Letters from a Comic Genius

Four Posts

2007-05-20T23:06:00.000-04:00

Howdy.

Just thought I'd interrupt my staccato flow of posting Reverse Quizzes to lay some of my work for the school paper on ya.

Four posts below this one for anyone interested in readin' 'em.

Ta.

The Sunny Side of Terror: Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo

2007-05-20T22:53:00.000-04:00

Even from the get-go, watching one man pursue another across the rooftops of San Francisco, the viewer is filled with a distinct sense of dread. It is remains impossible for much of the experience to pinpoint exactly what stirs up such primal feelings of fear and unease. One is left scrabbling for some solid ground, throughout a parade of potentially paranormal events, death, deception, and intrigue, only to wind up profoundly unsettled and, as some might say, “creeped out.”

Then again, what can one expect when watching a Hitchcock film?

And, of all the Master’s work, few have the power to instill terror and unease so subtly and deftly as Vertigo (1958).

The story follows retired detective John “Scotty” Ferguson, a man struggling to overcome his personal demons and overwhelming acrophobia—fear of heights. He is hired by an old college friend, Gavin Elster, a properly oily Tom Helmore, to investigate the man’s wife. Madeleine Elster (Kim Novak) has been suffering from some severe psychological affliction, strange enough to lead her husband to consider spiritual possession. Ferguson reluctantly agrees, and the viewer is taken along with him as he tails Madeleine and becomes further and further embroiled in a confounding, decades-old mystery.

Just as it is difficult to determine what exactly makes the film so disturbing, it is equally difficult to determine what exactly makes the film so effective.

It has been hailed by critics for nearly 50 years as one of the greatest examples of psychological thriller ever produced, and was nominated for two Oscars. But where lies the secret to film’s eerie presence?

The script, from the novel d’Entre les Morts by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac, adapted to the screen by Alec Coppel and Samuel Taylor, certainly deserves some credit. Nonetheless, storyline aside, the dialogue is not outwardly dynamic or full of tension. Much of it seems more fitting for a romance.

Stewart’s engrossing performance is a key factor. He tightrope-walks above a precipice of madness in his stammering, good-natured, distinctly Jimmy Stewart way, a regular guy, a hometown fella. Only at the film’s climax does he leap from the rope and plunge into insanity.

The film is shot mostly during the day, in an uncharacteristically sunny San Francisco—the usually foggy den of crime noir. Only selective twisting of certain shots, variances in pace and perspective, draw one in to the madness. For most of the film he plays an earnest straight man to Novak’s stunningly unhinged beauty.

And here, I think, we hit on the trick.

It is the combination of mundane and horrifying, of pedestrian and petrifying, that the film finds success.

Under Hitchcock’s gimlet-eyed gaze, the film takes the normal, the everyday, and plunges it into a dark world of obsession and murder.

While much of Hitchcock’s body of work— Psycho, The Birds—transports the viewer to a freakish “other place,” be it deserted motel on some bleak stretch of highway or crumbling sea town infested with an avian menace, Vertigo shows the sunny side of terror, reminding us that our fears aren’t as deeply buried as we hope. It shows us that some monsters don’t need shadows to hide in. They walk along the street with us.

The Ratings Manifesto . . . OR Swimming Against a Sea of Mediocrity

2007-05-20T22:41:00.000-04:00

There is a specter haunting Hollywood. Its name is Censorship. And if it continues unabated, the long struggle in the film industry, the battle over whether films should be viewed as an art form or a commodity, will finally be resolved.

Art will not be the victor.

In 1966, the country had reached the wild apex of a decade that was in many ways pure rebellion against all those that preceded it. The Motion Picture Association of America made significant revisions to its Production Code, which had for years drastically limited what filmmakers were allowed to depict in their films. Sex, violence, and foul language in all their irreverent glory flooded into films by the gallon. Portions of the country were horrified.

On All Saints Day, 1968, the MPAA instituted a rudimentary ratings system to alert the public as to what films contained by way of “inappropriate material.” The spectrum was a four-figured scale running G, PG, R, X (now the more consumer-friendly NC-17). And all was well.

Until! In 1983, the public, clamoring for further distinction, asked for a rating to straddle the increasingly hazy middle-ground between PG and R. Well-meaning Stephen Spielberg suggested to then MPAA president Jack Valenti a rating of “PG-13,” which would allow children under 17 to watch by themselves, but alert their parents that there might be some questionable content.

And all was well.

Or so it seemed. But since 1984, the number of PG and— not counting the straight-to-video market— R movies released has decreased dramatically.

So what? What does this have to do with the quality of films?

Well, since 1968, when the rating system was introduced, 24 of the 38 films awarded the Best Picture Oscar have been rated R. Midnight Cowboy, the 1969 Best Picture winner, was rated X.

Three have been PG-13.

The undeniable fact is, R films are able to present a broader, richer example of the human experience, in all its flawed beauty. If—God forbid—our lives were ever given ratings, they would no doubt be stamped with an “R.” (Some really lucky individuals might even earn an “NC-17.”)

But it goes beyond all this.

The fault in these ever-increasing intermediate films is not simply that they’re PG-13, but that their ratings are dictated before they have a chance to blossom, to become the films they should be.

The studios of Hollywood find PG-13 films to be the most profitable, because of the wide range of demographics they can appeal to and reach. As such, many films are cut, re-written, or edited to make them PG-13.

These pre-ordained boundaries serve to sever the creative limits films need to reach their full potential. Not even horror films are immune.

There is hope, however. Some brave films-- comedies such as The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Wedding Crashers, action films like Sin City or Grindhouse, and horror shows like Hostel-- have decided to bear the burden of an R rating. What is more, they’ve become popular, infusing the viewing public with a thirst for more unrestricted fare. And, even further, these films, in reaction to an increasingly lukewarm culture, have set out to “earn the R.”—That’s an industry phrase describing films which, when facing an R-rating, go all-out, guns blazing, pushing the very boundaries of the MPAA code.

The problem Hollywood faces is, as always, the greed of the studios and the reticence of a timid public. If films continue to be boxed in by minds guided solely by profit, then we’ll be left with bland, lifeless, naïve cinema. We’ll be facing a marathon of forced mediocrity.

R-ratings of the World, unite!

New England’s Creative Drive Alive and Well . . . OR Local ‘Zines Add Spice to the Scene

2007-05-20T22:29:00.000-04:00

It’s grey outside. Grey and windy and cold. But that does not deter Patrick Melhurst, 34, seated on a Northampton park bench, from his reading. A gust of wind picks up, ruffling his shaggy blonde hair and tugging incessantly at the publication he holds in his hands. Without taking his eyes from the pages before him, Melhurst simply grips them tighter and goes right on reading.

What could so distract the man from this weather, not at all conducive to a reading break out of doors? When asked, his response is terse.
“Meat for Tea.”

There is little sense in this to the average citizen.

When pressed he releases a protracted sigh and elaborates, “It’s a local literary magazine. Local artists, local writers,” he holds up a CD that was included in the pages, “even local bands.”

He returns to his reading, apparently done with the brief interview.

No, wait, he looks back up for a moment and adds, “Good stuff.”

Ah. Now he is done with the interview. But he has at least stirred up the prospects of a good story.

In the winter of 2006, two educators from Holyoke Community College founded what remains one of the only privately run literary magazines—or “zines” in the tri-county area. It has one simple intention: to recognize and feature the work of the artists, writers, and musicians living in Western Massachusetts.

The two educators are Elizabeth MacDuffie and Alexandra Wagman. The magazine is called Meat for Tea.

“We felt that local artists were long overdue for some honest recognition,” says MacDuffie, “and we wanted to do something about that.”

She is in her office on the highest floor of Holyoke Community’s Donahue Building, seated behind a desk which is almost completely submerged under an ocean of papers. Despite this heavy workload, or perhaps because of it, she wears a broad smile on her face.

“Look at all this,” she says, making a broad sweeping gesture at the clutter.—So confident is the motion that one half-expects the paper sea to part as though she were some modern day Moses. – “All of this is from people right here in the Pioneer Valley. Artists, authors, musicians, poets. This place has so much talent. You’d have to be blind not to see it.”

The idea for a local literary mag was hatched, so the story goes, during the commute to the college.

“I was driving in the car with Elizabeth early one morning when it dawned on me that there wasn't a local literary ‘zine,” co-editor Alex Wagman recalls. “By the time we got to campus, it was pretty much decided.”

The dynamic duo immediately started gathering financial support from the community, a process which carried on with satisfactory smoothness.

“I owe that to Elizabeth,” Wagman says, “she's fearless, positive, and persuasive. We walked door to door visiting businesses in Northampton. If it were up to me, I pr

With the donations of local establishments, and a grant from the Northampton Arts Council, the two had the resources necessary to set the project in motion.

Production did not go as smoothly, however. After a stress-filled week collaborating with an outside party, Wagman and MacDuffie decided to design the issues themselves, with help from an intern from HCC, Emma Donnelly.

And, despite the pressures of their careers as professors and the natural lag in inspiration that comes with pursuing a project at length, the two have launched issue after issue into the surrounding towns like so many literary torpedoes, all reflecting themes derived from the ‘zine’s odd title. – The name itself came about after MacDuffie received a misspelled message online, asking if she would like to “meat for tea.”

Since its first issue, “Gristle,” hit the stands in the winter of last year, MacDuffie and Wagman have released five issues in total, an issue for each season.

This year’s spring issue is due out Sunday, May 20th, and with it comes further ventures of the blooming mag’, including concerts by local bands booked by Meat for Tea, writing workshops, and even a fashion show.

While Meat for Tea is possibly the only privately run ‘zine in the Pioneer Valley, it shares the scene with numerous collegiate periodicals, one such being Pulp City, the literary magazine produced at Holyoke Community College.

Pulp City’s faculty advisor, professor Dave Champoux— an occasional contributor to Meat for Tea—sits in his office, face stretched in a beaming smile, eyes twinkling good-naturedly. It’s not every day he gets interviewed on a topic about which he feels so passionately, and he talks freely of his six years with Pulp City and all the triumphs the magazine has achieved.

Soon, however, he becomes a little less cheerful.

“Creative writing doesn’t get nearly enough attention,” he laments.

Champoux feels that the rich tapestry of creative writing is struggling to find a niche in the Valley. Still, Thanks to the efforts of people like him, its struggle is made a little less daunting.

“It’s all getting easier,” Champoux says, referring not only to Pulp City’s production, but finding acceptance and appreciation of creative writing in general. “And the magazines always come out great.”

To coincide with the Pulp City, Champoux has organized poetry slams, fiction composition contests, and even has plans for joint ventures with the school’s drama club and radio station.

Certainly, there is a lot involved in publication, and not all of it is easy.

There are many obstacles inherent in ‘zine production, Champoux admits, and while, “I could say the usual things of deadlines and last minute mishaps,” the real problem is in finding the talent.

Luckily for the incorrigible pair of Wagman and MacDuffie, that problem has never arisen. MacDuffie attributes the constant flow of submissions to the environment, specifically the abundance of local colleges. “Yes, we found a niche, a population of creative people,” she says, “musicians, artists, writers.”

Contributions come from all directions it seems, via mail, internet, or word of mouth. The only criterion for submission is creativity.

And so, taking advantage of the rich milieu of talent the Pioneer Valley provides, Meat for Tea has continued to grow in circulation, now reaching as far as Brattleboro.

“We aim to grow in all directions,” Wagman says, becoming really serious for what may be the first time during the interview. Earlier this year, Meat for Tea launched a website and is looking into merchandizing as well.

What does the future hold for Meat for Tea and, in a broader sense, the emergence of creative writing in the area? Looking back on the rich history of literature in New England, one notes with interest, and, perhaps, hope, that Amherst, one of the towns in which Meat for Tea is widely read, was once home to esteemed poetess Emily Dickinson. Many New Englanders feel that such creative brilliance is still alive and well.

Echoing the sentiments of MacDuffie and Champoux, Wagman says, “We’re slowly beginning to fill a niche in the Valley. These things take time, I believe.”

She would no doubt be heartened by something her colleague, Champoux, likes to say: “Creative writing, it’s the kind of thing that sticks with you.”

Were this published anywhere, I would include this information in a sidebar, as squeezing it into the text would seem cumbersome. Where can people purchase Meat for Tea ?

Room Don 370 at HCC, where the English Dept. is housed.

Also at:

Broadside Books - Northampton
Faces - Northampton
Pinch - Northampton
Halfmoon Books - Northampton
Food for Thought - Amherst

Submissions are welcome and can be sent to MeatforTea@hotmail.com

Lady Cougars: 2007 NJCAA Women’s Basketball Regional Champs

2007-05-20T22:20:00.000-04:00

With a flurry of crisp passes and outside shooting, Holyoke Community’s own unbeatable Lady Cougars grabbed the title Massachusetts Community College Women’s Basketball Champions.

HCC hosted the two-day tournament at the Bartley Center.

Four colleges were in attendance: Bunker Hill and Quinsigamond Community Colleges from out east, UConn at Avery Point, our Connecticut neighbors to the south, and, of course, Holyoke Community.

The HCC ladies scored and early victory over UConn’s Pointers on the first day of the tournament. The score stood 47 to 36 in favor of the Cougars after a fairly rough game. The foul count was in the double-digits, both teams being fierce competitors. Amanda Czerwiec, number 22, of Easthampton, was particularly ferocious, shouting and swatting at the members of the other team. Thanks to this aggressive strategy, and some astounding rebounds courtesy of number 32, Dominique Finkley, also of Easthampton, HCC prevailed and moved on to the second round.

Their second match, this one against Quinsigamond’s Lady Chiefs, was fairly one-sided, reaching 31 to 18, Cougars, by halftime. After protracted exhibition of their competent defense, the Cougars cinched the win. The final score was 57-38, solidly assuring the ladies’ title as NJCAA Regional Champs. Their record for the season was an unbelievable 19-3.

What did the ladies think about their stunning display?

“I’m thrilled now,” says Holyoke native Stefany Bushley, “but when we were playing we didn’t really think about how close we were. We just focused on the game.”

A wise strategy, it would seem.

This victory came as a particular triumph for Head Coach Al Wolejko.

“We used to sit in those seats,” he says, indicating the bleachers at the Bartley Center
Gymnasium, “and watch other people take the title. This year it was our turn.”

Indeed, the year has been a stunning one for HCC women’s athletics in general. The Lady Cougars soccer squad took home the New England Championship title as well, ending their season with a 14-5-1 record.

Perhaps this year’s most promising young player, sophomore Rachel Colby, was on both the soccer and basketball teams. She was named to the All-American Team for her soccer-field performance as team captain and high scorer.

Wolejko attributes the win to a combination of factors, mostly the ladies’ positive attitude. Humble to a fault, he takes little credit for the team’s success.

“Everybody shares in the victory,” he says, looking proudly on his Cougars.

And yes, in the wake of the glory brought home by both soccer and basketball teams, the school stands a little taller.

We do all share in the victory.

Some preliminaries

2007-05-01T12:58:00.001-04:00

Not too many this time, chaps.

I only wish to add that the subject of Dan has surfaced before on my blog.

You may find it here: http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004/06/double-send-off_29.html#comments

I wish you all fair reading and foul play.

Danimaniacs . . . (Alternate title: A Jerk in Progress)

2007-05-01T12:57:00.000-04:00

(That "Jerk" part refers to me)

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph length.)

All right.
Let’s us two get down to brass tacks.
Let’s us two ride the gauntlet together, eh?
. . .

Fuck.

I am – for what may well be the next time—at a loss for words.
I want you all to know I was coerced—
Nay! Pressured!
Nay! Extorted, entreated, and tricked into even taking up this mad quest.

What mad quest?
Shut up, stupid.
Why, the maddest quest of them all.
That most undefeatable of windmills:

Trying to encapsulate into mere words how awesome is Dan McLaughlin.

. . .

I know, right?
I need a drink.

. . .

*returns five minutes later with a glass of milk . . . laced with arsenic.*
*sips*

Aahh.

Jus’ like ma usedta make.

But now no more stalling.
Here we goooooo . . .

Dan is annoying.

Okay. Bad st—off to a bad start.

Nah. He’s not really.
I just think he is.
Bastard.

Okay, really now.

Dan’s great.
You’re fuckin’ great.

Hard to break it down more than that, especially for a simple white boy like me. We can’t break it down at all. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to do so.

Let’s start with the obvious qualities and then move on to the more abstract.
You’re smart.
In a tactical, pragmatic sense, but also in a contemplative, almost spiritual sense as well.
You’re physically capable.
Not that that is a mark of a good friend, or a good person, but the fact that you’re capable and humble about it, unlike some people I know who might be feeble but boastful, means a lot.
I guess that gets at one thing I love about you: Your sense of . . . hmm . . . dignity, let’s say? You’re hardly ever boastful or ostentatious. But you’re not timid, either.
I remember one occasion; we were walking with some girls in the rain. Normally I would shamble out some question, “W-would any of you like m-my coat?”
(This is the wrong thing to do with women, I’ve noticed. You must force chivalry upon them.)
And so you did.
You simply took off your over-shirt and draped it across a girl’s shoulders and then went on about your business. You didn’t make a show of it, but you acted swiftly and competently. And that makes up one half of you: Capable and competent, but never presumptuous or conspicuous.

The other half is joyously loony and theatrical, but in a more self-aware, self-deprecating way. You’re amiable and chatty and sometimes downright nuts. At times you verge on being whimsical.
We’re all good in our own way at random, nonsense humor, but you’re the only one I know who can keep it up indefinitely with a straight face.
You have a spirit of adventure second to none.

Now, you fuse these two halves together like the lost pieces of a mystical golden amulet and voila, you get Dan: An individual with a very unique outlook on life, who’s almost always fun to be around (so long as you don’t piss him off—he kicks hard.)
Someone who’s always there for his friends and eternally forgiving when they’re clueless enough clods to not be there for him. (Thanks again, by the way.)

*addressing the group*

Dan here is the only guy who kept reading my blog. You realize that?
. . .
Actually, in that case, there is no group to address.

*turns back to Dan*

So, you got this guy who’s equal parts realist and romanticist; lover and fighter, authority and rebel. He never let’s ya down, he’s never harsh or mean to you. That’s another thing here, sidenote. Unlike nearly everybody else I know, Dan is never mean to me. Tony is very big on this nonsense called “tough love,” and dishes it out liberally. Andrew is careless with his words. Caitlin is unconcerned with the effects of hers. Brendan is downright cruel sometimes.
But you’ve always been nice to me Dan.

Anyway, ya got this guy, and you’re thinkin’ to yerself, what could possible make him better?
And I tell you.
He likes comic books!

Yes indeed. You like everything from The Watchmen to . . . *shudders* Ultimate Spiderman, and I love you for that. I love comic books. I think I love them more than anyone else I know. But guys like me, Tony, and definitely Pawel, are snobbish and discriminatory. You appreciate the value in all comic books. I think that’s a fine quality.

Yes. And it is perhaps because of your unique fusion that you’re capable of taking reasonable (usually) but nonetheless emotional stances on topics from pop culture to genocide.
The more intellectual part of you sometimes hides the visceral under a steely façade, but I know it’s still there. I know you can’t detach yourself completely. I think that might be one of your greatest strengths. Semi-detachment.

So what’s bad?
Well, you do seem overly harsh on some issues sometimes (almost to the point of scaring me.)
And arguing with you is like ramming an ice cube up my ass and running around in circles. If the object of debating was to turn your opponent into a gibbering mess then you’d win every debate match ever.
You coulda successfully defended Charlie Manson or convicted Rosa Parks, I think.

So you’re like a simple chemical compound, say, mixing hydrogen and oxygen. Separate, to fine elements. Together, much greater than the sum of its parts, with properties that still manage to stun and amaze.
And, of course, bring life.

So, as I’m verging on the precipice of sappy, I’ll cut off here.
I love ya, buddy, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.

02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you

The Terminator. Oddly enough, I can see you as both Michael Biehn’s heroic character from the first film, or as Robert Patrick’s inhuman murderer from the second.
Desperado. Just watched this one today, and I was reminded of you for some reason. Maybe it’s your Latin flair for the dramatic.
Harry Potter. More the books than the movies, but you’ve certainly cast a spell on me, nonetheless. (It’s hard to be both gay and lame all at once, but I find I pull it off quite nicely.)
Batman Begins. ‘Nuff said.
The Nero Wolfe mysteries from A&E. You’re very much like Archie Goodwin.
Goldeneye. I see you as the Trevelyan type.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (every one of them, but mostly the new, animated feature.)
Jurassic Park
Independence Day (I hope one day aliens invade, just so you can give that Bill Pullman presidential speech before you fly off to kick their asses. Also because I’m tired of the White House.)

Songs?
Well, anything classical rendered by electric instruments.
TSO, baby!

Also:

Captain America, by Jimmy Buffett
Don’t Mess Around with Slim, by Jim Croce
The Mob Song, from Beauty and the Beast
Northbound Train and, even more so, By the Sword/Sons of Dixie from The Civil War: The Musical
Any song performed by a Muppet

I think of you when I hear any bombastic, trumpeting show tune. Also, the James Bond theme.

Mike Doughty song:

Super Bon Bon.

03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be:

Okay, okay. I can do this one, I think.
It’s summer time.
Night.
Hot, humid, electric.
Late.
Almost dawn.
One finds oneself strung out from a night of sugar and shenanigans, wild-eyed and not the least bit sleepy.
What shall we do?
Find someone, pick a fight with them, and pretend we’re super heroes, of course.

You’re 3:45 AM on July 5th. The air is still tangy with the smell of gunpowder and ozone. It’s madness to be awake and cavorting at this hour, but it’s a welcome sort of madness. A madness that makes one feel complete. Whole. Home.

Let’s rock.

(Hurry the fuck up and get home, huh, soldier boy?)

04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)

Brave is kinda a bland word, ain’t it? So I’ll skip that one for now.
Determined and capable also come to mind.
But, let’s see now, surely we can do better.
Loyal? For I have never known you to turn your back on a friend, though you have been harshly betrayed many a time.
Astute? Unflinching?
Intelligent?
Bah! This is getting us nowhere.
I’ma go with decent. Yes. I know it’s bland, but it pretty much sums you up. You are one of the few completely decent human beings I have ever known. In every sense, you are above moral reproach.
Essept for what you did with that underage hooker. Gave me nightmares for a week.
. . .
No! Wait, that was me.
Sorry.
Haha
Good times.

05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.

Well, I gotta say, the parking lot brawl in front of Cinemark ranks highly among my most memorable moments, period. I wish we had dragged it out a bit more, though. I think if we had been watching an action movie instead of a comedy the fight woulda been more all-out.
Yes. If I had to pick, I’d choose that one and one other.
All the time we spent exploring St. Hyacinth during The Clearing rehearsals. From the basements to the roof, swiping keys, stealin’ pencils, blinding each other with the spotlight . . .
*heaves a heavy sigh*
Man, I miss you, buddy.

06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.

Tiger shark.
Lemur.
Heron.

(Tell me that that combination makes any sense at all.)

Dog:

Doberman Pinscher. Slightly militaristic, fierce in a fight, but, like all dogs, cuddly.

07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.

I suppose I sometimes wonder (not always, sometimes) just how serious your plans for ascension in the government actually are. I realize some of it’s pure conjecture. Hypothetical musings on what you’d do if –
But if anyone I know has the chops necessary to become El Presidente, it’s definitely you.

What else I wonder, you ax?
I wonder if your bi.
Sometimes, you look at me, and . . . your lip quivers . . . and I can tell.
Or, remember that game we played in the backseat of someone’s car once? When we ended up grabbing each others’ sacks? “Nervous” you called it.
Was I sworn to secrecy on that?
Hey, I won’t lie.
I see you sometimes and I think about it. Y’know. Hot man on man action.

08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.

Dark blue.
Robin’s egg blue.
Khaki/olive.
Cream.
Gold. (The kind with two guys. Oh, shit. It’s pretty obvious what this one means, huh?)
Mustard. (Has one.)
Rust. (Offered me one once.)

09. I will describe my ideal day with you.

I’m striding briskly down a tiled hallway that looks as though it’s been chiseled though solid rock.
It has.
I’m in a bunker, concealed within a mountain in the northern Appalachians.
Before me, a pair of brushed steel doors slide open with a hiss a second before I reach them.
I enter a massive room with a vaulted ceiling. All around are holographic maps, digital displays, conference tables, and weapon racks.
You stand, palms flat on one such table, leaning your weight on your outstretched arms, surveying a radar screen. You look up as I enter, and your grim expression momentarily lightens, then returns.
You straighten up and give me a nod.
“What’s the report?”
“News from the satellites, Mr. President. It appears the alien armada has returned. They disappeared behind the moon, but have slingshot back around and are headed right for here.”
You roll your sleeves back down and button the cuffs, then sling a heavy green commander’s jacket over your broad shoulders. The epaulets and medals glitter in the light from the halogen bulbs overhead, and match the gleam in your eye.
“Prepare my fighter jet,” you say to an aide, and hen turn back to me.
“Suit up, Sundance, we’re goin’ for a ride.”

Your shuttle jet has a sophisticated cloaking mechanism that makes the aliens believe it’s one of their own. The mother ship lets us in without a fuss, and in so doing seal their fate.
Out of the hatch leap you, me, and an able crew of the meanest Marines available. Also, Sam.
“Troops,” you say to them, “Make me proud. Take out communications and weaponry, and rendezvous back here at o’ eight-hundred.
“Sam—,” but Sam is already gone. Off in the distance we hear a riotous explosion followed by the deadly buzzing of laser fire and Sam’s maniacal laughter.
You look at me.
‘Rich, you an’ I got a date with destiny,” you say grimly.
“I’ll bring the roofies!” I reply.

The alien overlord takes up a space about eight feet by five. He glares at us with his seven eyes and clicks his mandibles furiously.
Raising his battle saber, he charges.
Never one to back down, you charge, too.
I, meanwhile, am momentarily distracted by one of his harem. She’s six feet tall, slim and curvy, with long flowing tendrils. I gaze into as many of her sea-green eyes as possible. And what a rack! Check that, two racks!

“Rich!” you call after being hurled across the room by a fist the size of a basketball, “Lil’ help here?”
“My hands are full at the moment,” I say, and I speak the truth.

I manage to tear myself away—no small feat, considering two of her four arms have powerful suction cups (for which I was most desirous to find new uses)—and come racing across the room. I throw myself onto Overlord Dralkraxx’s vast and spike-ed back and begin punching him in the back of his bulbous head.
He howls and shakes me off violently. I go flying across the room and land on a pile of gelatinous eggs.
Disgusting, yes, but they did break my fall.

You’ve stolen one of Dralkraxx’s huge daggers, which you hold in two hands like a war sword. Now you and the Overlord slash and hack at each other, Pynomian alloy clanging a tuneless song in the cavernous throne room.
You dodge a thrust and move in close, too close for his saber to be of any use. You grapple with the giant for a few tense moments, teeth gritted and eyes wild. He catches you with a right hook—using both right fists, the brute—and you roll across the floor and collide with the far wall.
He slithers toward you, leaving a trail of noxious slime.
His two mouths twist into a freakish and horrifying insectoid grin.
“You have come so far only to fail now,” he chuckles, making a sound like a bag of wombats being ground into paste in a rusty cement mixer. “You humans are a foolish race. Your bravado only puts you into greater peril. With your death, the Earth will be mine.”
Lying on the floor, propped up on your elbows, you stare unflinchingly into the monster’s face. You drag your knuckles across your lips, wiping away some blood, and your bruised but handsome visage lights up in a savage grin.
“We are characterized by our bravado, you alien scum, but I tell you now it is rarely used foolishly.”
Then you hold up the punch line to your little joke, a detonator. While you were struggling with him, you slipped something into his jeweled belt.
Dralkraxx whips his gaze down in horror to the blinking grenade on his hip. He reaches for it—too late!
“The Earth will never be yours!” you say.
You ram your thumb down on the button. We’re both deafened by a distinctly wet-sounding blast and for a moment the whole room is whited out in the glare of the explosion. We’re both hurled backward, you not so far, as you’re against the wall, anyway.
Then the entrails of the fallen villain hit us like a warm, stinking rain.
I wipe crud out of my eyes and look around for you.
You’re getting shakily to your feet at the far side of the room, also covered in blood and gore and slime.
You see me and give me a dashing wink, then a thumbs up.
We meet over the bubbling pile that was once the most feared warlord in the twelve galaxies.
“Rest in pieces, Dralky,” I quip.
“Beat me to it,” you say.
And, supporting each other like two old warriors, we stumble out of the throne room and back to your ship.

