tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18054930760755197342024-02-18T20:29:34.676-08:00Static SkiesA place for my fiction and non-fiction works. Brain dumping extraordinary.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-5280091393874982912012-04-17T14:36:00.000-07:002012-04-17T20:40:24.913-07:00Cyber and Punk are Dead?I came to a realization today. We, as people, are losing our fight to stay free, because of lolcats. Its not a funny piece like some of my other ones, nad its political without being "political". Give it a shot, if you don't like it I've got more fun things coming... but I felt like I needed to get this out because the world's driving me crazy.<br />
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A "Waste of Time"</h3>
William Gibson wrote in the NYT that the internet is a waste of time, and that's why it was good. Stating, in hte 90's, that the 'net was in a "larval state" he celebrated people feeling out this new medium, figuring out how best to interact with this strange and new method of communication. Perhaps at that point, while it was still in what we could call its infancy, the net was that... bu we've passed that formative point and here we are, still using it for, in a word, "bullshit". In fact I would argue that the fact that it was a waste of time before was even wrong. While we screwed around and treated it as a fancy video game and novelty that happened to make life easier, we began the process of losing control over the closest thing humanity ever will have to an Akashic Record.<br />
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Hypercapitalisticdisestablishmentarianism</h3>
I know I may sound paranoid, but how many of us are on Facebook? We're voluntarily using services that turn us into products and data to be mined, cultivated, and harvested. Even I'm putting this blog up on "Blogger", which of course is owned by Google. If you've been paying attention to tech news you'd know that Google cheerfully invades privacy to the point of scanning your emails for keywords to help their ads. In an age where battles at home and abroad are raging between people trying to decide what basic freedoms and rights people are entitled to, we're standing on the sidelines and letting our freedom and individuality get stolen. That post you put up to rally people into an "anti-capitalist rally" on facebook is taken, correlated, and used to change the ads you're hit with into something that appeals to your anti-capitalist, pro-punk self.<br />
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You rebel, you.<br />
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<h3>
Community Organization and Victorians</h3>
On the other hand, lets look at what we ARE arguing and fighting over. OWS, Tea Party, Democratic Party, Republican Party. A president who is arguing from the 60's, an opponent that argues from some bizarre 1950's position. We're getting sucked into political arguments in an arena framed and controlled by people who are literally from another era. The men and women who brought up such laws as SOPA aren't evil.<br />
Well, most of them aren't.<br />
What they are is trying to deal with a world that they cannot even begin to grasp. There's apparently classes at gatherings of governers covering such complex topics as "Setting up Facebook". Most "grassroots movements" are movements supporting the goals of these sorts of people whose experience has as much to do with our current life as Victorian politicians would have to the political movements of the 1960's. The world hasn't just gained new technology, its become an entirely new world.<br />
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These two major problems, government leaders' nearly prehistoric grasp of the world we are in today and the huge headstart we've ceded to hypercapitalism, are coming together in a very serious way to ensure the fucking of society is deep and solid.<br />
Things like SOPA are threats that need to be faced down and I support every action taken against that and similar bills. The trouble is we're financing the people that are backing these bills and are using services that kill our freedom just as completely. In many cases we're spreading our message against them using services we pay for, owned by people arguing FOR removal of our freedoms. Fuck's sake, how stupid is that? We may as well be going to war with a country, buying our propoganda signs from them in exchange for us giving them guns.<br />
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The difference is while the government walks out, slaps its dick on the table and makes it obvious that it wants you to have no control over things, companies can be more subtle. Like a frog on a hotplate they slowly increase their invasiveness while at the same time trusting that none of us know enough to find, form, and use an alternative to being cooked alive.<br />
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<h3>
The Light at the End of the Optic Cable is a Train</h3>
Here's the bottom line. We're living in the world of cyberpunk, only the punk is dead. We watched the tv shows, read the books, watched the movies that warned us, and we're still lining up for the modern incarnations of Network 23 and Zik-Zak. If it came out tomorrow that Facebook was mining our SSNs, the majority of the world would shrug and keep using it anyways because its easy. seduced by simplicity, we're taking the option to be fucking sheep. We saw it coming, most of us predicted it, AND WE STILL LET IT HAPPEN!<br />
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GAH!<br />
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I was wondering why we just sat there on the tracks, dull expressions on our faces, and I think its because we all DID see the internet as a toy like Gibson did. We saw it as a geek thing, something we felt would become big, but at the moment was mostly for sharing links, seeing pron, and playing games. For lack of knowledge and drive, we're pissing away the chance to really own the internet. Lots of wannabe console cowboys will rattle on about freedom, information being free, and how the internet will always be the wild west on various boards, 4chan, etc but they're fooling themselves and us. The truth is they're being spoonfed to us as the counter-culture heroes so that we don't realize they're the problem too.<br />
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<h3>
One Fist in the Air, the Other Hand in Your Pocket</h3>
These of course are the same guys whose dedication to the cause consists of downloading torrents, posting on /r/Anonymous, and occasionally using LOIC when someone on /b/ tells them to. The oh-so-vaunted "hackers" like LulzSec that go to such lengths to claik they're fighting for freedom?<br />
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Yeah, majority of their targets were/are commercial sites, stealing credit card information to sell to others. Real revolutionaries, that. If I was paranoid, I would say they were just distractions. That these groups get made into big deals to make us average folk feel like there still really is freedom being fought for, and that we can just lay our heads down and snooze. Even our "hacktivists" are at best criminals like LulzSec, at worst guys like Julian Assange who at the end of the day is still fighting political battles that are very, very old world.<br />
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<h3>
Through Virtual Light Glasses</h3>
We live in a world where glasses can interact with an information flow that is frankly amazing, augmenting our reality. Information can be sent across the world on a phone line and be turned into a 3-d object. The possibility of home-based medicine creation via printers is on the verge of occuring, and a group of someones with the right know-how can create entire "internets" (sorry to use such a cheesy name) off the grid, free from oversight. Why the hell are we younger generations getting tangled in the fights of the last era? We may as well be fighting Viet-Nam again for all that these things actually fucking matter. Ten Commandments in the Courts? Who cares? Gay Marriage? Homosexuality should only be major topics of discussion and concern for two people: Gay folks and prison inmates with pretty faces. Everyone else should just let them do what they want and stay out of it. Teaching Creationism? Shouldn't even be a topic of discussion. OWS, Tea Party, Ron Paul, all of it is yesterdays problems with attempts to solve them with yesterday's fucking tools.<br />
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You want a revolution? You want freedom? Technology is the way, but not this namby-pamby facebook shit. No flash mob is going to change the world, at least not one that's hosted on a site that uses flashmob posts to target you for more and more marketing, and your E-vite to a sit-in at a mall isn't going to so much as dent the problem. Its time to think different, and bigger.<br />
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<h3>
"Cyberpunk? Like duh Matrix?"</h3>
The term Cyberpunk has been watered down, choked to death to mean "video games that look real cool and have slick guns and leather coats". Its been pussified, modified, tamed into something corporate, consumable. Deus Ex's plot of distrust, government games, and the use of mass media for control, becomes DE:HR's message of "D00d, cybernetics will make things complicated!!!1111!". The Sprawl and Bridge trilogy's messages of how events, locations, and people all interact in a sort of complex triad, and how the best way to live free is not to be part of the system but to tell it to fuck itself to death, becomes "leather coats and mirrorshades. And oh, megacorps." Even Wired declared it dead, comparing the real original Cyberpunks to the small number of Beatniks who faded away under the light of day.<br />
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Moreso its been correlated with "Steampunk", a fantasy ideal that's mostly just aesthetic, visual. And nothing wrong with that, I love the steampunks, but cyberpunk is more because while Steanpunk is a world that cannot be, Cyberpunk was... is, about a world that exists right here. Sure we're not dealing with corporate hitmen or cyborgs, but we're in a setting now where information, and its control, is -everything-. Where the difference between living free, and hving a governmental/corporate entity legally bricking into your screaming mouth is as fine as the line you signed on when you decided to sign up for some "service".<br />
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Here's the thing, most companies service customers like snipers service targets.<br />
