Beginner's Luck

• Superhero
• Part 23

"Human civilization strives for balance," Alex said. "Much like in nature, where an ecosystem can support only so many birds or so many insects or so many trees, a city can support only so much good and so much evil. But there is always a balance between the two. There are fluctuations one way, then the other, but there is always a gravitation toward neutral, exactly between good and evil. If there is a great amount of evil, it will eventually be nullified and replaced by a great amount of good."

"Well," Thomas spoke up, "how do you know who's good and who's evil?"

Illustration courtesy of Luciano.

Alex looked over his shoulder. He expected Thomas to be much closer than he was. Thomas stood behind him, trying to scratch his arm through his green suit a safe distance from the edge of the building. Alex stood on the at the corner of the rooftop, looking three stories down at the street below. His arms were folded. His cape flapped slightly in the breeze.

"It's not about who is good or evil. It's about how much power is devoted to each. One really evil person could offset ten mildly good people."

Sounds like a bunch of new-age hippie crap to me, thought Thomas. Alex looked back over his shoulder again and saw Thomas swaying and biting his lip. He invited Thomas to stand on the edge with him. "No thanks. Scared of heights."

Something caught Alex's attention, something unseen or unheard by Thomas. Alex sprinted across the rooftop signaling for Thomas to follow. They hopped onto an adjacent rooftop. Alex ran to a skylight with several panes missing. He crouched down and peered into the building. Thomas stayed several feet back and whispered, "What is it?" There was a faint glow coming from inside the building, but from where Thomas stood, it looked empty.

"Five men -- one's tied up. Three guns -- maybe four. One club." Thomas inched closer and tried to get a glimpse. Alex said, "I'll throw in a couple flash-bangs to distract them. We'll jump down. I'll disarm the two hanging back. Can you disarm the other two and hold them off long enough for me to help you?"

Thomas was frightened at the prospect of attacking men with guns outnumbered and unarmed. He immediately regretting signing on to be a superhero. "What ... What?" he said nervously.

Alex yanked him down to look in the window. Below them were five men. One was tied up in a chair. Blood ran down one side of his head. One had a baseball bat in one hand and the tied up man's hair in the other. He looked angry. A third man waved a gun through the air casually as he smugly explained something to the tied up man, something about "drop-off" and "cops" and "money." Two other man stood behind the smug man. They stood back, guns in hand, looking stern and just a little bit bored.

"Can you take care of those two for a minute or two?" Alex asked, pointing to the smug man and the angry man.

"Yeah, I think so."

While Thomas developed a plan of action, Alex pulled some things out of his belt and tossed them into the room below through one of the missing window panes. "Here we go," he said.

Thomas did not realize that the action was coming so soon. He had thought there would be time to think, a little verbal run-through, or at least a countdown. But Alex had already begun. As the flash-bangs exploded, Alex stood up and jumped through the sky light. Thomas hesitated.

The explosions went off and all the men (except the one tied up) spun around wide-eyed and pointed their weapons at random places in the empty room. Alex landed on one of his targets, knocking him down. The other spun around to meet him, but was greeted by the heal of a boot in his temple. He'd wake up later in a squad car. Alex's original target quickly recovered and the two began to grapple.

The smug man turned to see a caped man wrestling his cousin Eddie to the ground. He pointed his gun at the two, but refrained from shooting. His expletive-lace demands for the caped man to cease or risk being shot went unheeded. Then there was a distraction behind him.

The smug man swung back around and saw his comrade, the angry man with the baseball bat, also on the ground wrestling. With himself. The angry men, both copies, grunted and punched each other. The smug man had no idea what was going on.

One of the angry men finally pinned the other, only to feel the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head. He looked up cautiously and was surprised to see the smug man, his "business partner," behind the gun. "All right. Both of you stand up."

"What are you doing? I got him right here!" said the angry man.

"How do I know that it's really you?"

"Who the fuck else would it be?" the topmost angry man said.

"Shoot him already!" urged the bottommost angry man.

"Just stand up, both of you!" shouted the smug man. They disentangled themselves and stood up. "OK. Which one of you is the real Mickey?"

The two looked at each other in disbelief. "He is," they said in unison, pointing to the other.

"Eh, fuck this!" The smug man pulled the trigger twice, shooting both angry men in the stomach. They both collapsed to the ground.

Alex finished applying an effective sleeper hold on his opponent and looked up just in time to see the smug man fire two shots, one at his friend and one at the wall. Just then, Thomas burst through the sky light and landed squarely on the smug man's head. The smug man crumpled to the ground unconscious, and Thomas rolled away and lay sprawled on the ground. Alex stood up. He was panting a bit, but adrenaline was keeping him from feeling the already forming bruise on his jaw and the slight black eye. He sprinted over to the newly fallen enemy and kicked the gun away from his hand. Then he turned his attention to Thomas. "I don't know what you did, but I'm impressed."

The young man was still prostrate on the floor. He moaned slightly. "I think I twisted my ankle," he complained.

English Spelling Reform

I recently read an article from Interesting Thing of the Day entitled English Spelling Reform: The difficult path to simpler spelling. I agree with all of the reasons fro a spelling reform, and think all the reasons against are fairly lame. Any dissenting opinions?

Peace Out

• Superhero
• Part 22

Brandon was floating in a sea of blood, literally. He swam desparately, looking for a life raft or a shoreline. But wave after wave of frothy blood crashed down over him. His vision was blurred and he sputtered for breath. Brandon knew he would drown.

A fin appeared in the distance, then disappeared as Brandon slid into a trough. It reappeared again when he reached the next crest. It was pointed directly at him.

A shark, and from the looks of it a big one, sped towards him. There was nothing Brandon could do. When it was only a yard off, there was a great splash as it launched itself like a dolphin out of the churning bloody sea. Based on its trajectory, it would land directly on Brandon.

The movement of the world suddenly slowed. The waves moved like syrup, and gravity only pulled downward half as fast as normal. Brandon looked around in confusion, then back up, expecting to see a mouth with several rows of teeth bearing down on him. Instead, he saw a disembodied face. It was the face of the convenience store clerk.

The clerk had a hole in his face where an eye should be, and through it Brandon saw the clouds passing overhead. The face began to laugh evilly, ridiculously so. Like a mad scientist or 007 villain, the clerk cackled. Brandon was not so much frightened as annoyed. He wished the clerk would stop.

The idiotic laughter continued. Brandon floated in a blood ocean wishing he could stab the clerk again, in a throat that wasn't visible, in hopes of shutting him up. But as he watched he noticed the face slowly change. The laughter changed, too, as it went on.

Brandon realized that the face now belonged to Dr. Tyler, and the laughter was a phone ringing.

The answering machine beeped as Brandon groggily opened his eyes heavy with sleep. He wiped crusty dried blood out of the corners as he woke up. He looked around the bathroom, and then down at the bath tub he was lounging in. A red ring circled the drain.

The answering machine beeped again. "Yo dude! Pick up the goddamn phone!" the voice of Tom, somewhat distorted, shouted from the machine in the other room. There was a pause. "So, uh, Brandon? I was reading the paper just now and I read an article about how some guy with spikes all over his body murdered a gas station clerk last night. And I got to thinking, that can't be the guy that I know who has spikes all over his body. Can it?" Brandon picked at a long scab over a self-inflicted gash on his inner thigh until it began to ooze blood. He leaned back and stretched out in the basin. Tom's voice continued, "That can't be the guy with spikes that I know that showed up at my apartment last night when I wasn't there, stole my clothes, then scared the piss out of me when I saw him standing in my living room at two in the morning looking like Satan himself shat him out. That can't be the guy that bummed money off of me to go get some snacks, and then came back thirty minutes later acting normal - well, as normal as a guy with spikes all over his body could possibly be.

"No, it couldn't be the same guy, could it? No, I think that guy would have mentioned to me that he fucking killed someone while he was at the goddamn Seven-Eleven! What. The. Fuck."

"So," Tom's voice went on, "if you like happen to run into that guy, the other guy with spikes all over his body, will you tell him to get the fuck out of my house? Seriously, dude. You're my friend and all, but if you're not out of my house by the time I get off work, I'm gonna call the cops. Sorry, dude, that's just the way it is." There was a short, uncomfortable pause. "Peace out." Brandon heard the receiver rustle into the cradle on the other end of the line. The answering machine beeped again. Brandon stirred and began to get up from his bathtub bed.

Serial Fiction Blog List

My brother (Pancake Wrangler), my friend (Luciano), and I have all been writing serialized pieces of fiction, using blogs as our medium. It seems blogs were made for this. The author writes a bit of a story. The readers read the bit of the story and have the opportunity to respond, via commenting, to every portion of that entire story. The author gets validation. The readers get to partake in the creative process. Every one wins!