Behind us, as we head back to Earth, the mother ship and then the rest of the fleet explode in a neon blaze. Sam bursts out laughing, pleased with his handiwork.

Back on our home soil, we’re standing on a balcony overlooking the Bush monument (a marble rendering of the Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil monkeys, all with Dubya’s grinning face.
You’re behind a podium, before a crowd 2 million strong. I’m standing to your right, slightly behind.
You cover the mic with one hand and tap me on the shoulder with the other.
The first lady is wearing a tight violet dress and I have to forcibly I tear my eyes away from her purple mountains majesty.
You give me another smile. Given the cuts an bruises on your somehow still regal face, it must hurt like hell, but you don’t show it. Your eyes are weary but content.
“This is my favorite part of the job,” say quietly.
“Better than blowing up alien warlords or romping through Charlotte’s (the F.L) fruited plain?”
“Yes, I like it even more than that.” Your grey eyes survey the multitude. “There’s nothing like giving my country-men and -women some good news.”
Your hand slips off the mic and you begin your speech in your famous stentorian roar.
“My fellow Americans,” you yell over the silent crowd, “victory!”
The cheers are deafening. Fists clutching American flags (thirteen stripes, 73 stars) beat the air. Pennants wave, whistles tear through the clamor, as a mighty bellow of love and triumph rips from the throats of two million citizens. Even Pawel, in his (as he requested) dimly lit cell, hears the cheer and pauses in his furious scribbling of his seventh guide to revolution to smile.
As the jets scream by overhead, painting the dusky sky with red, white, and blue stripes, I close my eyes and think about the future. Thanks to our President, we have one.

. . .

Or, something of that nature.

10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

Michael Biehn, a lil’ bit.
Watch Tombstone and ya might get it.
If not him, Joaquin de Almeida.
Watch 24 and ya might get it.
But, beyond those two: Sean Bean. Definitely.

Some Preliminaries

2007-04-10T05:25:00.000-04:00

Fuck 'em.

On to the main event!

A Piece of that Kit Kat

2007-04-10T04:56:00.000-04:00

Caitlin

(Touched upon previously in http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004/10/lyrical-post.html. I apologize for how godawfully long my posts were back then. Still, have a look if you care to. I wrote it, so it's bound to be fairly amazing.)

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph in length.)

Cait, you are unique among my friends for a number of reasons. For one, you’re a girl.
I cannot say definitively that I have one best friend. I would probably say I have between 3 and 5. But among those special few, you’re the only female. I know a lot of liberal hacks big on being gender blind would ask me here what difference your sex makes in all of this. Maybe it is meaningless.
Not for me, though. Many people I know hold strong to a belief that boys and girls can’t be “just friends.” They might argue it's because of biology or societal constraints, but they don’t think a relationship like ours can exist.
I am happy to prove them wrong, and very lucky to be able to prove them wrong with you.

Aside from the obvious features inherent on your being of the female persuasion, you are different from my other best friends in several other ways.
For one, your tastes in entertainment are the most varied. Well, perhaps “varied” isn’t quite right. But your tastes are the most distinctive, I would have to say. There is less overlap between your favorite movies and music and any one else's than there is between any two other friends of mine. I appreciate anything that differs from the norm, and so for this reason, too, you are special.

Your tastes are a reflection of your personality, which is similarly unique. I’ve addressed this before, but I am constantly amazed and delighted by the number of seeming contradictions you contain.
You’re unimpressed by feminists, yet are a strong, independent, capable woman.
You’re an occasionally girly-girl who doesn’t feel she has to like the color pink or draw pictures of rainbows and ponies.
You can be dainty and feminine and still cheer heartily at a football game or trade dirty jokes.

Speaking of which, I feel that, out of all my friends, I can build up the best banter with you.
Since I toned down my perversions, and you toned up your tolerance, we can establish a rapport that’s stronger and funnier than any I’ve ever experienced.
Part of this is owed to the fact that you’re just so darned funny.
I’ve covered this before, too, but girls are, as a general rule, not funny. You manage to have one of the best senses of humor of anyone I know, despite this handicap. Also keep in mind that I know some pretty funny people.
You’re one of the only folks I know who can genuinely and consistently make me laugh.

You have a flair and a style all your own. A complex amalgamation of punk rock, hip-hop, European tradition, Caribbean breezes, Rockwell Americana, shiny leather and white cotton. It’s at once as flashy and bizarre as a heavy golden necklace, and as sensible and real as a crisp, clean sheet of painter’s canvas.

You’re my only best friend with any real artistic talent, which you happen to have in spades.

You are in many ways, the coolest person I know.

What don’t I like about you?
There is very little.
I will never not be enraged by your refusal to try different foods. For, gourmand though you might be, you appreciate only a small array of meals. And though you might be a skilled painter, when it comes to dining, you have the most limited palette of anyone I have ever met. (Play on words. Har-har.)
Also, you can be a little materialistic at times.
And you dwell too much on celebrity crushes for my liking. But maybe it’s just because I don’t have any celebrity crushes of my own that your dotage over Damon seems so excessive.

I call you materialistic, but I would never call you superficial. In many ways, I admire your desire for material things. For status symbols and luxury items. You’re unabashedly materialistic. Not in an overwhelming way. You know what you like and what you want, and you don’t try to hide it. You're certainly not a hypocrite. You stick to your guns and I admire you for that. And you never let yourself get carried away by material desires.

And, speaking of sticking to your guns, about your personal beliefs you are assured and unwavering. You don’t go out of your way to indoctrinate others, but you hold fast to your own beliefs and defend them courageously and competently when questioned.

I consider you to be the one person I can always turn to for help or guidance or just a pat on the back. I don’t know what I would do if I lost that openness, that thoughtful advice, or that shoulder to cry on.

Gosh.
What else can I say about you?
You’re kind and conscious, but never oppressively doting.
You’re a free-thinker and a religious human being.
You’re funny and beautiful and a joy to be around.
And your laugh reassures me that life is worth living.

I love you for all of these reasons, Cait, but they only separate into distinct categories and qualities when I stop and think hard about you. When I’m around you, they all kind of blend together into a glorious kind of kaleidoscope that is you.

I remind myself daily how lucky I am to know you.

02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you.

Oh, shucks.
In the very last reverse quiz, Andrew’s, I stated that Andrew—film and music connoisseur with sharper tastes than any other— would be paying rapt attention to this section in particular. I was so overwhelmed with pressure from the task of picking songs and movies that remind me of him that I forgot the one other friend who may be as, if not more, sensitive to the songs and cinema I associate with her.
That friend is you, Caitlin.
You have your pretty, dexterous fingers on the pulse of pop culture and entertainment. You have finely-tuned and singular tastes. You’re really the type of person this section was designed for.
So, it is with mixed trepidation and joy that I list the following:

Songs:

To start things off, let’s be a little inappropriate.

Bed, by Semisonic.
See if you can follow my thinking here.

Well show me a friendship that's pure and chaste
And I'll show you and engine that's dying to race.
Well the time has come for me to find
Another way to get my soul fed.
I know we could be the sweetest friends,
But if that's where it ends
Then I'll find someone else to bed.

Well the time has come for me
To take care of myself instead.
You know if we remain
On a spiritual plane
I will go insane.
Don't make me find someone else to bed.
Bed
Find someone
Find someone else to bed

Also, continuing in the theme, but with a more serious note, you remind me of the song Gravity, by The North LaBrea All Star Conquistadors

No, no, no. I’m going about this all wrong.
You see, I think the best way to list these, Cait, would be to chop you into pieces.
Not literally, of course. That wouldn’t help at all.
What I mean is, break up the components of your personality and list songs and movies according to them.
So!

There’s bad ass, gangsta Cait:

I think of you when I hear anything by Eminem or other respectable rappers. Specifically White America and Square Dance, and Loose Yourself.
Also, if I ever see 8 Mile, I’m sure it will make me think of you.
Beyond that, if ever I see a movie that has anything to do with gangs or Dee-troit or gats or pimps or ho’s, if I think of any friend at all, it’ll be you.
But not just “ganstas.” Also, “gangsters.”
How could I not think of you while watching The Godfather? Or when listening to Italian Dinner Music?

There’s bad ass, espionage agent Cait:

You make me think of the Mission Impossible theme, and the second sequel to that movie.
Also, I think of you when I watch Alias or The Bourne films.

There’s Pirate Cait:

I think of you (thought of you tonight, actually) while watching Pirates of the Caribbean. (Just the first one, though. I don’t want to insult you by linking you to that garbage heap of a sequel.)
And the Muppet Treasure Island.
Plus, the sweeping, swashbuckling music from the former and the goofy songs, especially “Cabin Fever,” from the latter.

That moves us nicely into silly Cait:

I think of you when I see any Muppet in any form (and also when I see some of the cuter Fraggles.)
I think of you when I hear “Push it Good,” by Salt n’ Peppa, or Fat and Couch Potato by Weird Al.
Not because you are a fat couch potato. Quite the opposite. You’re a smoking hot couch potato. But Fat is arguably Weird Al’s best song, and so full of funny, silly lines that I can easily picture you laughing hysterically at it..

I think of you when I see anything Disney, especially Disney TV.

There’s a more vulnerable Cait:

The song Story of a Girl reminds me of you in a melancholy way.

There’s independent woman Cait:

I think of her when I see films like The Devil Wears Prada, or hear songs like “Gotta Be,” by Des’ree or “Suddenly I See,” by K.T. Tunstall.
I think this fits in here, too:
Though you have never seen it, I am reminded of you when I see Entourage.

Lastly, there’s Classics Cait:

The one that appreciates black and white film and looks so good in those fluffy, 50’s cardigans.
I think of this Cait when I see Cary Grant get chased by the plane in North by Northwest, or when I see Jimmy Stewart talk to an invisible rabbit in Harvey.

Mike Doughty song:

White Girl?
Either that or “Madeline and Nine,” but I don’t really feel that way any more.
Oh! Screenwriter’s Blues. Fo’ sho’.

Oh! And one last addition. How could I forget?

This song will always remind me of you:

Now he’s Phil,
Pheh-ill
Of the Future,
He’s a 22nd Century man!

03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be...

This was a tricky one.
At first I thought early in the morning, because of your boundless, sometimes annoying, almost other-worldly energy. But then I realized you weren’t a morning person, and the rise ‘n’ shine, dewdrops, birds twittering scene wasn’t right for you.
So then I thought late-nite, because of your sense of adventure, your love of danger, espionage, and mystery, and all the midnight capers we've gone on. But, no, that wasn’t quite right, either. It takes something . . .dark and slightly unhinged to merit late-nite hours, and, as you’re never dark and only occasionally unhinged, I vetoed night time, too.
Then I thought, what does Caitlin really love? What does she know a bit about and care a good deal for? If a line had to be drawn, what would Cait refuse to be parted with?
Then it hit me.
Food!
You’re dinner-time, Cait.
But not just, like, 6 or 7, American family supper time kinda thing.
Oh, no!
You’re 5 until 11. You’re lavish banquets and candlelit dinners and European flair.
Early-to-late evening.
I can’t pick a season, though I’m thinking late Spring, when the colt that is the vernal months is almost steady on its feet enough to gallop into the fields of Summer. The trees have filled in. In the air there is the tingling, electric feel that follows a rain storm. The rain has left the grass so green it almost hums in the approaching twilight.
And the city streets—for this is indeed in a bright, beautiful city—are dampened and shimmering in the fading light.
People in glorious eveningwear, men strutting about in the black right-angles of their tuxedoes, women swishing and swaying in their colored gowns like walking liquid.
Forks cling and clang on plates. Crystal glasses are filled with wine and raised in toast.
The babble of sophisticated conversation brings to mind an image of a sparkling, clean brook tumbling gracefully over rocks.
Chandelier light glints off jewelry and whitened teeth.
All of this, regardless of day or year I think of when I think of you.

04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)

Ooo. Tricky one.
(I think this is the third one I've said would be "tricky." I need a better thesaurus.)
I know you too well for settle for either “cute” or quirky.”
“Discriminating” is another choice. That one makes me smile ruefully, thinking of you agonizing over choices on a menu, and settling on your old standards.
You remind me of glass a good deal. Glass is hard and strong and, simultaneously, easily shattered. But I cannot think of one word to sum that up. Moreover, you’re not nearly as transparent as glass, as I learned the hard way.
I also really wanna say “special,” but that brings to mind images of handicap ramps, helmets, and camps in which you learn how to tie your shoes.
You also remind me of a rose, hokey as that sounds. Beautiful, idolized, but capable of giving a nasty cut if not handled with care and respect.
Truth be told, I’m at a loss here.
Resilience, imagination, talent . . . all fail to provide the whole picture.
Fierce, kinetic, independent.
I can’t do it.
. . .
I think I’m gonna settle on “jive.”
Jive as in crazy talk. Jive as in trickery and mischief. Jive as in funk and soul and drive and movement. Jive as in style. Jive, to flow, to follow, to break away. To lead.
It’s an odd choice, but an apt one, I feel.

05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.

Whew. I will do my best to keep you all abreast of the topic cupped in my hand, and try not to make a boob of myself. This might be tit.
Tough!
That is to say, it might be tough.
Okay.
Let’s do the “bad news” first.
By “bad news” I mean “bad times.”
I remember distinctly that time at Tony’s that I enraged you to such a degree that it took the combined strength of Tony, Will, and Pawel to keep you from tearing my eye-lids off and beating me to death with them.
I wasn’t always this erudite, chivalric knight you picture in your head when you think of me. There was a time not so long ago that I was quite a cad.

Moving from “all bad” to “partly bad,” the times I’ve traveled somewhere with you have been most memorable. Disney World was first. That was a memorable experience in an off itself, but the times with you were mostly splendid. The day we spent traversing the park in the rain, riding every rollercoaster we could find will always hold a special place in my heart. The dinner at the hotel restaurant and the (hopefully) gay waiter. The mono-rail rides, complete with breathtaking vistas of the park and the threat of the fearsome squentas.
I also recall our goodbye. Slightly strained. Slightly awkward. Civil, friendly enough, I suppose, but . . . off nonetheless.
And I recall my slightly surreal, though oddly comforting, introspective walk back to my hotel room. The music of the park a mere background noise as I pondered existence and gazed at the warm lights and empty streets.
. . .
Aaah. Memories.
. . .
Oh, yeah. And card games, swimming games, brownie baking and everything else that went right with Michigan.

I will also always remember our car talks. It seemed every time I’d drop you off at home we’d spend what felt like hours (in a good way) just sitting the car and talking. I would occasionally scare myself by thinking that your mom thought we were fooling around.

Our various moments at Friendly’s, and Friendly’s in particular, are dear to me.

I think the least memorable moments, oddly enough, are the regular times. Just you and me, going to the movies, having dinner, that kind of thing. I’m certain we did all that, just the two of us, that is, but I can’t clearly remember one single time. I’m inclined to think we were both funny and charming, though.

06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.

A bird. Well, actually, many birds.
A chickadee. A sparrow. A swallow.
An osprey. An owl.
A kookaburra.

Also, an ocelot. Pretty, quirky, slinking through the jungle.

Dog:
I’d get slapped if I said Chihuahua, right?
Tempting as that is, I’ll refrain.

A collie, maybe? A playful, capable, staunch defender of friends. But also something more regal, like King Charles Spaniel. Or, though it doesn't match you the least bit physically, a Neapolitan Mastiff.

07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.

This sounds like an unforgivable cop-out, but the only thing I’ve ever really wondered about you I found out already.
We’ve never had trouble opening up to one another, so there is little left over from our long talks that I could actually wonder about.
I mean, sure, I wonder what you look like nekkid, but I have my writer’s imagination and my thorough knowledge of anatomy, so it’s far from a daunting puzzle.
I suppose if I wondered anything, it would be about the future.
Our friendship has changed more, I think, and spanned less time, than any other of my relationships that I can think of. So, I just wonder sometimes where we’ll be in 5 years, or 10. Will we still be close? Will I have done something to annoy you to such an extent that you refuse to see me? Will we be a crime-fighting team?
With other friends, I don’t see much change happening. But with you, the possibilities are numerous.

08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.

Navy, dark blue
Medium blue
Khaki/olive drab
Lime green
Pale yellow
Beige
Plastic fork

09. I will describe my ideal day with you.

The sun rises over L.A., painting the smog-choked sky in rich hues of scarlet and gold.
Exterior shot of our apartment—a lovely place we co-habit which lies above an old cinema.
The alarm clock by the bed begins to chime shrilly.
You'd nudge me in the ribs and whisper in my ear, almost nibbling, "Honey, shut that thing off. I'm still sleepy."
I grudgingly comply and reach to silence the siren. Unfortunately, the pesky mechanical devil is out of reach, and we have to get up. We stagger about a bit, naked and stretching, and finally fall back upon the bed, ravenously ravaging each other, too overcome by passion to turn the alarm off.

Over in your room, you lie in bed listening to the muffled, but still annoying, bleat of the alarm.
After fifteen minutes of waiting for me to turn it off, you get up and enter my room. I am apparently still asleep and in the middle of some weird dream. Based on my movements and roving tongue, you'd guess I was dreaming about wrestling a giant ice cream cone. You try not to think about about what else it could be.
You sigh and shut the alarm clock off for me. As soon as the ringing stops, my eyelids pop open.
I tumble out of bed, landing at your slipper-clad feet.
“Long day ahead of us,” you remark, amused. “And we won’t get very much done with you lying there on the floor.”
“A valid point,” I admit, hoisting myself up and looking you squarely in the eye. I slam a fist into my open palm decisively, managing a degree of austerity despite the fact that I’m naked as a jay bird. “Now! What’s for breakfast?”
I whip us up some steak and eggs for, and we discuss what lies in store for us that day.
“We’ve got to be on the set for ten,” you tell me, checking an itinerary. The set you refer to is, of course, for the film Crossing Swords, a comedy adventure about pirates, which I co-wrote and have a small part in, and for which you are handling the set design.
“Hopefully the director will be able to speed us out of there before ten p.m. today,” I say, glancing at another, much different itinerary, “because it seems the Chinese consulate is the target of a Triad assassination plot. The boss wants us to intercede on his behalf and shut down the Triad’s South Central operations while we’re at it.
You sip you orange juice and say, “Ah, the busy lives of secret agents.”

So there you have it: We’re minor but successful cogs in the film industry by day, purveyors of justice and gatherers of volatile information by night.

I won’t bore you with details of the day’s routine events. An overview, though, might be nice.

At the studio, you help me to save a particularly hilarious part of the script by winning over the director. You also manage to finally finish the set for the Spanish outpost, and relax afterwards with a Coke, trying not to think that it’s scheduled to be blown up during shooting the following day.
In one of my scenes I am trampled on repeatedly by a barefoot Rachel McAdams. Stirred to fits of giggles by my jokes, she continuously messes up and we have to shoot the scene at least a dozen times. What a shame.

That night, after a quiet dinner at a small steakhouse (yes, steak twice in one day!—for you at least. I stick with the broiled salmon), we take to the streets and do battle with a gang of vicious Chinese criminals. After the fight, as we stand, panting with exertion and taking account of our various injuries, I remark that we should really have costumes.
You look at your figure in one of the few un-broken mirrors in the brothel we raided, admiring the way the sleek, black catsuit makes you look, and then say our uniforms are good enough for your liking.
I, however, do not look as fetching in a black catsuit, and demand a mask and cape.
The argument continues on the ride back to the apartment in our shiny, black, costumized Escalade.
Back at the pad, we shower, dress our wounds, and unwind with a bowl of popcorn and a Hitchcock movie.

We bid each other goodnight, happy that tomorrow is our day off, and supposed to be free of espionage and Hollywood politics. We plan to sleep in. As we enter our separate bedrooms, you warn me not to leave my porn lying around the house and I say to stop denying how much the smut excites you.
We share a laugh and hit the hay.

10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

Sarah Michelle Gellar.
I know she seems vapid and untalented much of the time, but hear me out.
You’re both petite and pretty. Yet both of you convey a kind of no-nonsense inner strength. Also, I would call to attention your comparable butt-kicking abilities.
Plus, Gellar often plays characters who are fond of luxury, which is something you’re not opposed to yourself.

And, with that, I leave you for now.
*dusts hands*
*shoots cuffs*
*clears throat*
My work is done here. I’m off to wallow in self pity and ball myself into a nervous wreck. (Not about this blog, dear reader. I sadly have more things to concern myself with than just this old thing.)
Ta.

Current Mood: Pleased, but jittery, restless, and devoid of all but the faintest scraps of hope.
Current Music: Tim Curry, Toxic Love.

He Gets Away?

2007-01-28T12:55:00.000-05:00

Liz

As soon as the shooting started, I was outta there. Not in a cowardly way, mind you, although burning-hot, flying shards of lead do very little to help maintain my calm. No. I left because I realized that this situation was only going to grow more violent and, what is more, would involve Tony. Mixing Tony and violence is like mixing baking soda and vinegar . . . with nitroglycerine. As such, a good portion of the main building would have to be evacuated.

I made my way through the building, aiding in the evacuation process. My frantic rush to save lives and avert further disaster ended in one of the labs on the 30th floor.
I was ushering a group of interns and scientists into the elevators when the intruder staggered into the lab.
His once dazzling white suit was ripped and charred and stained with blood. He was bleeding profusely from dozens of wounds. His face was flushed and glistening with exertion, and he was limping. I knew at a glance that he’d already tangled with Tony. Despite his grievous injuries, the eyes of the intruder shone with an unsettling, almost eager calm. This was a man who was unused to losing and clearly did not expect, even now, to do so.
Those deep blue eyes were slowly scanning the lab; he was looking for something. Worried for the lives of those in my charge, I hurried them into the lift, watched as the doors shut, and then turned to meet the enemy. The elevator began its descent with a blissful, oblivious ding and at this the intruder’s head snapped around and those blue eyes landed squarely on me.
He smiled.
At any other time such a smile would have been charming. But with his face bloody and pale, eyes alight with that confident hunger, it became terrifying. Almost unaware of what I was doing, but knowing that I had to do something, I took a few hesitant steps forward.
“Hey, Slick,” I said with a nonchalance that startled me, barely hearing my own words over the thudding of my heart. “Looking for something?”
His devil-grin widened.
“Matter of fact I am, babe,” he answered, smooth as silk. “I was wondering if you could help me find it.”
“Depends on what it is you’re looking for.”
“I am looking,” he said, “for that disintegrator ray you’ve just developed. I understand it’s in this lab.”

Pawel

I slowly regained consciousness to the sound of Andrew extricating me from beneath a mountain of debris. I blinked. My eyes stung with sweat and blood. My ears were still ringing from the blast.
“You okay, buddy?” Andrew was saying. His voice sounded muffled and far away.
“Yeah, I think I’ll be good once I get to my feet again. Is everyone all right?”
“I doubt it. If you’re feeling fit enough, we need to go get help, recruit some others to for a search and rescue party.”
“I’ll go,” I said, rocking slightly.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. You stay here, keep digging people out. I’ll be back with help.”
And, leaving him there to scrape the ruins of the building off of our unconscious friends, I made my way down the hallway to the stairs.

Everywhere I went seemed worse than the last. There was substantial damage to the building’s interior. It looked like that maniac had been liberally distributing those poker-chip bombs throughout the complex.
The magnitude of the carnage was staggering. Bodies littered the hallways. Lights flickered weakly, hanging from the ceiling by loose wires like gouged eyes. I could smell smoke from nearby fires. I felt my mouth harden in a grim and determined line.
We would find this bastard and make him pay.

Tony

It must have been about an hour before we were found.
A group of rescuers, led by Andrew, was drawn to Richard’s excited recitations of his favorite wet dreams, and also to someone screaming, obviously in mortal agony. That was me, by the way. (Endure sixty solid minutes of Richard’s perversions and see how you fair, my merry little gum drops.)
Using shovels, pry-bars, and their bare hands, Andrew and his group of diligent helpers made quick work of the mountain of debris under which my pirate companion and I were buried. Thirty short minutes after our temporary tomb was discovered we lay blinking in the sunlight that streamed in through the high windows of the room. Andrew stepped forward, extended about fifteen feet of left and right arm, and helped us up. I rubbed my head gingerly and tried to collect my thoughts. They stubbornly refused to cooperate.
"All right, then," I said with as much authority as I could muster, "someone report on something. What are the whereabouts of the board?"
Pawel stepped forward, sporting a nasty gash on his head.
“Dan and Jake suffered only minor injuries. They're off now in the lobby, leading a second rescue team. We're lucky to have Dan; his military training is invaluable. Caitlin is in the sick bay with a fractured tibula. She's under heavy sedation. Not so much from pain as to stop her from jumping out of bed to help us. Steph is in the sick bay with her, helping the doctors. Sunewan went off in search of Jackie herself, much against my wishes. Liz is still unaccounted for. At last reports she was evacuating the middle levels. The Captain and Sprockets are leading search patrols. Oh, and Veronica is all right. We found her trussed up in a closet near her desk. Other than a slight concussion, she was fine. She asked how you were.”
I gave a small smile.
“What else?”
“There was considerable damage to the main lobby—17 dead so far. We’re still exhuming bodies from the rubble.”
A sad, uncertain silence followed this.
Pawel went on, his voice remaining cold and distant.
“There are also corpses on nearly every level from the ground floor to 48. Some of the corpses appear to have been tortured.”
Suddenly Rich leapt forward.
“Stop it!” he yelled. “Just stop! These were our friends! How can you stand there referring to them as bodies and corpses. How can you speak in such callous terms, you heartless bastard!?” Pawel’s slightly robotic façade broke.
“You think this is easy for me, Rich? I’m the one who’s had to pry our friends out of the rubble. I’m the one who’s had to witness this carnage firsthand! I've been wading through this destruction. If I didn’t stay detached I’d break down completely!”
They advanced on each other, eye hard and jaws set.
I stepped between them.
"Idiots!" I said.
They turned their furious glances to me.
"Do you realize how you're degrading the sacrifice of our fallen comrades, arguing like this? What good is beating each other even further to a pulp going to do?"
Their eyes softened.
"We need to figure out who is injured, who is missing, and assess this damage to its full extent. But first we need to find the bastard who did this and cut him into pieces."
"Let's get to the security headquarters," Sam said. "We can see the every room in the complex from there."
Then he, Pawel, Andrew, and the rest of the gallant band of rescue workers bolted out the door and down the hallway to the elevators.
I looked at Rich.
"Shall we?"
"After you."
And we proceeded to hobble out of the room, punctuating each step with a grunt of pain.

Liz

I was speechless for a moment, as a myriad of thoughts spun inside my head.
He knew about the ray. How? How could he possibly know so soon? An insider? What did he plan to do with it? Judging by how he had torn the complex to pieces, probably something bad. “I know it’s in this particular lab,” he was saying. “I had to torture two scientists on the way here to be sure. Don’t try lying to me—it’d be an insult to their memory.”
“Wh-why two?” I stammered, not really paying attention.
“Well, the first one talked, but I wanted a second opinion. You know how it is.
“Now, if you were to tell me of the ray’s exact location I would be eternally grateful. I might even let ya leave with all your fingers.”
I realized then that I had no chance of talking my way out of this. We were less than ten feet apart at that point. I could see direct action was called for. Adopting the fiercest pirate snarl I could muster under the circumstances, I drew my cutlass and advanced.
He frowned.
“I am running short on time, here.”
“You’re running short on life, scumbag,” I retorted.
He shrugged.
I thrust forward with the point of my blade, but he was remarkably fast. He leapt backward, slid over a lab table, and ran to the far wall, where he procured a fire axe.
Now we ran at each other, our fighting blood pumping courageously through our veins.
*Clash*
We blocked and struck and sliced the air in a mad and frantic dance. The empty lab resounded with the clanging of our weapons as we chased and pushed each other across the tiled floor. I hacked, stabbed, and parried until my hands were numb and tingling.
We locked blades. I jerked the cutlass sideways, catching him in the jaw with the hand guard and knocking him, cursing and staggering, to his left.
Our blades whirred and whistled through the air—mere inches away from puncturing and parting vital organs.
I swung and missed, the blade burying itself into a lab table. The intruder brought his hand upward in a chopping motion, hitting my elbow and knocking my hand from my sword hilt. He jabbed me in the chest with the axe handle and I tipped backwards.
My hands went up to block, but he grabbed me by my wrists and heaved me over a table, shattering beakers and scattering papers.
I hit the tile floor hard, but immediately tried to lift myself up, out of the puddle of acrid chemicals and broken glass.
He helped, grabbing my hair and yanking me to my feet. He cruelly pried my head back and placed a knifepoint on the exposed flesh of my neck.
“Enough games,” he panted. “I came to get that disintegrator ray and I don’t intend to leave without it. Show me where it is, or I swear to you, your co-workers will not be able to recognize your corpse.”