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Cyberpunk had its time early on, then technology got further ahead and we just took it for granted. The economy was good, politics wasn't a huge deal, and everyone was hunky dory. The wheel's already turned though, and we're at a point where we can again use technology for the People. The DIY days of when Phreakers could fuck Ma Bell are on their way back, folks, and the Dream, while not dead, is suffering under the weight of all of what's come before. Our future is flailing about to get the politicians and companies off its chest, and we're doing little more than handing them money to be sure we can watch Megashark vs Giant Octopus without interruption.<br />
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So here's the call. The world is nearing something. Not the "singularity" people whine about, or the whole "ascension" thing or anything else... extreme like that. That being said, we're hitting a point where we're losing ground, as a people, faster than we can gain it. Even the smartest people are so busy fighting political battles thy aren't seeing the real ground being lost, and where it's being lost.<br />
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<h3>
So Do I Have Solutions, or am I Just Bitching?</h3>
While we maike a stink about a political candidate, bipartisan groups are making decisions to support the anti-freedom decisions that companies are asking for. YOu know, the companies we use. They assume... rightly.. that most of us lack the skill and knowledge to do anything.<br />
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So, its time. Stop with the angry puppet shows showing cheny and bush as evil devils. Stop with the bumper stickers that call Obama a terrorist. Stop sitting on Wall Street in protests driven by near corporate Unions, and stop waving signs with tea parties that are backed by Republicans. The game is rigged, and we're playing by the rules, and celebrating the counter-culture heroes that they assemble and give us, that do nothing to really help the causes.<br />
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Take off the goddamn Guy Fawkes mask, you idiot.<br />
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I'm not saying drop out entirely, but its time we who really believe in human freedom (the details and differences are meaningless, we're all after the freedom of the individual to live as an individual) need to stop being frogs. Cultivate groups that allow information to flow freely, find alternatives to corporate/informatoin selling social media. Hell, create them! I feel like revolutionaries, "punks", etc, are taking the lazy way out. They... we (believe it or not I had my roots too) are sitting back and coasting, doing things the same way we always have, while using the tools of, in the end, the fucking enemy.<br />
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Get involved, but make it so you're getting involve on your own terms, and what you're doing isn't something you got the idea for from some "political action" group that is eventually getting its orders from some bastard on Wall Street or Capitol Hill. Don't smash a window, set up a PirateBox. Don't give money to Wikileaks's political agenda, set up a file and information sharing network in your city/state to allow people to <i>really </i>make information free.<br />
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Even while we try to engage these huge causes.... even the most "grassroots" movement is still trying to link to, engage in, and follow larger 'movements"... we're still losing ground because we're fighting the enemy on turf we ceded years ago in preference to lolcats.<br />
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I guess the question you can ask is "why? Why abandon national causes in preference to individual?" Its simple. By engaging the national causes, by bickering over political divisions and all the related steaming birdshit, we're playing their rigged game. The old joke is that the CIA used to say "The best way to stop a communist is fund him." The best way to stop a cause is to make that cause part of your own, and its what they're doing to us. All of us. In a way they're being sure we keep fighting the same battles endlessly to be sure that they always have a place. The only way to move people forward, to change society, is to change its people.<br />
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We need to change how our children see technology and the internet, how they see the information flow, how they see the world and its structure. We need to engage those around us we would rather dismiss as "dumb" and help them see that the world that is, and could be isn't the world that was. That, more than any OWS or Tea Party, is how we'll take our nation, our world, and our future away from the bastards who can't stand letting it move forward.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-26124629929930627602012-04-11T13:01:00.000-07:002012-04-11T13:01:15.566-07:00This is a test post.Exciting, I know. But I just set up a whole bunch of If This then that recipies, or tasks, or whatever they're called, and want to test them since god knows I likely fucked 'em up.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-83397820072549458612011-12-16T01:56:00.000-08:002011-12-16T01:56:12.542-08:00At An Angle<i>Been sleeping really fucked up hours. Hit bed at 11 tonight, slept around 4 hours, woke back up... read /x/ and rolled to write creepypasta OC. First two I didn't like despite other people really enjoying one of them ut this one... this one was fun. Its my own little insomniac crap attempt at an homage to Fritz Lieber's story of a family's curse.</i><br />
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</div>Dad was always tinkering in the basement when I was growing up. I'd be in the basement family room playing some nintendo game and he'd walk through with his toolbox. He'd stop, maybe sit with me and ask why Mario was squashing those turtles. I'd respond like the kid I was, chattering away about the pixels on the screen. He'd listen like a dutiful father, then with a sigh he'd stand up.<br />
"Back to work," his tone was always so odd. Sad, almost. He'd go into the laundry room, the door would close, and I'd hear the radio turn on.<br />
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WLS, or a Cubs game, would fill the room, and under Steve Stone's insightful commentary, I'd hear a metal on stone sound. Scraping. Harry Carry's drunken jovialness would blend with a metallic hammering. Steve and Gary would war with wet splashing sounds I could never really figure out.<br />
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Sometimes hours would pass, and I'd invariably press my ear against the locked door, desperate to figure out what he was doing in there, but I never could. I'd hear power tools, hand tools, voices that must have been bleedover from other radio stations.<br />
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Finally he'd open the door again, give me a playful shove with his foot, and go upstairs. I'd always go into the laundry room after, and I never saw anything change.<br />
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It turned into one of those odd childhood events that others would have found strange but to me was just part of life in my household. My mom made stir-fry every sunday, and my dad went into the laundry room twice a week. Life went on.<br />
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I was 15 when dad finally shot himself. I was chatting on IRC with some friends (One of whom I'd eventually move across the country to live with for a time) and there was dad. He was weaving a little... drunk again. Its funny that what you ignore as a kid, you see as an alcoholic father when you grow older. He came up behind me, and patted me on the shoulder.<br />
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"Remember, hit at an angle." The fuck? I just sort of half nodded. The asshole was in my space. He walked into the laundry room, the door closed, and there was a sound like a firecracker going off inside a melon. A sharp "bang" with a bursting sound and splatter. I hit the door, finally unlocked, and fell immediately as my heel hit a patch of dadbrain. That's how I thought of it, and still do... its funny what your brain makes light of. Dadbrain, sounds like a cartoon character. I landed with my head next to what was left of his... mostly just a lower jaw, teeth, a flopping tongue that hadn't stopped. I remember thinking it looked like a beached carp. Then I remember throwing up and blacking out. Well, I don't remember blacking out, but I did.<br />
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Fuck it, you get the point.<br />
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When I came to, I was still covered in vomit, but Dad, and the Dadbrain, was all gone. The blood, the body, and in its place was dad's red toolbox, a couple PB+J sandwiches, and a note in my mom's handwriting.<br />
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"You'll be good at this. Stirfry when you're done, baby. <3 Mom."<br />
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I could see it now. The concrete floor wasn't smooth anymore... it was etched with words I never could have read until now. Spiraling patterns that defied comprehension underlayed the words, and inbetween the designs danced a creature I couldn't describe correctly if I wanted to. Tentacled, feathered... worms. Fanged things, like live at the bottom of the sea, only worse, more alien... because I in them I saw... Dad. Uncle Alan. Uncle John. Grandpa. I felt... kinship. And now I could feel more... leathery, feathery things sliding across my skin, under my clothes, brushing my face... and the same feeling inside, trying to claw its way out... the only way to keep it down, to keep -them- where only I could see them clear.<br />
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I splashed the paint in the right places, I marked the designs, and I made sure to hit it at an angle. The spiral would continue until I couldn't fight it anymore, and I'd pass it to my own sons. I'd play the radio, I'd lock the door, and I'd be sure stir-fry was always on Sunday.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-52112017390062385682011-08-29T10:43:00.000-07:002011-08-29T13:37:23.314-07:00All's Fair in Love and Genocide<i>This one got strange. Love, loss, massacre, and bin Laden.</i><br />
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<i> </i>I've been thinking a lot about love, lust, and need recently due to an abortive and confusing little tango with an ex-girlfriend. I'm not talking the sort of thinking that makes me cry into my beer and wonder what went wrong or that makes me want to stand outside her window like John Cusack with a boombox playing “Closer”. The sort of thinking about what I want and by extension what others want, no-emo. I swear.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DURHXAYQiADA-JH2jQVCAUztJGORfoQKgQzMeutXOnZKHJeTaifrQWqAY4h_BLrY4NUhYMwcabDF8tKt-jRp06GhWrpuOuApxGVZPCDc-0IP3XdC2PtE6Hc-JgK__A77PhE5A-ylDpY/s1600/say-anything-john-cusack-as-lloyd-dobler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DURHXAYQiADA-JH2jQVCAUztJGORfoQKgQzMeutXOnZKHJeTaifrQWqAY4h_BLrY4NUhYMwcabDF8tKt-jRp06GhWrpuOuApxGVZPCDc-0IP3XdC2PtE6Hc-JgK__A77PhE5A-ylDpY/s320/say-anything-john-cusack-as-lloyd-dobler.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>"I want to fuck you like an <b>animal</b>!"</i></span></div><br />
