speed skater on ice. Legs pumped and glided easily on the gammaplasm covering the floor. The thick viscous fluid that had bonded with the rubble created the slick frictionless surface in which he could slide with ease.

The Beast became a grey muscled blur as he launched himself out of the fissure in the fourth floor. An arcing trail of slime followed him out of the rent in the fourth floor. The Beast howled in vengeance as he drew his feet together. The Alligator-Boy had already escaped from the hole that the Beast had slammed his head into. The boy had already engaged what was left of the Kitsume squads in the rock garden. He was holding one of the troopers up above his head as the Kitsumes fired upon him.

Smiling through the permanent scowl imprinted on his face, the Beast angled his body and landed on the Alligator-Boy’s back causing the younger metahuman to throw the Kitsume trooper. The impact of the Beast landing on the equally large scaly Alligator-Boy sent out a shockwave that caused the ground to ripple in response. The Beast jumped up and down, pounding the Alligator-Boy into the small rocks.

“Stay down,” the Beast yelled at the now slime covered scaly hide of his opponent, “and you won’t get hurt. Damned kids, never know respect for their elders. Never know when to stop testing the boundaries. Devastation is my game.” The Beast smiled again, or what passed for a smile with the perpetual grimace tagged on his face.

“Go, go, go!” the Beast heard the Kitsume’s commander yelling. Weapons fire burst out in his direction. The snaps and cracks of the automatic rifles reminded the Beast of breaking bones. He felt the impacts of the 10mm rounds, they were an annoyance. The gammaplasm on his body caught them before they could be fatal. Turning to face the corporate mercenaries, he let loose a bellow that screamed the echoes of all that were long dead and demanded retribution for their misgivings in life.

“You’ve had your shots,” the Beast chuckled maniacally, “my turn now!” The Beast leapt up from the impact crater he had created from landing on the boy and brought his huge hands together in the air. Linking his fingers, he arched his back and brought his clenched fists forward as he landed. The lead Kitsume Trooper died before the pain could even register. His body was rendered into what looked like a dark chunky salsa from the force of the blow from Rictus.
Breathing hard through clenched teeth and his perpetual scowl, the Beast roared again in glee. He swung out at another trooper in his proximity and felt the soft flesh and armor crumple as if anyone else were swatting a plastic bag. The now dead meat sack flew across the courtyard landing in an impossible angle on one of the bamboo trees that decorated the perimeter of the koi pond. Gammaplasm and blood dripped off of the corpse, pooling at the base of the tree as if it were hot wax.

“Stupid fleshbag wannabes!” the Beast screamed. “You have no idea of what pain is!” The Beast spun around bringing his leg down and smashed another of the soldiers underneath his foot. Blood, slime, bits of bone and the flesh of his internal organs sprayed out like a ripe tomato, covering his companions and the rock garden in the gore.

From somewhere higher up in the building the telltale sound of the air being ripped asunder from the rotation and expulsion of .50 calibre rounds started. The twin stream of tracer fire of the hot lead lanced the air as if it were paint. The twin guns angled their lines of fire and chewed up the concrete, mowed down trees and decimated the rest of the Kitsume troopers facing off against Rictus.

The Beast felt the sting of the twin cannons and reeled from the impacts. The gammaplasm was strong, but not that strong. Howling more out of anger than pain, the Beast pushed off against the ground and leapt up to the side of the building forcing his huge hands into the face of the exposed wall. With a cat’s grace and impossible strength, the Beast kept leaping up and up creating his own hand and foot holds until he found the gun mounts on the side of the building, some eighty floors up.

”Getting smarter,” the Beast chuckled. Nin-Ban was using unmanned drones to lay down the weapons fire. The drones couldn’t get an angle on the Beast from the side of the building, the arc was too drastic. The Beast could see them, hidden in a little nook. Growling, he reached into the side of the building with a massive hand and grabbed a chunk of concrete and rebar and threw it at the gun nest some ten floors above him. In an instant the whine of the rotary guns ceased as the lump from the building smashed into the guns, destroying them.

An explosion rocked the Nin-Ban tower sending the Beast flying outward. Shaking his head in mid-flight, the Beast focused his black eyes and found the side of the building he had been attached to suddenly decompose into rubble. The hole in the side of the building spanned three floors. Twisting, the Beast saw the ground rushing towards him in a hurry.

“This aint gonna be pretty,” he said as the ground rushed towards him.

“Rictus, come in!” came the voice in his ear. It was the fleshbag’s girl. “Lookit Benji, she cares, she really cares!”

“Shut the hell up!” Baxter growled at the Beast.

“I’m in the middle of something, fleshbag,” the Beast growled. “Why don’t you call us later?”

“Strike Team Seven is deployed. They’ll be…”

“Don’t bother sweetness,” the Beast chuckled, “They’re dead.”