Tony

The hub of the security network for Ninja Pirate Incorporated was located on the 26th floor of the main building. It was a large, circular room with a raised center. The room was divided into three concentric rings.
Lining the walls were computer stations upon which NP Inc security officers monitored various floors of the building in various spectrums. Some sensors picked up heat, some sonic resonance imaging, some ultraviolet light.
The next ring was of a more tactical theme; racks of laser rifles and batons were interspersed with holographic maps of the grounds and complex.
In the center, on the raised dais, was a massive strategy and conference table.
We arrived to find the headquarters nearly empty; squads of security guards were swarming the halls searching for the mysterious killer.
Pawel, Sam, and Andrew were in fervent conversation on the dais with a distracted-looking man in the black and red uniform of an NP Inc security officer. His uniform was unique in that it had sleek epaulets and the breast of his left jacket was adorned with a few simple bars.
He was of medium height and build, with platinum blonde hair, and a very clichéd-looking scar running along his jaw line. His icy blue eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion and his pencil-thin moustache seemed to droop slightly.
This was Karl Heinz, our head of security. He came to us from an elite military task force centered in Germany. We didn’t ask questions.
He and our friends were engaged in a hushed and frantic talk.

Rich and I made our way around all the separate video-monitoring stations, stopping at each one in turn.We spent twenty minutes of fruitless searching, during which our spirits were further lowered by snippets of the conversation with Heinz.
"He moves like a ghost,” Heinz was saying, obviously distressed. “Zere is no vay to catch eem.”

We were about ready to go out and search for him ourselves, for all the good it would do, when we saw it.
There was Jackie, plain as day, caught on camera. We were viewing him from a table-mounted camera in one of the labs . . . lab 39, by number on the door . . . a camera that was usually used for recording scientific trials. His back was to us, and he was very close to the camera, so we could not see much.
Then he turned, ever so slightly, and I saw a pair of terrified eyes peeking from around his shoulder.
He was holding a hostage.
"Liz!” Rich and I both said at once.
"He’s in Lab 39,” I shouted. “Floor 30. Rich ‘n’ I’re goin’ there now!”
And with that we bolted out the doors as fast as our beaten legs would carry us.

Pawel

Seconds after they had left, I heard Heinz mutter something behind me.
"Lab Shirty-Nine? Zat is vere zuh deesintegrator ray ees stored.”
His laughable accent aside, this was harrowing news.
I spun round and grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Heinz!” I shouted. “Rally your men. Get as many of them as possible to the 30th floor! That madman has got to be stopped!”

Liz

My mind was racing.
My eyes darted to a large metal door across the room from us. He noticed where I was looking.
“In there, is it?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“Good enough, then.”
And with that, he marched resolutely over to the imposing portal, dragging me with him.
While he gave the door a searching look, I spoke up.
"It’s no good. You need a special lab pass key to open this. It’s bullet proof, fire proof, certainly knife proof.”
He seemed to ignore me. He only ran his hand over the door’s smooth surface, which was painted bright warning-sign yellow and white in alternating diagonal stripes.
"Ya got dis key?” he asked, softly.
"No.”
He looked me in the eyes, seemed to get that I was telling the truth, and then chuckled.
"Dat’s okay,” he said, “I brought my own.”
And he let go of my hair and procured a poker chip from his pocket.
Rich must have hit him harder than I thought, I mused to myself.
But he placed the poker chip right above the key pad to the left of the door.
"I’d advise stepping back if you value your face.”
We made our way around the side of a lab table and crouched down.
"Three . . . two . . .one,” the assassin counted down under his breath.
Exactly timed with “one” came a small explosion which enveloped us in a cloud of choking smoke.
When finally the dust and ash cleared, I was able to see the crater left by the bomb’s force. The key pad was gone completely. Only crackling wires remained in the crumbling socket.
Then, slowly, the heavy door slid open.
The intruder seemed to forget all about me. He shuffled forward into the bright, halogen glare of the vault, eyes wide with delight.
I followed tentatively after him, not sure of what else to do.
He passed shelf after shelf, row upon row of technological marvels. He would glance at one in awe for just a moment, and then move on to the next. I had to admire his discipline.
Finally, at the very back of the vault, in a large glass case, sat the disintegrator ray. It was a nondescript, oblong metal box which looked large enough to hold a pair of shoes.
The assassin came to a stop before it, seemingly uncertain of what to do.
Then, in a flash, he struck out with his elbow and shattered the glass case.
A piercing alarm sounded throughout the complex.
"Oh, shucks,” said the assassin glibly, “now they’ll know I’m here.”
He came back out and se the case on a lab table. He flipped the lid open and peered inside. He shut it and looked back up.
"Dat’s it?” he said. “Doesn’t look like much. Still, I imagine the boys back at the HQ’ll be able to get it runnin’.”
The intruder turned his attention back to me.
"Well, my ride should be here any moment. Now that I have what I came for, I’ll just tie up this one last loose end.”
He drew a knife and advanced toward me.
Though I could feel the icy grip of terror crawling up my spine, I forced myself to smile.
"I warn you, I won’t go quietly.”
"I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He tensed, about to strike, when the cavalry came at last.
"Hold it, you son of a bitch!”
I spun around to see Tony running in through the doorway, closely followed by Rich, Pawel, Andrew, Sam, and a platoon of NP security guards.
The assassin was apparently impossible to rattle. He wasted no time in grabbing me by the throat and using me as a shield.
"You need to learn to admit when you’ve been bested, Celi,” the intruder sneered. “I win.”
Suddenly the sound of approaching helicopters filled the room.
"Ah, there’s my ride now.”He tossed a poker chip behind us, blowing a hole in the concrete wall. The wind rushed in, buffeting his long coat tails and swirling our hair wildly.
"Let her go!” Tony hollered.
"I think not. Because you wouldn’t quit, I’m going to kill her, to teach you a lesson.”
I could see no way out of this one.
"Say you’re sorry, Celi,” the assassin taunted. “Tell your friend you’re sorry for getting her killed.”
"Liz, I . . .” Tony began.But he was cut off.
"Fuckin’ shit teeth!”
It was Sam.
His face was purple and he looked full of a maddened rage.
"You’re tellin’ me, Tony, that you’re gonna let this candy-tit, brill cream bustlin’ whore chewin’ goat-dick come in here an’ treat us like this?”
"What?” said Tony.
"What?” said the intruder.
I felt his grip loosen.
"I mean, yer supposed ta be the ninja supremo, basket’a boob lickin’ jew-twirlin’ ass rapes! How in the fuckside of dick rings are the lemony assholes gonna emerge outta this one!? It’s all a fuckin’ shit cow whore dick spic lick runaround! Chink monkey sperm house!”
The assassin’s hand went slack now. I saw the chance and went for it.
under his grip, I swung back with my elbow as hard as I could. Then I grabbed his arm, twisted it, and flipped him completely over. He hit the ground on his back, the wind knocked from him.I ran back to the safety of the crowd.
The villain staggered to his feet. Behind him, just beyond the gaping hole in the wall, there dangled a rope ladder.
made a dash for it. In a startling display he leapt from the building out into the void, 30 stories up, still clutching the ray in it’s case under one arm.
He clasped onto the ladder and he helicopter slowly began to pull away.
Tony rushed forward, a knife at the ready.
The assassin locked his legs around the ladder and threw his knife first. Tony dodged, and it buried itself in the floor to his left.
"You haven’t seen the last on me!” the assassin yelled as he made his getaway.
"I certainly hope not!” Tony countered, loudly, and then, under his breath, “I certainly hope not.”

Tony

I felt the blood slowly empty from my face. I stood, eyes squinted against the wind and the glare of the setting sun, and watched the helicopter disappear over the horizon.
"Tony,” I heard a voice behind me say, but I wasn’t ready yet to turn around.
"Tony,” the voice repeated.
I turned. It was Rich.
He placed an arm around my shoulder.
"Hey, we made it out alive. That’s enough of a victory for today.”
I could think of nothing to say to him.
"Hey, Tony,” Andrew this time, “what’s that by your foot?”
I glanced down and noticed that the knife Jackie had thrown had a piece of paper attached to it.
Slowly, I picked it up, unfolded it, and read the contents aloud.

"To Whom This May Concern,

You have just been honored by a visit from us. Interpret this action as you will, harmless transgression or declaration of war. However you feel is irrelevant to us. We will stop at nothing to hold steady the status quo, i.e. our superiority on a global scale. Be warned. Retaliate at your own risk.

Thank you, The Management.”

There was a prolonged silence, broken by Andrew.
"Oh, God,” he said in a voice childlike with fear, “We are in way over our heads.”

Richard

Construction crews bustled back and forth throughout the hallways of Ninja Pirate Incorporated, repairing the damage left in Jackie Forcella’s wake.
Meanwhile, the board of directors struggled to piece their departments back together and get back to work as soon as possible.
In the midst of all this purposeful, albeit cluttered, rehabilitation, we quickly forgot our grief and stress and put the needs of the company—and each other—first.

I made my way past several industrious-looking workmen moving stacks of sheetrock along the 49th floor corridor up to Tony’s office. The door was wide open, but I knocked courteously on the molding before entering.
He was seated at his desk, looking disheveled and dismayed. The bruises from his epic fight with Jackie had begun to purple intensely.
He looked like someone who had emerged from the losing side of a bar fight. I imagined I didn’t look any better.
“Get in here,” he said wearily, and beckoned me with a weary wave of his bandaged hand.
He drained the clear contents of a glass and quickly poured himself a second from a crystal decanter on his desk.
“I see you’re heeding the doctor’s advice about 8 glasses of water a day,” I said, noticing.
“I hate doctors,” Tony muttered. “This is gin.” And he started on the second glass.
I was rendered speechless and Tony was busy pouring gin down his throat, so we were silent for a time.
Finally, Tony had finished his second glass. He slumped in his chair and rubbed anxiously at a fairly well furrowed brow.
“Jesus,” he said. “Do you see what it’s like out there? What he did? One guy? I mean, what if Andrew was right? What if we are in over our heads?”
There followed a more contemplative period of silence, one that was less choked with gin.
“Well,” I started, “I think I know the only possible answer to that question. I’m surprised you didn’t think of it first. Of course, you did take quite a few shots to the head . . .
"It comes down to this: Who cares?”
Tony gave me a puzzled look, which he then cast down at his empty glass.
“I thought this was gin . . .” he mumbled.
“We’re in over our heads? People are trying to kill us? The situation is more dire than we previously anticipated, or are anticipating now? Who cares? I’m sure there are hundreds of cutthroats, murderers, thieves, maniacs, and villains out there just itching to slice us into bits--”
“This is supposed to be a pep talk?”
“But who cares? We’ve dealt with overwhelming odds before. I look out at those unseen forces arrayed against us and laugh. I say, bring it on!”
Tony slammed his glass down.
“By God, you’re right!” he yelled. “We’re ninjas, we’re pirates, it’s in our very natures to scoff at death and continue on in the face of adversity, against overwhelming odds. Let’s just keep havin’ fun and savin’ the world, and damn the torpedoes!”
He poured himself another pint of gin. I was confused.
“You’re still drinking? I thought I had successfully cheered you up.”
“You most certainly did! Before I was drinking sad. Now--” he paused here to down half the glass, “I’m drinkin’ happy! Where’s my sword? I feel like going on an adventure!”
He snatched a katana off a rack, grabbed a pack of chewing gum and the bottle of gin, and marched out the door and, I imagine, into the sunset somewhere.
I stood, perplexed, for a moment.
Then I shrugged, stole fifty dollars from his desk, and went off to harass Caitlin.
The storm hadn’t passed. On the contrary, it was right here, swirling and howling. We were simply moving on in defiance of it.
And that felt just fine.

The End!

(For now)

This is it, fight fans. The moment you've all been waiting for . . .

2007-01-18T18:56:00.000-05:00

Rich

I stood up and shook my head to clear the cobwebs, instantly regretting doing so as my skull throbbed in anguish. My vision cleared just in time to see Tony and the assassin stumble through the open doors of one of the elevators. The combatants were clutching each other fiercely, hands on throats and fire in their eyes.
I rushed forward to help my friend, but the doors slid shut milliseconds before I could reach him. My hands pounded helplessly on the indifferent, gleaming surface of the elevator doors.
I was roused from my distress by a commotion to my right.
Sam was leading a herd of people—most of the board of directors, several security guards, and a handful of robotic patrol drones down the stairs to the lower floors.
I glanced at the lighted numbers above the elevator doors.
“They’re past the 44th!” I yelled as I ran to join them.

We bolted down the stairs, our steps echoing hollowly and blending with the muffled grunts and bangs which were coming from the descending elevator.
At the 38th floor, the elevator stopped. The ding of the opening doors, which before had been light and trivial, was now a sound of terrible ill omen.
We poured out of the stairway onto the hallway just in time to see Tony and the assassin tumble out of the elevator backwards, rolling and somersaulting across the hall right into a heavy metal door. They crashed through it and flew out of sight into the room beyond. Their fall was accompanied by a cacophonous clatter that sounded as if someone had upended several drawers of silverware. I was disoriented and I could feel a sticky warmth dripping down the back of my neck. It took me a minute to get my bearings straight. As soon as I did, I noticed the sign on the door that Tony and that bastard had smashed through.
In large, official, red letters which urged me to take them seriously, it read:

Ninja Pirate Incorporated

Arsenal 7:

Authorized Personnel Only

Tony and the assassin had just fallen into the largest cache of weapons in a thirty mile radius.

I peeked into the room. Tony and the intruder lay sprawled out amidst a scattered plethora of sharp things. As I stepped gingerly through the doorway they were groggily getting to their feet. I could sense the crowd gathering behind me, hear their shallow, pained breathing and slight groans. It seemed everyone was intent on witnessing the imminent confrontation between the two warriors. I paid no attention to the group at my back, however. My eyes were riveted on the two figures in the armory. They stood tensed, about to strike-- hands twitching, itching to get at the deadly implements around them.
"Rich," Tony said, not taking his eyes off his opponent, "Please take these people out of here, this might get messy."
He sounded at once urgent and deathly calm. An eerie glint had come into Tony eyes, one I had seen before, and only in . . . messy circumstances. I knew enough not to question.
"Yeah, boss," I said, still keeping my eyes on the combatants. I began to slowly back out, arms spread as barriers, shepherding the assemblage into the relative safety of the lobby. "Stay back, find cover, and do not make easy targets of yourselves," I instructed them grimly.
Tony gave us a brief sideways glance to make sure we were out of the way, and then dropped and snatched the closest available weapon.

The battle began.

Tony had grabbed a handful of shuriken, rolled to his left, and jumped up throwing. Jackie was a step ahead, already heaving knives from a rack nearby. The two fighters dodged with blinding speed as the projectiles flew past. Some of the jagged missiles actually collided in mid-air with a frightful *clang* and ricocheted off into the room.
I winced as a knife grazed Tony's cheek, and cheered when a shuriken cut the assassin across the ribs.
Tony narrowed his eyes and, in a remarkable display, shot out a hand and caught one of Jackie's throwing knives. The assassin had but one blade remaining. He smiled and nodded his appreciation of Tony's maneuver, then, flipping the knife in his hand to a downward, stabbing grip also used for defense in knife-fighting, advanced.
Tony gripped his weapon in a similar manner and stepped forward, treading over the scattered instruments of war. The enemies grinned once- flashing their teeth in humorless tiger-smiles, and then struck simultaneously.
I strained to see their slashes and parries- struggled to discern the specifics of the fight amongst the blindingly fast flashes of steel. They would weave back and forth. Rise and duck and rise again. I was aware of their battle mostly through the grunts of exertion and pain and the horrible *clash, clang, shikt* of metal on metal. The blades whirred and scraped and parted the air. The two combatants moved like vipers trapped in a pit.
Strike and recoil and block and strike again without cease.
Finally, Tony lunged, locked blades with the intruder, then flicked his wrist and sent the assassin's dagger flying. Before he could use this swift disarming to his advantage, his opponent spun and delivered a jarring kick to Tony's stomach. NP Inc's CEO and defender doubled over and stumbled backward. Jackie spun and kicked again, knocking Tony's blade from his hand. Tony recovered quickly and procured another weapon from the chaos around him.
In scraped but steady hands he gripped a bow staff. The assassin helped himself to some nunchaku, and smiled when Tony flinched at the sight of that fearful weapon. But Tony steeled himself and strode forward, and once again the opponents met.

They dodged and ducked amidst the whirling of the nunchaku and the twirling of the staff. Now the battle was marked by the *clunk, clack* of wood on wood. Both fighters moved with skill and grace and evaded each others blows for most of the struggle.
They had fought to a standstill when Jackie landed a strike on Tony's thigh, cracking his femur. Tony cried out in pain as his leg gave out from under him. Jackie leaned back, raised the chained clubs, about to deliver the killing blow. Just as the nunchaku fell, Tony raised his staff above his head, blocking the strike and trapping his enemy's weapon as the nunchaku coiled itself around the bow. Jackie gasped in shock. Tony took advantage of his opponent's surprise and gave the staff a furious yank, ripping Jackie's weapon from his hands and sending both weapons flying across the room.
"Keep practicin', Sally," Tony said.
Jackie leapt forward with a snarl and tackled the injured ninja. They rolled over the weapons, upsetting stacks of knives, tipping racks of swords, punching, chopping, striking, slamming.
The battle raged around the armory, the opponents using any weapon their hands passed over. They were both highly skilled and thus well matched, and the struggle seemed to be an ongoing stalemate.
They stood, Tony favoring his broken leg, Jackie, his fractured wrist, sweat dripping, stinging their countless wounds. They each gripped a katana with both hands. Now, I thought, would Tony prove his superiority. Now, at last, would the intruder be stopped. The enemies clashed, blades glinting in the harsh halogen bulbs overhead, making circles and arcs of light. Tony was an expert swordsman and his skill was making itself known. Jackie was slowly being overpowered. Tony's win was almost certain when suddenly Jackie parried a thrust and sent Tony tumbling backward with a shoulder-butt.
Jackie, knowing he had little chance beating Tony with the blade, dropped his sword and drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. I ran toward my friend.
The intruder looked at Tony, his blue eyes gleaming wildly, a mad, bloody grin stretched across his pale face.
"Tony, get down!" I shouted, tackling him to the floor and knocking us both behind a solid marble counter Jackie opened fire. Bullets whizzing by us. I chanced a look around the side of our shield and was rewarded with a nasty cut from a shard of splintered stone.
Jackie stopped firing for a moment.
"Thank you for the diversion, gentlemen," he said, beginning to make his way around the counter to us.
"I must say I've-,"
He was then rudely interrupted by a bottle, which connected solidly with the side of his head. He staggered, and his shots went astray, shattering the tile near our heads. Jackie was too disoriented to realize he had emptied his clip. He turned and aimed in the direction whence flew the bottle. A second bottle spun through the air, closely followed by a third.
Jackie raised his arms to deflect the projectiles and shield himself from the broken glass.
"You stupid bastard!" he hissed, aiming his gun again.
*click, click*
"Me stupid? You're the one who forgot to reload, cock-swab!" Sam said, stepping through the doorway. He readied another bottle. Where he kept getting them from was anybody's guess. The assassin wasn't done yet. Even wounded and worn, Jackie moved with uncanny speed. He dropped to the left, rolled, and snatched up his discarded katana. This he hurled at Sam like a javelin, catching the shoulder of his suit coat and pinning him to the wall.
"Fuckin' asswad," Sam spat, grimacing.
Having dispatched Sam, Jackie reloaded his pistol. He started back toward us.
We were still crouched, bleeding and frantic, behind the counter. Well, I, at least, was frantic. Tony's face was impassive. The stoic, warrior-component of his spirit was bearing up to what seemed like certain death.
"Tony," I hissed, "let's get out of here. That madman's gonna puncture us with hot balls of lead until we die."
Tony looked at me, unimpressed with the warning.
"M'eh," was all he said.
He snatched a knife off the floor. I noticed a tremble in his hand which broke my heart.
"I intend to finish this one way or another."
"C'mon, buddy," I pleaded. "He who fights and runs away-"
"Is a coward," Tony finished.
And before I could stop him, he stood up and faced his opponent.
"Over here, suckaduck," Tony called to him.
Jackie was about to fire when a noise from behind distracted him. He turned to see what looked like the half the board of directors streaming in through the door. Jackie took several steps backward, shattered glass crunching beneath his Italian loafers. He was bleeding from a head wound courtesy of Sam. His once white suit was torn, stained, and likewise covered in blood. I could see that this fellow was at the end of his rope.
But apparently, I figured too soon.
Three security guards rushed forward, swinging batons. Jackie pumped four bullets into one before the others wrested the gun from his hand. He shot out a fist and snapped another’s sternum. Then he forced the last into a headlock and bounced him savagely, breaking his neck. He grabbed a spear from a rack to his right and ran it through the advancing robotic drones, turning them into an awkward-looking mechanical shish kebab.
Dan was next to reach the assassin. He raised his fist and brought it down in a hammer blow certain to break the man's clavicle. Jackie saw it coming and sidestepped. He grabbed Dan's wrist, twisted it, and then gave him a chop to the ribs. Dan grimaced in pain and was thrown to the ground. Jackie kicked him in the head before he could get back up, knocking him out.
Jake charged forward, attempting a tackle, wisely making use of his bulk. Jackie ducked and shot out a hand, striking him in the throat. Jake's olive complexion turned blue and he likewise collapsed.
Caitlin and Andrew, an unlikely pair, attacked from both sides. Pawel came at the assassin from the front. Jackie moved like a tornado, swinging and striking left and right. Within a few seconds he had defeated the entire group.
Tony and I decided it was well passed time to act and, with a roar, charged forward. Jackie whirled around and pulled a hand of poker chips from and inside pocket of his jacket.
"Stop!" he commanded, and we did.
He went on. "I must say you've all proven a much bigger headache than I thought you would. Had I still my hat, I'd've tipped it to you. Unfortunately, I have business to attend to and really cannot waste any more time."
Before either of us could react, he hurled the poker chips at the ceiling above our heads. The little disks flew, emitting a series of beeps, and then struck. And that's when, from my point of view, anyway, the whole world exploded.

Jackie managed to hurl himself backward and away from the worst of the blast. He rolled clear and sprang up to see the carnage left in the wake of the poker chips.
A healthy portion of the ceiling had collapsed, blanketing the armory with plaster dust, twisted metal, and broken beams, and bringing with it several pieces of office furniture. The entire force of defenders was buried beneath the rubble. One of Andrew’s lanky arms, protruding from a mountain of debris, was flapping weakly.
The groans and cries emanating from the wreckage told Jackie that they were not all dead-- at least, not yet. But he had little time to stay and slay. He brushed himself clean of dust and took off, limping at a good clip, down the hall.

"Tony," I said, my voice choked with plaster and muffled by the debris, "you all right?"
"No," Tony said, speaking through teeth clenched in pain. "My leg is broken. I've been stabbed, shot, burned, and beaten. Now I am buried underneath half of the 39th floor."
I paused.
"But other than that?"
"I'm fine," he conceded. "I'm fuckin' jim dandy."
"So," I went on, attempting to aid the cheery flow of conversation, "what do you think he came here for?"
Although I couldn't see Tony, covered as I was by a mountain of plaster, wood, cement, and rebar, I'm fairly sure I could feel the impatience and anger emenating off of him.
"I haven't the foggiest notion," Tony said, speaking slowly and deliberately to keep from shouting, "why that slick son of a bitch broke into our headquarters. As of right now, I'd say he was trying to kill us."
I snorted, expelling a cloud of white dust.
"Hell, boss, everybody and his hot mom is trying to kill us."
"Well," Tony said, "seeing as we can't exactly ask him his intentions, trapped as we are beneath the ruins of your office--"
"My office?!" I cut him off. "How do you know?"
It was then that I spied with my little eye-- the one that wasn't swollen shut-- a torn copy of Pervert's Digest, my favorite magazine, lying ripped and charred near my face.
"That inconsiderate bastard!" I yelled.
"Anyway," said Tony, "I'm just going to lie here and wait for help. Your ceasless inane babble isn't going to do us any good."
There was a prolonged silence.
"I've got an idea!" I said at last. "Let's share our favorite sexual fantasies!"

To Be Continued Further . . .

A New Foe

2007-01-14T22:48:00.000-05:00

The gentle downpour of rain added to the already ethereal glow of 10th Avenue in Manhattan. The wet street sparkled under the glow of the lamp posts, headlights, and lit windows. Passerby milled up and down the sidewalk like ants while cars, large beetles, trundled slowly by through the uptown traffic. In the center of a respectable-looking block stood a building which, though nondescript, was nonetheless surrounded by a vast mob of people. The first two floors of the structure were simple beige stucco, with tall, thin windows and exposed support struts. The vague, stylized sign above the worn, handnailed double door read:

Zen

Above the second floor, the earthy stucco facade stopped abruptly and became polished, tinted glass. From there the building rose another twenty stories.
The mass of bodies outside, all milling around a zig-zagging velvet rope, was a microcosm of the New York "it" crowd. Young, vibrant, beautiful, and powerful. They stood in the drizzle, anxiously awaiting entrance into the mysterious Zen.
On the surface, Zen was one of most popular nightclubs in the city. Every evening, it catered to the Big Apple's wealthy elite. Once inside the double doors (always guarded by two men who looked to be professional wrestlers in tuxedoes) one would find oneself in a tasteful, minimalist, Eastern-inspired bar with a small dance floor and private booths dotted about the walls. It was dimly-lit and pretentious, as were most nightclubs in the city, but there was an unmistakble air of calm and power about the place. There was an air of quiet confidence.
Because below the surface, Zen, the nightclub, was something else entirely. It was in actuality a front for the one of the most powerful crime syndicates in the world. Known only as "The Management," this shadowy criminal organization had spread its tentacles into every illegal endeavor imaginable, from the low-brow to the high-class, petty to white collar; nothing was beyond the scope of The Management.
It was founded loosely at the turn of the century by a loose confederation of robber barons, who amassed billions in oil, steel, and other commodities, and yet always desired more. Over the years, it's membership grew to include other sorts of criminals: Triads, Columbian drug cartels, the Cosa Nostra. Now controlled by a board of some of the most powerful men on the planet, The Managment was not limited to specific regions or ethnic groups. It was a world-wide prescence, intent on shaping global economy to its malevolent will.
And this time it had set its sights on a target rather close to home . . .