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She wanted something slow, I wanted to hit her over the head and drag her off to my castle. This is a flaw I run into a great deal, where most people want to have something normal and decent that their parents and God would approve of, and me wishing it was still acceptable to claim a girl and nail her on the bar just so everyone knows whats what. Was that ever acceptable? Fuck it, lets pretend it was. I grew up in a Jewish suburb so the thought of a life more violent and full of blood and bare breasts is attractive to my somewhat screwed up brain, like a Heavy Metal magazine found by a fourteen year old. <br />
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<div><a name='more'></a></div><div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I think that I'm not unique though. Sure I may be a little outside the norm in the details but most guys I know have at least in part that want and need to do some damage and take what and who they like. Who among us doesn't occasionally want to seize or be seized? If the “kink”, the so-called “strange” urge wasn't actually common would we really have so god-damn many examples of that in the mainstream? I dare, DARE, anyone here to say with honesty that Lady Heather didn't get their motor running. Or, if you're more like me when the same actress played Julie in Return of the Living Dead 3. I swear to god, that movie made barbed wire hot.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But I digress. That's not an apology, its a statement of fact.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAU8MCePH0HsCSN9api6zNYWnZVwdOJawxEAb7rUASI1GqMBk6Ie2VSZeL9c4i8GQz411Xf3Zhh4l2Owu2LsKH6USHtQeMrCu6CVCzWfJNTe6lIIpgDVfuk5RqHZ6GXe-t5aSlZx9cFk/s1600/return+of+the+living+dead+3+ss+zombie+wench.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAU8MCePH0HsCSN9api6zNYWnZVwdOJawxEAb7rUASI1GqMBk6Ie2VSZeL9c4i8GQz411Xf3Zhh4l2Owu2LsKH6USHtQeMrCu6CVCzWfJNTe6lIIpgDVfuk5RqHZ6GXe-t5aSlZx9cFk/s320/return+of+the+living+dead+3+ss+zombie+wench.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Is that broken glass in your hand or are you happy to see me?"</span></i></div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So I think we all have that barbarian edge. That smashie, stabby part. When Osama bin Laden was killed I realized it fully. We were all medieval peasants and men at arms that day. When the president came out, even people like me who hate the man wanted to see Obama just say “We got him and shortly you'll be receiving pictures of his body hung from the conning tower of an aircraft carrier”. People cheered, danced, went to the place where his disciples killed three thousand of our fellows and drank champagne and partied over the man's corpse.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>None of us killed him, only about thirty of us had that honor, but they were ours. Osama had struck at our country, and our warriors, our team had killed him back. I saw echos of every war in history in that moment, each video making it more and more clear that we were celebrating the death of an enemy. Michael Moore huffed his ginormous bulk in front of a camera, naturally, to spew his disgust for the celebrations, like a few others over the next few days. They spoke about how disgusting it was, un-American.... how wrong it was.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When the other countries drag our servicemen and various other enemies around and hang their corpses high we tut tut and shake our heads. Its a shame such decent people were pushed to that point, that we made them do this. If they only had what we had they'd be just like us!</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I need to take a page from Gary Brecher's book here. They're not just like us. There's not a New Yorker hidden in the heart of every Libyan rebel putting a bullet in a government soldier while the soldier lies in the hospital. No, I think that in the heart of every one of us, every single mall-going, burger eating, Jersey Shore watching chubby American there's a Hutu rebel just looking for an excuse to hack his neighbor to death with a machete. In the US, the UK, and a few other places in the world when some dude on your block has a loud dog you go to the neighborhood association, or you stand out on your lawn and yell in out. In Uganda if the dude isn't your tribe you kill his male family, rape his wife to death in front of him, then chop him up and eat him. In Algeria you mow them down on their front lawn. In Mexico you hire some drug-runners to kidnap and murder his ass. In Russia you point the cops their way and watch them disappear. In Serbia you just sell the guy's daughters to slavers to become hookers til they die in some back alley snuff film.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We're the exception. Those of us that don't consider killing some dude for disagreeing and hanging his torched body from a bridge are the minority in this world. I think we're the ones who are the strangers, we're the ones that are pounding down something that is apparently fundamental to the “human condition”. You'll hear jackasses on the Left whining about how its because they're poor and because we didn't do enough for them and that we ruined them with Imperialism, but that doesn't explain shit like the Mongols riding across the world and killing a couple million and change worth of screaming Asians. We're talking 1190 here, too, so cities were not bustling places of a million people. The Mongols were busy goddamn people. If they didn't kill it they raped it, and if they didn't rape it they forced it to be a subject under the threat of killing or rape. Five minute managers from the fifth level of hell. Before we ever hit the Africans with our funny hats and flexible senses of human rights the African tribes were cheerfully enslaving each other and selling them to Muslims to use as sword fodder, too. These things weren't caused by the West. We certainly didn't help, but we weren't creating situations that didn't already exist, we simply made them more efficient.</div><div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukspJ2ep6dzkT9_rEwWNwfySjx_lsIr-6EToNxDhmZEyNRsSeOWYKdzFd88kigIlaBVCDsHhwOHFNMwKMrTYsv3r06YFsyNC6rLTE_daYX1debgNxvLQb2DhK6U7_-9NCMg017kn37NQ/s1600/Genghis-Khan-swords.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukspJ2ep6dzkT9_rEwWNwfySjx_lsIr-6EToNxDhmZEyNRsSeOWYKdzFd88kigIlaBVCDsHhwOHFNMwKMrTYsv3r06YFsyNC6rLTE_daYX1debgNxvLQb2DhK6U7_-9NCMg017kn37NQ/s320/Genghis-Khan-swords.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"We're interested in cultural understanding! And rape! Mostly rape, though."</span></i></div><div><br />
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</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I can hear the neo-cons cheering that, but sit the fuck down, guys. The issue, too, isn't that we haven't suitably “democratized” them. They aren't waiting in Iraq to accept American Democracy with open arms... as soon as we kill the required amount of insurgents like some sort of Call of Duty map victory condition. The Middle East is the Wild West without all the good parts and its not changing anytime soon. Murder is a way of saying you're upset, and no amount of imported US TV is going to change that. Doubt me? We’re seeing more and more Latin TV stations here in the US, Spanish language signs everywhere, a major push to Latinize the US. Is it making you more likely to celebrate Cinco de Mayo? Fuck no.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now imagine all this was being done after Mexico came into the US, blew up all our military and killed most of our leaders, and told us everything we have done and are doing is wrong. See the issue? I remember reading something from a rap singer (Surprising since in most cases I cant honestly say I think most rap artists have an intelligence that rises above that of a farm animal) and he said simply “I can't blame those guys in Iraq. I hate the US government, but if some motherfuckers invaded us I'd be in the streets with an AK too. Our country is fucked up but it's our fucking country.” We can't imagine anyone would actively choose a political system that involves wholesale murder, but most of the world works that way. Its human nature.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I want to say its a local thing, but look at the globe and think of all the places where rape and murder are common. How many places are torn apart with multiple groups murdering each other for political gain and for something to do on a Saturday night? In the US bored 20-something dudes put on polo shirts and backwards hats and go to bars to drink til they puke. In most places they join militias and burn schools down. Its a matter of degrees.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Think about it though... if you didn’t think the government could stop you... if you didn't fear official reactions... wouldn't you go to great lengths to get what you want? If you felt you could use what means you could to make the world “better”...whatever that meant... wouldn't you be willing to go to whatever point was needed? Now strip away this sense of value of life” we have because in most of these countries they have such a high birth-rate that life is, essentially, meaningless. Shit, I live a pretty decent life and even I wouldn't say no if a viking horde or Roman Legion stopped by and asked if I wanted to do some hardcore looting and raping. Sure I might get killed, but fuck it. I could get killed in a car accident too. How many people die wishing they'd done more, here in the US? How many people squeeze into a suit and tie for fifty years then die of cancer of the prostate or a heart attack and wish they'd lived? Those suckers in the bush of Africa and the favellas of Brazil might be brutal murdering fucks but you can't deny they're really making something of themselves and living life to the fullest. I drive a two door Ford escort, meanwhile there's Mexican drug runners building tanks from scrap metal. I really can't say I can compete.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDQf9LiTdOV6RgWIHS4HxUd2yDLe8i4YNO_4f0vHn72MzQAZND7zT2oVs29auyyLyDzKWHoQuZ5Hc34ICJ4FgMRrI4aDbI1K5_MRTl6FWYeIKRtRyd2WzCgmSiy5mXpc22kddRo3ZvgE/s1600/drug+tank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDQf9LiTdOV6RgWIHS4HxUd2yDLe8i4YNO_4f0vHn72MzQAZND7zT2oVs29auyyLyDzKWHoQuZ5Hc34ICJ4FgMRrI4aDbI1K5_MRTl6FWYeIKRtRyd2WzCgmSiy5mXpc22kddRo3ZvgE/s320/drug+tank.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Tell me this shit here isn't better than anything you've done at your job.<br />