You'd think that there'd be tons of serialized fiction blogs out there, right? But after several searches, I haven't found much. What most searches for "fiction blogs" reveal are blogs written by fictional people. They are fictional online diaries. This is an interesting genre, I'm sure, but I can barely stand most blogs I come across written by real people. Why would I want to read a blog by a fake real person? Like "reality TV," fiction posing as reality fails to entice me; actually, it annoys me. I should care about something just because it purports itself to be true? Quit a-million-little-pieces-ing fiction and write something that will intrigue the reader without tricking them. (And, yes, I just verbed a book title.)

So, I said all that to say this: I am compiling a serial fiction blog list. It will contain links to blogs solely devoted to one or several works of fiction, broken up into sections that are or have been updated periodically, or links to a table of contents of such a work of fiction contained within a blog not singly devoted to serial fiction.

Divine Intermission

Luciano

Five Chapters

various authors

Healing Knowledge

df

Mortal Ghost

L. Lee Lowe

Superhero

Mr. McBastard

The Unbinding

Walter Kirn

untitled

Pancake Wrangler

Zen of Evil

Christopher Michael Nelson

Zen of Evil: Progeny

Christopher Michael Nelson

If you or anyone you know has a blog that fits the guidelines above, email me or leave a comment, and I'll add it to the list.

Blogger beta Miracle

The Blogger gods have heard my prayer and have smiled upon me. After posting last night, I tried to switch over to the new Blogger yet again, and it worked! Thank you, Blogger.

Expect some changes in the near future. I plan on making or finding a new template.

Uniform

• Superhero
• Part 21

"Thanks for coming in this morning, Thomas," said Alex, showing the young man to a seat. "I know you're probably really busy with your building and all."

"It should hold together for one day without me," Thomas said.

"Listen, I've been helping out Miranda with her, you know, finances. With classes and papers, and then moonlighting as a superhero, she doesn't have a lot of time for a job. So I've been giving her a salary." Alex offered, "I could do the same for you."

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll quit my day job just yet," Thomas said uncomfortably. His eyes wandered around the room, an immaculate and ostentatiously furnished study, complete with shelves lined with old-looking books and pretentious trinkets. It even had a large globe that opened to reveal a mini bar. To Alex his study, as with most of his apartment (this one, at least), was just another lavishly fake room in his penthouse that he only used when entertaining guests and impressing shareholders.

"I understand," said Alex, not really understanding at all. "Hey, I want to show you something!" Alex pulled something out from behind a column near the edge of the room. He held it up, grinning with pride. It was a lumpy jumpsuit, teal and dark green. "I had to guess at your size. Try it on."

"Right here?"

"Sure. It's just me." Thomas began to disrobe feeling a little self-conscious. As he stripped, Alex pointed out the features of the superhero's new clothes. "It has a removable (though I wouldn't recommend it) flak armor torso lining and groin guard. You can take a bullet to the crotch and not feel so much as a breeze," Alex was immensely excited. "It also has polysteel gauntlet and shin guards, titanium mesh joint pads, and leather boots and gloves. The whole thing is temperature regulated; there's a small panel with the temp controls on the left forearm, and the battery pack is in the vest between the shoulder blades." Thomas found the whole get-up to fit quite snugly, the armor and padding filling out what would otherwise be a baggy onesie. Alex was smiling like an excited child on his birthday. He handed to more items to Thomas, "Here are the mask and cape."

Not very enthusiastic about the whole costume, Thomas said, "I'll take the mask, but would you be offended if I didn't wear the cape?"

Alex was offended, tried not to look it, and failed. "Well, Miranda and I wear capes, but I guess you don't have to."

"I just don't think I'm a cape kind of guy." Thomas slipped the mask on and lined up the eye holes. "How do I look?" he asked. Because I feel like an idiot, he thought.

"Like a terror to criminals," Alex replied. Thomas pretended to believe him.

"The last part of the uniform, and maybe the most important, is your name. Have you thought of any names for yourself?" Thomas was a bit confused. He asked what the matter was with his given name. "'Thomas' is alright for the guy that maintains an apartment building. But once you put on that suit, you become someone else. Superheros don't have alter egos just to protect their identity or to fit in with the other superheros. They do it to separate themselves from their everyday selves."

Thomas looked confused. "Thomas may be a shy, witty young man who's handy at fixing things, but once he steps into this uniform, he becomes a crime-fighter with impressive psycho-suggestive powers. He can't let all those foibles and quirks of a mere mortal get in the way. He is a superhero.

Clark Kent was an awkward, bumbling news reporter. But Superman was a confident and powerful monolith of justice." Alex let Thomas absorb what he'd said. But Thomas still looked unsure. "Do you get what I'm saying?"

Thomas stared at Alex blankly. "Uh," he sighed, "how about, uh, Mind Bender?"

Alex thought for a moment. "It's a start," he said with reserve.

• Tags
• superhero
• serial

Blogger beta

Is anyone else having problems changing over to the New Blogger? I was a little hesitant to switch over to the New Blogger beta, but I eventually became curious enough to check it out. But when I tried to switch my account over, it gave me an error. I thought it was just because they hadn't worked out the kinks, yet.

Then a week or so later, the New Blogger came out of beta. So, I tried again to switch. But it wouldn't let me. I got another error, a different one this time, stating that I had already tried to switch and failed. I know it failed in the past, Blogger, that's why I'm trying to switch again!

So, every week for the past month I've been trying to switch to the New Blogger, and every time I've been denied. I've even written an email asking them what I did or am doing wrong, but I haven't gotten a response.

I really like you, Blogger. And I've stuck by you when people said Wordpress this and Typepad that. So why d'you gotta dis me like this, Blogger? Why?

• Tags
• blogger

FeedBurner

I just signed up with FeedBurner to handle my site feeds. It seems to be cool; it has tons of options for customizing your feed and some pretty neat tracking features. So, if you subscribe to my old Atom feed, do me a favor and switch over to using my FeedBurner feed. Thanks!

New City Devil

• Superhero
• Part 20

An all-night convenience store clerk was killed last night during an argument with a customer. The incident occurred at the Quick Stop on 63rd at around 2:30AM this morning. Two local teens witnessed the confrontation in the store, and fled when they saw the as-yet-unknown customer stab the clerk in the head. Both teens, who wish to remain anonymous, described the suspect as odd-looking, with spikes coming out of his clothing and blood on his face.

At first I thought he was just some weird guy in a costume," one witness said. "He had spikes ripping through his shirt, in his pants, coming out from under his hat. And he had blood running down his face. I thought, that couldn't be real, you know?"

The two young men saw the clerk confront the man about eating a candy bar before purchasing it. The clerk became upset and shoved the customer. The customer then struck the clerk in the head with one of his spikes, stabbing him through the eye. When asked about the spikes, one witness replied, "They looked like big horns, like horns coming out all over his body. I don't know if it was a costume or what, but they looked real."

"He was all red. And he had a really weird look on his face. Then he looked over at us, and he looked [expletive] mad as hell," the other witness said. "He looked like the Devil or something."

The two witness fled the scene, shortly followed by the suspect. The two teens called the police and ambulance from a cell phone. When the police arrived, they found the clerk on the ground in a pool of blood. Paramedics pronounced him dead on arrival.

Unfortunately there were no video tapes recording the convenience store's security cameras. Police advise the public to be aware of an approximately six-foot-tall Caucasian male wearing dark clothing. He may be bleeding from the head, and he may or may not have actual horn-like protrusions on his appendages and head.

Alex tossed the New City Herald onto his desk. His brow furled. I think this is it, what I felt last night. He stood up and turned to look out the window of his office. Something is coming. Or is already here. "What is it?" he asked the miniature cars and tiny people scampering around the street, fifteen floors below.

Miranda finding another one of us, finding Thomas, can't have been a coincidence. Something drew her to him. And drew him to us. It's as if we were being gathered all in one place. But for what? That much good in one place means that ... something's out of balance.

Alex left the window and picked up the newspaper again. He read the young men's description of the killer. A devil in New City, he thought, I hope we're ready for this.

• Tags
• superhero
• serial

Google Desktop Search

• google desktop
• a screenshot of google desktop

I love Google Desktop Search, especially the Quick Search Box feature. I've had it on my PC for quite some time now, but I haven't utilized it much until recently. I highly recommend it to everyone.