Back outside, a man was striding confidently up the sidewalk towards Zen's guarded doors and the mob gathered before them. He was tall and slim and moved with lilting grace. His black suit and black shirt made him appear a shadow on the New York streets. A black fedora was perched on his crown at a jaunty angle, over his slicked, dark hair. With a disarming smile on his sharply handsome face, he cut through the line and stood before the two goliaths at the entrance.
"Can we help you, sir?" asked the less primitive of the two in a low, menacing growl.
"You sure can, big fella," the stranger replied. "I have an appointment with the man of the house. Perhaps it's on your list. You do keep a list, right?"
The more primitive of the two produced a clip board.
"Name?" asked the first ape.
"Jackie," said the man, "Jackie Forcella."
The gorillas exchanged a glance.
"We weren't told about this," said the first, apparently the spokesman of the duo.
"Naturally," said Jackie, "you're too low on the totem pole." He took a few steps forward. "Well, never mind, then. Just step aside and I'll--"
A large hand hit him in the chest, halting his advance. Jackie felt as though he'd been struck by a swinging side of beef. He took a few stumbling steps backwards, but recovered quickly.
"Sorry, sir," growled the spokesman, though his smile seemed to indicate he was not. "We can't let you in."
Jackie smiled as well, straightened his gold tie, and stepped forward toward the doors once more.
"That's okay," he said, "I'll let myself in."
The hand came at him again, but before it could make contact, even before the titan who owned it could register bafflement, Jackie spun to the right, wrapped both hands around the thick wrist, and executed a twisting, downward tug.
There was a sound like snapping celery stalks, a cry of anguish, and the spokesman toppled forward, betrayed by his own bulk and subsequent momentum. Jackie pushed him slightly to the left as he fell, so his descent was broken by the wrought iron base of a street light. The doorman's head struck the iron pedestal like a hammer on a gong, and he promptly fell unconscious.
All this happened before the other doorman could react. He was in the process of pulling a pistol from his jacket when Jackie ducked to the side and dug a knife blade into the soft flesh behind his knee. This colossus, too, fell to the ground. Jackie grabbed the steel pole which terminated one end of the velvet rope, and brought it down on the fallen guard's head.
This done, he dropped the pole, shot his cuffs and turned to face the crowd.
"Step right in, folks," he said, opening the door for them. He pulled a roll of hundreds from the pocket of the first guard and tossed them liberally into the cheering mass. "The drinks're on him."
With the rest of the security staff busy handling the flood of new club patrons, Jackie slipped smoothly down a discreet hallway. The hallway ended in a cul de sac-- the back wall completely taken up with a large bookcase.
Jackie halted before it and intently studied the rows of books.
"Which was it again?" he muttered to himself.
Then his eyes lit on a copy of The Outcasts of Poker Flats, by Bret Harte.
He gave the book a little tug and the whole bookcase-covered wall swung inward. He stepped past it, turned, and closed it behind him.
He turned back around to face the barrells of six large-caliber pistols, eagerly staring him in the face.
He gulped, but regained his composure.
"Kindly put those down. I'm here to see Callahan."
The six men in designer suits who had targeted him, hardened killers all, gave him a single, doubtful look, then lowered their weapons and ushered him forward to another door.
"I wish you'd get rid of that secret passageway," Jackie muttered to one guard. "Who do I look like, Nancy Drew?"
The man pulled a card from his pocket and ran it through a strip on the wall. There was a muted beep, and then a click, and another man reached out and opened the door.
The guard behind Jackie gave him an unceremonious shove into the second room, and then shut the door behind him.
Jackie found himself in a large, panelled room with thick, burgundy carpeting and a low ceiling. To his right was an office of sorts: a massive wooden desk with a flatscreen monitor perched upon it. Arranged around the desk were several filing cabinets. On the wall behind the desk was a towering map of the five boroughs.
To his left there was a pool table and bar. Two men in suits were playing pool, a third, in shirt sleeves and suspenders, was preparing a drink behind the counter.
In front of him was a huge, round table covered in green velvet. A card table.
At the edge of this table closest to Jackie, another Armani-clad goon sat dealing cards.
At the far side of the table a figure sat in the shadows- a hulking mountain of flesh that one would have to assume was a man, but would feel safer guessing was a bear. His whole massive form was obscured by darkness. The only visible parts of him were his hands- gnarled mitts situated at the ends of thick wrists.
It was this man, one Seamus Callahan, that Jackie had come to see.
He spoke.
"Well, Jackie, m'boy. You did a number on those poor doormen, didn't you? Tell me, Jack, was that necessary?"
His voice was a rumbling growl with a hint of an Irish accent.
Jackie strode closer to the table. "It was, Seamus. They were blocking my way."
In the shadows, Callahan's yellowed teeth shone in a humorless grin.
"My friends call me Seamus- least, they would if I had any. You kin call me Mr. Callahan, if you please.
"And it was not necessary. Your appointment ain't 'til tomorrah."
"Best to be early," Jackie said dismissively.
Callahan's humorless grin tightened. "Very well, lad.
"Lookin' fine n' fit you are. Glad t'see y'kid make it. Sit an' play a round."
Jackie did so, taking the seat across from Callahan. The man with the cards moved to the left and occupied a chair an equal distance between the two. He had been shuffling the cards. He now dealt. Callahan leaned forward a little more, exposing forearms as thick as a healthy man's thighs. His huge, scarred hands gathered the cards in, moving like plump, hungry spiders.
Jackie suppressed a shudder.
"Then we've got some business t'discuss, Jackie, lad. There's a wee job we'd like fer yeh ta handle."
"I'm honored that you thought of me, sir."
The big man chuckled. Jackie had an image in his mind of a huge, rusty machine crunching gravel into powder.
"Well, you may be new ta this game, boy, but after that display you put on in 'Jersey, we knew we could count on ya." He slid two cards to the dealer in exhange for two more. These he shuffled into his hand. Then he spoke again.
"Ye'd be goin' by yerself on this one, Jackie. Flyin' solo, as it were. You up for that?"
"Of course, sir. So long as I'm armed, I'm up for anything."
Now Callahan roared his laughter. He slapped a hand down on the table, which buckled under the weight.
"Tha's what I like ta hear!"
Suddenly he leaned forward. Jackie gasped.
The man was a monster.
His large head was bald and dented. It shone in the lamp light. Below the crown was a broad expanse of forehead, supported by two bushy, steel grey eyebrows.
It was the eyes, Jackie thought. That's what caught him off guard.
The man's eyes were terribly mismatched. His left eye was a calm blue; his right, surrounded by puckered, scarred flesh, was a sickening blue white. A pale death color. The color of a drowned man's skin, Jackie thought wildly.
The flesh around the right eye was stretched and torn, leaving the eye more exposed than it should have been and making it appear larger.
This startling difference in size and color made the man look dangerously insane.
A thick, steel grey mustache curled above his lip and across his jowls on either side, where it connected with his sideburns.
He was dressed in brown slacks and a stained wife beater, quite in contrast to his dapper guards. Callahan had never placed much value on expensive clothing.
Jackie stared at the man, his massive, hairy, scarred bulk straining to escaped the confines of his shirt. Callahan was huge. Standing, he must be 6'8", thought Jackie. He probably weighs a quarter of a ton. He looked like he could snap the heavy table in front of him in half.
His overall appearance was that of an old, battle-scarred medieval warrior. To Jackie, he looked like a barbarian.
Callahan was used to people being starled by his appearance. He let Jackie get accustomed to the sight of him and then he spoke again, low and slow and deliberate.
"Tell me, lad, have yeh heard of a company by the name of Ninja Pirate Incorporated?"

Rich

An urgent thump on the door.

*Knock, knock!*

Silence, broken only by sleepy, pillow-muffled murmurs.

*Knock, knock, knock, knock!*

Still no response.

*KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!*

Furious. Insistent. Unyielding.

The caller was losing patience, but standing firm. At this last burst, the sliding pneumatic door rocking in its frame, my head rose off of my pillow.

"Who's what?" I asked blearily, adding several "huh's" while blinking around at the darkened room. The squalor was lit barely by the annoyingly persistent daylight peeping around the edges of the blinds.

*KNOCK, KNOCK!*

I struggled gallantly to climb out of bed, but the task was too great at this early hour-- nearly noon by that silently glowing digital know-it-all on the nightstand. I succeeded only in tumbling off of my mattress and landing in a heap on the plush carpet, enveloped in my downy-soft comforter. And so downy-soft was it that I was tempted to resume sleeping where I left off. Unfortunately, the fiendish knocker knocked yet again, splintering my reverie to pieces.

"All right, villain!" I called to him. "You win!"

I stumbled to the door, groped feebly for the touchpad on the wall, found it, and eventually opened the door, which slid, rickety, into its wall sheath with a relieved hiss. I was momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the hallway and stood scratching my boxers in various places and squinting.

"Who dares disturb my slumber?" I yawned, expecting to see a large, burly, grizzled sort glowering at me when my vision adjusted. My tormentor failed to answer, and when I could finally see, it took a much different form than expected.

Caitlin stood, arms akimbo, regarding me with a sort of exasperated amusement.

"So this is what you've been doing all morning? Do you know how long we've been waiting?" "Speak to me not in riddles," I groaned weakly. "Who's "we" and why are "you" waiting?"

"Board meeting," she answered flatly. "Today. Tony announced it a month ago. The entire board of the directors-- of which you are still a member, though you hold that position by the skin of your teeth," she added, rather nastily, it seemed to me, "is supposed to be present. We're all there except you."

"Caitlin," I said with a benevolent patience that spoke volumes about my sterling character, "I am a busy man. I cannot be expected to remember these trivial matters. I have important things to do."

She peeped over my shoulder at the ruin that was my room: Scattered articles of clothing strewn about like corpses on a battlefield, divers pornographic magazines, broken lamps, overturned chairs, and dirty dishes. She noticed the woman on my bed. Her sensuous curves still for the moment, her lips in a perpetual sexy pucker, her eyes wide and staring, her plastic skin gleaming faintly in the light from the hallway. I notcied where her attention was focused and noted with rising anger her look of disgust.

"Don't look at Monique way," I said. "She's a nice girl and I think we have something special." Caitlin shook her head and turned her attention back to me.

"Well?" she said.

"Well what?" I asked, not ready for games at this time of the . . . noon.

"The board meeting was supposed to start an hour ago. Are you going to get ready and join us?"

I took a half-step back into my room and turned to look into a mirror hanging above a table by the door. My feet were bare, my furry legs uncovered up to the upper thigh, where a pair or boxer-briefs took over. My stocky torso bulged beneath a ripped and stained dingy white t-shirt. My eyes were bloodshot and crusted with sleep. I had a sandpaper-like stubble on my face and lint in my chin beard. My spongy mass of curly hair was up in a fantastic mess; flat along the left side, upon which I had been sleeping, bushy on the right. I took this all in and nodded, then turned back to my uninvited guest.
"Nope, good to go as is."

She looked at me with growing incredulity.

"Like that?"

"Like this. Let's rock and roll, baby."

And so we, a mismatched pair-- Caitlin, petite, in a skirt and suit jacket that accented her gentle curves, and myself, shuffling along in my bachelor/slob-chic, toussled hair, bulging, blocky body, stained boxers, and white t-shirt-- made our way down the honeycomb of hallways of the Ninja Pirate Inc. building.

We rode an elevator up to the 48th floor, me singing jovially along to the music- The Girl from Ipanema-- whilst my sexy escort did her best to feign frustration. I could tell she was taken by my carefree baritone. I had just reached end, and took in a great gasp of air, ready to hold that final note for as long as I could when I was checked by the impudent, officious ding of the elevator bell, alerting us that we had reached 48.

The doors opened and we found ourselves in a small, tiled foyer, opposite another pair of gleaming bronze elevator doors. At the back wall of the foyer, flanked by our elevator and the other, was a pedestal supporting a swirling modern art sculpture. We hung a right out of the lift and in a few steps were off the tile of the foyer and onto the thick carpet of a tastefully decorated lobby. There were plush, black-leather chairs and mahogany end tables. These tables were covered in a myriad of comic books and gaming magazines. The reception room had an overall Far East theme, reflecting Tony's adopted culture. A tall, marble structure-- part desk, part reception counter-- stood to our left. It was vacant. Veronica, Tony's buxom secretary, would be in the meeting, taking notes and flirting ineffectively with her boss.

At the far end of the room were two doorways. The one on the left led to Tony's personal office. The larger one, a little right of center and supporting two towering ebony doors, led to Tony's conference room.

Caitlin straigthened her skirt over her enticing hips, then darted a sharp, accusatory glance back at me. I was too quick for her, however, and had already turned my attention to a mural behind Veronica's desk.

"I thought you would have made an innuendo or crass sexual advance by now," she said, sounding almost pleased.

I did my best to appear insulted.

"I am a gentleman, Caitlin!" I said indignantly.

"So far this morning you have been. Usually you're a leering pervert."

"Agreed," I said.

There was a pause.

"As I have been so civilized, I think I am entitled to a reward."

Another pause. Our eyes met- hers narrowed, mine wide with excitement- like two gunfighters on the dusty street of some town in the Old West where all that gets you through is the speed of your trigger finger and the luck of the draw.

"Jus' lemme suck one titty!" I burst out, pleadingly.

Caitlin recoiled as if from a slap, huffed indignantly, and then started toward the doors. "Typical," she said angrily.

My face was stretched in a grin of satisfied mischief. Caitlin drew in a breath, then pushed open the doors.

Tony

I had been cradling my head in my hand, gazing unseeing down at the notes and reports in an unkempt pile in front of me, trying to drown out the lazy buzz of chatter when they walked in, Cait and Rich. I looked up, simultaneously relieved and angry. I wish I could say the chatter subsided. It quieted a little, at least, and changed tone.
"Well, Rich, thanks for finally gracing us with your dishevelled presence."
"Sorry, boss," my infuriating friend responded, reaching out a heavy, calloused hand and snatching an apple from the fruit bowl in the center of the table. He tried to polish it on his dingy white shirt, but succeeded only in making it dusty. He shrugged an polished it instead on Caitlin's pert, skirt-covered rear end, then threw me a broad wink.
This illicited several gasps and giggles, and a slap courtesy of Caitlin, all of which Rich didn't seem to notice. He sat in a swivel chair between his brother and Andrew, legs folded beneath him, and munched voraciously on the apple.
I turned from this display, sadly not a rare one at these meetings, and slowly looked around the table. Seated in an unkempt circle around me were the leaders of Ninja Pirate Incorporated. Respected heads of their respective departments. A motley crew of misfits, fiends, plunderers, maniacs, and sabotuers. My friends.
To my immediate left was Cap'n Jacob Motroni, Esq., co-founder of this company and my companion since boyhood.
To his left was Liz, head of art and software design. Sunewan, our secret weapon from the Far East came next. I had put her in charge of psychological research, which was probably a mistake. She was the first ninja so far in the group.
At 10 o'clock, from my vantage point, sat the venerable Dr. Bartholomew J. Sprockets, resident mad scientist and gibbering lunatic extraordinaire. Next was the as-always luminous Stephanie Lepine, the only person on the staff actually concerned with customer relations and the only customer service representative still able to tolerate exposure to sunlight. Directly across from me, and currently making lewd faces in my direction, was our head of demolition and acquisition of private property, Sam Sugrue. This little fireball was responsible for more chaos and destruction than all the rest of us put together. He is intermittently insane and brilliant, and sometimes both. He isn't purely pirate or purely ninja. He's usually adept at being the opposite of whichever he's trying to be. I love 'im.
At one o'clock, the late-comer sat. Richard Sugrue was vice-president in charge of groping and generally served as a fill-in for Cap'n Jake as Head of Piracy when the good Cap'n was off plundering.
He sat, gnawing on the core of his apple, in a sort of trance. I knew, however, that he was paying rapt attention.
Next came Andrew LeTellier, president of Ninja Pirate Records. His lanky limbs streched all about him, theatening to knock something over.
To his left was a hulking monstrosity named Cap'n Black Jack Huzuki-bot 3500. He was regional overseer and former CEO. He used to always try and kill us, but we sat and talked it over one day a few years back and now we're thick as thieves. He holds a mostly advisory position.
Caitlin was next in line. She was chief architect and interior designer and fashion consultant. Poor girl has a lot on her plate. Luckily she has gorgeous breasts. She sat rigid and indignant-looking.
Captain Dan McLaughlin, the only staff member to have an official, earned rank, sat to her left. He was head of aerospace design and our co-political advisor.
Finally there was Pawel, the only staff member to rival Andrew in lankiness. He was head of marketing.
My secretary, Veronica, wearing even less than she usually does, sat behind us and off to the side, taking the minutes of the meeting. She was endeavoring to make eye-contact with me, and repeatedly licking her lips. For some reason she tweaked one of her own nipples between her long, manicured fingernails.
I didn't have time to deduce what she was aiming to do, so I cleared my throat and began the meeting.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, smiling broadly.
"And Rich," said Caitlin, still pouting.
"Whadyou mean?" asked Dan. "Rich is a lady."
To my right, Pawel chuckled.
Rich appeared not to have noticed, but his cheeks flushed.
"Well, anyone's more of a lady than yer mom," Sam said to Dan, mysteriously producing a broken chair leg and brandishing it in a no-nonsense manner. "She was practically a whore last night when I paid to fuck her."
Sam was apparently in one of his insane moments.
I decided that if I wanted this meeting to go at least a half hour without bloodshed I'd need to stop this bickering posthaste.
The yammering of the assembled was brought to a gasping halt when a katana embedded itself in the middle of the conference table. Though it quieted them down, it was now well out of reach. Luckily, I had three more handy.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" I said again, casting a glare around at them, daring someone to make another quip. "So good of all of you to make it."
They were all still silent and shocked, so I decided to strike while the iron was hot and the steel buried in the table top.
"I realize this meeting seemed a little unnecessary to some of you. However, surely you appreciate how rare it is to get all members of the NP Council together in one place at one time. So I made up my mind to gather us all here to discuss the future of the company and hear about some of the new developments in our related fields. I hope all of you have prepared a short presentation, as per my instructions."
Off to the side, I heard Rich mutter something that sounded like, "Ah, fuckturtles."
To start with, I'll simply give a run-through of the company's progress so far. Please turn your attention to the screen behind me.
The windows of the room's south wall were slowly covered by a vast white sheet, lowered from the ceiling.
I turned a dial on the console in front of me. The lights dimmed. On the screen there appeared, in giant letters: NP Inc.
"The history of Ninja Pirate Incorporated began in 1952 when . . ."
I waited for the snores to start.

The sleek, unassuming Buick sped along the winding road, leaving rattling, upset leaves in it's wake. The car's smooth, black sides reflected the silent, sentinel trees which stood on either side of the worn macadam strip. After a long drive into the heart of nowhere, it came upon a sturdy, impressive-looking gate. The gate was the only visible entrance through a lichen-coated stone wall which stretched off into the distance on either side of the road. It leapt abruptly out of the untouched wilderness like the grin of a maitre'd.

The guard at the gate looked up from his worn copy of Spectacular Sports Stories and watched the luxury car's progress with detatched interest.

The Buick slowed, stopped, and the driver's side window rolled down. The guard stepped from his booth and approached. He peered stocially at the stranger inside who was audacious enough to interrupt his reading.

The stranger was a handsome man in his mid-twenties. His jet black hair was slicked back, except for two strands that fell in front of his sunglasses. He lowered the shades with a long, thin finger and revealing eyes as blue as the ink on a deck of Bicycle playing cards. The stranger grinned, exposing two rows of straight, white teeth-- broken, marred, the guard thought, by a garish gold canine which flickered arrogantly.

"Please state your name and business," the guard intoned.

"Sure thing, Chief," said the stranger, his voice crisp and sweet as armaretto. "I'm Leo Trellner, of Burbank Consolidated. I'm here to see a Mr. Tony Celi about a shipment of jet engines."

The guard nodded. He detected a trace of an accent in the man's speech.

"ID?"

Leo provided it.

While the guard gave it a thorough examination, he asked, "Say, where you from?"

"Staten Island, born and raised."

The guard nodded again.

Leo waited patiently while the guard checked his name on a computer.

"Sorry, mac, but you don't seem to be on here."

"Well that's strange," said Leo, apparently perplexed. "Mr. Celi said this meeting was of the highest priority. I came all the way here from Manhattan-- hell of a drive. I'd hate to have to reschedule. Still, I won't have to deal with Celi if that computer's wrong." The grin widened. The guard thought of Tony's dangerous outbursts. He looked uncertain.

"If I go up there and the meeting wasn't for today, what's the worst that'll happen? He'll think my calendar's off."

The guard thought in silence for a moment. Finally he said, "Fine, go on through."

"You're all right . . ." Trellner narrowed his gaze to the guard's ID badge, "Stemkins. Here." He reached into his pocket and produced a small blue and white disk about the size of a half dollar. "That's my lucky poker chip. If I'm wrong about all this, you can keep it, and I'll take full responsibility with the bossman."

The guard, Stemkins, looked relieved. "Sounds like a deal."

"Have a good day," Trellner said.

Stemkins echoed the sentiment, returned to the booth, and raised the heavy bar blocking the Buick's path. The Buick slipped by like smoke on four wheels. Stemkins looked at the poker chip, flipping it over in his hand.

"Nice fella," he said to himself. "Wonder if this thing'll bring me any luck."

Thirty seconds later, Stemkins, the guard house, and the poker chip exploded in a tremendous burst of fire and smoke. The charred crater left in the explosion's wake served as a testament to Stemkins' luck.

In the Buick, Jackie Forcella chuckled as he watched the conflagration in his rear view mirror. He licked his gold fang leisurely and tossed his fake ID out the window, continuing toward the main building of Ninja Pirate Inc.

Caitlin

I love Tony. I really do. But as he sat there, going over what I already knew-- what I had been there for when it took place-- even his gifted storytelling skills were not enough to keep me awake. As the prim-and-proper-sounding voice of the film narrator droned on, my thoughts turned from battles long past to the people around me.
I really could not believe Rich. I mean, when is he gonna grow up? Sure, the leering pervert act is sometimes kinda funny . . . and sometimes it’s even flattering, but it’s getting old. I gave him a quick glance across the table.
The quick glance, however, lingered and became a stare. He looked up and flashed me an infuriatingly likeable smile, and for a moment I lowered the defenses I’d built up in my head for so long and saw him as a man-- an attractive, potentially datable man, rather than just my friend.
Then he raised splayed fingers to his mouth, a backwards peace sign, and darted his tongue between them lecherously, trampolining his eyebrows as he did so. I felt the look on my face do a 180 from intrigued longing to pure disgust. This only seemed to encourage Richard, who kept up his obscene pantomime.
I looked away. My walls sprang back up. In that moment, as in so many others, I hated him.
My eyes came to rest on Dan, who was seated to my left. Clean-cut Dan. From the Air Force. He was in his uniform and, I must say, looked damn fine in it. He, too, caught me looking. He tossed me a dashing flick of his eyebrow and turned back to the presentation. At least there were some tolerable men in this place, I thought as I turned my attention back to the video presentation.

The Buick crossed the stout, stone bridge over the lake which lay in front of the main building like a one-sided moat. It pulled to a smooth, soundless stop, winking and gleaming in the sharp, autumn sun. The passenger door opened and Jackie stepped out.

He stood straight and tall. His narrow figure was accented by his long, close-fitting suit, which shone a resplendent white. A white fedora with a red band sat tipped on his head. He wore a black shirt and a white tie which was decorated in red and gold squares. He took a deep breath of the crisp air, retrieved a violin case from the back seat of the car, and strode toward the main door.
Jackie paused a moment before entering, admiring the simple, graceful architecture of the grand building. When his eyes had had their fill, he pulled open one of the four plexi-carbon doors and stepped inside.
The main lobby was pleasantly warm after the early winter chill of the outside. It was decorated in impeccable neo-modern style, with clear influences from the 1940’s and ‘50’s. Jackie was impressed.
“Dey got style,” he said, looking around.
He made his way to the row of elevators along the far wall and began to study a floor directory. “Can I help you, sir?” asked a deep voice at his elbow.
Jackie turned to see a very large security guard standing, arms crossed, behind him. The guard wore a full smile and didn’t seem to be a threat. Still, Jackie told himself, never can be too careful.
“As a matter of fact you could help me,” he said, returning the smile and slowly pulling a pistol from a shoulder holster. “It seems there are too many bullets in this gun.”

He fired three shots into the security guard-- two in the chest, one in the head—before the man could comprehend what was going on. The guard toppled over with that genuine smile, slightly tinged with surprise, frozen on his face.
The clerks at the reception desk all screamed in panic and began to run in different directions. Not quickly enough, sadly. Jackie hurled a handful of exploding poker chips before they could clear the blast radius, killing all ten of them and turning the reception counter into a reception crater.
Jackie walked back to the floor directory.
“Tony Celi, C.E.O.: 48. That’s all I needed to know.”
Jackie pushed the “up” button on the closest elevator and patiently waited for the doors to open.

Rich

The lights came back on. The screen rose again to its roust in the ceiling.
"And now that all the formalities and technicalities are out of the way, our first order of business is Sam's report of his archaeological expedition," I heard Tony say, and I looked up.
I had been focusing intently on Caitlin's breasts. She was wearing her shirt buttoned very low and those two delightful orbs looked poised to make a break for it at any time. Still, work before play. It was time to listen and contribute. I mean, I am an employee, after all. Besides, I never missed a chance to see my brother speak in public. I looked to the seat immediately to my right, where my sibling was sitting, and prepared myself for a show.
Sam was dressed that morning in a pinstiped suit coat, pajama pants, and a Batman t-shirt. His thick, black hair was combed in a style he referred to as "the unnecessary comb-over"-- that is to say, a great touselled mass of it was pushed awkwardly across his head. He pulled a bulky pipe out from his jacket pocket, grabbed some folders, and stood up. He started to make his way to the front of the room.
"Attention, ladies an' gennnelmen-- an' especially the ladies." He paused at Caitlin to gallantly bow and kiss her hand. "I have jus' returned from the far side of fuck-where with some rather exciting news.

"Someone get the lights!" he hollered.
"For what purpose, Sammy?" Tony felt inclined to ask. "Do you, too, have a power-point presentation?"
"Fuck no," Sam responded irritably, "I'm just hung over an' the lights're killing me. Now shut 'em off!"
Andrew turned to me. "Sam drinks?"
"Sam doesn't need to drink to get drunk."
The lights again went off.
Sam spoke.
"Well, our little story begins 'round about 720 B.C., at the height of the Neo-Assyrian Empire." "Sargon the Tartar was the emperor at that time, was he not?" I asked.
Sam slung a malevolent glare my way.
"Rich, quit fuckin' knowin' everything," he said simply, and returned to his presentation.
"So this motherfucker Sargon, former commander of the armies, seizes the throne. This is viewed as a bit of a miracle in most historical circles. His oppostition was so great, the chances of 'im doin' it were about fuck-tillion to one. Anyway, he does it. Then he takes over all of Judah and exiles all of the Jews. It's in the Bible. So what does he do with all these homeless foreskin-choppers? He sends 'em to work restoring the glory of the old capital at Nineveh. Well, while they're diggin' in the ruins an' shit, they stumble onto some ancient weapon which kills a healthy number of them. Sargon himself goes to inspect the damage and somehow harnesses the power of the weapon. Then he conquers everything else in the general vicinity of the Eastern Mediterranean Sea, to Egypt, an' over to Pakistan. After that Assyria reigns pretty much supreme for a century.
"In the mid- 600's, however, an alliance of Egyptian, Hebrew, and Babylonian warrior-sorcerors makes it to Nineveh and manages to imprison this destructive force in a tablet of basalt." "Basalt?" asked Steph.
"Greyish black volcanic rock common to the region of the Fertile Crescent. Hammurabi's code was etched on it," I said.
"Rich, I etched Sammurabi's code on yer mother's feritle crescent last night. So shuddup!" Sam said, and then went on with his narrative.
"Well it was a suicide mission. All the warrior-sorcerors died. But soon after that the Assyrian empire crumbles into dust. Nineveh is destroyed. And the tablet is ne'er seen again."
It was at this time that I noticed a pedestal to Sam's left. Perched upon this pedestal was an amorphous lump covered in a red velvet cloth. Sam turned to it and ripped the cloth away. There was an audible gasp.
Beneath the vale sat a chunk of grey-black stone with a few noticeably flat sides. Chiseled upon the smooth, flat surface facing us was an inhuman set of eyes- beady, surrounded by lines an wrinkles, underneath two eyebrows downturned-almost to the point of meeting in the middle- with rage. Beneath that were several lines of text in what appeared to be at least three languages. Cunieform, hieroglyphs, arabic lettering. All swirling together.
"Never seen again," Sam repeated himself, "until now."
He gazed around at us, a manic gleam in his eyes. We were all too shocked to speak.
"Well, needless to say, due to the intricasies of the text it has been very difficult to translate. My team and I will be working on it diligently day and night, in the hope that some of this power could be harnessed for the betterment of mankind. Hell, if this force is as overwhelming as they Assyrians said it was, it might even be able to get my brother laid."
There was a general round of laughter at this.
I grumbled angrily under my breath.
"Have you been able to translate any of it?" Pawel asked.
"Well," Sam said, a little hesitantly, "there was one word that kept appearing. As close as we could come to it, it means, 'Beware.'"
There was another tense silence at this.
"An' uh," Sam said, clearly afraid now, "we discovered the name of this force. The ancient Assyrians called it 'The Death Bringer,' and 'That which destroys.' The name they had for it, though . . . was Bakula."