Ever.</span></i></div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Is this all stupid bullshit bravado? Maybe. Maybe. But I think its true too. Look at the field in Afghanistan and Iraq. When the politicians and UN dick around like “civilized” people, civilians die, the bad-guys assault us, and shit spirals back down towards the Mother of All Fuckups state that the middle East naturally gravitates to. When we watch the US soldiers in the field doing what they do all we see is Allah getting so many hyped up teenage and college age “warriors” delivered to him that I think he's likely back-ordered on Slutty Virgins for another twenty years. “Sorry we can't give you virgins, Ahmed, but Mahmoud there doesn't have a ton of stamina so you can share his. Just mind the sticky ones.” You don't see entire fucking generations deciding death is worth it and not flinching from serious hardcore murder unless there's something inside that makes us want it. Poverty can't simply make someone into a Tamil Tiger or an Al-Qaeda patsy, sorry. There's not some sort of line where once you go below it, it suddenly makes sense to run into an Israeli pizzeria with a few pounds of Allah's Grace and C4 strapped to you. If a person can be pushed to that point that means somewhere it's already there. That dark and brutal urge doesn't crawl in your ear one night, it wakes up.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Watch our US soldiers in the field. When it goes down to brass tacks, US GIs having long meaningful discussions with brown people using assault rifles and explosives as a medium, the US GI wins. The bad-guys blow up civilians with RPGs, the Army's troops laugh and tell jokes as they hunt them like animals with Apaches. The Taliban scream “Allahu Akbar!” before setting off a bomb, the US troops scream “YEAH MOTHERFUCKER!” as a daisy cutter turns an apartment building into a human and rubble meatloaf. Be disgusted at the inhumanity of the Iraqis for displaying those security mens' bodies in Fallujah, then read up on what our boys did in Vietnam. Then read about the atrocities in medieval wars, and the sort of displays the Romans would do.</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We're all angry, violent monkeys. We all want to take what we want, we want to do as we want, and that's it. We run into issues when we indulge that completely. We run into issues when we deny it completely. Does this long tirade mean that I think we should all rape, pillage, and kill whenever the mood strikes us? Fuck no. It means I think we need to accept that “civilization” is a framework in which to fit that caveman urge to hit a dude with a brontosaurus femur. It means instead of taking some Judeo-Christian-Puritan-WHATEVER framework as the first step then figuring out how to get what we want inside of that, we should figure out what we want. Then we should fit that into whatever framework we want. Wholesale murder isn’t the way, anymore than denial of our basic needs and instincts are. We should be human, not some degenerated or falsely elevated sense of what humans are.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGTSI1Zc3fNeBi39Tw2lTokNhE3TOmyGMYDCejmkqwZF1Z8TE4yIzYF9OtVfmbLzpuYFA-gDSCMfx89FiTHIE3IiOS2DUJZu79LV1OQ612h18E1_y2cTKDdbjOUnK1sZH86Sc9TF0LT4/s1600/john-carter-of-mars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGTSI1Zc3fNeBi39Tw2lTokNhE3TOmyGMYDCejmkqwZF1Z8TE4yIzYF9OtVfmbLzpuYFA-gDSCMfx89FiTHIE3IiOS2DUJZu79LV1OQ612h18E1_y2cTKDdbjOUnK1sZH86Sc9TF0LT4/s320/john-carter-of-mars.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image of John Carter courtesy of every guy's subconscious, ever.</span></i></div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyone raising a pillaging army, however, is welcome and encouraged to let me know. I've always wanted to sack a city.</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-80984387239324031662011-08-29T08:50:00.001-07:002011-08-29T08:50:27.375-07:00The most simple of thoughts.There is something unnatural about plastic ketchup bottles.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-49077606203605480282011-08-15T13:43:00.000-07:002011-08-15T13:43:24.762-07:00Found on my HDJust some free-floating hostility penned on my recent trip to KY. It reads how you'd expect me to read after being on the road for I think 7 hours at that point.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">My libertarian roots are screaming at me for saying this, but I hate some aspects of capitalism. Fuck urban sprawl and homogenization.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Fuck it in its staring eyes while its distracted looking at my pocketbook. Driving to KY (LOL KY JELLY LAWLAWLWAL) I hit a town called Terra Haute. Fucking shit, this place had just a few signs less than Wal-Drug.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I swear to fucking god. I was watching for Exit 7 for some time. Exit 7 was the next step in my journey according to Map-quest, who also nearly put me in the wrong part of the state so who the hell knows. Maybe they were pointing me towards this city because Terra Haute paid them off.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">“No, no, its cool. I know them, just grab a bite, you'll love it. Would I lie to you?”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“Do you have a choice now that you've left and you have no GPS?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">“... no.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">“Glad we understand each other. Now, say my name, bitch, and turn left after 3.5 miles.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">When I finally hit the city I saw stretched before me some sort of bizarre Chinese hell in the form of the Hell of Everything Being Concrete and Having a Corporate Logo. Seriously, there was a dead deer on the side of the road that had a Sonic logo on it and its own fucking parking lot and drive through. This city is soulless from what I've seen so far. The mythic exit 7, promised to me s a wonderful oasis of fun, food, pleasure, and dancing girls (It was a long drive, I may have made that last up) stretched before me, a great steel re-bar cored, form poured snake. It looked like any number of other places I'd been (usually for conventions). It was a place that existed only because there was an off-ramp there. A mall with no character, restaurants that exist everywhere else, nothing unique. Fucking shit, I wanted to vomit.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I was repulsed by the emptiness. You can hear the soul of the land beneath sobbing hysterically like Monica Belluci being raped by Chris-chan: possibility and promise smothered by base, horrid, unthinking need.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Okay that last was pretty tortured.... but you get my point. The place fucking sucks. Christ, I want to blow it up. I want to detonate the charges and turn this blight into a crater. The people all dress the same, the stores re all the fucking same, for all I know I may drive out of here through some fucked up time warp. Maybe this place is not separate. Maybe they're ALL THE SAME PLACE. Like a Stephen king novel.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Or maybe I'm just hungry, so I'm going to eat the only thing that makes this spot on the map worth it... and that's that this is the best goddamn orange chicken on the fucking planet.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Random musings while I eat:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Remember when Hot Topic was dark, played death metal and goth music, and was staffed by angry goths whose face piercings made it look like they soul-kissed a claymore mine? The one to my right has a slightly average looking 19 year old in a “Lil Wayne” t shirt. Fuck.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I looked at a girl who was attractive and dressed like a straight up slut. And then n older woman glared at me. And then I realized that was her mom. And the girl was likely not 18. But! She was dressed like she just stepped out of one of Lady Gaga's wet dreams so I wanted to scream “HOW THE FUCK AM I THE BAD GUY HERE?” Christ sakes, its getting to the point where we have to stamp young ladies like milk cartons or something. “Do not open until...” etc.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">The Festival Foods stand across the food court is supposed to look oriental, but keeps reminding me of those pictures of Viet-Kong torture camps. I wonder if they have John McCain strung up in the back.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I got lost on the way. Not much though.... I was able to pull over to a McDonald's parking lot, kick up the laptop, locate my exact position, plot my route, and talk to a friend from SL before pulling back out. This is at once fucking awesome, and goddamn pants-shittingly terrifying.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">There' a dude in cowboy had with a Git 'er Done belt buckle, and I sincerely want to jump up, hit him with a chair, and scream “PURGE THE HERETIC” but I think its illegal to do that, even to idiots.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Last thought: There's kid wearing a mao t-shirt dressed like a fucking commie (The whole coffee house set hipster douche bag look) complaining that he doesn't get paid enough. God, I want to fuck him in the ass with a dildo shaped like Adam Smith until he understands economics.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-40306113596802159082011-08-10T15:11:00.000-07:002011-08-10T15:15:21.270-07:00Mechanisms of God: A start<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5b/Francisco_de_Goya_-_Friar_Pedro_Shoots_El_Maragato_as_His_Horse_Runs_Off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5b/Francisco_de_Goya_-_Friar_Pedro_Shoots_El_Maragato_as_His_Horse_Runs_Off.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br />