I never go digging through my elaborately designed maze of directories anymore. I just tap Ctrl twice, QSB pops up, I type the name of the file I'm looking for (or something remotely similar), and it pops up with likely matches. It has dynamically updated search results, meaning that for every letter you type or erase in the search box, it alters the search results -- like the iTunes search function.

The only gripe I have, and it's a small one, is that you can't choose which type of file you're looking for. I would suggest a drop-down menu that lists common file types (.txt, .jpg, .mp3, .doc, .html, etc) to help narrow down results.

• Tags
• Flickr
• google

Old Pants, New Profession

"I think my pants are shrinking," I said to the rest of the oversized, three-person cubicle.

"Or maybe you're just growing," came the reply.

"That is my greatest wish!" I exclaimed, elated at even the posibility of grown just a few more inches. "Please, God, let it be me growing and not my pants shrinking!" I prayed outloud.

"If I was growing," I said, "I would become a professional giant."

• Tags
• pants
• giant

Flickr

• kissing
• ew, gross

I created a Flickr account the other day. I'm pretty impressed with all the features it has. It's very easy to organize and tag your photos, and you can even specify where you took them -- "geotagging" I believe it's called. Very cool stuff. If you haven't checked it out yet, I highly recommend it.

I'm going to try to post some photos now, from time to time, so no one will forget what I look like. (As if anyone could forget this mirror-shattering mug!) But you can check out my recent photos and slideshow anytime. Maybe this will encourage me to use the awesome digital camera my parents got me for Christmas. Thanks again, you guys!

I apologize for the gratuitously mushy photo this time. I'm sorry, it was the only one that I've uploaded so far in which I am not making a goofy face AND I have my pants on.

• Tags
• Flickr
• photos

Our Dichotomy Opens the Combat

My roommate Sam and I had a good laugh over the Chinese-to-English subtitles in the screen captures from a pirated version of Star Wars: Episode III: The Backstroke of the West -- I mean, The Revenge of the Sith -- that someone ran across. The last one is the best, but I'll let you find that out on your own.

• Tags
• star
• wars
• engrish
• subtitles

Pressure

• Superhero
• Part 19

Brandon's hands quaked. He stood in the short isle of medicine and toiletries in the shabby little all-night convenience store. He carried a twelve-pack of cola in one hand and had a handful of chocolate bars stuffed into each pocket. He tried reading the labels in the little plastic bottles, but his eye sight blurred in and out of focus, and a sharp pain crept it's way around the inside of his skull. His body sagged under the weight of his pain and extra few pints of blood. He had dried blood on his hands from wiping pink tears from his eyes, and the distinct taste blood, coppery and faintly sweet, hung in his throat. He grabbed another bottle and tried in vain to read the label. I don't care any more, he thought, realizing that any off-the-shelf pain killer would more likely give him ulcers than take away even a fraction of the pain in his head. I need to drain myself. The pressure's building up. He grabbed a couple bottles of what he assumed was ibuprofen and headed down the aisle to look for razor blades.

The convenience store clerk, underpaid and overconfident, had been keeping an eye on Brandon since he had put the chocolate bars in his pockets. As he watched the oddly conspicuous man with weird and untimely Halloween costume move from the toiletries aisle to next aisle over, he noticed the man had left something behind: a pink hand print on every bottle of pills he had picked up and confusedly looked at.

The clerk came out from behind the counter to inspect the mess this customer left behind. He shook his head as he thought how much had disliked "alternative lifestyle" people. Hippies and gangstas I can handle, but I absolutely hate these heavy metal, wannabe-badasses. On his way to the medicine, he noticed two emo-punk teenagers, one with too many piercings, the other with straight, died black hair covering his eyes, ogling the pornographic magazine rack, most likely deciding which ones to shoplift. I hate emo kids, too. This just isn't my night.

Taking cursory glance at the blood-covered pill bottles, he became aggravated. "Hey, dude! You got fake blood or makeup or whatever all over these pills!" He looked over the top of the aisle and noticed the weirdo was now ferociously eating one of the candy bars from his pocket and breathing heavy. "Hey, you didn't pay for that, yet. Are you gonna pay for all those?"

Brandon didn't care, or even realize that someone was talking to him. He gulped down large chunks of sweet chocolate in hopes of getting his ever-dropping blood-sugar level back up to normal.

The angry clerk whipped around the aisle to confront Brandon. "Hey, are listening to me?" Brandon finally noticed the young man. He looked over, barely understood or cared what the clerk was saying, and opened another candy bar. "Hey, freak-tard, listen to me: Quit eating those. You haven't paid for them yet." His feigned condescension did little to cover his growing rage. "Aren't you a little old to be playing dress-up?" the clerk asked, trying to get a response, any response. When Brandon did not even flinch, the clerk said, "Alright, you goth-wannabe smart-ass, get up to the counter and pay for your shit." Brandon didn't move. "Did you hear me?" Brandon kept chewing. "Did you hear me?" said the clerk, emphasizing his seriousness with a slight shove.

Brandon stabilized himself and snapped out of his frenzied chocolate engorgement. He turned toward the clerk and, trying to keep as calm as he could manage, muttered, "Don't fucking touch me again, you piece of shit."

"Alright, that's it, goth-boy. Get the fuck out!" the clerk shouted. He stepped in and pushed Brandon again, making him drop his twelve-pack of soda.

Brandon's head reeled. He took a few steps back to regain his footing. A pain like lightning flashed down his spine and up into his head. White, hot anger was all he saw. His hands balled up into fists, and by instinct alone, he struck out at the threatening clerk. Brandon's fist made contact, though not very hard, with the clerk's face.

Brandon had not taken into consideration the long node of bone, poking through his skin just below the wrist, following his palm, and protruding several inches past the tips of his fingers.

The clerk stood, mouth open in horror, as if he was about to scream. One of his eyelids twitched. The other would have, had it not been pierced by bone.

"Holy shit!" one of the two boys by the magazine rack shouted. Brandon, wide-eyed and speechless, turned his head to them. His eyes pleaded for their understanding, for their forgiveness. The boys stood still, horrified looks on their faces, then made for the door.

The clerk's body began to shiver. His legs buckled, and he crashed to the ground, taking Brandon's arm down with him. Now leaning over the convulsing body of the clerk, Brandon tried to remove his fist, and his long, protruding bone, from the young man's face. He tugged a little, but could not pull away. He put his foot on the clerk's neck and yanked his arm back.

There was a sickening pop, like a cork out of a champagne bottle, and blood bubbled up from the man's now-vacant eye socket, pouring over the side of his head onto the ground.

Brandon looked around. There was no one to help him. But there was no one to condemn him either. He grabbed the twelve-pack of soda and ran out of the convenience store into the shade of night.

• Tags
• superhero
• serial

Eight-Bit Heroes

Check out the flippin' sweet Super Mario quilt Miss HB made.

Seeing this gave me an idea for a project that I've had on the back burner since I moved to Kansas City. I have an old coffee table with inlayed tiles. I also have a butt-ton of beer bottle caps. I was going to take the tiles out of the table and, in their place, lay the bottle caps in some cool pattern or design. Maybe I could make a rendering of an eight-bit hero from my youth. Any suggestions?

• Tags
• nintendo
• super
• mario
• bros.
• quilting

God, Inc. and a Rant about TV

I just discovered God, Inc. by FrancisStokes.com. It's a pretty clever web video series about working for God in a corporate setting. If I had the resources, I would love to make a web video series like this or like Ask a Ninja. Hell, I'd just like to be involved in making it: writing, directing, shooting, editing, anything!

Every time I see something like these, I am relieved. Relieved to find that there are still creative, frugal, intelligent people out there making quality entertainment. Every time I watch TV, unless I'm watching House or Lost, I'm disappointed. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to be entertained! Instead, I usually chuckle a little, or grimace, and then turn off the television and read a book. Television just isn't entertaining anymore. Most of it shouldn't even be called "entertainment." Why would I want to watch people bitching at each other on some "reality" show, or watch some washed up actor learn how to dance? Most TV today isn't just bad, it's insulting. It is insulting to me to know that instead of coming up with real, actual entertain, someone shot a whole bunch of footage of ugly people being chopped up by plastic surgeons or fat people complaining about how it's hard to exercise, and called it a show.

So, when I see some quality video entertainment with decent writing, decent acting, decent cinemotography, made for less than the weekly wage of the best boy grip from The Class (My God, that's a horrible show!), it makes me smile. There are people out there who actually care about entertainment, and don't just settle for pretty people and flashing lights. Bravo, God, Inc. et al

• Tags
• internet
• video
• tv

Freelance Clown

Maybe I chose my freelance writing career too hastily. Maybe I should be a freelance clown, instead.