Jackie Forcella decided not to wait for the elevator. Instead, he took the stairs, and had been stopping at every floor, getting a lay-out of the buidling and dispatching any security force he found.
He peeked his head out into a 40th floor hallway and peered around cautiously. Upon seeing no obstacles, he made his way down the corridor to where it forked at the end. Suddenly, Jackie heard the sound of an approaching group. He heard the muted squeak of combat boots and the metallic clicking of jostling weaponry. Guards. And, judging by the sound, a lot of them.
He dashed into a side room and shut the door behind him and waited for the soldiers to pass. Jackie turned his attention to his current hiding place. It was a small room, unremarkable save in one respect. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with file cabinets. Dull grey columns squashed shoulder-to-shoulder the entire perimeter of the room. Jackie opened one, at random.
He spent the next half hour scanning the documents. They all seemed to be on the subject of Ninja Pirate Incorporated inventions. Jackie had never seen anything like it. Page after page of technological marvels, some of which he refused to believe could actually work. Here, plans for an energy converted that harnessed geo-seismic power. There, blueprints to an underwater colony-- one that was, according to the paperwork, currently up and running. Space ships with sonic-propulsion engines. Shrinking rays. New species created through gene-splicing. The Management had always had the most state-of-the-art tech Jackie had ever seen, but this . . . this! And none of it was being used to hurt people or make money. The thought made Jackie quite distraught. He vowed that he'd let The Management know of these the moment he returned from the mission. He would not rest until someone-- preferably him-- used these scientific wonders to their full potential.

Tony

I sat through several more standard reports-- Dan still dealing with fall-out from the debacle with that mechanical suit of armor he "stole" from the U.S. government this past summer. Andrew explaining the delay on his newest CD. Rich outlining several prospective ventures for the company, notably film . . . adult film . . . listing feasible building sites for new regional headquaters, and demonstrating how to deal with violent reactions to unwarranted groping. Steph and Caitlin were only too happy to provide those violent reactions.
The meeting was scheduled to end with a presentation from Dr. Sprockets on a startling new technological innovation he had "just shit out one night." I was worn out from a morning of administrative duties, but I sat a little straighter in my seat as he took center stage. I was excited to hear about this. And, after Sam's stirring narrative and discoveries, this promised to be the second bit of good news for the day.
I turned my attention to the frazzled old man staggering toward me.
Doctor Bartholomew J. Sprockets, inventor, innovator, engineer, and all-around genius, had been with the company since its inception more than half a century ago. In that time he had created countless marvels which changed the lives of everyone on the planet.
Do you like CD's? There's one example. He invented them. Back in 1960. Eventually the record companies came around and switched to his system. Never gave him credit, though. The good doctor's technological breakthroughs are never accepted by the world at first. But rest assured, thanks to him, your grandkids won't have to worry about blindness, global warming, or not having flying cars.
Sprockets stands about 5'4" in his orthopedic slippers. A ragged tartan bathrobe was draped over his lumpy frame. Tufts of shock-white hair stood at attention around the sides of his mostly-bald head. His eyes landed on me. Or, rather, one of his eyes did. Sprockets electric-blue eyes never pointed in the same direction. They roved madly, never settling, like the eyes of a cameleon-- like loose marbles bulging from his brilliant skull.
He patted me on the shoulder when he reached me.
"I'll take the helm from here, Lucy," he said, smiling paternally down at me. "You're doin' a fine job. Tone down the gay, though."
I opened my mouth to say . . . something—I wasn’t sure what at the moment—but good ol’ Sprockets was just rolling placidly over me.
“All right, all right,” he said, “I’m here to tell you all about this new thing I invented. I'm not sure where to start, as I've never gotten used to explaining my work to ignorant clods. No offense."
No one present took any; next to Sprockets, Stephen Hawking is an ignorant clod.
"I assume you're all familiar with the laws of conservation of matter and energy?"
We nodded. "And you know that matter and energy are really all the same?" We nodded again. "Good. Well, that's pretty much it."
He started back for his seat.
"Uh, Doctor," I stopped him, "perhaps you could explain it to us as though he haven't been looking over your shoulder for the past year."
"Eh? Oh, I suppose so. "Please open them folders in front of you," he asked us. And we did so. "What you see there," he said, referring, I assume, to the complex drawings of circuitry and diodes, "Is a disintegration ray."
"Looks like a robot puked," Sam remarked.
Sprockets looked at his own copy.
"By golly, boy, you're right. 'Course, robot puke has more oil in it.
"Anyway, don't get excited over the disintegration part. That's kids' stuff. Oppenheimer invented one shortly after Los Alamos. But, lemme ask ya this. What happens to the stuff ya disintegrate?"
No one knew the answer.
"Exactly," Sprockets said. "If matter and energey can neither be created nor destroyed, what happens when ya dissassemble some of it? Nothin'. It just floats around in its purest form, messin' with stuff. Remember that big East Coast black out a little while back? That was the first trial run a this machine here. All that pure energy plays havoc with electronics."
Pawel raised his hand. "Doctor, are you saying you can break down matter past the atomic level in a matter of seconds?"
"Yessiree, Pete. We go a few steps sub-atomic, actually. But, again, all those ambient particles dancing around the near vicinity. What a waste. "So that's where the new development comes in. My team an' I have found a way to harness and collect the matter we dissassemble. In a basic sense we developed a device to attach to the disintegration ray that works like a specialized vacuum. It is programmed only to gather up all the freshly deconstructed matter." Sprockets looked around. "Now, unless there are any questions . . ." he said wearily.
A dozen hands sprung into the air.
"Very well then," he said and started back toward his seat.
The whole of the company sat stunned. This was certainly a startling, promising bit of news. Eventually they found speech. A burst of excited chatter
"Imagine the raw power this machine can harness."
"What if the matter could be reconstructed as we wished?"
"We end world hunger," Steph said.
"We secure the superiority of the U.S.," Caitlin and Dan said together.
"I could, like, make a chocolate car," said Sam.
We all turned to look at him.
"Chocolate car," he muttered to himself dreamily.
I turned around and spoke to my secretary.
"Veronica, would you kindly step out to your desk and cancel all my appointments for the afternoon. I need to look further into this disintegration ray."
She smiled, bobbed her head, and then strutted out of the conference room. Rich, Andrew, Sam, Jake, Pawel, and Dan followed her progress with hungry eyes, like a pack of wolves watching a plump doe. I had no time for such distractions. There was much to be discussed.

Jackie watched Veronica make her way to her tall desk. Though he was momentarily stunned by her jaw-dropping appearance, he recognized her as a golden opportunity. Quickly and quietly, he sneaked up behind her.

Veronica had lifted the phone off its cradle and was about to dial when a knife blade slid itself slowly against her throat. Her brown eyes went wide with terror. A voice spoke in her ear.
"Do exactly as I say or I'll sever your pretty little head from your pretty little shoulders."

Tony

I was engaged in serious conversation with Dr. Sprockets about potential uses for his newest invention when my intercom went off. Veronica was calling me from her desk.
"Boss?"
"Yes?" I asked, pressing the response button.
"You have a pressing appointment with a Mr. Leo Trellner, of Burbank Consolidated."
"I asked you to clear my appointments."
"I know, boss, but he's here now and he said there is a great deal of money riding on this meeting."
I sighed.
"What does he look like?"
"Boss?"
"Describe his general appearance."
"Uh, he's, well he's well dressed. Nice suit. Three piece. White. Nice shoes, too. Oh, and he's wearing spats."
"Spats you say? In that case, show him into my office. Let me end this meeting and I'll deal with him."
"Thanks, boss."
"Thank you."

Back outside, Jackie also thanked Veronica. Then he slammed the base of his knife hilt into the back of her skull, knocking her unconscious. He dragged her limp form into a coat closet and locked the door. Then he waited.

Pawel

The meeting adjourned in a flurry of scattered papers and mindless chatter. I wearily rose to my feet and turned to look out the towering windows which dominated the rear wall of Tony's conference room. It was indeed a glorious day, and made me wish I had a camera on hand. "Pawel, you coming?" asked a voice from my elbow.
I turned to see Tony standing there waiting for me, his arms full of folders.
“Sure thing, buddy,” I replied, “just admiring the view."
He matched my stride—no small feat for most people, considering the length of my legs—and we spoke as we made our way from the conference room.
“Did you know about this Trellner guy?” he asked me.
I professed I did not.
“Well, nevertheless I’d like you to meet him with me. Everyone else is booked and I need someone savy enough to deal with corporate executives by my side. I'm gonna try to wrangle Dan in here as well. I guess this Trellner guy want to sell us aeroplane parts."
We exited his conference room and turned toward the elevators. A figure was making his way toward us. A well dressed stranger who I happened to notice was wearing spats. I could only presume it was Trellner. We watched the him walk toward us, graceful and serene in his long, white suit. He was smiling. I remember distinctly the shimmer of what must have been a gold tooth. In his left hand he held a large violin case.
Tony tucked the folders under one arm, stepped forward, and stuck out his hand.
"Mr. Trellner, pleased to meet you," he said amiably.
The man ignored him. He came to a halt in the middle of the hallway and dropped to a crouch. He unclasped the violin case and pulled something from it. At first I refused to believe what I was seeing. I was still sleeping, I told myself. There's no way-
Then the man opened fire.
Without saying a word, without dropping his broad smile, he sent out a spray of shrieking hot lead from the barrell of his machine gun. For that was the item he had produced from within the violin case. And not just any machine gun. An antique Thompson gun. This maniac was attacking us with a Tommy gun.
The bullets cut down three members of the staff- an intern, a security guard, and Liz's secretary, Herman- before any of us could react. When our minds finally caught up with the violence, all hell broke loose.
Men and women screamed, panicked, and ran. Chairs and tables were flipped over, vases and windows shattered.
Tony, the group from the board meeting, and myself, dove to the left and to the right, half of us behind the receptionist's desk, the other half down a hallway and behind a wall. Bullets whizzed around us like angry hornets, shredding wallpaper and ripping chunks out of the walls. I turned to Tony. We, along with Rich and Sunewan, were wincing behind Veronica's tall marble desk. "That's a Tommy gun," I said to Tony.
"Yes." "That son of a bitch is firing at us with a Tommy gun."
"Yes."
"Does he think this is still 1938?" asked Rich through gritted teeth.
There was a lull in the conversation as the maniac concentrated his fire over our heads. Eventually he spun and peppered the far wall.
"He pulled it out of a violin case," I said to Tony.
"Yes."
"Who does that? Who actually carries automatic weapons in a violin case?"
"Apparently, he does," Sunewan said.
"Well, fearless leader," Rich asked Tony, "got a plan? Because if you don't I'm just gonna rush him as soon as that clip runs out and hit him until he's unconscious."
Tony smiled, and it filled us with a warm hope.
"Actually, Rich, that was my plan."
Rich returned the smile.
Just then the gunfire clicked to a stop. We listened for the telltale shick of the clip being removed.
As soon as we heard it, Rich leaned forward in his crouch, his thick muscles bulging, and said one word: "Dibs."
Then he spun and vaulted over the desk behind us.
We stood up and watched.
Rich tore across the carpeted lobby and managed to catch the intruder off guard. The assassain was still holding his gun, which I noticed now was either nickel- or chrome-plated, and he had just looked up to see what the commotion was about when Rich hit him.
He plowed into the man like a speeding Mack truck, sending them both crashing backward. They hit the ground, bounced, rolled, and landed on the tile floor between the two elevators. The Tommy gun flew in a shimmering arc and landed near the elevator on the right. Both Rich and the intruder struggled to their feet.
The intruder was fast.
Before Rich could ready himself, the assassain ducked and delivered a sharp elbow strike to his midsection. Rich doubled over with a grunt of pain and staggered back. The intruder rose, spun, and caught our burly defender on his bearded jaw with a roundhouse kick.
Rich refused to fall.
"A big, strong guy, huh?"
These were the first words I ever heard the stranger speak. He was out of breath, but sounded amused.
"I know how to handle big strong guys."
He flipped open a butterfly knife and held it down at his side-- unobtrusive, but his wrist was tensed.
"Probably not too big and strong in the brains department, eh?"
Rich, who I've noticed is insecure about his intellect, bellowed and rushed forward. The assassain dodged left and struck with his knife, slicing through Rich's shirt and leaving a fine trail of crimson. Rich crashed against the wall, huffing.
"A few more strategic cuts like that and you'll fold like a card table," the intruder said.
Richard turned and charged again, and, I'll admit it, I thought he was done.
I started forward, but Tony grabbed my arm.
"Not yet," he said, "Rich knows what he's doing."
I later found out Rich's dad was a boxing champion when he was young. Looking back, it was clear that he passed some of this training onto his son.
Rich blundered forward, looking like a bull at the end of its fight. The intruder was the eager matador, ready with his stilleto blade. But the matador doesn't always win.
At the last moment, Rich feinted left, then spun to the right and his heavy fist flew out.
He hit the assasain , who was busy slicing left at the space Rich briefly occupied, with a stunning right cross that actually lifted the man off his feet. He looked dazed and stumbled against the elevator doors. He turned slowly to see Rich, unmindful of the gash over his ribs, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, fists held up, in the typical boxer's stance.
The intruder spat out a mouthful of blood. Mixed in with the blood was something shiny and sharp. His gold tooth. He stared at it, unbelieving, for a moment. Then looked up at Richard, his eyes murderous and hate-filled.
"You'll bleed for that," he hissed.
"Let's go, tough guy," Rich said. "Haven't got all day."
The assassain charged, knife cutting the air wildly, but Richard judged the timing, stepped forward, and caught the man by his collar. He lifted, spun, and released, hurling the assassain across the enclosed space, into the unyieliding doors of the other elevator. The villain crumpled to the ground and lay still.
Richard turned to us, his rugged face lit up in a grin.
No one seemed to see what I saw. The intruder's hand tightened over his gun, which lay beside him.
"Wasn't so bad," Rich said. "Now, who's for some celebratory sex?"
"Rich, look out!" I called to him, but it was too late.
The heavy butt of the machine gun thumped into the back of his head. His eyes rolled up and he fell to the ground in a furry heap.

"I suppose an introduction is in order," the villain said, and, to our horror, reloaded. "My name is not Trellner. It's Forcella. Jackie Forcella. I'm here on behalf of an outside party." He paused here to pepper the walls above our heads with another spray of bullets. "I want you to know that, other than my tangle with yah friend over there, none of dis is personal. I'm just here to do a job, folks."
"Your mom did a job on me last night," Sam yelled from around the corner.
Jackie turned his attention away from us. "Now dat's just impolite," he said coldly, and fired wildly at the wall behind which Sam was currently hiding.
"Sam!" yelled Tony once Jackie had ceased firing, "please do not make remarks about the family members of psychopaths with automatic weapons, especially when I'm closer to the line of fire than you are."
"Can do, chief!" Sam hollered back.
"Listen," said Tony adopting an air of reason, "if we're doing formal introductions, than I might as well let you know that my name is Anthony Celi, and I am the CEO of this here company."
"I know who you are, Mr. Celi," Jackie said.
Tony paused, perturbed, and then went on.
"I realize Rich might have knocked out your tooth, and his brother, Sam, may have inadvertantly insulted your mother. They're quite a pair, those two," he said, almost to himself. "Anyway, what I'm getting at is, aside from them, no one here need have any more to do with you. I'm in charge, just talk with me and let these others go."
Jackie paused to consider the offer.
"Very well," he said at last. "Come out from behind that desk, slowly and unarmed, and I'll let the rest of these fine people go back to their lives bullet-free."
Tony gave me an urgent look and whispered, "You and Sunewan get out of here. Regroup with the others." Then he replied to Jackie. "Well, that's quite kind of you, sir. You're a real class act." As he was speaking, he was sliding open one of the drawers of Veronica's desk. The one directly above his head. He reached awkwardly up and backward and into the drawer and his hand searched madly around. "I don't believe we've ever run up against a gunman with your fine sense of sportsmanship and goodwill."
Suddenly, his hand closed on something and he brought it out. It was a picture of himself, with large, red hearts drawn all over it in what looked to be lipstick. He sighed, and darted his hand back into the drawer.
"In fact," he said to the assassain, "if this were any other circumstance, I'd make you a martini, sir."
"All well and good," Jackie cut him off, "but you can stop stalling and come out here. I promise I won't shoot you immediately."
"What a relief," Tony muttered sardonically.
He turned to me one last time. "I'm counting on you," he said, and he stood up.
The assassain had no time to react. The letter opener flew from Tony's fingers in a blur and buried itself in the back of his hand. With a cry of surprise and pain, he dropped his chrome-plated Tommy gun and clutched his wrist. Blood seeped from between his fingers.
Tony darted around the side of the desk and made for the intruder in a crouching run.
I didn't look back. I grabbed Sunewan by the arm and took off, crouching myself, toward the hallway and our friends.
By the time we got there, Cap'n Huzuki-bot and Dr. Sprockets had gone to sound the alarm and alert whatever security force was left. Steph and Liz had also taken off, each to aid in the evacuation of the building. Evacuation might seem to be a touch of overkill, but they had seen Tony in combat before; they were acting wisely.
"We've gotta get out of here," I said urgently, looking around.
"Fuck that, gypsy-dick," Sam said to me. He dashed out into the lobby. "I'm gonna get me a front-row seat."

To Be Continued . . .

Some Preliminaries

2006-10-21T10:38:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you now that as I type I can hear my finger joints creaking.
I think they're whispering "oil can."
That's how rusty I am.

I have been out of practice at this personal write-up thing for almost a year.
I hope it's more like riding a bike, and less like . . . uh . . . something that's hard to remember how to do after an extended period of not doing it.

Well, it seems my simile skills are up to snuff.

Er, what's next?

Yes, I return to the grind- the exhausting, daunting, depressing task of expounding on the character of my friends.

This Reverse quiz will be a re-hash of the oldest story in the world. That is to say, how great Andrew is. Humans have been writing on this subject since they first took charcoal bits to cave walls. That's the level of awesome Andrew has achieved: he pretty much transcends time.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I have touched upon the subject of Andrew before in this periodical, a little over two years ago.
You have to scroll down some distance, but it's here:
http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004_07_01_whiteytighties_archive.html

Okay. Just a few quick announcements before we move on to our theatrical portion of the show.

First up is the matter of the Reverse Quiz itself.
Does anyone even remember what exactly is on it? On what scales do I judge you? What juicy tidbits you can expect?
So, before we go any further, let me give you a summary of my quiz formula.

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph length.)

02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you.

03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be...

04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)

05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.

06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.

07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.

08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.

09. I will describe my ideal day with you.

10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

If any of you happen to remember the details of those reverse quizzes that were circulating the blogosphere a year or so ago, you'll notice that I devitated somewhat from the traditional model. So, in an attempt to preemptively halt all questions that I might be bombarded with later, here is a thorough explantaion of each item on my version of the quiz:

1. Self explanatory. Same as errbody else's, but longer than most.

2. I'm big on making things as explicit as possible. Perhaps it comes from the years of being misunderstood and subsequently villified, but whatever the reason, I go out of my way to explain what I say. One fish, two fish. Red fish, blue fish.
As such, when listing the songs you remind me of, I will include a description of the ditty, my reasons for picking it, and, occasionally, specific lyrics. Unlike my illustrious predecessors, I feel you shouldn't have to hunt for specifics on these.There is one other variation from the formula I am including. I realized that in order to do justice to this thing if more than one person is involved, you need to create some sort of similar scale. I needed something which would unite my readers and make them easier to describe. Thus, in addition to telling you which random song or songs you remind me of, I will tell you which Mike Doughty song you remind me of. This way I can capture your personalities more fully.
(One last note for this one: If you think about someone enough, every song you hear, and every movie you see, will remind you of him or her. So, while the tunes and films I pick have some relevance to who you are as a person, I choose them more because you're special to me and I think of you a lot.)

3. I over-did it on this one. When choosing time I picked not only an o'clock, but also a day, season, and month, and, in some cases, year.

4. Impossible. I did my best.

5. Ditto. Also, I probably held back on these.

6. Once again the universal scale approach. Aside from picking assorted animals of varying genus and species for y'all, I picked for each of you a dog that you remind me of.

7. Obviously held back on this one.

8. Yeah, the Hanky Signal.
The Hanky Code was a system of wordless, sartorial communication developed by the gay community, which has spread in limited amounts to the fetish world as a whole. It shows, by the color of the handkerchief you wear and its placement in one of several locations on your person, what your particular kink is. I declined to post explanations for these. Have fun looking them up and remember to clear your history when your done.
You know what's really funny? The code varies!
(I used this one: http://www.fetishexchange.org/hanky.shtml).

9. Might be partially based on actual events.10. You won't know who this is in many cases. Just "role" with it.

Good, I think that wraps it up.

Now, I realize it's been so long that any references to past posts are fairly moot, but here are some additions to an old Rerverse Quiz, Looney Tones, about my perennial Italian-ninja cohort, Anthony Celi.

There are but two items I need to touch on left over from the Tony's post.

The first, sadly, is a negative assessment of the poor fellow. In my write-up of him, though he asked me to take the gloves off and not pull any punches, I said almost nothing about his slightly less appealing character traits. At the time I was so enamored with the guy that I couldn't even see any faults, let alone bring myself to write about them. A few people even commented after reading that they could think of some bothersome qualities Tones possesses, and wondered why I hadn't included any. And so, now, for the sake of closure and completion, I will type about reasons why I do not like Tony. (This is, oddly enough, in spite of the fact that I do like him, and am closer to him now than ever.)

Tony can be stubborn. Annoyingly so. He is capable of digging his heels in further and with more tenacity than anyone I know. (It's as if he wear those ninja climbing foot-spikes all the time . . . in his mind!) One of my biggest problems with Tony is his absolute unyielding nature in the face of peer pressure. This contradicts strongly with his at times too-passive attitude in social situations. If Tony only wants to "go with the flow," God help the individual struggling to get him galvanized enough to make a decision. However, if he has his mind firmly set on something, save yourself hours of your life and give up trying to get him to change it.

Tony is a genius. Literally. Certified and saluted. As such, he has a right to be arrogant. He can, however, becoming sickeningly condescending sometimes. Not usually to me. I don't know if this is because he won't do it directly, or I choose not to see it, or-my favorite- he recognizes me as close to his own intelligence level. But I digress, to people he sees as intellectual inferiors- which is, rightfully- much of the population of planet Earth- he can be superior to the point of callousness. With me, his arrogance occasionally manifests itself in our arguments and debates, especially the petty ones, when he lowers himself to cruel jibes, which, when blended with his already assured air, become intolerable.
A side note from the above: Though this is no fault of Tony's, one thing I cannot stand is knowing more than him. The hierarchy is clear enough to me that any disruption of it becomes almost nauseating. So, if there is a fact Tony is ignorant of, yet I know because of my memory or voracious appetite for reading, it seems, well, just wrong somehow.

Tony is selfish. When it comes to creative collaberations, that is. The skits we wrote, for instance. He dominated them. In fact, to even use "we" to describe the force behind them is absurd. He wrote them. He didn't do it to earn more praise for himself, however. That's the infuriating part. He never wanted any credit for them. It'd be one thing if he pushed me out of the way to bask in the limelight. But as soon as the applause began, Tony tucked himself away in the corner. He does this often. With projects or good deeds. Does all the work, takes none of the credit. It's bothersome mostly because it makes so little sense.

Tony can be fussy and rule-bound. This intrudes in his competence as a host and his duties as a friend. I imagine his reverence for rules and boundaries- which he sometimes abandons to riotous results- is inherited from his parents; conditioned just as my hatred for rules and authority was by mine. Still, it can be discouraging.
For instance, the drinks in his fridge downstairs. Mentality in my house is always, in a lax way, you want something, have it. If my dad bought a bottle of soda for himself and my friends want some, take some. He'll happily buy another. The inherent boundaries of material possessions mean very little. And, in some ways Tony is like this. However, when my brother Sam asks for some cranberry juice, which Tony's parents use- I assume to make drinks- he is not just denied but reprimanded. I realize this is more a side-effect of the specific Celi household mentality, which is neither right nor wrong, merely different from mine, but Tony, as an unyielding instrument of that mentality, gains my scorn and disaffection.

And, at times, for whatever reason, Tony can slip up. We all do. What I mean is, in the very pure qualities that he exemplifies, that define what a magnificient person he is, he falls short. Happens to everyone. For instance: Tony had his house to himself this summer. I came over one night, between 10 and 11 I think it was, with a change of clothes and asked to use his shower. He appeared scandalized, and denied me access to his facilities. I admit, it might have been presumptuous on my part to act as I did. But, thing was, my house was undergoiing renovation and I had only ice-cold water coming out of my taps. I was working full-time in a grungy warehouse then, and just wanted to get clean. For Tony, normally the genial host, to not just deny my request, but appear insulted by it, was as harsh as a slap in the face. If Tony had come to my house, with my parents there, at 3 o'clock in the morning and asked the same of me I'd have drawn his goddamn bath for him.
Continuing in the bathroom theme: He gets angry when one does number two at his house. For fuck sake, it's a toilet! Tony could shit on my kitchen floor and I'd hold off on losing my temper.

. . .

I think that's all I got. What I guess I'm driving at is that Tony is a person and people are complex. Understandable, but nonetheless annoying and hurtful.

But, onto the good things:

Tony is a hard worker. I did not mention this in the his post. I greatly admire anyone who can apply themselves to a task, especially a physical one, and remain diligent. Tony isn't the strongest guy I know, and I tend to think of myself- rugged, powerful, slightly masochistic, with the work-ethic of an ox, as a hard worker. But Tony, in a quiet, unassuming way, can work just as hard and as doggedly as I do.

And the only other thing which needs mentioning is how thrilling it is sometimes to banter with Tony about the most esoteric subect matter imaginable. Whether it's bouncing quotations from Dexter's Lab or Johnny Bravo off one another or discussing obscure Spiderman villains, I cannot express how happy I am that Tony and I function on the same nerd wave-length. Tony is my friend, confidante, and pop-culture geequal, and I value this greatly.

Two final notes on the concept of Reverse Quizzes as a whole:

Note One:
When describing something it is often necessary to compare it to something else. When composing my Friends paragraphs, I held back as much as I could for fear that in complimenting one amigo I would insult the otro. In this series of personal write-ups, however, I have decided to take Caution, douse him in gasoline, light him on fire, piss on the ashes, and throw him to the wind. So, fair warning, you may see some comparisons when reading these. If they offend you, I am sorry. I do not mean for them to, and will try to keep them as bland as possible. If you're still sore, feel free to write mean things about me in your online journals. That always helps me relieve stress. Or, punch me in the face. Seriously. If you're angry, I won't stop you.

Okay, Note Two:

I am not an insightful person. I agonized over these for hours before finally deciding to just write what I thought was coming from my heart (but what might very well have been coming from my right kidney.) As such, don't put too much stock into what I say. Regard me less as a prophet and more as one of those shallow online surveys which, based on a pattern of dots, decide the kind of person you are. I tried to be intelligent about this. I doubt it worked.

P.S. The actual hanky codes for Becky, for all those curious enough to want to know but lazy enough not to left click on the link and read several words, are as follows:

Kelly Green: This was proceded by the statement that Sam had made me add it. That is because Kelly Green hankies have something to do with whores, or role-playing as whores.

Kewpie doll: This one I picked, though. If you wear a Kewpie doll on your person it indicates a love of cuddling.

Okay, now onward to victory, Mule!

AL: You need his love

2006-10-16T19:31:00.000-04:00

a.n.d.rew.