“Oh God!” Blue sent.

“See Benji, she really does care about them. Why did you have to fall for her?”

“Asshole.”

Arcs of lightning flashed as the Beast sped towards the ground. From inside his hole within, Baxter counted silently. Four seconds had already passed; the Texan knew that 50% terminal velocity was usually reached in about three seconds. The Beast was right; it wasn’t going to be pretty.

More lighting coagulated in the form of a ring as the Beast fell under the control of gravity towards the ground. Bringing his massive forearms in front of his face and moving his knees up, the Beast became an insanely sized metahuman projectile curled up in a fetal position. The impact was going to be horrendous. Closing his black eyes, the Beast waited for the ground to meet him.

The crash felt differently than what the Beast was expecting. Sure it was hard, but it had more of a fluidic feel rather than the solidity that he was expecting. The Beast felt his forearms, wrists, knees and shins break though the force of the impact. The vacuum collapsed on his head as he fell through whatever he had hit. The Beast felt every tiny micro fracture in his skull.

It was the splashing that he heard that clued him in on the fact that he was no longer in Seattle, no longer in the Corporate Zone and no longer facing off against any of the fleshbags at Nin-Ban. Opening his black eyes, the Beast saw he was in an impact tank that was commonly used for K-Type Teleporters who had lost their control or connectionto the K-D. Letting his arms and legs relax, the Beast let go.

“Sure, leave me holding the bag,” Baxter scowled at the Beast.

“Like you said,” the Beast chuckled evilly, “I’m a parasite at best. And we parasites know when to abandon the host.”

Pain rocked through Baxter’s senses as he took control of the massive body they both shared. Arms and legs broken, he let them flop around causing more throbs of lancing hot pain as he undulated upwards, moving the massive body towards the top of the tank, towards the surface where he could breathe again. Everything hurt.

The medical team rushed towards the impact tank and immediately stuck tunguskium needles filled with specially calibrated tranquilizers into his system. It was often the only way to tame the Beast once it got loose. The massive gurney used to haul his malformed body was reinforced to take the weight, but getting Baxter into the thing was more than a task in and of itself. Somehow the team managed and Baxter found himself floating in and out of consciousness. The lights created patterns that were beautiful.

“Body count?” Baxter asked. “The boy?”

“Try not to talk Agent Baxter,” one of the medical staff replied calmly. His eyes were wide. He was new to the unit. The medic had no idea what he was in for. “Your jaw has been broken in three places.” Baxter struggled through the new pain he was feeling. His body had been broken and bruised before, but it was something that he never gotten used to.

“Blue?” Baxter’s voice was ragged and broken. Something else must have been broken.

“I’m here, lover,” her voice was cool and composed. She had closed off. She wasn’t broadcasting. Baxter knew it had to be bad. He really couldn’t tell how bad it was, everything hurt. Seeing the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know – the Beast left him holding damaged goods, too damaged to be repaired.

“The boy?”

“Safe. He’ll be treated and trained.”

“Body count?”

“Oh Benji,” her voice cracked. Baxter knew that it was really bad now. She never called him ‘Benji’ unless it was serious.

“Body count?” Baxter forced his voice out from whatever was broken in his throat sounding more like the Beast than he wanted to.

“A dozen on the ground at Nin-Ban and another ten within the building,” Baxter sighed at the news, “The boy took out four cops.” Rolling his eyes was painful. “The next of kin are being notified.”

“Blue,” Baxter moved a massive hand through the pain of broken bones and bruised muscle, “I’m going to sleep now.”

“You sleep Benji,” she sobbed, “you’ve earned it.” Baxter let the blackness take him. He found it oddly silent as the darkness took over his senses. A cold sensation permeated throughout his consciousness.

“Where the hell are you?” Baxter screamed inside of his head. There was no answer.

Days later, the group gathered in Arlington National Cemetery. It was an unusually sunny day in Virginia. A mild breeze touched the flags that the Honor Guard carried. A massive flock of men and women in black were gathered around a central location within the field.

Putting a hand on her belly, Gina Grey felt the baby kick. It was going to leave a bruise again. The baby was unhappy with all of the commotion that was going on. Gina reached out mentally to check, the boy’s consciousness was just beginning to form. There were dreams, disjointed, but dreams never-the-less. She tickled the forming mind and withdrew in surprise. Something had stopped her.

“Hello Mummy,” a familiar voice growled back at her. Gina’s eyes went wide.

The group created pathways to line up to hug and touch the pregnant woman near the casket. The conversations and condolences were a blur for her. “I’m sorry for your loss,” and “He was a hero to his nation,” and “God, he was so full of life,” echoed throughout the line wishing her well. Gina couldn’t respond, all she heard was the chuckling coming from deep within her womb. All the people circled her like too many buzzards in the sun as the Beast waited to be born into the world again.