• Tags
• freelance

Leaving

• Superhero
• Part 18

Illustration courtesy of Luciano.

He sat up screaming. Blood and saliva dripped from his mouth. His arms stuck straight out, fingers extended. His muscles were on fire, his blood boiling. A raging animal, caged inside his head, pressed against his skull and clawed at the back of his eyes. His scream was interrupted by a hiccough. He gagged. He coughed, coughed up blood. The pain subsided slightly with his silence. He hiccoughed again and electricity shot through his torso. He lowered his arms and tried to breath. With erratic breaths he looked around the room, up the walls, over his body. His eyes shifted, but he saw nothing. He hiccoughed again and his vision went white. Slowly the darkness of the room returned. Pain was everywhere. It was outside him digging its way in. It was inside him clawing for a way out.

One image filled his memory. A face. A familiar face. Brandon tried to remember who the face belonged to, but all he could remember was the dream that preceded this nightmarish consciousness. He had dreamt of his father. His father was there smiling at him. He was telling a young Brandon what a good job he'd done. Brandon held a baseball bat over his shoulder, a curious bat, made of bone. As the young Brandon smiled back at his father, his father began to look solemn, distraught. "Dad?" Brandon asked, looking for assurance that his father was alright. But it wasn't his father. His father became someone else, someone familiar but obscure. Then the man who used to be his father stabbed Brandon in the arm with some unseen object. Young Brandon was astonished. He stood, looking into the familiar face, wanting to ask what he had done to deserve such violence. Then molten lava erupted from his arm and traced its way up through his shoulder into his chest and head. He had woken himself up with a scream.

The lights flicked on and a panicked Maria was standing in the doorway. "Are you alright? What's wrong?"

Brandon looked up at her through a haze of pain. She looked distorted. The white of her uniform bled into the white wall of the hallway behind her. The glaring fluorescent lights poked at his eyes like needles. He looked away, down at his arm. Still inserted in him was a suspicious syringe, empty now. He yanked it out, the additional sting minimal compared to his current agony. "No, it's just me, Dr. Tyler. Go back to sleep, Brandon," the syringe seemed to say to him. Dr. Taylor. The face in the dream was Dr. Taylor. Brandon looked down at the syringe in his hand and let it fall the floor. He hiccoughed again and breathed acid into his lungs.

---

"I don't know, he just got up and screamed 'He tried to kill me!'" Maria explained to the hospital security officer. "He had that in his arm when I came in," she pointed to the floor by the hospital bed where an empty syringe rested, "but he yanked it out right before he ran out." The security officer nodded and continued to write in his note pad. "I was scared to death. He this ... crazy look in his eye."

"Are you alright?" the officer asked.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine." Maria crossed her arms, as if hugging herself. "I just hope he is."

---

"So, I said, I said, 'Listen, bitch!' I said, 'Listen! I'll park my dick up your ass if you don't quick squawking at me," Tom said, obviously drunk. "So, then, after I left the parking garage thingie, I see her again at Swashbucklers, and I'm like--"

"What happened to your door?" the girl on Tom's arm interrupted. She, too, was drunk, but not as thoroughly as Tom, and was looking for an excuse to get Tom to change the subject.

"What the fuck?" was all Tom could think to say. He pushed open the door, disregarding the bloody foot print and the cracked jamb. Standing inside his apartment, in the middle of the living room, was a demon dressed in Tom's clothes.

The monster wore one of Tom's shirts with a horn protruding through a hole in shirt one shoulder. There were various holes in the arms of the shirt and the legs of the pants with shards of bone poking through. A pair of unlaced work boots adorned his feet. And a stocking cap crowned the distorted figure. There were crimson streaks down its face, and a blood stain on the sleeve of one arm. He stared at the two people in the doorway with bloodshot eyes.

The girl screamed one long scream and wet herself just a little bit. She tried to run, but Tom had a firm grasp on her arm and held her in front of him, shuddering himself. The figure stood motionless.

When she stopped screaming, Tom released the girl and let her shrink back through the doorway. "What the fuck, man," he suddenly bravely said. "Who the fuck are you?"

The figure looked at Tom, not menacingly, but confused. "It's me, Tom. It's me, Brandon." He paused, waiting for his friend to recognize him. "Brandon Collins."

Tom squinted his eyes. "Brandon?" Tom finally recognized his buddy. "What the fuck, man?"

"I just got out of the hospital."

Tom looked over Brandon's bloated and disfigured body. "Looks like they should have kept you a little bit longer."

"I had to leave. Someone tried to kill me."

"And they did this to you?" Tom ask sympathetically.

"No." Brandon sighed. "I already looked like this."

Utterly confused, Tom tried to make sense of the situation. "So, why'd you have to fucking break into my apartment, man?" Tom asked pointing to the door. He saw the young woman standing in the doorway, only now beginning to calm herself. Tom, as if suddenly remembering his manners, introduced the two. "Oh, Brandon this is Lindsey ... from Payroll. You remember her."

Brandon nodded. "Listen, Tom, do you have any drugs? Any painkillers?"

"Just Tylenol, man."

"I already took all that." Brandon had previously downed half a bottle of headache medicine, but it had only abated his suffering enough to think somewhat clearly. Brandon could feel his body swelling and the pressure increasing in his skull. His whole body ached. He also felt himself getting woozy. He knew this was a result of low blood-sugar content. While his body produced abnormal amounts of blood, it still only produced normal amounts of insulin. He knew he needed to get sugar into his system soon. "Do you have anything sweet? Any candy? Anything with sugar?"

Tom was confused by this line of questioning. "Maybe some soda in the fridge?"

Brandon shook his head. He'd already used the only can in the refridgerator to wash down the pills. "Look, can I borrow some cash. I need to get some sugar into my system or I'll go into shock."

Tom, drunkenly compassionate, handed his old buddy his wallet. He leaned in an pointed over his shoulder, whispering, "Listen, if you need a place to stay tonight, you can have the couch. I might even let you have sloppy seconds."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll just take the couch." Brandon wished he could joke with his friend. But the pain was returning to his muscles, and a throbbing was beginning to drown out his thoughts. Humor was not something he was capable of at the moment. He took a twenty out of the wallet and handed it back. "I'll be back soon." Brandon shuffled out the door.

After a long silence, Tom said to Lindsey, "That dude is fucked up!"

• Tags
• superhero
• serial

Have Pen - Will Write

My unofficial New Year's resolution this year was to start a career in freelance writing. I want to start out easy, writing articles and maybe doing some editing in my spare time. Hopefully, I'll make a little extra money in the process. It's a fine resolution, I think.

But what's a resolution without a goal? Luckily, inkthinker has provided me with a goal that will start me on my way. The goal is to write 120 queries in 12 months. A query is a letter sent to an editor or an agent to propose an article, essay, manuscript, etc. for publication. Writing a couple of these each week after work doesn't seem like much of a "challenge," but honestly, if I had not been challenged, I probably wouldn't have started on my resolution. So, thank you, inkthinker.

My dream is that by the time my tech writing contract is over this summer I will be able to support myself doing freelance writing full time. I think this may be shooting a little high, but inkthinker personally assured me, a little too optimistically for my taste, that I "can totally become full-time by this summer." Thanks again, for your vote of confidence.

So, here I go, off in to the wild west of writing. I'm a lonely penslinger for hire, riding the open range, just looking for a way to get by. Wish me luck.

• Tags
• freelance
• writing
• career

Anarchy, Utopia, or Both?

I'm still trying to wrap my mind aroundan essay called Society without a State by Murray N. Rothbard. At times I found his assertions somewhat realistic, but a little too optimistic about humanity for my liking. When I tried to follow his lines of reasoning, though, far beyond his examples, I began to think: "Why not? Why couldn't this work?"

The only valid worry I had pertained to monopolies. If a monopoly were to become powerful enough, it could potentially take over an anarchist society and put itself in the place of a government. In fact, this is probably how centralized government happened in the first place.

This article has piqued my interest. And I would very much like to see others' reactions to it.

• Tags
• government
• philosophy

Poor in America

Aside from the blatant anti-liberalism in this article, it is very interesting. I have always had a hard time accepting the assertion that poor people are poor because they are being oppressed by an evil and shadowy elite class, or because they were born into a downward spiral of poor begetting poor. It always seemed easier for me to believe that people in America are poor and stay poor because it's easier than working. If someone will feed you if you do no work, but won't feed you if you do enough work to barely get by, why do work at all?