01. A Tall Tale

Man, oh, man! Where to start, huh? Where to start? . . . I'm serious here, guys, I have no idea where to begin.
Anyone got a suggestion?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Fine! You lot are useless! What do I pay you people for, anyway?
Okay, looks like tonight the lone wolf . . . hunts alone.

Andrew, you are loved and admired the world over, but I don't think anyone gives you quite enough credit. No one appreciates your inner complexities. I realize it's like this with all of us. Woe for the unsung talents and hidden depths an' all that. But with you, Drew, it goes almost to the point of not understanding who you are.

. . .

I thought I'd dig myself a nice philosophical trench to start things off. Test the waters, you know.

. . .

Where was I? Ah, yes. No one understands you enough. 'Course, as I launch into this rant, do not think that I appreciate you any more than the others reading this. Th'only difference twixt them an' me, dear Andy, is that I see myself for the ignorant fool I am.

. . .

It appears that in attempting to justify my trench I unwittingly turned it into a Grand Canyon of sorts.

Nevertheless! Lemme begin here by describing how I assume most of us perceive you.

We see you as a loveable, lanky, easy-going chappie, a talented musician, a lover of film, a sharp dresser, and a breakfast-sandwich-making extraordinaire. And all of these things you are.
These are all of the reasons I was first drawn to you; chief among them being our mutual devotion to film and music.
You're handsome and athletic and charming- in a quirky, vulnerable way.
You're a sound-thinking Christian and an occasional rebel.
You're our Andrew.

And, don't get me wrong, budsy, you are all of these things. But you're more. With you, it's as if people watch, but don't see- listen but do not hear.

There are intricate levels, you see.

And one of them, which must be addressed, is Andrew the attention-grabber. As I sit and type and think of it, now, in the calm light of reason, I realize that in the past when I've called you an attention-whore I was speaking out of place. Most of the time you're quiet. Cool and collected, even if you're shy. But still, there is that childlike need to receive the full attention of any group, even if it only rears it's cute lil' head every once in a while.

At the risk of sounding insulting, I will expand on this concept of being "child-like."

Too often the word is given a negative connotation. Indeed, it applies to some of the negative aspects of your personality.
For instance, you are tactless. You show no more care with words than a child who barely understands how to use them. I should know, I'm occasionally much the same. There are three negative aspects to your personality, and this, the obliviousness in the face of hurting people, is the worst.
Next comes the disregard for others material possessions. You, Andrew, are the most willfully destructive person I have ever met. Once, you broke a chair of mine- from a set that belonged to my grandparents- by tipping in it until it snapped. This was after hearing it creak in protest, and after my repeated pleas and warnings to not continue testing the old chair. But I knew at the time what would happen. I saw that devilish gleam in your eye. The look of mischievousness that represents a complete disregard, almost verging on disdain, for the possessions of others. I hated you for that at the time, and I still do, a little, even now. I belive you finished that visit by hurling darts at anything that caught your eye. Including, if memory serves, a holy Bible. You've stepped on, stomped, crushed, snapped, up-ended, and kicked some of the material things I care most about. You drop my expensive HEX dumbells from about halfway up your lanky frame onto unyielding concrete. You have spit on the floor of my gym. I realize this ruinous, pestilential behavior is not a result of malice. You're usually one of the nicest guys I know. You're more like a curious kid that grabs some crayons and draws on a wall, or breaks windows for fun.
The third negative aspect is the selfishness. It's not greed-based, necessarily, more simple obliviousness again. Being unaware of anyone but yourself. And these only happen in rare moments of weakness.
Also, sometimes you get whiny, pessimistic, and impatient. But we all do.

And when you reach the end of that particularly short list, you have reached the end of "What is 'Wrong' with Andrew."

And, indeed, much of what makes up those flaws makes up your better qualities, as well. That childish nature-- childish as in innocent, unmarred, unaffected, in the way Jesus advised us to be more childlike in faith, that kind of childishness, not immature or juvenile-- that childish nature also makes possible your spirit of adventure, your natural curiosity and sense of wonder. It makes possible your laugh. It's what makes you care so much about others. It's what makes your emotions so fine-tuned and sensitive.

What an odd paradox that is: What makes you selfish makes you selfless. What makes you insensitive makes you sensitive. Go figure.

And, again, don't misunderstand me, o' bestest bud. Using the term "childish" automatically makes me seem condescending. Nothing could be further from the truth. I hold you in the highest respect, and consider myself in very few pursuits to be anywhere close to your equal.

And, moving past this childish nature, more interlocking levels.

You're a poet. A songwriter already as gifted as your father. And you've pushed yourself to this point in the course of an unimaginably short 3 years. You possess a depth of spirit and clear perception of the world that I cannot comprehend.

D'you know, I used to harbor the belief that I was the only person with any depth? I figured others might have some, but I never saw any evidence of it. That is, until reflected on View Master. The title of your first CD. It made me realize that you had given this abstract notion much thought. You had crafted the CD cover, with the metaphor of the child's toy, and poured heart into it. I realzed that this evidence of deeper thinking, of wheels within wheels and thought behind thought, in others, finally proved me wrong. It opened my eyes to the completeness of every human being. This I say with a straight face, and I shit you not, dear readers.

You have the soundest taste in film of anyone I know. Although your personal preferences run a little more toward the avant-garde, you are the one to turn to to find a film, whatever the circumstance. You have never given me an entertainment tip, be it music or movies, that hasn't been worth following up on. You're a pop-culture diving rod, a guru of grooves.

You're one of the best athletes I know. Though I've only seen your prowess on the frisbee field, you move with a natural grace and desire for sport I have never seen elsewhere. On top of this, you're a good sport. You never gripe or grumble or trash talk. You're perfect.

You have a marvelous imagination and a talent for romance.

You have a splendid, unburdened sense of humor. Slapstick to sophisticate, you appreciate, and produce, it all.

Occasionally you seem a little image-conscious, but no matter. You dress well, groom well, style your hair well. Yet you make it seem effortless.

That's the key, I think, efforlessness. In sport, in song, in picking movies, in making breakfast snadwiches (sic, sandwiches). You carry yourself with a confidence, a maturity that is unhindered by the sagging weight of the world.

And so, what else is there to say? What makes you occasionally annoying makes you ultimately great, and adds to the third, clashing element of Andrew: A maturity mixed with a child-like love of life and everything it entails.

No. There is no way to do you justice.

P.S. Odd as this sounds, I love watching you eat. You seem to revel in it. And I enjoy the little crumb-crumbling gesture you make by rolling your fingertips against your thumb after every bite.

02. Song & Cinema

Settle down, now Punky Drewster. I can feel you chomping at the bit for this one.
First of all, you remind me of every independent, alternative pop/rock/folk song- and every independent, alternative movie- out there. Bad or good. This is simply because of your taste. The same way Tony reminds me of anime, good or bad, and Steve reminds me of the scream-whiny Nirvana/Smashing Pumpkins heavy grunge rock, bad or good. It is the genre I associate with there person and personality.
But let's talk specifics, shall we?

Movies: I am reminded of you when I see Garden State and The Science of Sleep, because the main characters mirror facets of your personality. You remind me of Me, You, and Everyone We Know, because we saw that film together and it made a lasting impression. You, Sam, and Tony remind me equally of Happiness of the Katakuris. Tony because it presents zombies and the people of his adopted culture, you because it was your genius and foresight that brought that film into our lives, and Sam because he's so much like so many of the characters..
You remind me of Anti-Trust, because it's the only film of its genre you've publicly professed to liking.
You remind me of The Matrix, obviously. For many of the same reasons I remind Tony of Commando.
You remind me Snatch and Saving Silverman.

Music: You remind me of St. Jimmy and City of the Damned, by Green Day. Also of Your Winter, by Sister Hazel. You remind me of The Mountains Win Again, by Blues Traveler and Whatever It Is, by Ben Lee. You remind me of Calling All Angels, by Train, and Good People, by Jack Johnson.
I think of you and your misadventure with a certain lady friend whene'er I hear Crooked Teeth, by Death Cab for Cutie.
I think of you in the same way, but with a positive spin when I hear Going the Distance, by CAKE.
I think of you when I hear Brian Wilson, by the Barenaked Ladies. I realize you don't like this song particularly, but it fits you so well.

Drove downtown in the rain,
Nine-thirty on a Tuesday night,
Just to check out the late-night
Record shop.

Call it impulsive,
Call it compulsive,
Call it insane;
But when I'm surrounded I just can't
Stop.

It's a matter of instinct,
It's a matter of conditioning,
It's a matter of fact.
You can call me Pavlov's dog.
Ring a bell and I'll salivate- how'd you like that?

. . .

And if you want to find me I'll be
Out in the sandbox,
Wondering where the hell all the
Love has gone.
Playing my guitar and building castles in the sun,
Whoa, whoa-huh-whoa,
And singing "Fun, Fun, Fun."

Another BNL song you remind me of is Tonight is the Night I Fell Asleep at the Wheel. It's the kind of song you would write: quirky, sad, soulful, almost silly. Original. If I'd heard you play it first, I'd have thought you the author.
Plus, the subject, a romantic young fellow who gets into a car accident, it disturbingly appropriate.

"From the ceiling, my coffee cup drips,
While out the window the horizon does flips."

Yipes.

I always think of you and me when I hear Mr. Jones, by the Counting Crows. If I could pick one song to be our theme, this'd be it.
And, of course, you remind me- ever time I see you or think of you- of your songs, which I value above all the previously mentioned others.

Mike Doughty Song: Circles. Not necessarily because of the lyrical or melodic qualties, but because it was the first song I heard by Soul Coughing. Ever. And I checked it with you first. You gave it your okay. To this day it's one of the few songs by that marvelous band that you tolerate.
Plus, it's a hip song, no doubt about that. Were you to star in a Circles music video, you'd make it even hipper.

03. Time Challenge!

Andrew strikes me as a 7:00 P.M. kinda fellow. A semi-late dinner hour. In the mid-fall. On a Friday. In the air hangs that cinnamon smell of autumn. The breeze is crisp but slow and casual, as if it, too, has just enjoyed a good meal. The leaves rustle quietly. The sun has all but set, gilding the russet foliage with its farewell light. It's a relaxed time. A time for food and friends. But there is that tang in the air, keeping everyone at least a little alert, because, there is still the chance that someone might dodge a cat, accidentally drop a platter of glassware, trip over an ottoman, and land upside down in an overstuffed chair.

04. Word association

Flexible, fragile, flailing, friendly, sensitive, and, above all else, soulful.

05. Memorable Moments

Hmm . . . I have known you intimately for around 5 years now. Even if one extrapolates that I've spent a third of that sleeping and another third masturbating, that still leaves at least a sixth left over for time with you. (With a sixth left for work, school, recreation, and pudding cups.
It all works out. Trust me, I've done the math, like, at least once in my head . . . while eating pudding cups.)
So, that's a lotta time, amigo.
For the sake of brevity- which I have never cared two snaps of a chick's snatch for- I will narrow down those memorable moments to 5. One for each year.

1. Sophomore year religion, Missus Blainey's ass, and the invention and first trial runs of the movie game.

2. Junior year . . . is actually coming up blank. It was a crap year, let's be honest.

3. Senior year talent show. You and me, mostly you, rocking out with Perverse Psychology and putting that boundless energy and stunt-man attitude to work in a rollicking, screaming rendition of Tribute.

4. Freshman year. I'd have to say the pleasure of seeing your smiling face as you ran in circles around the parking lot of St. Joe's in your 200 dollah jeans was one of the happiest moments of that entire year. I was buoyed by the ride there with Amy- who was still a prospective romantic interest at that point and not just another member of the growing legion of girls whom I've had crushes on, fallen into dead-end friendships with, and then alienated. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I was buoyed by the ride with Amy, and happy to be out of the car after 8 solid hours of driving, but it was seeing you that really made my day.

5. Visiting you with Tony, seeing your awesome show at the Mad Monkey, and meeting our perennial chum, Fat Dog.

I gotta throw in a 6. here:
Any time you pull me aside and play a song for me. Those are some truly touching, personal moments. I treasure them all.

06. Animality

You have always reminded me of a giraffe, craning it's long neck and slowly manuvering it's thick tongue, snatching leaves in the Serengeti.
Also, staying on the dark continent, a cheetah-as you move with such grace (sometimes) and speed, a lemur, and a howler monkey. Basically any simians, so long as they're thin, agile, and accident-prone.
And a snake. A big one.
Dog: Greyhound? 'S that too much? Also, a golden retriever. And, though not in a physical sense, Jack Russel Terrier, specifically my aunt's. You and he share the same spirit.

07. Wonder Blunder

I actually don't wonder that much about you, buddy. You can be hard to read, and sometimes darn near opaque, and you're complex, like all of us. But you're complex in a more solid, safe-feeling kinda way. It's rather hard to explain.
The biggest wonder I have for you is this: Why are you not more successful with the ladies?
Although it is pretty much my only wonder, it is a whopper. It keeps me awake some nights. You have every quality that most women desire in a romantic companion, and yet you've barely had more experience than me. What gives? I know you're shy, but that can't be the only reason. Your lack of a girlfriend makes me question the sanity of the universe.

If I wondered about anything else, it'd be about boundaries. It's long been a theory of mine that you like the movies and songs you do because they are edgy, original, and hardly known, rather than for any inherent talent or quality therein. You like them because they're different, and so make you different. Ours is a culture which values above all else the power of the original individual, and you strive to reach that exalted perch more than anyone I know. Others come as close as you, but none try so hard. Now, I know that you don't only like those movies and bands because of this. If you did, there'd be no wondering. What I want to know is how much of your taste in music and film is governed by a like of the product- an internal synergy, if you will- and how much by a desire to like the product for the sake of being cool.
I imagine the line is pretty well blurred to obscurity, but I wonder nonetheless.

08. Hanky Panky

Definitely not medium blue, but I doubt you could avoid it.
Lime green, for sure.
Lavender
Paisely

Teddy Bear
Mosquito net
Cock ring

09. Ideal For Real

The day would begin, bright and early, with a work-out. (You have long been my most consistent, non-family work-out partner, Andrew, and I thank you for it.) We'd push ourselves, sweating and straining, for a good two hours or so. Then off to shower, change, and head to breakfast. After breakfast we'd get started on an art project for Ninja Pirate Incorporated. Something big, something bright, something impressive. Sawing, drilling, nailing, painting, sewing. We'd work alongside each other, occasionally helped by friends from all over, and eventually wind things down around 2, for a late lunch (the key to any day with Andrew is to include as many meals as possible) at Woodbridges. We would then work on a script for a movie we'd be planning to direct, star in, and send to Channel101.com, but just to make them jealous. We'd eventually display it online ourselves and start our own funny tv website. Jack Black would stop by to say hello. Thence would we set out to explore Northampton and surf, as they say, the turf for some chickeroos.
As it's an ideal day, we'd find some.
"Hellooo, ladies," we'd say in unison, not creeping them out in the least (ideal day, ideal day), we just so happen to have tuh-hoo extra tickets for that Mike Doughty/Decemberists show tonight at the Calvin. Care to join us? Of course they'd care to join us. Might I take the time here to add that they both have very, very nice boobs?
We'd stop at Turn It Up, and buy our female friends some CD's, whilst endearing them to us further by hamming it up with our semi-intelligible pop-culture-fueled madness and Randrew Speak. (This is the name for that language we share.) John C. McGinley would be there, and we'd each receive five good ones from him, along with a smile and a best-of-luck-with-the-ladies wink.
Off to dinner at some nice place, Fitzwilly's, perhaps, and then on to the show. At some point, Connor and Mike would share the stage to sing The Gambler, and they would spot us, front and center, and call us forward. We'd sing along with them, and tell jokes. Again, ideal day, so I'd be as close as I ever get to being on-key. The crowd would love us. The show would rock, and roll.
After the show we'd head back to your house, which would be deliciously parent-free. Splash would remain to keep some modicum of order.
Bonfire, s'mores, and stories.
In the basement, you'd play the girls songs and I'd perform stand-up. Then we'd get blow-jobs.
As we'd be so full of zim and zeal, and in no mood to sleep, we'd curl up on your couch- with dates- and have a movie marathon. Saving Silverman, Snatch, and Rat Race.
Eventually, as the sleepy fingers of dawn crept over the tree tops -just as our sleepy fingers crept over our date's luscious breats- we'd decide, a bit late, really, to call it a night. You'd walk me to my car and we'd part ways, mentioning to our dates, who I have grown attached to enough to now name . . . Veronica and Alicia, that we just so happen to have two extra tickets to the Iditarod. (We know someone who's competing, Oh, boy, Oh, boy.)
And there would the day END!

10. Character Actor Accuracy:

Although they are both too famous to be character actors, Tim Robbins and Jim Carrey. For, in physical appearance and respective personalities, both are very much like you.
You, Andrew, are like a weird blend of Carrey's manic, rubbery hysteria and Robbins's quiet, thoughtful poise.
Also, I'ma say it. John Travolta. Anyone who has seen him a) sing in Grease, b) dance in Saturday Night Fever, c) ham it up in Battlefield Earth, or d) give that head-lowered demon-eyed look in Broken Arrow cannot help but pick up on the resemblance.
And, Kevin Bacon? Kevin Bacon, anyone?
http://www.sitevip.net/kevin-bacon/images/index_botom_left.jpg
If I had to pick less-well-known actors, I'd go with Alexander Godunov, Karl, from Die Hard.
http://www.kmf.org.pl/fx/link/diehard/real/19.jpg
There is a moment in which he spins his head around and we see his reaction to news of Bruce Willis's survival in the face of bullets and broken glass, and the look on his face is pure Andrew. Plus, at the end {spolier alert!} when he returns from being supposedly dead and tries to kill Willis, the flames of insanity raging in his eyes, always makes me think of you. It's a pure Andrew crazy look.
Everett McGill. You know that face you sometimes have, when your mouth droops into a small, slack frown, and your eyes get all hodded, like you're either evil or sleepy, and your head tilts back a bit? It's like your creepy face. Well, anyway, except for a slight sharpening of features, that's pretty much the face McGill has all the time. He's tall and lanky and always plays very no-nonsense fellows. He fought drunken Gary Busey and wheel-chair-bound Corey Haim as a werewolf in Stephen King's Silver Bullet, he tangled with Steven Segal in Under Siege II: Dark Territory, and he tried to kill former presidents Jack Lemmon and James Garner in My Fellow Americans.
He'd be my candidate for evil Andrew.

Say hello to evil Andrew:

http://www.radiohound.com/MaleCelebs/pics/everettmcgill.jpg

I was down at the New Amsterdam,
Starin’ at this yellow-haired girl.
Mr. Jones strikes up a conversation
With a black-haired
Flamenco dancer.
You know she dances while his father plays
Guitar
She's suddenly beautiful.
An we all want something beautiful-
Man I wish I was beautiful.
So come dance this silence down through the morning.
Sha la la la la la la la yeah
Cut up, Maria!
Show me some of them Spanish dances an’
Pass me a bottle,
Mr. Jones.
Believe in me.
Help me believe in anything.
I
Wanna be someone
Who believes.
Yeah.
Mr. Jones and me
Tell each other fairy tales
Stare at the beautiful women
"She's looking at you.
Ah, no, no, she looking at me."
Smiling in the bright lights.
Coming through in stereo.
When everybody loves you,
You can never be lonely.

Well l will paint my picture-
Paint myself in blue and red and black and gray-
All of the beautiful colors are very, very meaningful.
You know, gray is my favorite color.
I felt so symbolic yesterday.
If I knew Picasso
I would buy myself a gray guitar and play
Mr. Jones and me
Look into the future
Stare at the beautiful women
"She's looking at you.
Uh, I don't think so. She's looking at me."
Standing in the spotlight
I bought myself a gray guitar
An’ when everybody loves me,
I will never be lonely.

I want to be a lion-
Everybody wants to pass as cats.
We all want to be big, big stars, but
We got different reasons for that.
Believe in me
‘Cause I don't believe in anything,
An’ I
Wanna be someone
To believe.
To believe.
Yeah.

Mr. Jones and me
Stumbling through the barrio.
Yeah we stare at the beautiful women
"She's perfect for you.
Man, there's got to be someone for me."
I wanna be Bob Dylan-
Mr. Jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky
When everybody loves you,
Oh, son,
That's just about as funky as you can be.

Mr. Jones and me
Staring at the video-
When I look at the television, I want to see me,
Starin' right back at me.

We all wanna be big stars,
But we don't know why
An' we don't know how.
But when everybody loves me,
I'll be ‘bout as happy as I can be.

Mr. Jones and me, we're gonna be big stars . . .

Well, I tink dats allz I got fa tonight-ah, ladies an' germs.

Tune in next time for some fictional exploits. That's right. The insanity returns. And just in time for Halloween.
And, while I'm busy making false promises, let's have us a look-see at who's next in line ta get branded with the white-hot iron rod of platonic love.

-Brendan
-Eddy
-EJ
-Jason Frank
-Pawel
-Dan
-Steph Lepine

I'll get to Caitlin eventually. After I finish those last seven, and her, I'll do one of myself. If you're not slated to get branded, feel free to toss your hat into the ring. I'm sure I'll get around to you eventually.

So, on behalf of myself and Everett McGill, blissful blogging and safe sandwiches, Everyone.

A-good night!

Current Mood: Moderately elated.
Current Music: Harland Williams, Har-larious.

No one but Dan will read this for at least two weeks

2006-10-02T19:04:00.000-04:00

Greetings, blogosphere. I hope this day finds you well.

What's that? You don't remember me?

How can this be? Think of the hours we've spent together, the discussions and quarrels, the stories and statements, the memories.

Still nothing, huh?

I suppose it's to be expected. I have been away from posting for almost a year.

I wish I could say it was a planned hiatus. I wish I could claim that I had taken a year off of my own volition, to soothe my troubled mind and focus on the more important things in life.

Alas, such is not the case.

I've been suffering through a terrible streak of melancholy, laziness, and bad luck. It is entirely my fault-- and, paradoxically enough, not at all my choice-- that this blog has gone un-updated for so long.

But, while I can't claim to be any better off, financially, physically, mentally, or emotionally, than that bleak day one year past that marked the beginning of my exile, I can state that I have come to some important conclusions.

One conclusion is that this blog is dear to me, and, while possibly not crucial to my existence, is pretty close to it. It helps maintain connections, it keeps my creatively active, and it gives me a shade of purpose.

The other conclusion is that my pants are too tight.
Seriously.
I'm, like, chafing in these bad boys.

So, shedding off my normal flourishing, bombastic eloquence, I stand before you today and state simply that this blog is back and here to stay. And I hope you'll all find your way back here.

. . .

Man! An update on my current status would be nice, huh?
I mean, a lot has gone on in a year that many of you poor dolts are not privy to.
Yes, an update is required.

. . .

But I ain't gonna take the time to write one.

Here is item one in this new blog post:

Any facts and figures and fill-in-the-blanks from this date stretching back to those dim days when I was still writing this thing must be formally requested in the form of a question.

Remember those questions sessions that Tony once held? It'll be like that. 'Cept I don't want to ask anything of you in return. Unless you like that sort of thing.
So! Any details you want will have to be specified. You wanna know who's kissed whom, which friendships I've started, strengthened, or left in tatters? What movies I've seen, where I've gone, what I've been doing, just ask.

I eagerly await your inquires.

Item two on the agenda is a basic plan of what's to come. I realize I've never really fulfilled my promises on proposed blog posts in the past, but I am confident now that I will follow through.

So, what's next?

First, a return to those reverse quizzes. You didn't think I'd forgotten, did you? I've done about 4 out of 20 and so have my work fairly well cut out for me.
I believe Caitlin Szewczyk's pretty little head is next on the chopping block. However, due to what a psychologist might call "technical difficulties" I will not be resuming whence I left off. I am going to leapfrog over Caitlin and move right onto that lanky, cranky, hank-panky giant of a friend, Andyroo LuhTellyay. Preceded of course by some preliminaries.
Then on to more fictional adventures.

That's all for now.
I can't think of anything worth writing just yet, save a basic log of what goes on in my life from day to day. Normally I would look upon such pedestrian topics with utmost disdain, but that attitude is more appropriate when my accounts involve anyone who would be reading them. It's fairly pointless to write about how I went to the mall with Brendan and Caitlin when Brendan and Caitlin are some of the only people to read this thing. But, now that we're all making our way in the big world, it makes a modicum of sense to let my friends, spread as they are to the far corners of the globe, what I'm doing.

So that's what you can expect in the immediate future.

Now I'm going to have a stretch, curl up with a copy of the Bhagavad-Gita, and call it a night.

But rest assured, this blog is up and running once again, and further updates are on their way.

. . .

It feels good to be back.

Good night, Ladies and Gents. I'll be typing to you soon.

Current Music: Library chatter and key-board clicking.
Current Mood: Hopeful

The Interim Adventure (Or, Episode IV.V) Part Six

2005-11-22T23:15:00.000-05:00

Richard summoned his last vestiges of strength and managed to open his right eye-lid.
His vision was blurry. His long, golden locks hung in a tussled mass, a lank, bushy curtain in front of his face.
Focusing, he pried his other eye-lid open.
He realized he was bent over.
Richard tried to move his hands. They were locked in place.
He tried to stand up, but his neck was also locked in place.
Richard was held in the stocks, or a pillary.
He was naked save for a ragged loin cloth tied about his nethers.
Gradually, he became aware of voices in the background.
"Step out of my way, you diminutive oaf!" snapped Sung Li.
"You watch yo’ mouth, now, cher," Abattoir growled. "I save you life las’ night. Don’ fo’get that, yee-uh."
The beautiful scientist, clad in her white, flowing lab coat and carrying a tray of needles, side-stepped around the squat bounty hunter.
Abattoir seemed out of place in the sterile, technological laboratory. He looked more ready to hunt bears than gaze at slides through microscopes.
Sung Li walked up to Richard. She roughly pulled his long, golden hair back from the side of his face. With a devious smile she rammed a syringe into his neck and pumped him full of a burning liquid.
"There," she said triumphantly. "You won’t be causing us any more dog trouble now."
Richard writhed in pain as the serum traveled through his circulatory system. His veins felt as though they were full of fire. Slowly, his world became black again. The colors around him, once so clear and vibrant, dulled to a depressing gray. The small sounds, beakers clinking, heartbeats, footsteps in the outside hall, all became muted. The air smelled and tasted stale. He felt tired and weak. His entire body ached.
"Ah, why you go n’ do tha’, now, cheh?" asked Abattoir, crestfallen. "If he can no mo’ heal fast, I can no’ to’choo him propuh."
"Don’t worry, Phillipe," said Sung Li with unusual kindness, "we’ll both get our chance to bring pain to this bastard. Umbrella has perfected the art of torture. We can keep him alive for weeks."
Abattoir smiled, displaying a set of yellowed teeth.
"What . . . what did you do to me?" Richard coughed. His perception now that of a man with a sack over his head.
"Oh, I just cured you. You’re no longer a werewolf."
The poor, defeated hero did not know how to feel about that news. On the one hand, he would no longer be subservient to his primitive tendencies. He would not be so easily corrupted. On the other, breaking out of this place would be much more difficult without his heightened senses, animal speed, beastly strength, and rapid healing. On a slightly different hand, he would miss having a foot long tongue. He was sure that would have gotten him several girlfriends.
Sung Li picked up another syringe from the tray and with it drew a blood sample from the chained warrior.
She took two more syringes full of blood, then injected him with one final serum.
Richard’s world began to spin. His tongue felt swollen. His brain felt like it had been replaced with oatmeal.
"That should keep you docile until I return," said Sung Li. "Phillipe, watch him while I’m gone, I need to step into Dr. Trans’ office for some data." She turned and headed out of the room.
"Oh yeah, how is your boss, anyway?" asked Richard dully from his position in the center of the room. "Still broken in half?"
Sung Li gasped and tore out of the room.
Richard chuckled to himself.
His laughter was brought to an abrupt halt as Abattoir brandished a long, wicked-looking blade in front of him.
"Now tha’ she gone, you n’ me, we gun’ have some fun, yee-uh?"