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<i>Okay, so here's the deal. All I have here are first drafts, to get me over my fear of showing my writing, but I believe I've grabbed that brass ring now. My next step is going to be to revise. There will still be new posts, such as this, but alongside will be the hopefully improved versions of my deformed first draft children. I had intended to leave the Brothers alone after my short story, but something inspired me. Jean in <a href="http://static-skies.blogspot.com/2011/07/gift-post-one.html">Order of the Holy Mechanism</a> is now Brother Joachim d'Anjou, twin brother to the knight Jean d'Anjou. Why the change? Because it felt right. Jean said it was okay. This is still an emerging idea, but hey. I pledged to post EVERYTHING I write.</i><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The brass box emitted a happy hum as its springs stretched themselves to comfort, causing the hard wax cylinder within to spin and run the gooves in its length along the needle held within. The gold decoration showed the hand of Brother James of England's fine touch in the use of biblical angels instead of the more typical winged humans. Burning wheels, radiating spokes of wings, other shapes that were terrifying in their beauty graced the contraption. Upon the top perched Gabriel perched, wings outspread, and trumpet to his lips; from the angelic instrument came the voice of Pope Eugene II as if from a great distance, but nowhere near the hundreds of miles that seperated the box and its audience from where the sounds had been taken.</span></span></i></div><i> <div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i>“</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span>Which, by the grace of God, and the zeal of your fathers, who at intervals of time have striven to the extent of their power to defend them and to spread the name of Christ in those parts, have been retained by the Christians up to this day; and other cities of the infidels have by them been manfully stormed,” this last bit elicited a soft roll of laughter among the monks who circled the player as it lectured them from the table top.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span> “Oh certainly, and they also glutted themselves manfully on wine, women, and blood to the glory of Christ!” Joachim looked around for laughter, agreements, and then met the half-gaze of Brother Michel. The older monk's face was split by a crevasse earned by a Saracen blade upon the walls of Jeruselam, which had ruined his face and his looks. He'd seen Jesus, he said, as he lay upon a pile of the dead and dying. The Lord had reached his hand to the dying Crusader to save him, and in return the man had pledged his life to the Church. Joachim suddenly envied said dead and dying, as Michel could channel all the fiery rage and displeasure of two eyes into one and strike down the unwary. The room went silent but for the recording, the younger monk shrinking down and back and doing his best to become a single entity with his chair. Michel's mouth set as a hard line, before it quirked up on one side. That single movement of muscle showed something beyond Hellfire-like anger and Joachim attempted to unfuse himself from the furniture.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span> “We did not drink blood, boy. The wine sufficed. Now shush so we can hear the Pope finish his pontifications,” the creaking of wood and stiff joints signaled his settling back and the end of the matter. Joachim finally breathed out as the dragon turned its gaze away, hearing the Pope once more.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span> “We exhort therefore all of you in God, we ask and command, and, for the remission of sins enjoin: that those who are of God, and, above all, the greater men and the nobles do manfully gird themselves; and that you strive so to oppose the multitude of the infidels, who rejoice at the time in a victory gained over us, and so to defend the oriental church,” Joachim allowed himself a snort just soft enough to not be heard over the hollow recording that one of the lesser brothers had brought back. Fancy words the pontiff had which all boiled down to giving free reign to the nobles and layity to draw steel on each other. Joachim couldn't stomach to hear anymore without being able to give his thoughts, and he had already tested Michel's limited patience. Arms crossing tight across his chest, he hunkered under his hood and imagined each of the imp sculptures that supported the box were a tiny Pope Eugene, his Grace's face twisted into comical images of agony at being put, finally, to God's work.</span></span></span></span></span></div></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-58656798039656046192011-08-10T14:03:00.000-07:002011-08-10T14:03:14.746-07:00Just a blurb about someone who needs not be named."She wrote like a raging toddler plays the piano. Angry, vicious, without style or practice, and unable to see the world around her because she is too busy slamming her face into the keys."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-90024450302860924982011-08-08T19:03:00.003-07:002011-08-09T21:16:40.154-07:00Essay Rough Draft The house is empty, rooms cleaned out and cluttered only with the open spaces where things used to sit. Not bare, the furniature still remaining, various orthless knick-knacks standing in rows on shelves, standing silent vigil. I look around the remains of my living room in a bit of a daze as I try to comprehend the scene. It looks stripped as though some apocalypse had quietly happened and raiders had come to take anything of vale. <br />
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“Is this a Surger?” Her tone made it clear she knew it was just that and simply couldn't believe that I'd managed to purcure such an expensive piece of eqipment.<br />
“Yup. Family wanted to know what you'd like for your birthday, and I begged borrowed and stole the rest. I knew you would want one.”<br />
The hug was amazing, she impacted me like a shot and hugged tight around me. There's nothing quite as wonderful as pleasing the one you love, and I knew how much she'd wanted this fancy-ass sewing machine. It had been expensive, but worth it to make her this happy.<br />
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I'd met her first in a McDonald's in downtown Chicago during an event. My girlfriend at the time were grabbing lunch and there Darcy was, on the phone to someone or another. She was pretty, caught my eye, but I was with someone then.<br />
We broke up that night, me and my girlfriend. I'd like to say it was because we shared no interests, or I felt tied down by her but the simple fact was the alcoholism I could deal with, but the coke habit was perhaps a bridge too far. I wanted something more stable, more reliable, a wild girl perhaps but one that wouldn't drag me through hell and back when she was jonsing.<br />
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I try to catch her as they move things, try to walk back from our troubles, try to fix it somehow, anyhow.<br />
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Darcy was screaming again, I guessed the surger had dropped a stitch. I wanted to go in and comfort her, but after so many years I felt less worried, and more numb. If I had went in she'd scream and yell at me instead, so I just sat in my study and turned up the headphones. She'd yell at me later of course for some petty reason or another, its how it goes. She couldn't make the surger do what she wanted, so she'll take it out on me. I knew, though, that'd come later after the near hysterical screams and crashes of her little rage fit tire her out somewhat and its nothing I'd not dealt with day after day before.<br />
“I HATE THIS MACHINE!” The by that point familiar shriek against the five hundred dollar sewing machine<br />
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“You're getting married?” My mother sounds shocked.<br />
“Uh, yeah, hard to believe isn't it?”<br />
“You're not gay?” My mother had harboured this belief for years that I didn't enjoy. It was founded in the fact that I never tried out for football and she had never heard of me having a girlfriend or asking a girl out. The fact that I played football without equipment every day at lunch escaped her, and she never thought that perhaps I just left her out of my love life because in High School she would have overborne and once I returned to chicago... well who wants o tell their mother they went through four girlfriends in six months, with one coke addict, one ex-prostitute, one still practicing prostitute, and a married girl?<br />
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I decide, now that thins are moved and done, to look up the girl I chased after all through high school and see if she didn't want to reconnect. Stupid decision but hey, nothing ventured. Google her. She was beautiful, skin like latte, chestnut hair. Never shot me down so hard I didn't try again soon after, always was the sweetest thing.<br />
She's a lesbian.<br />
Figures.<br />
<br />
Day before the wedding. There was still dresses to alter, food servings to prepare, dishes nt in order, and my wife's family were putzing about. Her mother had spent the time fussing over the space and worrying about the minister who she didn't like and had all sorts of political (Church politics. Sigh.) issues with. Her father was a nice man and wandered around in a daze the whole week like a shellshocked GI on Omaha Beach. Her sister? Her sister was an anorexic who had decided just previous to the wedding that she needed to go on a “Juice Fast” for her health, meaning she was pale and sickly and angry... a big scrawny, angry, malnourished spider with her husband meekly in tow. My family swept in and in under a day the herd of Jewish women had remade dresses, fixed programs, made gifts, all of it short of ressurecting Jesus himself... which I suspect they didn't do for fear of upstaging our wedding.<br />
<br />
“Mom, I'm not sure I want to be married anymore.”<br />
“Its just a phase, Eric, you guys will work through it,” she wasn't willing to accept that I was miserable. All she saw then was me in a house, going to school, self-sufficient. “It can't be that bad. Is there something you can do different?”<br />
<br />
I had ducked just in time. I'd done just enough fencing that I was reasonably quick on my feet and thus had been able to avoid series injury when my wife began t hrowing bottles of ginger beer at me as hard as she could. Full bottles. Glass and sticky pop showered down like fireworks, and had sent me running up the stairs while she threw everything glass towards me. We'd been arguing about my lack of income due to school, her rage fueled by my “financial irresponsibility”.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later she unwrapped her new 800 dollar industrial mixer..<br />
<br />
<br />
We had been screaming at each other for two days. I proposed. I don't know why, maybe to make the fight end, maybe because under the childish rages I thought I saw someone I really loved. We were about to spin apart like bodies in an unstable orbit and I wanted to do something, anything to keep it from exploding, so I blurted it out.<br />
<br />
“I do”.<br />
Two hours later we were arguing because her family didn't want to dance the hora. They didn't want to accidentally drop their little girl.<br />
<br />
Her family has just left, having packed up everything she wanted. I was going to be leaving the house in a couple months with what few things I wanted to keep, what few things were mine. For now, her family (Acting forever as her mamluks) had borne away her posessions, leaving me an empty house, cavernous and without life, history fled.<br />