"There are more heads of household who work year-round and full-time among the top 5 percent of American heads of households than among the bottom 20 percent." If unsubstantiated facts like this can be believed, then it seems that it must be very hard to be poor in America these days. If you do find yourself below the poverty line, you should probably quit your job and apply for government sponsorship.

• Tags
• economics

One-Thirty

• Superhero
• Part 17

Thomas looked at the clock next to his bed. The red one-thirty stung his tired eyes in the dark. He rolled over and tried to fall asleep. It wasn't working.

He remembered with dismay accepting the offer to join a superhero team earlier that evening. He recalled the smile on the face of the young woman across the table. He regretted agreeing to shadow the handsome man as he went on patrol the next night. He wondered if he would get a cape.

---

Miranda finally closed her text book, changed into her pajamas, and turned out the light. The logarithms, areas under the hypotenuse, and lines approaching infinity paraded through her barely conscious mind, screaming for attention. With only one night left to study for her calculus midterm exam, problems yelled and shouted and called to her to solve them. Her head could barely contain the noise. But a quiet, timid thought crept through her brain and stepped away from the din and whispered to her. She smiled as she remembered Thomas's awkward grin and not-so-covert glances.

---

A silent shadow, perched on a rooftop, watched and listened. Alex was in a state of deep concentration, waiting for the sound of running footfalls in the dark or a muffled cry. He had cleared his mind and breathed deeply. He was still.

Out of the silent darkness, one thought slithered into his mind and disturbed his calm.

Something evil....

Before he could finish the thought, the distant sound of a police siren caught his attention. Alex dashed off through the dark.

---

A mysterious doctor walked through the hospital parking lot. Regret sat like a ball in his throat. Now to correct my other mistakes, he thought.

---

Bloodshot eyes flew open wide. Brandon bellowed, a scream that shook his whole body. "It burns!"

• Tags
• superhero
• serial

The Gender Genie

The Gender Genie is a neat little party trick. It seems fairly accurate. Out of the sixteen parts of my serial story, Superhero, it guessed that thirteen were written by a male. The other three parts might have been judged incorrectly because the focus was on the story's female character, Miranda.

Check it out. See if it works for you.

• Tags
• writing
• gender

Procrastination

True procrastinators will read this tomorrow.

• Tags
• procrastination

Shadows

• Superhero
• Part 16

The door opened ominously slow. A figure stood there, as one would expect, his face unrecognizable from inside the darkened room. Backlit by the hall light, he cast a shadow over the room's only occupant -- a pink and bloated deformed man sleeping face-down on a hospital bed.

My final failure, the man in the doorway thought. My final attempt at godhood. The figure slid into the room and closed the door behind him.

Thank you. Thank you for showing me that the flaw was in the designer, not the design. I am an imperfect god who creates monsters in his own image. And you are the most grotesque creation yet. The figure in the shadows reached out his hand and caressed the shorn head of his abomination. The scalp was slick and damp. Sympathetic fingers traced the ridges under the skin where the bones of skull fused together and pushed upward like tiny mountain ranges. The shadowy man stood in silence, watching his sleeping creation.

With resolve, the shadow began his task. Using a pen light he searched the right arm of his creation. On the underside he located the valve that held like a dam against the reservoir of blood underneath the skin. Out of his pocket he pulled a syringe and placed it into the valve. You were never meant to be horrible. You, unlike all the others, were an empty canvas, healthy from the start. Instead of making you better, I made you into a monster. I hope you can forgive me for creating you. He pushed the plunger on the syringe down. And I hope you can forgive me for destroying you.

The sleeping man stirred. His bloodshot eyes slid open peered through the darkness. "Dad?" the abomination asked, hopeful and confused.

"No," the shadow figure said gently, "it's just me, Dr. Tyler. Go back to sleep, Brandon."

• Tags
• serial
• superhero

Intolerance as a Virtue

Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so too.

--Voltaire

Intolerance is the new compassion, according to Dr. Whitehurst's The Intolerance of Christian Conservatives.

• Tags
• religion

Benefits

• Superhero
• Part 15

He lingered in front of his apartment building, fidgeting, tucking and retucking his shirt into his slacks and scraping the dry mud off of his worn dress shoes. He watched for cabs and checked his watch, despite being five minutes early.

A limousine pulled up to the curb and a familiar face poked out of an opening window. “Get in,” Miranda called. Thomas looked around, as if trying to spot the hidden cameras showing a tv audience his antics set to zany music and a laugh track. The car door opened and he slowly slid inside.

Miranda wore a blue and black dress, and her skinny legs were exposed up to mid-thigh. Thomas wore a white wrinkled shirt, and his eyes were trying to look at anything but Miranda's skinny legs. “You look nice,” Miranda told Thomas with a genuine smile. Thomas mumbled the same. He finally made eye contact with the young woman. He smiled back and quickly looked away.

The limousine pulled to a stop, and its two passengers disembarked. While Miranda smoothed down her dress, Thomas furtively watched her hands slide down her middle and over her hips. When she turned to him, he looked up to the marquee. It was a large, white, empty sign with a small “restaurant” across the bottom.

Thomas looked at Miranda perplexed. “We're eating here?” Miranda confirmed. She began to walk toward the door of Blank, one of New City's chicest restaurants. It was renowned for its exclusivity and celebrity patrons, and Thomas felt more than a little intimidated. “But...,” Thomas began to say.

”Don't worry,” Miranda assured him, “I know the owner.”

Inside the restaurant, the maitre d'hotel grinned and pretended to listen to Miranda tell him that the two were there to see Mr. Sunder. “Everyone 'knows' Mr. Sunder. Do you have a reservation?”

”No, we actually do know Mr. Sunder. Alex. Alex Sunder.”

”Mmm hmm,” he said glancing over at Thomas. “I'm sorry, sir,” he said unapologetically, “we have a strict tie-and-jacket dress code.”

”It's not that strict, Jimmy,” came a voice from behind them. Alex stepped up to the host's podium. He had a suit that cost more than Thomas' monthly rent and all the confidence expected of a handsome, broad-shouldered, millionaire playboy. Thomas immediately resented Alex's good looks, but was impressed by his cavalier attitude toward the snooty maitre d'.

”Of course not, sir.” James, the maitre d', laughed insincerely. With a few flicks of his wrist, he attempted to shoo Miranda and Thomas away from the podium to make room for the VIP. “We have your table ready, Mr. Sunder.”

”Good. Can you show my two guest the way?”

James glanced at Miranda and Thomas, then gave Alex a look as if to ask Do you know these two? “I didn't know you were expecting any guests tonight, sir.”

Alex leaned in. “I guess you'd better set some extra places at the table then, Jim-bo.” James nodded and trotted off without a word.

Miranda hugged Alex, standing on her toes to reach around his neck. Thomas again resented the handsome man, while he stole a glance at the young woman's backside. Beaming, Miranda introduced Thomas. Although they met eye-to-eye, Thomas felt dwarfed by Alex's presence and firm handshake. Alex smiled knowingly at him, and Thomas nodded shyly. Miranda began explaining to Thomas that Alex owned this restaurant, and several other businesses in New City, and was, in fact, one of the richest men in the city. Alex feigned embarrassment. Thomas nodded and was impressed. James promptly returned and apologized for the wait.

After the three had settled into their table in a quiet corner of the room, and Alex had decided on a bottle of wine, he leaned in and looked intently at Thomas. “So, Miranda tells me you have a certain talent.”

Thomas looked at the young woman and saw her grinning and staring back at him. He averted his eyes. This young woman, as so many other women did, intimidated him. “It's alright. He's a superhero, too,” she whispered.

Thomas looked back and forth between the two. Miranda smiled encouragingly. Alex nodded his head. Thomas chuckled. I know she found out about my ability, but she doesn't – they don't – actually think I'm a superhero. They don't actually think they are superheroes. Do they? Thomas saw sincere looks on their faces. His chuckle died. They were expectant, waiting for him to say something. “Is this a joke?” he mumbled.

Alex explained, “The term 'superhero' has some silly connotations to it, I know, and finding a regular 'hero' is difficult enough in this day and age – in this city – let alone a 'super' one. But that is what we are. We are people with extraordinary power, extraordinary drive, extraordinary desire to do what's right. We right wrongs. We protect the innocent. We vanquish evil. The only way to describe what are is “superheroes.” Thomas blinked several times in silence. “I prefer the term 'crime fighter,' though” Alex added.

The waiter came, poured some wine, and took their orders. I'm not sure what's wrong with these people. They don't look crazy, but ... When the waiter had left, Thomas asked, “So, are you guys, like, in a cult?”

”I know it sounds crazy,” Miranda began. Thomas agreed. “But we're for real. We stop criminals and save lives.”