Trans’ office was cold and shadowy.
She could not believe that only one day ago she had seen her employer, her mentor, her . . . lover torn to pieces by a beast. Sung Li could not picture a world without him.
She shivered slightly as she entered. The large, well-decorated room was too dark for her to make out clearly. She ran a hand along the wall, searching for a light switch.
Suddenly, the lights in the room came on, and she was startled and blinded for a moment.
"Can I help you, Ms. Li?" came a voice from the area of Trans’ desk.
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the brightness, and saw who had called to her.
She nearly fainted.
Doctor Thaddeus Trans was seated behind his desk, calmly reading an old, leather-bound copy of Dante’s Inferno. He frowned.
"The fool had it all wrong," he muttered to himself.
"Doctor . . .?" Sung Li breathed.
"Dante," Trans explained, "he has the circles of hell in the wrong order. In fact, they’re not actually circles, they’re more interlocking realms. I hate uninformed opinions."
"But . . . Doctor . . . I saw you . . . you were . . . that beastly boy . . . killed you."
"Killed? Me?" Trans chuckled. "No, I’m afraid that’s not quite possible. In conventional terms, anyway. I’m feeling fit as a fiddle, thank you."
"But . . . how?"
"How is irrelevant. Besides, brilliant as you are, you wouldn’t understand. It took me a few hundred years to get a grip on the situation, myself."
He stood and walked towards her.
"All that matters is that I am here now."
He cradled her head with a pale hand, looking down into her eyes.
"And I will be here . . . forever."

Richard, blinded by pain, did not hear the pneumatic doors open.
Through the haze of agony, he was dimly aware of Sung Li screaming at Abattoir, who was intently twisting a knife blade he had buried hilt-deep in Richard’s side.
"Stop it, you fool! You’ll push him past the point of repair! We need him alive for testing!"
Abattoir ripped the blade out and hobbled away, muttering darkly.
"Was jus’ tryin’ to ‘ave some fun, yee-uhh . . ."
Richard screamed in pain as Sung Li cauterized the wound.
"There," she said briskly. "Now, onto the tests." She plucked a cold, shining, metal instrument off of a tray. It was barbed and covered in small, whirring blades. Richard had no idea what it was for and he did not want to find out.
"Phillipe," the mad doctor called sweetly to Abattoir. "You may want to see this."
She looked down at Richard, brandishing the implement with an eager gleam in her eye.
"Now, this may sting a bit. . ."

Alone in his private armory, Tony strapped on his lightweight, blackened steel battle armor. His pale, handsome face was deathly calm, his soulful brown eyes distant as he sheathed one bladed projectile after another onto his slender frame.
He had undergone more than any boy his age should ever have to, and all within the span of only a few days.
The loss of his vampirism came as a startling blow. The world seemed so dead and grey now. What was more, he could feel some new changes stirring inside him. He had now idea as to what they heralded, but he would welcome them with is characteristic stalwart courage.
Tony tried to keep his mind focused. More than anything, he tried to stay cheerful.
But, for all he knew, he was about to lead his friends, the ones he had fought so hard and lost so much to protect, into certain death. He was risking everything on a desperate gamble for a captured comrade who may not even be alive.
"No!" Tony said aloud to the silent, weapon-stocked room.
He would not accept even the possibility that Richard was dead.
Richard was alive.

Richard wished he was dead.
His long, thick locks were plastered to the sides of his face by sweat and blood. Strands of hair clung to his mouth, which dripped blood and saliva freely.
For hours he had been drained of bodily fluids and pumped full of drugs. He teetered on the brink of a great and terrifying blackness. His mortality hung heavily on his soul.

Steve never felt nervous. He prided himself on it. The anxious twitchings of one’s stomach were unknown to him. He was perpetually, unflappably cool.
But he was nervous now.
In his quarters at NP Inc he had geared himself for battle in a scarlet war-suit. He had removed one heavy metal gauntlet and was staring, wide-eyed, at his hand, which was currently on fire.
"As he looked on, he was surprised to see that the bush, though on fire, was not consumed," Steve mumbled to himself, recalling a poignant Bible verse from his Catholic school days.
Steve’s hand was functioning perfectly, completely unscathed, but sheathed in bright orange flame.
He was not religious, but right now, Steve’s mind was devoted to higher things.

Richard was praying for release. Sung Li seemed to have finished taking any samples she needed and was for a time content to torment him with various pieces of lab equipment.
After what seemed to Richard an eternity of this, she left him panting and bleeding, still bent double in the stocks, and strode across the room to a large computer to run tests on those biological materials she had stolen from him.

Sam grabbed a ruck-sack and set about filling it with glass bottles, chair legs, hammers, and crow-by-fours; all manner of household items which, in his hands, became implements of untold destruction. He sang happily while he worked.
Sam’s mind, finally, was at ease. He was going to smash shit and get his brother back. In Sam’s mind, nothing was wrong.

Something was wrong.
Sung Li stared quizzically at the glowing screen in front of her. Behind her, in the center of the large, white-tiled laboratory, Richard teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.
The Umbrella Corp computers were virtually infallible, and yet the results of the gene testing she had run on Richard’s samples were suspiciously peculiar.
According to these results, the Umbrella Corp technicians who had run the original tests on Richard had missed something quite substantial. Something that would help Umbrella’s cause immeasurably.
She gave Richard a searching look, then motioned for two guards to watch him (and protect him from Abattoir), and left in a rush to see Trans.

Amy rubbed absentmindedly at the blade of her Elfin dagger. She was wearing light armor, concerned more for maneuverability and speed than protection, and rightly so.
She looked back on the last few months, at how crazy her life had become. Through Andrew she had been introduced to Rich, and the trouble started there. With Rich came Tony and Steve and all the rest of these mad-men and -women and their fantastical existence.
She was struggling to understand this insane world she found herself in. A world of high-stakes adventure and daring-do. Of brave heroes and dastardly villains. Of other-worldly phenomenon and earth-shattering crises. A world of zombies, monsters, robots, ninjas, pirates, swords, sorcery, and unimaginable technology. It was too much.
She longed for a cigarette, a cup of coffee, and a comfy seat at the Thirsty Mind.
"Oh, McMenamin," she sighed to herself, sheathing the dagger and marching toward the door, "what have you gotten yourself into?"

Trans studied the documents before him carefully. His face expressionless, he turned his stained-glass lens-covered eyes up to Sung Li, who was standing in front of his desk, breathless with anticipation and the thrill of the discovery.
"These results are genuine?"
"Of course, doctor."
"You have scanned them for errors? Re-run the tests?"
"Of course, doctor."
"How can you explain, then, that this did not reveal itself to the previous technicians? How did we not see this . . . metagene before?"
Sung Li stepped forward and indicated a diagram on one of the documents in front of her boss.
"Firstly, doctor, it is recessive. It may very well not show itself in the subject at all. Also, you see, the gene is located on the very allele which was stimulated by the lycanthropic virus. This must have merely seemed a side-effect of the virus. And finally, the gene is most prevalent in the follicle regions. Only lately, since the subject has grown out his hair, has the gene become prominent. And, as you know, all our genetics work was done before this.
Trans scratched his bearded chin.
"This appears to be the same gene present in our other captive."
"It is, doctor."
"These . . . teenagers have shown themselves to be genetically similar before. One could theorize that, perhaps, if both of our captives possess this gene, then . . ."
"The others have it as well."
Trans was silent for a moment.
"Have there been any reports of this gene manifesting itself?"
"Not as of yet, doctor. Though, if one captive displays the characteristics this gene is capable of generating, the others may follow. This could spell disaster for Umbrella."
Trans nodded. "However, if harnessed by capable scientists, this gene could hold for us incredible power. Power to not only counter those meddlesome agents of Ninja Pirate Inc, but also to finally hold the world firmly in our grasp."
"Very good, doctor. I will begin gene extraction now. The wild prisoner’s hair seems to be the key location. With such an ample supply I should easily be able to manufacture a serum."
The mad doctor glanced at the papers once again.
He smiled.
"This is indeed a fortuitous development."

The Captain Blackjack Huzuki-bot 3500 sat charging his fuel cells in robotic silence. He was giving much thought to the performance of those to whom he had ceded leadership of this company. These startling teenagers.
He had been in operation since 1952, but parts of him were far older. Never, in all his years on this earth, in any form, had he seen such raw, unshakeable courage and fierce, unbreakable love. They had accomplished more in their short time on earth than many would ever do in a lifetime. In fact, they had saved the earth from certain subjugation while in their first year of college.
Though he did not know how well they would run the actual business end of things, the Captain had no fear that these few noble warriors would fight until the bitter end, and would conduct themselves with honor and compassion in the face of whatever obstacles presented themselves.

"I believe it is time for us to terminate the subject. He has outlived his usefullness, and he has certianly caused us a good deal of trouble."
Doctor Thaddeus Trans was watching the action in the vast laboratory through a two-way mirror. He stood with perfect posture, hands clasped loosely behind his back, a small smile on his smooth face. He never turned his eyes from the action in the lab as he spoke to Sung Li, who stood behind hi in the shadows of the side room with rapt attention.
"First, we should obviously harvest the most potent source of the metagene . . . those acursed golden locks. After which, feel free to do with him as you wish."
He finally turned his smile to her.
"I imagine you'll have fun, my dear."
"Thank you, doctor. I most certainly will. Shall I instruct the guards to take him outside and shoot him?"
Trans turned back to the glass wall to watch Richard, the boy who had come closer to defeating Umbrella than anyone in the company's history.
"No. Give him to Abattoir. That filthy dwarf has earned this prize."
Sung Li nodded and turned to leave.
"Oh, and Ms. Li?"
"Yes, doctor?"
"Let our other captive perform the shaving. It will substantially increase the horror of the situation for the boy, don't you think?"
Trans chuckled to himself as Sung Li left the room. He knew he would win out in the end.

Back across the Atlantic at the offices of Ninja Pirate Incorporated, Tony and company were gathered in a loose circle in the avionics department, which was located on the top official floor of the main building, just above Dr. Sprocket’s lab.
The doctor, having successfully brought three people back to life, pulling off what Jake affectionately termed "a triple Jesus," had retired to his lounge and was now passed out drunk with a freshly emptied bottle of Scotch in his hand.
The heroes had dressed for battle, and now they stood, Tony, Sam, Steve, Amy, and The Captain, amidst various craft in the vast, open floor of NP Inc’s hangar.
(Jake would have been with them, but he was called away to investigate recent weather phenomena. )
The NP Inc avionics department was spread over an entire floor, which had been constructed as a single room. Where normally there would have been separate hallways and offices there was now only open space, cut by sturdy steel support beams and ships of all description.
Tony checked his watch and looked around. He took a breath, adjusted a greave, and addressed the troops.
"Look around you."
The assembled did so.
"This is it. This is all that is left of Ninja Pirate’s once substantial East Coast army."
Tony strode over to the wide-open hangar doors, a virtual missing wall in the side of the building and, toes on the edge of the floor, facing the dizzying drop to the ground below, looked down upon the sad stretch of field that had been set aside as the Ninja Pirate memorial cemetery.
Row upon row of black, polished granite monuments stood, each over the grave of one brave soul who had died defending the headquarters from the zombie invasion.
Tony brushed away a tear.
"We’re going to have to re-staff," he muttered to himself, turning to face the small team once again.
"We are the only ones left who can save Richard," Tony said to his friends. "We are his last hope."
He looked at each solemn face; into each pair of glittering, eager eyes.
"I won’t lie and say this will be easy. I won’t say that it will be a rip-roaring good time, full of action and daring do. It will be brutal, and cold, and dangerous. We will be outnumbered hundreds to one. We will be on their turf. They will have the advantage. If we want this to work, we need to be fast and decisive. Never hesitate.
"Steve, Amy, Cap’n. You will be team nun-chaku. It will be your task to keep most of the enemy force occupied while Sam and I, team shuriken, break into the compound and get Richard out.
This is in many ways a suicide mission. Our margin for success is infinitesimal. But we must remember what we’re fighting for!"
Tony slammed his armored fist down on the sleek, chrome surface of a stealth scooter, and nearly fell over.
Sam rushed forward to steady him.
Tony, weary from the past battle, the long nights of searching desperately for his friend, and disoriented after being brought back to life, was also suffering from lack of sunlight.
He rubbed his head, thanked Sam, and continued.
"Remember who we’re fighting for," he said, a little quieter. "Our friend! This is for Rich!"
"Yeah!" Steve seconded. "The bonds of friendship are stronger than any prison bars!"
Amy swooned at this dashing display.
Inwardly, Steve was divided. He didn’t know whether to gloat over being closer to getting some from such an amazingly sexy girl, or ashamed at his terrible hypocrisy.
He decided to gloat, as it felt better and seemed the cooler thing to do.
Crisis averted, he turned his attention back to Tony, who was explaining what vehicles they would be taking.
Steve lit a cigarette and zoned out again.
"Team Nunchaku, you will be piloting an NP Inc hover ship, newly fitted with two addition laser turrets, port and starboard." He indicated a large, gleaming metal craft covered in an array of dangerous-looking weapons.
"Sam and I will be in the new, experimental speeder that my father has just built. It should be optimal for a quick, stealthy mission such as this.
We will approach from the north face, the rear of the building, and attempt to break in relatively unnoticed, while you three attack from the front, causing as much havoc as possible.
"Can do," said Steve, grinning.
"We’ll have to move as quickly as possible. Get in, get Rich, get out. Speed is of the essence.
"Now let’s do this!"
The friends joined hands in the center of the circle and eyed each other with grim determination, each forcing all thoughts of what they might actually find at Umbrella’s base firmly out of their heads.
Then the nodded bravely, and made their way to their respective ships.
The two gleaming craft shot out of the open doors of the hangar, nearly 50 stories above the ground, and tore off heading east, to the Atlantic, a dreaded island, and points unknown.

Richard, dizzy, nauseous, and ruined, teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. He looked up dimly, peering through his curtain of curly hair, as Sung Li re-entered.
"What nex’? Wha’ ya got for me?" he slurred. "I can take it. I’m still here! Not goin’ . . . not goin’ anywhere . . ."
Sung Li tossed him a saint-like smile.
"Oh, we’ve got quite the surprise in store for you."
She pushed a button on a nearby control panel and to Richard’s right, a pair of doors slid open and a tall, lanky figure stepped into the room.
Richard craned to see who it was.
His jaw dropped.
It was none other than Andrew LeTellier.
Richard gasped at the sight of his friend.
"Andrew!' he called desperately, 'help me!'
But the gangly hero did not respond.
It was then that Richard noticed something awry. His friend's hands hung loose at his sides, he shoulder's slumped, his jaw was slack. His normally bright green eyes were glossy. He brandished a pair of shears.
"What’s going on?!" Richard demanded of his hot Asian tormenter. "What’s wrong with him? Why is he here?" His anger and confusion had driven away the fog with which the drugs had surrounded him.
"He is here because we captured him shortly after you. He was an accomplice in the battle in Holyoke, and as such required dealing with. But we stumbled across a peculiar anomaly in his genetic structure, and decided to keep him around. We brainwashed him, of course. It took some doing; he’s quite resilient. But he is completely under our control now."
Sung Li called out to Andrew to confirm this.
"Advance, patient 0772."
Andrew walked to the center of the room with an odd, robotic, hindered stride.
"He is here now specifically because he is going to harvest your beautiful hair for us."
She addressed Andrew again.
"Patient 0772, remove his hair."
And to Richard’s horror, Andrew started forward again, raising the shears in an ominous manner.
"No, no Andrew!" he pleaded. "Don’t do this!"
But his friend was beyond his reach.
Mechanically, Andrew grabbed a handful of Richard’s long, curly locks and began to hack away at them, scraping the shears as close to the poor hero’s scalp as possible.
"Nooo!" Richard cried. "Not my hair!"
And then, inexplicably, impossibly, his hair began to resist.
Long, frizzy golden tendrils of his glorious hair snaked themselves around Andrew’s arm like constricting vipers. They held the brainwashed lad’s hands still, pulling with an inhuman strength.
Richard and Sung Li gaped at the astonishing development.
"It’s manifesting itself . . ." Sung Li said to no one in particular. "Under conditions of extreme duress the gene manifests itself." She shook herself out of the trance and made frantic, scribbling notes in a nearby pad.
"What in the flaming porcine hell is this?!" Richard yelled, startled and confused.
Andrew pulled dumbly at the tenacious follicles, still under Umbrella’s influence.
Then, with Andrew held safe, Richard’s hair started to unfasten the locks around his wrists.
Sung Li saw this and, though stunned, galvanized herself into action. She darted forward and, grabbing a scalpel from a tray, sliced at Richard’s locks.
His hair, divided between freeing him, stopping Andrew, and stopping Sung Li, was spread too thin. It began to weaken.
"Yes!" Sung Li hissed triumphantly. "Now we have it!"
The hair put up a gallant fight, Richard willing it on, but soon Andrew got the upper hand. Sung Li stepped back and watched him work. He hacked and cut roughly, brutally, more ripping and tearing than slicing.
Richard cried out in anguish, his scalp bleeding, gouged, and raw. But Andrew, under the mental commands of Umbrella, would not stop.
Eventually, all of Richard’s once beautiful afro was lying motionless and dead in a collection container.
Richard wept bitterly.
Sung Li ran her fingers though the severed hair, relishing it’s smooth strength.
Then she turned to Richard.
"Would you like to see what else this gene can do?" she asked.
Richard sobbed brokenly.
"Patient 0772, stand where you are."
Andrew stiffened.
"Now, get me that clip board."
The clip board in question lay across the room, nearly ten feet away, on a console.
Andrew extended his arm.
Richard couldn’t see how he would ever reach it.
But Andrew’s arm kept extending. Like a stretched rubber band it lengthened sickeningly until his hand, fingers splayed and stretched beyond proper proportions, grasped the clipboard. Then he snapped his arm back. It tightened to normal size. He handed the clipboard to Sung Li.
"We are going to use your friend, and whatever we can harvest of this metagene from your hair, to create a serum which will grant us untold biological power. Reflect on this, our final victory, as you die."
She signaled for Abattoir, who had been waiting, knife ready, in the corner of the room.
He hobbled over, licking his thin lips.
"You may have the boy now, Phillipe," she said sweetly. "Do take your time. I’d like a good show."
"Oh, don’ you worry none, cher. I take my time wid dis one. He gon’ suffer, yee-uh. I gair-un-tee."
Abattoir cocked his stocky arm back, ready to plunge the knife deep into Richard’s stomach, when there was a jarring rumble and the entire wall to Richard’s left exploded inward in a cloud of plaster dust and a storm of stone shards.
A sizeable lab table was knocked skidding across the room. It hit a fallen beam, flipped into the air, flew over Richard, and caught Abattoir quite off-guard.
"Merde," he barely had time to utter before the weight of the table collided with his squat frame and sent him crashing across the room.
His stubby leg twitched feebly from beneath the mass, and he groaned a bit.
As the dust settled to the crumble of stone and the clink of fallen tile, Richard, though a haze of pain and drug-induced stupor, perceived a sleek, gleaming silver ship in the middle of the lab room.
The doors of this beautiful craft opened and two long-haired figures sprung out.
Richard could not believe his eyes. It was Tony and Sam, come to rescue him at last.
"Get them!" Sung Li screeched, getting over the initial shock of seeing a silver speedster blast it’s way into her laboratory.
A squad of Umbrella Corp guards rushed forward, Andrew among them, still brandishing his shears dangerously.
"Andrew?!" Sam said incredulously. "What are you doing he—"
But that was as far as he got, for the brainwashed hero swung at him with the rusty shears.
"Gah!" Sam exclaimed, dodging the swipe.
Tony had his hands full dealing with the guards. They were not allowed laser weapons in the lab room, and instead carried electro batons.
Tony drew his favorite katana and set into them, hacking through their armor and blocking their dogged attacks.
Sung Li was livid. She had been within seconds of achieving a substantial victory for Umbrella, only to have it put in jeopardy by these blasted kids.
She drew a studded riding crop from her side holster and marched toward Richard, swinging the wicked implement angrily.
"You’ll suffer for this!" she shrieked, and laid into him brutally, breaking his rugged, tan skin with each blow.
Sam saw what was happening to his brother and, turning back to Andrew, swung a sturdy chair leg at the tall boy’s head. It connected soundly, with a coconut-like clunk, and Andrew’s stupidly determined face went slack, his eyes cleared, and then rolled up, and he collapsed in a lanky heap.
"You should play with scissors, Chopstick!" Sam quipped, then he leaped over Andrew’s fallen form and faced Sung Li.
"Hey, you chinky bitch!" he yelled. "Step away from my brother and face someone who’s not tied up!" He dropped the chair leg, took a distinctly awkward fighting stance, and beckoned her with his index finger.
Sung Li gave a girlish smile, set down the riding crop, and advanced.
A lull settled into the proceedings. The assembled Umbrella Corp guards stopped fighting and turned the glowing red eyes of their face masks in the direction of the two combatants. Tony relaxed his sword arm, and also gazed in awe. Even Richard, still bound in the stocks, craned his head up as far as it would go in order to view the fight.
Tony and the guards had formed a loose circle around Sam and Sung Li.
The two enemies stood staring at each other. Sung Li was still and beautiful, a porcelain statue, hands in a delicate praying shape in front of her. Sam, meanwhile, had contorted his body into mangled position, his arms bent at odd angles, his fingers splayed and pointing in all directions, one leg dangling in the air.
"I have studied under the great and venerable Master Lee Ho Fok," Sung Li said.
Richard gasped upon hearing this, for Master Lee Ho Fok was the same sensei by whom he and Amy had been instructed.
Sam was unimpressed.
"I learned my shit from some guy in a parking lot," he retorted.
"Then let us begin," Sung Li whispered.
Sam laughed wildly and came at her, swinging his hands in crazed karate chops and hooking his legs like an Irish step dancer. Sung Li remained still. Just as his first chop was about to strike her delicate neck she moved her hand up in a blur and blocked it. And then began a fast and spirited exchange of attacks. The combatants were well matched, and hardly any of their hits struck home. They blocked and caught each others’ rapid chops, punches, kicks and lunges. Their arms and legs intertwined dangerously. Finally, they both slipped up. Sam landed a punch to Sung Li’s mid section; Sung Li hit Sam in the chest with a powerful kick. Both combatants were knocked backwards. They staggered but quickly re-took their fighting stances.
"Allow me to show you one of Master Fok’s prized techniques," Sung Li said sweetly. "It is called the Spring Lotus Blossom."
She hurled herself forward in a noiseless somersault, ending it at Sam’s feet, and sprang up, both arms extending in either direction, knocking Sam’s hands aside. Then she did a back-flip back to her former position, striking Sam under the chin with both feet. She landed silently and straightened up.
Sam was knocked to the ground. He stood up slowly, a thin stream of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth.
"Not bad," he said ruefully, adding, "for a smelly pirate hooker. Now let me show you one of my favorite moves."
Sam balled his hands into fists and held them extended, touching as if he were gripping an invisible baseball bat. He swung his hands wildly, shouting "Ottoman flagpole!"
His furious strike caught Sung Li off guard. She managed to block one, two, three of his swings, but the third one came from above and hit her on the right shoulder, staggering her to the ground. He then brought his knee up under her chin, sending her toppling onto her back.
Sung Li sprang up yelling "Tiger pounces at prey," and leaped into the air at Sam. She landed a flying kick into his ample gut. Sam gave a pained grunt, and wheezed, "Corkscrew." He presented his side to her, raised his arm, and swung it in blinding circles. This effort pushed Sung Li backwards for several frantic steps. She recovered, saying, "Autumn Leaves," and swung an array of chops and punches at Sam’s head and torso, landing many of them.
Sam managed to block the last few while shouting, "Jumpin’ Turnip!"
He hopped up and down, swinging his arms like the stem of a root vegetable.
Sung Li knocked him aside.
"Hidden bee stings," she breathed, and dashed toward Sam sniping at him with one hand. Suddenly the other darted forward and struck him three sharp jabs to the ribs.
"This one’s called The Hook," Sam whispered, the wind knocked out of him. He swung out his leg, hooking it behind his opponent’s knee, and pulled, sending her toppling to the floor.
"Kick to the tooth!" he yelled, but Sung Li knocked his leg aside and attempted to stand.
"How about a Sicilian squeeze?" Sam said, a devilish smile on his cherubic face.
He snaked his hand around and pinched Sung Li’s delicate side. The attack was executed perfectly. He had isolated a cluster of nerves and paralyzed her temporarily.
He squandered his advantage by doing an annoying hopping dance.
Sung Li was regaining movement.
"Time to finish you off," said Sam. He clamped his arms to his sides and spun at her furiously, yelling "French barrel roll!"
Sung Li easily dodged it and knocked Sam’s legs out from under him.
"The French suck," said Sam, lying bleeding on the sterile white floor. Sung Li stamped at his head, but he rolled out of the way just in time as her foot came down and shattered the ceramic tiles where he had been lying not a second before.
Sam got shakily to his feet and said, "Bulldozer!" He charged at her, head down, humming loudly.
Sung Li dodged to the left, ducked, and struck out at Sam’s most vulnerable area, saying, "Monkey gathers peach," with sadistic satisfaction.
Sam closed his hands over his injured groin. Tears in his eyes, he muttered "Right in the crotch," and toppled over.
Sung Li drew a laser pistol and aimed it at Sam.
"Do your worst, ya sick fuck," he spat.
She closed her finger over the trigger about to fire, when Tony leapt from the outskirts of the brawl and knocked her spinning out of the way. Her shot hit a large, glass tank filled with a bubbling red liquid. The glass shattered violently, and the laser blast ignited the substance in the tank.
Sung Li rubbed her head, looked around at the rapidly growing fire, and then stumbled out of the lab.
Tony and Sam fought off the last of the guards, sending any still conscious fleeing from the room.
Sam set about angrily breaking things while Tony rushed over to Richard’s side and freed him from his restraints.
Richard struggled to stand straight, but his spine screamed in protest, so he hunched over weakly, and, assisted by Tony, hobbled to the silver rocket ship, which glittered even more brightly in the firelight.
"Nice . . . new ride," he coughed.
"Thanks," said Tony, helping his friend into the back seat.
The conflagration was hungrily devouring the lab as Tony called for Sam.
"Sam, let’s go! The full force of this base will be here in seconds!"
Sam was hefting Andrew’s limp form over his shoulder.
"We can’t forget our friend here," he grunted.
Just then, a beam fell from the ceiling and sent Sam sprawling. Andrew tipped from his shoulder and flopped onto the debris-strewn floor.
Tony heaved Sam up and pushed him into the passenger seat of the silver dart.
"What about Andrew?" Sam protested.
Tony’s mind raced. The fallen beam cut their lanky friend off from the back of the room. The flames grew higher around him.
Suddenly, when all hope seemed lost, Amy stumbled into the lab, her face smeared with blood and soot, her light armor broken and disheveled.
Richard gazed at her, a fiery-eyed vision wielding a laser pistol in one hand and a slender sword in the other. Behind her came Steve, his heavy battle suit shattered and charred. A fine cut traced a crimson line across his forehead. Then came Captain Blackjack Huzuki-bot 3500, his twin gattling guns firing into a mob of Umbrella troops.
"Go!" yelled Amy. "We’ll get Andrew."
Tony hesitated.
"Just go! We’ll be fine!"
He nodded, saluted them, and hopped into the pilot’s seat of his ship.
He activated main thrusters, the console in front of him lighting up in glittering buttons like the Vegas strip, shifted the craft into hyperdrive, and tore back out through the wall and into the open, frigid air.
Richard looked through the back window, shook his head to clear it, and then looked back again.
I must be on stronger drugs than I figured, Richard thought, for it seemed to him that Steve was quieting the leaping, dancing, flames with a wave of his hand, and balled them together in the corner while Amy raised Andrew without touching him.
The three brave heroes, with their unconscious cargo, jumped from the gaping whole made by
Tony’s ship into the waiting cockpit of their own transport, which hovered just outside.
"You guys okay?" Tony asked into a communicator on his dashboard.
There was a momentary burst of static, then Amy’s breathless voice came over the radio.
"Yeah, man, we made it out. Thanks. Now just get Rich home."
Tony nodded, switched off the com-link, and sped away.