<br />
“I want a seperation.” The wallls had felt like they were closing in when she said that. My ears heard static, te world hyperfocused on my wife when those words came out of her mouth. My house, my life, our plans all dissolved into dust. “I want a seperation unless you change. You need to see a therapist so you're more like what I want and then we can be together again. Oh, and you're responsible for paying for the house.” The house I never wanted. I think it was a threat... be what I want you to be, and you can have me. Blackmail. My world started to seperate as well, the walls opressive the future a black yawning gulf of loss, then I was through that gulf. It wasn't a black hole, it was a curtain and now I was on the other side.<br />
“Actually, I have a better idea.” Looking back I'd love to think I was strong and decisive here but I'm sure I was hesitant, that the words came out in a soft whisper, not a blast of self-sufficiency. “How about we get a divorce and I never have to deal with you again.” She looked stunned, and a small part of me wanted to spike a football and do a victory dance... then it crashed in on me, I had stepped off the cliff. I'd been with her since I was twenty, the fights, the misery, the violence, and suddenly freedom and my own life loomed, terrible and frightening and unknown and wonderful.<br />
<br />
The wedding rings are gone. She must have slipped mine into a pocket or something on her way out. With that the last sign that I was ever married is gone. She's there, looking at me, ready to speak. Standing there in my living room, I finally say the words I should have said long ago, and finally have the strength to say. The only words I could say to the woman I'd been with for so long.<br />
“Fuck you, dear.” Waving cheerfully before slamming the door.<br />
I have a house to rearrange now because 've always hated that sofa there.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-49472186950364628242011-08-08T16:05:00.001-07:002011-08-08T16:05:42.770-07:00Dear Valued Customer: Part Four<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Professor,</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I have attempted to be patient in regards to your account, but even with the flexible and generous payment plan our Delivery Representative said you agreed to I find myself in quite a bind. Your third order is also generous, and I will send said order through but it will be accompanied by a member of our Accounts Department. He will have full authorization to negotiate a better payment schedual for you, but I am afraid until we have seen a larger payment than simply Good Faith payments I cannot release further orders to you. Additionally any further communication will be via our accounts department as I would never wish to imply I personally do not trust you or that I value your money over your work. That being said we must cover our costs as I'm sure you understand.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> From the desk of,</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jeremiah Pendleton, Esq.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-50922802156862379952011-08-08T13:25:00.001-07:002011-08-08T13:25:52.448-07:00Update and apologiesI fell behind on things. Writing, school, work, lots of stuff all at once conspired first to deplay Valued Customer as well as any other posts. Or writing.<br />
<br />
So accept my apologies, and I'm going to be posting hopefully a great deal in the next few days. We'll see.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-16408254092854454602011-07-16T12:01:00.000-07:002011-07-16T12:01:53.130-07:00Dear Valued Customer: Part Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRol9QNUJTSSMWenYvjeLIWaKV8aVeQNFwa2j8x6E5MfF-2UYK1&t=1" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRol9QNUJTSSMWenYvjeLIWaKV8aVeQNFwa2j8x6E5MfF-2UYK1&t=1" /></a></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Dear Professor Glindinberk,</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> This is another personal missive from Jeremiah Pendleton to you. I have authorized my men to deliver, free of delivery charges, the eight robotics kits and the accompanying steam engines, control boards, and other sundries that you have ordered despite your current state of being in the red, as it were, to our company. I have taken your last payment as a sign of good faith and therefore respond with our faith in you, the individual engineer. I have no doubt that your work will turn out to be fruitful to you and anything we can do to assist, and also assist you in settling accounds with us, is my and my company's pleasure.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I must ask that you please ensure your guard animals and human guards are aware of the delivery peoples' arrival as it was most difficult to get our delivery crews to return after being chased and fired at by “jackbooted goons in gasmasks”. I assure you that the employee responsible for this description was fired promptly for impuning the workforce of a valued customer.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Cordially,</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jeremiah Pendleton, Esq.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-83391949542503373782011-07-15T10:52:00.000-07:002011-07-15T10:52:46.888-07:00Dear Valued Customer: Part TwoDear Professor Glindinberk, <br />
<div> As the CEO of AS+S, I was made aware of the extraordinary nature of your first order with us and took it upon myself to tell you personally how much I appreciate your business and look forward to further work with you. This message should arrive to you a day or two before our deliverimen arrive with loaded lorries to deliver your spectacular order to your castle. <br />
<br />
May I take a moment to compliment the very obvious high aims of any man who inhabits a castle with a storied history like Castle Grunwald? I am astounded. <br />
<br />
As a sign of out appreciation I have waived your delivery costs and thus we only require the payment for the ten reflective mirriors, the sextant, the quarter mile of train track, the six giant sized Tesla Coil kits, and the assorted joints, bearings, and other construction equipment. <br />
<br />
You are already a star customer even now and I sincerely hope that when you accomplish whatever grand genius you are working on you will make certain to tell the world who assisted such a visionary. <br />
</div><div>Sincerely, <br />
<br />
Jeremiah Pendleton, Esq.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-49200728491786335002011-07-14T15:47:00.000-07:002011-07-14T15:50:18.678-07:00Gift Post One: The Order of the Holy Mechanism<i>This one goes out to Jed, whose request for my 100th hit was "Medieval Cyberpunk"</i><br />
<i>===================================================</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
“Saint Augustine, Brother Marcel?” Jean's voice was soft and yet it still echoed in the bare tone hallways of the Monastery of St Illumine the Engineer. The sound bounced down the corridor, off angled stones and statues and carvings, all lovingly measured to give the most distance to even the softest word to the “Reference Desk” at the top of the stairs that lead directly to the Reference Niches. While he waited for his voice to carry and be returned, he spun the wheels next to him. “St”, “A”, “U”, “G” they read. <br />
<br />
“Oi, Brother. Anything relating to Just War.” In the background he could hear the voices of the knights, a pair of young knight errant wanting to ensure that their souls would be safe if they followed their desire for conquest. “Also, Saint Bernadine’s writings relating to the Templar if you please. They are donating quite a sum, we can go to the extra effort I thing.” <br />
<br />
Jean nodded as he pulled on the gloves, the chains and sticks that lead into the mechanism around him giving only faint resistance. As he pulled the helmet on he realized, as he did almost every time, that Marcel couldn't actually see his head. <br />
<br />
God above. Every time. “Of course, Brother. Please tell them to be patient, switching collections will take some time.” The metal helmet fit snugly over his head, the rubber rings tight to his eyes. Moving his foot out to kick the Enlightenment Pedal, he could feel the gears and pulleys and chains, a system beyond his comprehension, slide into place to grant him access to what he sought. Another would perhaps wonder what was going on, or would have curiosity as to how it all worked but Brother Jean was not a man to question like that. He took this as he did all acts of God, something to simply accept. His was not to understand the how of God's miracles, merely the why. St Illumine had been given the guidance for this from above, he had done God's will, and that was that. His was not to intemperate, merely to use to further His will. <br />
<br />
Light poured into the previously dark goggles and Jean blinked to clear the spots as the mirrors reflected the area around the Cherub to him. Tilting his head slowly down to see the metal framework of the Cherub's lower body, he did the standard checks. Moving his hands, his feet, the chains pulled and slid through unknowable distances in the edifice, and after a few seconds the hands and feet of the Cherub moved to match. A little slow, a Brother Engineer would need to look at that, but that was for another time. Looking around slowly to get his bearings, he quickly found his way, “walking” the Cherub like a great, far away puppet, a Punch and Judy doll writ large, through the sealed Libraries. This kept the knowledge in a central place, and allowed faster referencing, limiting the fingers touching the books. <br />
<br />
Finally coming to the row of codices that bore the words of St Augustine, Jean leaned forward in his chair, looking, looking.... there. The Cherub followed his reach and took the book in soft cloth-tipped fingers, placing it within the chest of itself. He always hated that, seeing the movements match his he somehow always expected to feel the book in his own heard, inside his chest. There was a hissing noise down the hall as the pressure system the Saint had long ago designed began its holy work, the capsule in the Cherub's chest hurtling through the tubes to end up, he knew, at the Reference desk. The muttered curses and amazed praises that reached his ears made him smile... let the Knights know of God's work and know that their bloody mindedness is nothing compared to Him. Disengaging the pedal, he spun the wheels again. Now for the rule of Saint Bernard.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-40711419355219708662011-07-14T14:47:00.000-07:002011-07-14T14:47:46.758-07:00Dear Valued Customer: Part One<i>What begins here is something I've wanted to write for some time. The idea has run around my brain for years but its finally, FINALLY seeing the light of day. Given the nature of the story I'm going to post it, one letter at a time, once every day until its complete. I hope you guys enjoy this, its my way of entertaining while working on things to submit. Specifically one pulp lovecraftian horror story, and a horror sci-fi story that needs serious work.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>============================</i><i>================================</i><br />