”And if you can do what Miranda says you can do, we want you to join us.”

”You want me?” Thomas pointed to himself. The two nodded. “To join your team of superheroes?” Thomas pointed to Alex and Miranda. The two nodded. This is the weirdest thing to happen to me in long time. Well, I've gone this far; I might as well keep going down the rabbit hole until I find out what these crazies are up to. Thomas glanced at Miranda. I can't believe I'm doing this just for a pretty girl. “So, a superhero, huh?” Thomas took a swig from his wine glass. "What sort of benefits package is there?”

• Tags
• serial
• superhero

Presents

The punishment for buying people cool Christmas gifts is having to wrap them.

• Tags
• christmas

Working for a Living

Boy On A Stick And Slither has a good point.

• Tags
• job

Super

• Superhero
• Part 14

“You fix, uh ... ruhm ruhm noisy-maker in sink already?” the old woman asked as she entered the kitchen.

Thomas was packing up, throwing a few wrenches haphazardly into his tool bag. He looked up. “Yes, Mrs. Kretiskshenev,” he mumbled, never knowing how to properly pronounce the old woman's name. “It was just something jamming up the garbage disposal.” He picked up a small scrap of scratched metal covered with decomposing food.

The hunched, slow-moving woman immediately recognized the metal wad. Her eyes lit up and she let out a long gasp that lasted the entire time it took her to ramble across the linoleum kitchen floor. “Ah!” she said, followed by an indecipherable exclamation in some eastern European language. She took the small piece of metal from Thomas' hand and told him, “This is my wedding ring! Oh, I thought was lost. But now is ....” Not finding the word in English, she completed her sentence with something that might have meant either “broken” or “shit,” or possibly both. The old woman looked down and saw the look of apology on Thomas' face. “Oh, is no problem,” she reassured him. “My husband won't now care; he is dead long time.”

Thomas stood up and grabbed his tool bag. “You leave already?” the woman asked. Thomas nodded. As he made his way through the small apartment to the front door, the widow, following him as fast she could, called after him, “I think box on wall still broken. You stay and fix?”

Thomas stopped and turned, giving the old woman a chance to catch up to him. “Like I said last time: The thermostat isn't broken, it's just in Fahrenheit,” he explained calmly.

Mrs. Kretiskshenev ignored his response and tried another tactic. “You rest. You sit on couch, watch teevee 'while; I make you sandwich. You like cookies?” Thomas started to shake his head. “You please stay, eat sandwich?” the widow pleaded.

Thomas nearly explained to her that he had more work to do elsewhere in the building – the pipes in the basement, the stairway rails on the fifth floor again, Mr. and Mrs. Chen's door jamb – but he knew that once he left her apartment, he'd most likely go to his own on the first floor and flip through some old magazines or peruse the internet. I guess I can stay for a while. I'll at least get free food out of the deal. Thomas told the woman that he would stay. She excitedly made her way to the kitchen to make him a meal.

Thomas had just gotten comfortable on Mrs. Kretiskshenev's couch when his mobile phone began to sing “The Touch” by Stan Bush. He pulled his phone from his pocket, noticed it was a strange number, and answered with a, “Yup?”

“Thomas, hey, it's me, Miranda.” came the bubbly voice over the phone. He knew who it was before she said her name.

Thomas had thought about the skinny young woman many times since she had asked for his number last week. “Our kind has to stick together,” she had said. Thomas found her smile irresistible and obeyed her request as if hypnotized. “I'm going to tell Alex about you, if that's alright.” Thomas had had no idea who she was talking about. “He's a superhero, too. He's kinda like my mentor.”

What did she say? he had thought. That's the second time she's mentioned superpowers and superheroes. Great, I just gave my phone number to a crazy girl.

“It was nice meeting you Thomas,” she had said as she turned to walk away. She took a few steps, then turned her head smiling. “I'll call you.”

At that moment Thomas had wished that he hadn't given his phone number to the crazy girl. But as time passed, his memory of how crazy she might have been faded, and her image came into sharp focus. He remembered her wide smile and the barely perceptible fragrance she wore. He recalled her long brown hair tucked behind her ears and the soft skin of her left hand. He reminisced, only once inappropriately in the shower, about the curve of her back and the slight jut of her breasts underneath her shirt.

Thomas soon wanted the crazy girl to call him. The last time a girl had called him had been in the tenth grade when his best friend's little sister called to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance. He had respectfully declined, not knowing the boundaries of best-friendship in regards to taking little sisters out on dates. When the weekend passed, and a couple of weekdays, too, Thomas soon feared that the only calls he would ever receive would be from complaining tenants.

“Uh, hey,” he mumbled eloquently. “I didn't think you would call.”

Miranda laughed. “Why not? I said I would.”

“You talking to me?” came Mrs. Kretiskshenev's voice from the kitchen. Thomas heard the sound of cabinets opening and closing.

“No,” he called back. “I'm just on my cell phone.”

“Was that your grandma?” Miranda's mid-western accent wafted through the phone while Mrs. Kretiskshenev's voice banged and knocked about in the kitchen.

“You like braunschweiger?

“Yeah, sure, Mrs. K,” Thomas yelled back to the kitchen. “No,” he said into the phone, “that's just one of my tenants.”

“Tenants?”

“Yeah, I'm a super at the Uptown Apartments, down the block from where we met.”

“Oh cool.”

Why does this chick want to know so much about me? Is she up to something, or is she genuinely interested in me? “So why'd you call?” he asked awkwardly, originally hoping to avoid an awkward silence.

“Well, what are you doing for dinner tonight.”

She's not asking me on a date. Is she? Thomas was confused and elated. “No big plans.”

“How'd you like to go to dinner with us?”

Us? he thought. “Us?” he said.

“Yeah, I told Alex about you, and he really wants to meet you.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, more than a little disappointed.

“So, can I pick you up at your building at 8:00?”

“Sure.”

“Wear something nice. I'll see you then. Bye!”

“Bye.”

Thomas shoved the phone back into his pocket. Mrs. Kretiskshenev walked out of the kitchen with a plate of food. “Who you talk to on phone?”

“Oh, just someone I met the other day,” Thomas said as he graciously took the plate from the old widow.

“Was it woman on phone?” she asked.

“Actually, it was.” Thomas said while inspecting his sandwich.

Mrs. Kretiskshenev smiled. “I could tell by confused look on face..”

• Tags
• serial
• superhero

Craigslist

I want to be like Craigslist.com when I grow up.

• Tags
• integrity
• capitalism

Men on Women

Women should be obscene and not heard.

--Groucho Marx

Direct thought is not an attribute of feminity. In this, women are now centuries behind man.

--Thomas Edison

Finding the least crazy chick is like looking for a needle in a stack of needles.

--Jaysix Usaustin, roommate

If women didn't exist, all the money in the world would have no meaning.

--Aristotle Onassis

Despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, I have not yet been able to answer the great question that has never been answered: What does a woman want?

--Sigmund Freud

No matter how perfect a girl seems, some guy, somewhere is tired of putting up with her shit.

--Neil, friend

What would men be without women? Scarce, sir, mighty scarce.

--Mark Twain

• Tags
• gender
• quotes

Gender as Genetic

While talking with my coworker about family and genealogy, she uttered the phrase "boys run in the family" in reference to her fiance's dad and uncles having sons almost exclusively. I laughed at her at first, thinking her assertion that sex is genetic was ludicrous.

But as I thought about it more, I wondered, is one's sex genetic? I know that sex is determined from the male's sperm, without any input from the female's egg. But is the tendency to manufacture more male-producing sperm a genetic trait? Or are my coworkers soon-to-be in-laws just a statistical anomaly?

• Tags
• genetics

Patient

• Superhero
• Part 13

Maria opened the door and tentatively peered into the darkened room. She stepped inside and flipped on the lights.

"Who the hell are you?" came an angry voice from the corner.

The nurse jumped and squealed just a little. "I'm Maria, your new attendant," she said more like a question than a fact.

Brandon emerged from the corner and approached the young woman. She took a step back. Brandon hated the look of fear and revulsion on her face. "What happened to Marta?" Brandon sat on his bed, the sheets moist and pink.

"She said she was tired of you making her cry," Maria said with sudden courage.

Brandon had tears of his own. Small red rivulets streamed down his face, drying before they fell from his bloated, disfigured face. He tried to feel remorse for his mistreatment of Marta, but the pain in his head was selfish. It refused to allow any thoughts outside of his own suffering. "I'm glad I finally got rid of that old bag."

The two were silent. Brandon looked at Maria's horrified face. Maria looked at Brandon's disgusting, misshapen figure. His skin was bright pink. His body resembled a swollen water balloon with horns.

It had been more than six months since Brandon had come to the hospital a perpetually bloody mess. In all that time doctors had been unable to diagnose his problem, or even come up with a way to explain how it was possible.

They started draining his blood regularly and gave him Vicodin for the pain. Then what the doctors called "tumorous nodes" appeared on his some of his bones, and indeed his whole skeleton began to swell and harden. The doctors briefly considered removing these nodes, but they proved to be too widespread and numerous. His ribs and the bones in his skull fused together. Nodes on his vertebrae, fingers and toes, and jaw began to push through his epidermal layer.

One doctor found a few cases similar to Brandon's, but they had all been documented in infants exposed to the radiation from the meltdown in Chernobyl. Brandon was examined, and traces of irradiated particles were found in his body, but no one could provide an explanation as to how they had gotten there.

Brandon's skeletal system was, as one doctor explained it to him, "freaking out." It was growing unchecked and producing overabundant amounts of red blood cells. Nodes had appeared on every major bone. He had bones protruding from his shoulders, back, forearms, pelvis, and shins. Some were nearly a foot long. Most of the protuberances were long, curved, horn-like structures ending in dull points. Others, such as the one that sprouted off of the ulna of his right arm, spiraled like a corkscrew. Needless to say, sitting or laying in any position was very uncomfortable.

Brandon agreed to stay at the hospital, so the doctors could continue to monitor him, and so the red cross could use him as a blood fountain. Unfortunately for the doctors, six months passed and they still had no clue how to treat him. Unfortunately for the Red Cross, Brandon's blood type was AB+. Unfortunately for Brandon, he'd become a disfigured monstrocity with "nodes" poking out of his body like horns and blood running out of every orafice.

Brandon had come to realize that he was never going to be cured, to be normal again. He would be bloody and spikey until he died. All he had to do was wait until death came. Unfortunately, Brandon's disease wasn't as terminal as he would have liked. Every day his irritability and impatience grew with his pain.

"So, are you gonna take my blood, or just stare at me like a freak show?"

"Sorry, Mr. Collins." Maria attached Brandon to the the "vampire machine" that relieved his body of his extra blood through holes in his arm.

"Where's my dope?" Brandon asked. Brandon was on a cocktail of pain medications, most of which he didn't care to pronounce, that he referred to as his "dope."

"Huh?"

"My dope. My meds!" Brandon said tersely. Maria checked his chart and noted that he had already received his full dosage for the day. "Then why does my head hurt so fucking much?" Maria chose not to respond and thus avoid an arguement, something the previous attendant had never mastered. "Why don't you go and tell those fucking doctors that if they want to 'first, do no harm' then they should give me more fucking pills." Again, Maria did not respond, but checked the vampire machine's various readouts. "The silent treatment, huh? Well, it's more effective than any other treatment the doctors have tried." Maria checked Brandon's charts again, flipping through the pages in silence.

Brandon, just trying to get a reaction from the attendant, said, "Well, at least you're prettier than the last two attendants," and then immediately realized that it was true. "That's not saying much, though, seeing as the first one looked like a rhino with orthopedic shoes, and Marta had apparently been a nurse since the Civil War era." Maria gave him a sideways, disdainful glance, then went back to reading from the clipboard.

The two were silent again for several minutes. Despite his permanant erection, the pain in Brandon's head prevented any thoughts of sex to enter -- no small feat, most fellow males would note. Brandon noticed just how attractive Maria was as she stood next to his bed ignoring him. Beside his two previous attendants, his mother, and one "dyke doctor," as he had called the M.D. who had taken him off of morphine, he had not been in contact with any females for over half a year. Now here was a perfectly lovely woman alone in a room with him, and he couldn't even disregard his pain and concentrate long enough to find her attractive.

Suddenly, Brandon chuckled softly. Maria looked up but didn't ask him what was funny. He said anyway, "Six months ago I would have asked a pretty girl like you for her phone number. Now all I want to ask you for is pain pills."

Maria rolled her eyes and went back to ignoring her patient. Brandon went back to his pain, constant and reassuring.

• Tags
• superhero
• fiction

Uncommon Courtesy

If you're going to be stupid, at least have the courtesy to be polite.

• Tags
• courtesy

Ass Crack Forget-Me-Nots

I found one of your hairs in my underwear,
a long tickling reminder of you.

It had been weeks since I’d seen you;
I don’t know how it wiggled its way into my underwear
or how it became lodged in my ass crack.
But, like my other thoughts of you,
it cropped up in the oddest place.
I eat a brownie and I remember 
our fudge and white chocolate wonders.
I see a broken refrigerator and I am reminded 
of roaming the streets between our apartments.

I realize that this is not the most romantic way
to say that I'm thinking of you.
I wish I could say that I'm looking at the moon
and wondering what it sees when it looks down on you.
I'm not.

That happens in movies, we know.
In real life, though, moons don't see us,
or they pretend not to care.
But something more mystical happens.
We find pieces of each other hiding
in the deepest recesses of ourselves,
and we smile.

I can't say that I will think of you always.
But what I can say is real.
I found your hair in my ass crack.
And I love you.

• Tags
• poem

Waiting for Inspiration

If you haven't been reading Divine Intermission, you should start. It's a serial fiction, updated twice a week, about an eternally (quite literally) depressed man named Carl and how he fits into the universe. Luciano's Douglas-Adams-meets-Chuck-Palahniuk literary style is both disgusting and humorous. And just the hope of finding out what the hell is wrong with Carl keeps me coming back for more. I highly recommend keeping an eye on this story.

I, too have been writing a serial fiction, Superhero. Though, instead of updating regularly, I have been pretensiously "waiting for inspiration" to write each new part. That is why it has taken me over a year and a half to write as many parts as Luciano has written in a month.

If I ever want to realize my dream of being a professional fictioner, I think it will take more than random inspiration. I think I need to learn to write consistently and more often. So, I am putting forth this public challenge to myself, in hopes that my readership (all two of you) will hold me accountable. I am going to update my serial fiction every Thursday until it is finished. I hope that if I don't stay true to this promise, that I will receive at least a few pestering emails. Will you help me?

• Tags
• writing
• serial
• fiction

Tales of Joshiness

1. Hello, My Name is Josh
2. Josh
3. Is Josh There?
4. I Need a New Name Badge
5. The Ongoing Adventures of Josh in a New Town
6. I'm Thankful for Josh
7. More Me, Less Josh
8. Conversations with Josh
9. He's Followed Me
10. Yosh
11. Lying

There's No Vaccine for Stupid

Fortunately, there is a vaccine for HPV, a relatively obscure STI that causes cervical cancer (as well as other types of cancers).

There are many people that would say this is a good thing. "Yeah! Down with cancer!"

Then there is the religious right. They're siding with cancer.

My first question: What young woman was refraining from sex purely because of a disease that no one knows about and that can't be protected against with condoms? Is there a horde of little baby-making teenagers out there that are busting down the doors of Planned Parenthoods across the nation to get their hands on this vaccine so they can finally start having sex? Because if so, what are their names and where do they hang out?

My second question: Why is getting an STI and contracting cancer more acceptable than getting laid and contracting intimiacy? God forbid you experience pleasure. (No, literally. Christian nutjobs believe God forbids feeling good!)

I can't wait until it's found that abstinance causes cancer.

• Tags
• HPV

Eerie

Pancake Wrangler has made a startling discovery.

• Tags
• politics

Bigger than Nigger

"Why can a black guy call another black guy nigger, and a white guy can't?" Kevin asked.

"Why are you asking me?"

Kevin stared at Andy. "You're black. I figured you'd know."

"You're an idiot," Andy replied with a chuckle. "And black people call each other 'niggas.' Only racist white guys call black people 'niggers.'"

"That's a cop-out. You and I both know it doesn't matter how you say it; what matters is who says it. Or more specifcally, the skin color of who says it."

"You think it should be okay for white dudes to go around calling people 'nigger?'

"In a way, yes."

A little perturbed Andy asked, "What if people called you 'cracker' or 'white trash' all the time, just because you are white?"

Kevin shrugged. "I suppose I wouldn't like that."

"Now add hundreds of years of history to 'cracker,' a history of oppression, racism, and violence. Then white people would know what it's like being discriminated against just because they're white."

Keving thought for a moment, then asked, "What if they don't hate niggers because they're black. What if they hate niggers because they're niggers?"

"What?" Andy exclaimed.

"What if people say 'nigger' in reference to someone being poor, racist, uneducated, and, purely coincidently, black?"