<br />
Dear Valued Customer, <br />
<div> Here at Altitude Science and Supply we strive to give only the best service and supplies to the small but growing engineering hobbyist community. As suppliers of hard to find parts and materials to such an enthusiastic niche market, we try to let every one of our new customers know just how much they mean to us. To that end, please find enclosed one AS&S catalog, as well as a soldering iron, screwdriver set, and goggles. We give these to all our new and already valued customers to show just how much we value and encourage further work and innovation by our legion of customers. We look forward to your business over the foreseeable future. <br />
<br />
Sincerely, <br />
</div><div>Altitude Science and Supply</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-22525068953425341282011-07-12T21:47:00.000-07:002011-07-13T11:09:36.108-07:00Apologies and a tiny touch of random fiction.<i>I owe people their requests as rewards for me hitting 200 views and I promise to get to them. With Drs and school and Morrow Project its fallen behind.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Plus Dead Space. Lots and lots of Dead Space. Will be posting again soon.</i><br />
<i>============================================================</i><br />
<i><strike><br />
</strike></i><br />
<strike>They're here, behind the steel. I hear them now, heard them from day one, heard them even on the trip up. Heard the skittering, the claws on metal, hissing voices speaking to each other and to me as if I could even understand, as if I wanted to.</strike><br />
<strike><br />
</strike><br />
<strike>I don't want to, didn't want to, now I do, and He's here now, It, He, She... don't know.</strike><br />
<br />
========================================================================<br />
<i>Yay for derivative crap! But its crap written, even if it was written at 1230 because I couldn't sleep. Its still something. So bite me.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>EDIT: Rewriting this. I have a good start, a decent idea, but damn if this opening isn't a load of steaming crap.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-82509324722628616842011-07-05T14:45:00.001-07:002011-07-05T14:45:27.594-07:00Tamar and Raamiel<i>A mage, arrogant punk archmage kid, and his familiar/girlfriend.</i><br />
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=====================================================<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Why was there a post-it note saying we're banned from Reggie's on my chest when I woke up?” <br />
<br />
“Because we're banned from Reggies, love. Duh.”<br />
“Me? Banned from somewhere? Lies. Give me the phone, I want to buy it and have them all like. Fired. Or killed. Or sold to African slavers.”<br />
“Honey they don't do that anymore and you deserved it.” <br />
<br />
“Filth and lies compounded. Defend you words, whore, and bring me juice. I have a hangover. And by juice, I mean whiskey and lots of it.” <br />
<br />
“You went biblical with the bartender.”<br />
“I fucked her? On the bar? Shit, not again.” <br />
<br />
“No. My love, around two in the morning you were drunk. So drunk that when the bartender cut you off you leapt up on the bar, tossed your jacket into the crowd, and called the bartender a “Cum-swallowing, ribstealing whore of Babylon. You then declared if she did not serve you another Manhattan you would summon a plague of locusts down upon the bar and its denizens like 'The God of old'. Then you fell over and passed out.” <br />
<br />
“Well? Did I?” <br />
<br />
“No. But the drinks all turned to blood after you passed out.” <br />
<br />
“Shit. I was drunk. Good night, then?” <br />
<br />
“Good night, though I think... can we drink at a mage bar next time? They take you more seriously there.”Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-87250964014124785912011-06-29T17:58:00.001-07:002011-07-03T11:12:13.392-07:00Lovely QuoteA human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.<br />
<br />
<br />
-Robert A. HeinleinAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-55029342876969138032011-06-23T19:09:00.000-07:002011-06-23T19:09:10.406-07:00Microhorror!Saw this picture, and wanted to see if I could do a "story" of two sentences about it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9Y1S3eP5V8l5JvCWA2Wfib0p1uzQuM7OJ1I7xlAy99O84rTUTBdot6tebe89yNEwuO3YlsF-rPTQ1pI6s-K4jRZr9vwMnv6GFaTSBlugWCud639fP5R1x0YOXcVbFbd5cktk_2T5ve8/s1600/1308878897052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9Y1S3eP5V8l5JvCWA2Wfib0p1uzQuM7OJ1I7xlAy99O84rTUTBdot6tebe89yNEwuO3YlsF-rPTQ1pI6s-K4jRZr9vwMnv6GFaTSBlugWCud639fP5R1x0YOXcVbFbd5cktk_2T5ve8/s320/1308878897052.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Looking back, Alzheimer's seemed not so bad for poor Grandpa Whately.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Especially since the Rest Home won't let him back in.</i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-34317420831654456452011-06-18T10:11:00.000-07:002011-06-18T10:11:14.769-07:00Cog: PrologueThe following is the only part of Cog so far that I am remotely satisfied with. Its a short little intro, and I am fond of how is came out. Short, sharp, and with at least one character I intended to be faceless standing out and possibly being more of a factor than I had originally planned. The little intro line at the start is an attempt to seem archaic and interesting, but I'm afraid it may just make me seem like a pompous dick.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
==============================================================================<br />
<br />
<i> Introduction: In which we are introduced to a man of great importance to coming events, and bid him farewell at the hands of other Dramatis personæ </i><br />
<br />
<br />
In other circumstances the Comptroller would have been proud, perhaps boastful, of the speed with which he moved his otherwise ponderous bulk down the access ramp leading out of the pumping station. In the same circumstances any bystanders would have been outright amazed. Granted he was moving down a ramp so momentum was garnered from his considerable mass, but even so one could not deny that he was approaching the personification of the Irresistible Force. His body shook with each jarring step, flesh heaving from his running, the thudding of custom made boots against the rusted metal ramp that moved alongside the aqueduct, an escort for men to match the critical resource that ran within the glazed clay trench. <br />
<br />
The men behind him had no pride or amazement, only frustration as they chased their quarry through the darkness that had settled around the pumping station now that the industrial area it serviced had passed into a sleep cycle. Power cut to service other sectors left he area cold, quiet, and silent but for thudding feet and the labored breathing from the hunting party and their prey. He whipped his head about, vision blurring as his view swung crazily about, eyes wide, frantic, seeking some sort of shelter. The change of perspective finally ended his personal record-setting flight As he failed to notice A rusted bar at his feet that caught to tip of his boot and sent him sprawling across the ever-present rusted plate that served as a walkway in all but the richest areas of the city. His skull hit the ground and sent his glasses skittering away, the sound of the glass lost in the rattling crash his body threw up like a warning alarm to his death, which now approached with cheers of success. The prey was down, now came the kill. <br />
<br />
Where are the drones? His mind screamed as he scrabbled away on all fours now, small droplets of blood welling from the metal shavings that poked his hand. The plant was down, but those creepy, soulless things should still be nearby, on standby mode. The should have picked up the anomalous sound, should have told CPU, should have... <br />
<br />
The unmistakable stactto thunk-hiss of an automatic rifle filled the air, and he felt the pneumatically thrown dart rip past his ear... no, through it, as pain blossomed, blood arcing up and out after the projectile's passage like water from a child's mouth in the baths. He screamed, a half-mad sound, but tinged with success. CPU. The base of this aqueduct section was an outflow gate. The cameras! The cameras! <br />
<br />
Comptroller Reflo (His full name, though eh always preferred just “Comptroller” to help convince himself he was somehow above the rest of the seething functionaries that shared that title) hated the drones, hated the cameras, had always fought to keep his spaces clear of oversight. Privacy was power, success, he always said. A man must have his solitude, he always said. The CPU was for lower people, the upper folk don't need it he always said. <br />
<br />
Fucking cameras couldn't come up fast enough, he now said. <br />
<br />
There would be cameras at the outflow area, to monitor that they were being opened and closed properly, since this was controlled by men and drones, not CPU directly, and that meant it would have its glass eye on it. CPU always watched places of interest. It had to know. Pushing off with his feet, he scrambled to the side of the aqueduct and grabbed the lip of the stained white retaining wall. His shoulder slammed into it with the speed he was moving, and stars again swam, the world blurring, only snapping back to focus when another dart tore into him. Shoulder blade splintering with a disgusting, meaty cracking sound, he cried out again, eyes watering. <br />
<br />
Fight it, you have a head start. Fear, pain, all of it pushed his out of shape body to the limit, but he stumbled out into the open area around the gate, looking wildly around as the clattering of combat boots got closer. He spied a camera, never so happy to see the eye of the CPU, and stopped. Froze. Blood solid in his veins as he took in the ragged, boxy device, the polished eye, the... unlit light. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unlit. <br />
<br />
Unlit. <br />
<br />
“Unlit,” he croaked out, throat suddenly dry and every muscle in his body alive,awake, and clamoring to tell him how much they hurt all at once, adrenaline flooding out. He'd never in his life even seen an unlit camera. Even when power went out to a sector, the CPU watched. The cameras glowed. He always knew where they'd be, where the computer's eye was, to be avoided and now... <br />