"You're proposing that 'nigger' is a derogetory word for someone's socio-economic status? Then why aren't poor, racist, uneducated white people called 'niggers?'

"Why aren't mean women called 'dickheads?' Why aren't gay men called 'dykes?' It just doesn't makes sense.

"What are you getting at?"

"While I agree that calling a black person 'nigger' is not nice or racially sensitive, I don't think it means that you're a racist." Andy looked like he was about to say something, but Kevin continued, "So why is it that any time someone even mumbles 'nigger' Rev. Jessy Jackson busts through the wall like the Kool-Aid man and the ACLU goes into DEFCON 2?"

"'Nigger' is bigger than just the word itself. It's more than just an insult. Whether the white speaker means it or not, the black hearer is going to interpret it with the connotation of racism."

Kevin thought for a moment. "So, if there was another word -- say, uh, 'dontoid' -- that meant 'poor, uneducated, racist, and black,' and 'dontoid' didn't have any of the history or connotation that 'nigger' has, would it be alright to say it -- as alright as saying any other derrogetory statement, that is?"

"Not if the person saying 'dontoid' is white."

| Tags || nigger | racism |

I'm Thankful for Josh

While spending Thanksgiving with The Magster's family, her dad called me "Josh."

| Tags || Josh |

No Child Left in Front, Either

It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education.
--Albert Einstein

Good people wait for a teacher to tell them what to do. This is the most important lesson of all, that we must wait for other people, better trained than ourselves, to make the meanings of our lives.
--John Taylor, Gatto, "The Six-Lesson Schoolteacher"

As if there was a War on Education (Shhhh! Don't tell the sensationalist news media know I said that, or they will seriously run that as a headline for the next nine months!) the recent motto of public education has been "no child left behind," reminiscent of the army creed "never leave a man behind." This is a noble thought to be sure. Everyone gets the same education. Everyone has the same opportunities. Everyone is on the same playing field. Everyone waits in line for bread. Wait! This isn't communist Russia!

What's so wrong with leaving a child behind? If a kid is very bad at math, can't stand it, doesn't like it, then why make him take pre-calculus? Really, what would be the harm? (Side note: Any teacher that answered me with a straight face when I asked them "When will I ever use this in the real world?" was a fucking liar. I have never had to know that Nero was an emperor of Rome or that the sun is a condensed ball of hydrogen and helium. The last time I had to use plane geometry was when I was tutoring the other kids in my plane geometry class because the teacher was too stupid to adequately explain the material.) I'm not saying don't make him learn anything, but if he doesn't like math, but is good at science, why not let him take an extra time doing science instead?

When you have to learn, it sucks. When you want to learn, it's awesome. If the kid doesn't like math, but realizes that it's going to be hard to learn chemistry without it, he'll learn what math he needs to in order to figure chemistry out.

I suppose the question could arise, "What if the kid doesn't want to learn anything?" It's been my experience that this phenomenon starts around later middle-school, early-highschool, when young adults should be old enough to make their own decisions about their education. If they don't want to learn, they can sit in the retard class and color for all I care. If they want to waste their young supple brains on learning nothing, who am I to stop them? I'm guessing, though, that if a child grows up loving to learn, instead of hating it as with the current system, they will continue to want to

I guess the point I'm trying to make is this: Stop focusing on the kids left behind. Teach them as best you can, but don't slow down the rest of the class for them. Focus on the kids yearning to be unbridled in the front; encourage them to excel. Their excellence will more than make up for the deficiencies of the children left behind.

| Tags || public | education |

Copyright

Making a profit off an idea indefinitely was not among those certain unalienable rights mention in the Declaration of Independence. And corporations such as record companies and movie studios were never granted such rights anyway.

The copyright system, as I understand it, was originally developed to encourage creativity. If a person created a work, the government granted them the exclusive rights to make copies of that work. They got recognition for their effort, and a chance to make some money off of it before it fell into public domain. I think the thought process here was that once a person was compensated and recognized for their work, they would continue to enrich society with more of their particular talent. And furthermore, once in public domain, their work would act as a springboard, inspiring other potential creators.

When it was first enacted two centuries ago, a creator was granted a forteen year duration on his/her copyright. If the creator was still alive at the end of that time, he/she could apply for another forteen year extension. Fast forward to the present, when a copyrights are bought and sold like stocks and extend for seventy years after the death of the creator.

How is that encouraging creativity? I realize that times have changed in the past two hundred years. Copyright law has had to change in order to accomodate new media (i.e. sound recordings and now digital content). But how is it beneficial to a creator or the rest of society when a person (or more likely, a corporation) holds the copyright to a piece of work that they had no part in creating. By extending a copyright and keeping a work out of public domain, it is limiting public access to a work, and also expansion upon the work.

Limiting people's creativity and withholding genius from society just so someone or something can make a buck off of someone else's effort does not seem what copyright laws were originally intended for.

| Tags || copyright |

Beware the Dangers of DHMO!

DHMO.org cracked my shit up!

My favorite bit is "DHMO contributes to global warming and the 'Greenhouse Effect', and is one of the so-called 'greenhouse gasses.'"

| Tags || dhmo |

Final Battle

In the final battle at Armeggedon, God will vanquish Satan. Everyone knows this, from the good little Christians to the big bad Devil himself. God told us this through His Holy Words in Revelations, right? So, why does Satan continue to oppose God, if he knows he's eventually going to lose?

I suppose the argument that I grew up believing was that Satan doesn't think he will lose. The Devil actually believes he has a chance of coming out on top in the end, but the Great Deceiver is only deceiving himself. I suppose that's sound enough reasoning, but to me it doesn't jibe.

Satan already lost to God's forces once -- God didn't even deign to fight the Devil. He sent His lacky, Michael the Archangel, to dispense of the nuisance. And it has to be assumed that Satan has access to all the reading material that humans do; he should know just how powerful God really is. Heck, Satan's job before the fall of the angels was the chief angel among the choir that sang God's praises. Satan should know his chances of winning against The Supreme Being are slim to none. And he still thinks he's going to win?

Maybe the outcome isn't as definite as prophecies of the End Times would have us believe. Maybe Satan does have a shot at bringing down the Creator. It would make sense that The Bible would be so resolute in its predictions, though. It's basically just war-time propaganda. What leader would tell his soldiers that there is a chance of them losing the war? Even George W. Bush isn't that dumb.

Maybe, though, Satan does know that he will lose. Maybe that's the point. Just as God's gift to humanity was free will, Satan's gift was giving meaning to that free will. What's the benifit of choosing eternal life if there is no damnation? What's the point of choosing Good if there is no Evil?

| Tags || religion |

Secret Name of God

Wouldn't it be disappointing if Kabbalists actually found out the secret name of God, and it turned out to be "Randy" or "Nate" or some other plain name?

Maybe the reason God keeps his name secret in the first place is because it's embarassing, like "Milton" or "Eustace" or "Moonbeam." That would explain why God only goes by nicknames, like "I am" or "Alpha and omega."

I think well enough should be left alone. I, for one, would have a hard time respecting a God named Rod.

| Tags || religion |

Game Shows

My roommate, Justin, opined about gameshows:

"The problem with most game shows is that they alienate almost everybody in this country by catering to smart people."

| Tags || game | show |

Superhero

An unlikely hero, an unlikely villian, a mad doctor, a woman with a secret, and a man that thinks he's a comic book hero.

• Superhero
• Table of Contents

1. Pissing Blood
2. Bloodletting
3. Flowers
4. Imaginary
5. Disappear
6. Suggestion
7. Paladin
8. Help Wanted
9. Interview
10. New Therapy
11. Secrets
12. Too Much Better
13. Patient
14. Super
15. Benefits
16. Shadows
17. One-Thirty
18. Leaving
19. Pressure
20. New City Devil



21. Uniform
22. Peace Out
23. Beginner's Luck
24. Mistake
25. Make Lemonade
26. He Says
27. Third Time
28. First
29. Coincidence
30. The Hammer
31. Shrug
32. Long Day

Nameless

A haiku epic following a robot without a name.

1. 00000000
2. 00000001
3. 00000010
4. 00000011
5. 00000100
6. 00000101
7. 00000110
8. 00000111
9. 00001000
10. 00001001
11. 00001010
12. 00001011
13. 00001100
14. 00001101
15. 00001110
16. 00001111
17. 00010000
18. 00010001
19. 00010010
20. 00010011
21. 00010100
22. 00010101
23. 00010110
24. 00010111
25. 00011000
26. 00011001
27. 00011010
28. 00011011
29. 00011100
30. 00011101

1. 00011110
2. 00011111
3. 00100000