Turning with a laborious exhalation of the last breath in h is burning lungs, Comptroller Reflo slumped back into the retaining wall, causing it to creak just slightly under the pressure. The hunters closed in around him, slowly moving forward with knives at the ready. Ammunition use would be a waste when they can simply render the man by blade.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-20319818888370711382011-06-18T09:39:00.000-07:002011-06-18T09:39:51.494-07:00Writers block.Lets be honest, my novel has been stalled in a pathetic state for ages. I can blame a number of things, but even now when I sit with a clear head to write it, I can't. I look at where I left off, and just get lost rewriting passages long ago proofread, or struggling with where to go next while this sense of dissatisfaction tugs at me.<br />
<br />
So fuck it, I'm going to start that shit ovcer.<br />
Yeah I know. Its retarded. But fuck, if I can't get past a chapter because its now an addled mess of half assed rewrites over 2 years? And I can only do about 3 pages at a time at best because I constantly am reworking it? Yeah, there's an issue with it, and a serious one at that.<br />
<br />
So. Going to scrub everything but the prologue. Cause fuck it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1805493076075519734.post-69674924565742389212011-06-17T09:39:00.000-07:002011-06-17T10:10:53.063-07:00My First Post, My First ArrestI feel like I should have done some sort of "introduction" post here, but I think its better to just... post a real blog entry. Its more honest, less indulgent, and gives you a better sense of me. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
================================================= <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I was fucking arrested earlier this week. Fucking. Arrested. Cuffs. Lights. A fucking cell. <br />
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I'm a Jew, we don't do well in jail, so this was somewhat agitating to me. I was going to write a nice, gentle, pithy post, but fuck it, profanity seems to fit the situation perfectly. Besides, I was on the inside. I came out a changed man, darker, edgier. I was going to shank the biggest guy I was incarcerated with to earn respect, but I was alone in my cell and I think it would have done little for my street cred to shank myself. <br />
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How was the illustrious author arrested, you ask? Was it because I finally snapped and hunted down some idiot on the internet who uses “u” and “y” instead of “you” and “why”, killing him by ramming his keyboard down his throat? Did I get arrested by pressing my bare rear end against the window of a Democratic Congressman? Did I get caught trying to induce a suicide cult for the lulz?<br />
No, I say, none of those expected outcomes. Indeed, I was arrested due to the power of Red Tape. <br />
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I was driving. It was a nice day. I had music playing, and was passing a town I never had any interest in visiting. Suddenly, behind me I see lights. The fucking blue and red of “You gon' get legally raped” in the rear-view. This officer had been hovering behind and to my left for a mile, hence my pulling up to let him in. Officer of the law needing to merge, me being a good citizen, doing my civic... fuck. He's pulling me over. Fucking goddamn cops. Note the immediate change. <br />
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As an aside, I've found that one's respect and like of law enforcement officials suffers a dramatic change when one is being pulled over. <br />
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SO. <br />
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So. <br />
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The officer helpfully informs me that I was 'too close to the person in front of me'. The fact that I did so because he was acting like he wanted to get in behind me went unremarked upon as he was too busy being more helpful in explaining how it was one of the “Fatal Five” or something. <br />
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I swear to fucking god, that’s what he called it. The Fatal Five, sounds like a fucking comic book villain team. “The Tailgater faces off with Spider-man! Next month! THE RETURN OF THE FATAL FIVE”. Jesus H fucking Christ on the handlebars of a tricycle peddled by Shiva. <br />
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So anyways, after telling me about the FATAL FIVE with the seriousness of explaining to me why I was being arrested for plowing through a pack of preschoolers, he asks me to step out of the car. <br />
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Then asks me if I have any “weapons”. I decided my snide wit was not a factor, but was now quite agitated. I knew, right now, I was going to be arrested for some reason or another. There was two officers now there, and even though he'd told me it was going to just be a “warning”, he was acting like I was going to get cuffed. <br />
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It was, to say the least, fucking surreal. I had apparently done nothing wrong, but I was being checked for weapons and my car was being searched. The fuck? Looking back, its clearer to me now, that I was likely going to be ticketed for something, they just hadn’t found a good reason yet. <br />
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I never really thought about it at the time, given the whole “Don't want to piss the cops off” thing, but fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Its feeling like they were fishing. <br />
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So, I sit down, he runs my license. <br />
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Its apparently suspended. <br />
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I was unaware of this. I tell him this. Indiana never told me of this, no one informed me, what the fuck? <br />
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This is also where he tells me when he pulled me, he smelled “marijuana”. <br />
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Ooh fucking BULLSHIT. <br />
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Bull. <br />
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Fucking. <br />
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Shit. <br />
<br />
Shit. <br />
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Fucking. <br />
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Bull. <br />
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Oh well, Mr Officer replies. <br />
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And on go the cuffs. <br />
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Fucking. <br />
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Handcuffs. <br />
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FUCKING. <br />
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HANDCUFFS. <br />
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For something he keeps telling me is “making him feel bad” and “I wish I didn't have to”, which I think may be BS because again, they were treating me like John fucking Dillinger from the start. <br />
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Now comes the most bizarre part of our sordid tale. <br />
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He starts discussing payment options. Not a bribe, obviously. He's talking about bail. <br />
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But this is what he goes immediately to. Not things I can do. Where I'm going. Where my car's going. No, how I can “pay”. <br />
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I'm being told they accept credit cards so I can purchase my freedom. I'm panicked right now. Its surreal. Its fucking wrong. I'm being cuffed for a bureaucratic oversight, I'm being arrested, and the cop wants to discuss my “payment options”. <br />
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FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. <br />
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This would be my mental state at this point. <br />
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So I'm brought into the County Jail (FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK) and there's two officers who obviously don't give a shit if I live or die. A few phone calls later, bail is set up, I'm going to get out... <br />
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And then I'm put in a cell til my “payment clears”. <br />
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WHAT?! I HAVE THE MONEY! YOU'RE GETTING IT! WHY THE FUCK! <br />
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So there I am in a tiny concrete room without a working sink, with a solid metal door without a window so I have absolutely no view of the outside, and two mattresses that smell like hot bum and sick, and they won't let me take my laptop or a book. <br />
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So its just me, two mattresses, and my clothing. Minus my belt or shoes since I may try to kill myself, being a criminal. <br />
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Criminals are like that. So basically in the eyes of the state troopers, I've gone from a cheerful, if surprised, college student being pulled for a minor infraction to a tough, nasty criminal type who may try to harm myself or others given access to shoelaces. A haze descends, I'm feeling it. The Man is oppressing me. Soon this becomes the only world I know, the outside is scary, I can never be out, I'm inside, I'll always be inside, I'll... <br />
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Oh shit, they're opening the door. Right as I start to pee. <br />
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Gee, thanks. <br />
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Fuckers. <br />
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So without further ado, I am deposited outside, without even being told where my car is. The next 3 hours are spent wandering a town, getting a ride from a sweet little old lady, getting my car from impound from a dude with 3 teeth, and figuring out how the FUCK I'm getting home. <br />
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And that's the story of my first arrest. <br />
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P.P.S. In the interests of brevity I have left out a single thing that was a constant through this entire experience: The fact that in the back of the squad car there was a dog. Barking. Like fucking crazy. <br />
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The entire. <br />
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Fucking. <br />
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Time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16488748342260782962noreply@blogger.com0