Richard gingerly touched his bleeding, shaved scalp. He gathered the shreds of his towel around him and shivered.
"What did I miss?"
"Oh, not that much," said Tony. "There was a battle of sorts, we all died, then came back, then searched for you."
"Oh . . ."
"Yeah . . . and it seems we’re developing super-powers."
Richard fainted from shock and exhaustion.
Tony laughed with relief, smiled, and, shifting his vehicle into a higher speed, zoomed across the gleaming Atlantic, towards home, safety, and pop tarts.

Some Preliminaries

2005-11-16T07:19:00.000-05:00

I think it's time I toss an affectionate monkey wrench into these blogworks and get back to telling people what I think of them. For a while I had been progressing nicely with my zany and as yet unchallenged fiction, but I am eons behind in my reverse quiz write-ups.
So here's another one!
This time it focuses on everyone's favorite Becky, Becky.

(I had originally considered skipping her write-up, poor girl, because I knew so very little about her. Upon further reflection I realized that I knew plenty to give her a decent personal assessment.)

So here it is, Becky's write-up.
(This is the first time Becky has had an entry revolve around her. She was not part of my original Friends series.)

Now, just a few quick notes before I launch into the feature presentation.

Firstly, some explanations.

One: I am tired, as I'm sure all of you are, of these tedious and repetitive explanations. In fact, I'd guess no one is actually reading this right now. I could probably type anything I wanted.
. . .
I like to dance naked to Daft Punk songs.
With a carboard box on my head.
Sometimes I dream about being a naughty hamster.
Green!
Bleep bleep bleep.
. . .
See? No one cares.

So my first explanation is that there will be no first explanation.

Two: Coming up next, another fictional adventure. Maybe. Maybe I'll just continue with the write-ups. It's all arbitrary at this point. I just flip a coin, actually.

Three: This might be a bit short, forgive me, Becky, if you wanted more. I only know a little about the sparkling phenomenon that is you.

Four: Becky's is all positive. This is for three reasons:
1) I don't know her well enough to make any personal judgements
2) I doubt there'd be anything about her to complain about, anyway.
3) She didn't ask. Remember, if you want a open, honest, maybe hurtful write-up, you need to specify. You're next on the list, Cait. Let me know.

Here's my quiz in it's final form:

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph length.)
02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you.
03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be...
04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.
06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.
07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.
08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.
09. I will describe my ideal day with you.
10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

I'll hazard the guess that everyone knows the specifics of my answering process. What I do say and what I don't.
I'm just going to toss in the #8. explanation.
Yeah, the Hanky Signal.
The Hanky Code was a system of wordless, sartorial communication developed by the gay community, which has spread in limited amounts to the fetish world as a whole. It shows, by the color of the handkerchief you wear and its placement in one of several locations on your person, what your particular kink is. I declined to post explanations for these. Have fun looking them up and remember to clear your history when your done.
You know what's really funny? The code varies!
(I used this one: http://www.fetishexchange.org/hanky.shtml).
I also got this addition from Amy, because her full Medieval title is Lady Aims, the Corruptress.

The ol' disclaimer: I am not an insightful person. I agonized over these for hours before finally deciding to just write what I thought was coming from my heart (but what might very well have been coming from my right kidney.) As such, don't put too much stock into what I say. Regard me less as a prophet and more as one of those shallow online surveys which, based on a pattern of dots, decide the kind of person you are. I tried to be intelligent about this. I doubt it worked.
Also, know that I love you all, and this is mere grain of sand in the Gobi of feelings I have about you.
And with that sappy line, here we go!

Some additions to the last Reverse Quizes:

Steve reminds me very much of the song Falling for the First Time, by the Barenaked Ladies.

"I'm so cool,
Too bad I'm a loser, too bad I'm a loser.
I'm so smart, too bad I can't get anything figured out.
I'm so brave, too bad I'm a baby.
I'm so fly, that's probably why it
Feels just like I'm falling for the first time.

"I'm so chill, no wonder it's freezing.
I'm so still, I just can't keep my fingers out of anything.
I'm so thrilled to finally be failing.
I'm so done, turn me over 'cause it
Feels just like I'm falling for the first time."

Also, Apple Candy, by Ben Lee.

Amy reminds me of three point five other songs:

Neon, by John Mayer.

"She's always buzzing just like
Neon, neon.
Neon, neon.
Who knows how long, how long, how long
She can go before she burns away?

"I can't be her angel now.
You know it's not my place to hold her down.
And it's hard for me to take a stand,
When I would take her anyway I can.

"She comes and she goes
Like no one cares.
She comes and she goes.
She's slipping through my hands."

(Also, the first verse of Daughters, by that self-same Mayer lad, but with a different meaning than the song intended.)

Then there's I'm Far Away, by Ben Lee.

And of course, It's Not Unusual, by the great Tom Jones.

And Tony reminds me of anything by Charlie Daniels, the MegaMan theme song, and some of the Beatles more contemplative or sillyier crap.
Also, the song Padrino, by Smash Mouth.

"Life imitates the game of chess,
You can be the rook or the pawn.
But if you have the strategy that's best,
You can be the king or in this case the don.
It's easy to get knocked out of the game,
Depending on which way you want to play.
You've got to have eyes in the back of your head,
Now that we have that out of the way . . .

"Rev of the Lincoln and let's get to drinkin' some caffeino!
Let's go to Niccoletti's 'cause he makes a mean spaghetti sauce!
I'm a connoisseur of the finer things in life,
I'll take any flick with Al Pacino.
I'm a man of respect
And I prefer to be addressed as Padrino!"

Done!

P.S. I am pumping these bad boys out one atta time, and sticking fictional posts between them. Everyone other than Amy, Steve, Tony, and Becky will have to wait a while. Sorry I didn't mention that first. Although, I kinda did . . .

P.P.S. The actual hanky codes for Tony for all those curious enough to want to know but lazy enough not to left click on the link and read several words, are as follows:

Teddy Bear: Into cuddling. Tony may be the most voracious snuggler known to modern science.
Leather: Leather fetish. What can i say, the guy likes to parade around in shiny dead cow skin.
Burgundy: Into cutting. He has a sharp-edged weapon collection.

Okay, now onward to victory, Mule!

Saved by the Becky

2005-11-15T23:34:00.000-05:00

Becky

1 I am impaired in my assessment of you, Rebecca, because I regretfully do not know you very well. I cannot delve into what makes you tick, or what hidden virtues I’m sure you possess. I’m afraid the best I can do is expound on how great you are through my limited knowledge of you, gleaned mostly through picking Sam up at your house.

I know that you’re sweet and good-humored, Becky. I haven’t spent enough time with you to know how funny you are, but based on your adaptability to my brother’s constant slurs and insanity, I’d wager that you can be quite the little comedienne when you want.

You are certainly hospitable, there can be no question about that. Though you only knew me through my lunatic sibling and possibly my lunatic friends EJ and Tony, you welcomed me right into your home and social circle without blinking. I am deeply moved by your acceptance of me. I’m not socially skilled by any stretch of the imagination, and it usually takes me a while to ingratiate myself. You just snatched me in with a hug and a smile.
I’m not the only one you welcomed readily, either. Andrew, Caitlin, and even Steve and Amy (who some have understandably given the cold shoulder to) you took in warmly and without hesitation. We thank you.

You are possibly the most eager and skilled hugger I have ever had the pleasure of embracing. Becky, you hug indiscriminately and with sincerity. You hug tightly and warmly and with genuine affection.

You have a smile that can (and has) melted glaciers.

I know that you are a loving sister. Your brothers seem to be a handful, and, though you’re tough with them sometimes, you are possibly the most caring sibling I have met in my travels. This is quite an accomplishment considering most teenagers’ propensity for shunning family.

I believe you have decent taste in film and music.

I know you are athletically skilled.

I know you’re reasonably bright. (Probably very bright, but, again, I am operating on minimal exposure here.)

You also seem to have a strong religious sense, which, if you read my Live Journal at all, you know counts highly with me.

I cannot say much more about you, Becky, but what I know is this: You are kind, affectionate, and caring. You are sweet and tolerant and very pretty. You no doubt have bushels of other talents and qualities, but this is all I know.
And, based on how wonderful you seem, this is enough.

2 Movie: I get a sort of teen-movie vibe from you, Beckster. The quality kind, mind you, not the raunchy, insipid kind. You’re like the level-headed, slightly quirky friend character that guides the leads through their troubles.
Or, something like Labyrinth, because you have an air of whimsical fancy about you.

Song: Minority, by Green Day. You have a very appealing, adorably spunky punk rocker attitude lying submerged slightly off shore. The hard-edged angsty music doesn’t quite suit you, but, in some odd way, it does.
Also, Dancing Queen, by ABBA, because you’re silly sometimes, like ABBA.

Mike Doughty song: Oddly enough the only thing I can come up with is Saint Louise is Listening.
It’s one of Mike’s more surreal ones from his heroines injecting Soul Coughing days. I have a less than tentative grasp on what the hell it’s about, but I think it might involve an honest girl ("she’s widely known the only maquereau that pays her taxes") who is targeted by some shady guy who wants to "box her for the money."
What this has to do with you, or with Eskimos, I cannot guess. Mike was heavy into the drugs at this time.
But the girl’s innocence, and the chorus, "You don’t use words like that, St. Louise is Listening," somehow strikes a chord.

3 Becky, you seem like all hours of the day. Perhaps I cannot pin-point it because I do not know you well enough. I want to say around 6 in the morning, when the dew is on the grass and the birds have started chirping merrily, but I fear you might be insulted. I’ll go with that anyway. In the summer, though, you’d be, so that there’s no threat of school hanging over one’s head. And it’d be a . . . Thursday. 6 AM on a summer Thursday. The week end spread out before you, the grass green, the sky blue, the air crisp. Hurray!

4 Radiant. Though you have naturally tan skin and are otherwise rather dusky hued, you seem to sparkle with an inner light that makes all those around you buoyant and joyful.

5 Memorable moment: I’ll have to say when you kept lookout whilst Sam and I pilfered the Thirsty Mind sign in the middle of The Commons parking lot. Then when we nearly crushed you by wedging the precious booty into the backseat of the ‘Falcon, and you had to sit crammed betwixt us both for the ride home.

Good times.

We need to go on another caper together.

Oh, or when you took pictures of me, Sam, Tony, and Andy with our pants down. That was nice of you.

6 Becky, you’re a bit like a frisky kitten, and, for some reason, I see wallaby and seal as well. I cannot justify this.
Dog: I’m gonna have to go with black Cocker Spaniel puppy again.

7 I’ve always wondered . . . uh . . . a lot of basic personal things about you I’ve never gotten a chance to learn. Mostly favorites and past experiences.

8 Kelly Green. (Nope, that’s a joke. Sam made me put it in.) Kewpie Doll on your jacket.

9 Okay. Here’s the scene: You, me, Andy, Sam, and Adam bust into a Friendly’s for brekkist. We barely manage to scarf down plates of bacon and flapjacks while making each other nearly vomit with laughter. Then we tip, but sneak out without paying.
We head to the Hadley Mall, stopping on our way to run through a field for no apparent reason, and take hilarious pictures.
Next we sneak into a movie. The ticket cracker almost nabs Sam, but you deftly trip him down a flight of stairs and save the day. He wakes up in the hospital.
We go get ice cream somewhere. Somewhere with cows. You wave to the cows. Sam calls them Jews.
Then back to Andy’s house for clam chowder and a recording session in which I lay down a intro and Adam, Sam, and Andy serenade you spontaneously. (The record goes platinum.)
Then we go to your house. Sam wrestles with Maximus while we all watch a movie.
Finally, we pile into Knox (the tentative name for my new car) and tool around the neighborhood tossing glass bottles at shit. Eventually we wind up at The Commons and swipe a trunk load of junk, with your aid and supervision. We steal the Pendelton sign, bury it half deep in your grouchy neighbor’s lawn, then light it on fire and run away to establish our alibi.
Only Sam gets caught, but he bonds with the conservative judge and they wind on sharing a Scotch.
You inexplicably win tickets to a Green Day concert and wind up meeting the band.
They go on a heist with us and become the latest stealing celebrities.
You inherit a haunted castle by the ocean and we all stay there, fighting specters and ghouls.
(I know that was longer than a day, but I’m tired and I just kept going . . .)

10 Villainous character actor: That ‘70's Show’s Mila Kunis (Jackie). Or, as she is known to me and Sam, that crazy bitch from American Psycho 2. She’s a sweet, trill-voiced, dark-haired beauty who slaughters rivals with grace and ruthlessness. Sam could star in William Shatner’s role as her mentor whom she murders. C’mon, like you never contemplated pushing Sam out a window when he was drunk and high on pills.

Well, I hope I did you some justice, there, Beckenstein. If not, you have my permission to kick the crap out of my face.

Tune in next time, loyal readers, for Andrew's triumphant appearance in The Interim Adventure.
(Also, I nearly get killed, Sam and Tony blow up a building, and Tony gets a new vehicle)
All this and more in the stunning conclusion!

Current Mood: My head hurts and I am falling asleep at the wheel.
Current Music: New Buffalo

The Interim Adventure (Or, Episode IV.V) Part Five

2005-10-30T18:40:00.000-05:00

The voice did not stop.

For hours, possibly days, it had continued, slithering loathsomely out of the wall-mounted speakers.
The Voice.
Calm, confident, with a hint of a strange accent.
It was both cajoling and intimidating. Soothing and infuriating. It depressed, and yet, while instilling a surreal, sickening shame, inspired.

Richard could take no more.

At first he had tried to ignore it. He focused his thoughts until his head throbbed, but the Voice broke through his mental walls.
Then he tried to cover it. He sang, whistled, hummed. He recited lines from films and plays.
"Do I understand you correctly!?" he had screamed. "You say it is your wife alone has shown us disaffection!?"
He screamed and howled until his throat was raw.
Now he was simply curled in a ball on the floor of his cell, hands over his ears, twitching.

With his heightened senses, even in human form, he could not block out the Voice. It was not loud or unduly emphatic. Still, his sharp hearing could detect the smallest inflections, make out the wet whispers of saliva on the speaker’s lips and tongue. He could hear the subtle intakes of breath. He imagined he could even discern the sound of the speaker’s jaw muscles, the skin of his cheeks moving, even his pulse.

Richard was going mad.

He would not transform.

If he so desired, he could metamorphosize into a monstrous, shaggy beast with claws capable of rending through an oaken beam as if it were paper, and teeth the size of a man’s thumb.

But that was what they wanted.

They.

His captors. Those who had hunted him like an animal (which, arguably, he was), beaten him, shot him, drugged him, and taken him here, to some Godforsaken compound he knew not where. They had tortured him. Held him in a cage for weeks.

They.

The Umbrella Corporation.

Richard did not know why they wanted him to transform. They had not told him. Indeed, it did not make much sense.
In his wolf-form he was much harder to control and nearly impossible to kill. He was certainly an inferior conversationalist.
Still, he knew he must not give them what they wanted.
It would do no good, anyway; his prison was constructed of three-inch thick Umbrella Corp plexi-carbon, strong as steel, more transparent than glass.

The Voice rudely interrupted his thoughts.
"They’re not coming, you know. Your friends. They’ve obviously forsaken you."
"No no no no no no no," Richard muttered vehemently.
"You’re in an obvious location. They could easily find you. They have the resources of an entire corporation at their disposal. They have abandoned you."
Richard squinted his golden eyes tighter.
"You should abandon them. Do not allow your thoughts to dwell on them any further. You need to care about yourself now.
"Firstly," the Voice continued, "you should give up any foolish hope of escape. There is no escape. There is no rescue.
"Give up.
"Give up.
"Give up.
"Give up.
"Give up."
The Voice went on as if it were a broken record, the words boring into Richard’s brain.
Next you should give your captors what they want. Give them what they want and they’ll give you what you want. What is the point of resistance? Where has it gotten you?"
The Voice tried the broken record routine again.
"Give in.
"Give in.
"Give in.
"Give in.
"Give in."
Richard tried not to listen. Part of him was tempted.
The Voice had been repeating this for hours. Now, it tried something new.
"And finally, why have you not transformed? You have a gift, a blessing. A power from God. And you spurn it like a disease.
"Do you not love the rush it brings? The invincible, unconquerable high? The strength and speed and stamina? Do you not long for the wild, reckless abandon it instills in you? Do you not hunger for that insatiable hunger?
"What were you before? Nothing. Now you are more than human, more than anything you could ever hope to be on your own. Embrace your true nature.
"Remember, the Beast in you is the Best in you.
"The Beast in you is the Best in you.
"The Beast in you is the Best in you.
"The Beast in you is the Best in you.
"The Beast in you is the Best in you.
Richard tried to fight it. He tried to block it out. His body would not obey. He felt it happening: His bones began to re-form, his skin, to melt like wax. Hair sprouted all over his muscle-bound frame. His teeth lengthened.
Richard tried to resist the change, and for a time he remained in a fluctuating intermediary stage. Fangs grew and shortened. Claws appeared and receded. Hair sprung out, then pulled back. His body was in fiery agony.
"No . . . no . . . no," he chanted, desperately holding onto his humanity.
"No . . . no . . . no . . . noooooorrraaaaaaarrrrwwwwooooooooo!"
His humanity vanished.
Only the Beast remained.

Meanwhile, back in Sprockets’ cluttered laboratory it was still pitch black. The only illumination came from sporadic flashes of green light as the whirring, clanking life-restoration-pods blasted Tony, Amy, and Steve with bursts of the mysterious Life Force.
Sam, Veronica, and Jake stared in mute horror at the spectacle. Dr. Sprockets’ already bulging eyes widened, threatening to shoot out from his head. He took a long swig from a hip flask.
"Holy dicks!" he yelled.
The noise grew louder and louder still, finally reaching a screeching crescendo. There was a series of rapid flashes, followed by darkness for ten unbearable seconds, and then a final, blinding flash of pure green. Tendrils of flickering lightning danced across the entire room. The four spectators covered their eyes in terror.
It was black for a long time.
Then the lights timidly came back on.
Slowly, Jake, Sam, Veronica, and Dr. Sprockets peeped from behind clenched hands. Tony, Amy, and Steve all rested, still and silent. For a devastating moment they thought that the machines hadn’t worked, that their friends were lost forever.
And then, simultaneously, all three stirred.
"Chubbeebaby!" said Tony, sitting forward quickly. He sat forward so fast, in fact, that he cracked his forehead against the glass screen of the pod. "Ow." he added, brightly.
"Owww . . .ow," Amy expanded upon his theme. Clearly exerting a fierce effort, she blinked her eyes.
Steve said nothing, he just winced and frowned, his face ashen.
Sprockets fumbled with some switches and the pod lids snapped open with a sigh and a release of green-tinted steam.
The three newly-revived warriors toppled out of the cushioned chambers onto the floor and lay there, gasping. Jake and Sam rushed forward and helped their friends to stand.
In the awed silence following their resurrection, Tony was the first to speak.
"What the hell just happened?" he asked, rubbing his head.
"Tony!" Jake said, clapping him gently on the back and causing him to sway like a willow in a high wind. "You were dead! Sprockets and his machines here brought you back to life."
Sam’s cherubically handsome face was taught with concern.
"How do you feel, Tony?"
Tony had to think hard about this.
"I feel like I got hit by a truck and then had my blood replaced with morphine. Everything’s kinda blurry. My senses seem so dull."
"Yeah," Steve added. "I feel like I’m looking at the world from the bottom of a well."
Amy was fighting back tears. Being brought back from the dead is a moving experience.
"Oh, my God . . ." she said.
Sprockets stepped forward and coughed politely.
"I’ll need to run some tests, uh, on you three."
And so awkward explanations were exchanged as Sprockets clumped around his lab, gently examining the three resuscitants.
"Remind me to double your pay, doctor," Tony said, smiling weakly.
"Thank you, Thomas. Though, a case a vintage, single malt Scotch’ll do just as well."
Tony felt his heartbeat with his hand as if for the first time.
"Both. You’ll get both."
After making sure they exhibited all the proper vital signs and obtaining blood samples, Sprockets trotted off to run some tests, leaving the six friends sitting around a lab table.
Steve and Amy sat silent, hand in hand. Every so often, they would smile simultaneously and look at each other, still saying nothing.
Jake tried to liven things up by telling obscene jokes. Veronica hung off Tony as is he were the only thing keeping her conscious, while Sam somberly questioned Tony about the afterlife.
"Well, Sammy," Tony answered tiredly, "There wasn’t a lot there. It was all a haze. I guess what Sprockets said is right. There’s a bit of a waiting period."
"Did you see anyone?"
"No. It was really just me. I didn’t even see Amy or Steve. Just a white mist with occasional wraith-like shapes floating through it."
Tony’s stomach rumbled. Steve’s and Amy’s felt the need to join along. Soon, all three were rumbling.
"Hungry, buddy?" Jake asked with a smile. "We got some freshly warmed blood in Sprockets’ office."
Tony made a wry face.
"Blood? No. I don’t want any blood."
"Amy?" Jake asked, turning to her.
"No, not really. I’d kinda like some macaroons, though."
"Steve, do you want some raw meat?"
"Nope. I think I’ll have mashed potatoes."
Sam and Jake gave each other a look of wild surmise.
Suddenly, Sprockets charged into the room.
"You three!"
Amy, Tony, and Steve sat bolt upright.
"You’re cured!"
"What?"
"What?"
"Huh?"
"The viruses! You’ve been cured. You three were infected by Umbrella Corp viruses a few months ago, vampiric and lycanthropic. You’re no longer infected."
"You mean–?" Tony began.
"We’re no longer–" Steve added.
"Vicious, cannibalistic monsters bent on ruining mankind?" Amy finished.
"Indeed!" Sprockets paused. "Of course, you can no longer run for public office."
"So . . . did the Life Force machines cure us?"
Sprockets started to nod, but then re-checked his charts.
"No . . ." he said at last. "According to my facts, you were cured before you entered the pods. There were traces of an unknown substance in your blood streams."
"Gits!" Tony hissed. "That bastard injected us with poison and a cure! It wasn’t enough to take away our powers, he had to kill us as well."
Amy thought for a moment.
"If Gits cured us, and then killed us, why do they still have Rich?"
There was a silence in which two unwanted thoughts slimed their way into everyone’s head.
1) Whatever they want him for is very important. Good for Umbrella, bad for NPInc, and probably agonizing for Rich.
And 2) They didn’t still have Rich. It was too late.
Tony forced this latter thought out of his head.
"Let’s get some rest," he said, standing up decisively and nearly falling over. "Tomorrow no one in the company does anything but look for Rich."

Richard rose. He shook his furry body as if shedding water. He was, in fact, shedding the last vestiges of his human form. He panted slightly, his long crimson tongue lolling lazily out of his fanged jaws. His golden eyes shown with a feral light. His dense, shaggy body tingled and shook with excitement.
He barely noticed that the Voice had stopped.
For a terrifying moment, he was dimly aware that his body had disobeyed his mind, that he was trapped in this monstrous form against his will and he could not become human again.
Then, his primitive brain convinced his impressionable higher consciousness that he could change back into a human whenever he goddamn well saw fit, but that all he wanted to do now was tear something’s stomach to shreds with his teeth.
The Voice started again.
"Well, good to see you’ve come around. It’s about time. I only had to hound you for 36 hours."
Richard uttered a low, rumbling growl. It was a hateful, dangerous sound. If he were not isolated, any right-thinking individuals present would have bid a hasty retreat at that time.
"Easy, boy," the Voice condescended. "How would you like to . . . go out?"
Richard’s ears perked up. He yipped excitedly and began to bound around the room, furiously wagging his bushy tail.
"Good . . ." the Voice soothed.
Directly in front of Richard a wall panel suddenly slid open, revealing the outside, something he had not seen for weeks. It was night. There were no halogen bulbs ruining the darkness, but the sky was bleakly clear, and the moon small and intensely bright.
He was immediately thrilled by a frigid blast of winter air. Powdery snow swirled about in whimsical gusts. The entire world was frosted in pure, glorious white. The evergreen trees were laden with mounds of snow. It covered the rocks and ruins of the crumbling fortress he was held in.
Richard breathed in deep, relishing the sting of the freezing air on his wet nose. He closed his eyes, listened to the hollow howl of the wind.
"Aren’t you hungry?" the Voice asked from behind him.
Richard felt his the skin hanging from his ribs with his paws. He whined. The Umbrella Corp sadists in charge hadn’t allowed him more than one meal every two days.
He sniffed the air again. He detected a musky scent: elk. Like a shot he was off and tearing across the snowy wastes.

He bounded past trees and over rocks, all four paws propelling him ever faster. Every so often he would pause, breathing in steam shooting from his flared nostrils, and sniff the air again. Listen for the sounds of his prey.
Then he would set off, even faster than before.
Then he came upon the clearing.
In it was a vast herd of elk. Hundreds of the great, antlered beasts, snorting and picking at the tundra. Their hooves combined in a deep, soothing drum on the frozen earth.
Richard gazed longingly at them, licking his lips. He knew that instinctively he should go for something young or weak and ill. The injured and the old. This was nature’s way of ensuring his survival, and the strength of the herd.
The human in him had different plans.
"Sick? Old?" he said to himself. "Fuck that. I’m hungry. I’ll go for something in it’s prime."
And, after selecting a sturdy buck, he was off again.
The herd immediately shifted. It turned to him, alert with terror.
The mass of elk began to gallop away across the clearing.
Richard laughed at the thrill of it all.
He darted in an around the moving, stampeding animals. He could smell their panic, taste their fear.
Finally, after snapping at them playfully and pushing them about, he found the elk he had selected, a great, muscled male. He ran behind it, nipping at its heels. The beast, realizing it could not escape, turned and faced him.
Richard was taken aback by the animal’s courage. He paused. The elk charged, head lowered, and caught Richard in the ribs, splintering them and pitching him backward into a snow drift.
He arose, shook himself vigorously, and squared off against his quarry.
The elk scuffed at the ground with its hoof, snorted, reared, and charged again.
This time Richard dodged. Still, he caught a glancing kick from its back hooves, fracturing his forearm.
He yelped in pain, but held on, pulling the beast to the ground.
The buck’s breath came in short, gasping snorts of steam. Its eyes were wide and bright.
Richard paused a moment, to feel its warm girth next to him, look into its frightened eyes.
Then he tore its throat out with his fangs.
Blood gushed over his shaggy coat, staining the snow around him. He tossed back his head and howled his triumph fiercely to the moon.

After slaking his thirst for blood, Richard trotted back towards the Umbrella Corp complex. He approached from the front, hesitantly, sniffing.
He was startled when blinding lights flashed on all around him.
Richard looked left and right, eyes wide, heart pounding.
Then, the massive front doors opened and a slender figure stood in silhouetted in the doorway.
"Had a good night out?" asked the figure.
Richard’s hackles rose instantly. It was the Voice.
"We need to come to an understanding," the Voice said. "We’ve given you what you want: free range and enough big game to satisfy your hunger. And, to be fair, we were the ones who gave you this amazing gift to begin with."
Richard was uncertain what to do.
"Now we want some things from you. First, we need all the samples you’ve been so ferociously refusing us. Second, we want complete obedience. It’s a bit of a you scratch our back, we’ll scratch you behind the ears situation." The Voice chuckled. "Lastly, there may be some . . . tasks . . . odd jobs here and there, that we want you to take care of for us. It’s only fair, after all we’ve done for you."
The figure stepped forward from the shadows.
Dr. Thaddeus Trans held out a pale, spider-like hand.
"Do we have a deal?"
Richard thought hard. It did not come easily to one functioning with a primitive brain, but he managed it. His friends had not come to get him. They had not even tried. If he turned his back on Umbrella now, he’d be shunning a tremendous gift. Also, to be considered was his imminent and painful death if he did not except the conditions.
He trotted forward, sank back onto his haunches, and cocked his head up at Trans, his big, golden eyes curious.
"You can shake. C’mon, boy . . . shake."
Richard extended his paw. Trans wrapped his odious fingers around it and squeezed firmly.
"Excellent," he purred.

Weeks later, Richard trotted into Sung Li’s office on all fours.
"Here, boy," she called to him.
He made his way to where she was, sitting at her desk, reviewing some genetic formatting paperwork. She lowered her soft hand, which he licked affectionately. Sung Li stood and walked over to a large, comfortable recliner in the corner of her office. She let her hair down, took off her glasses, and sat down lightly in the plush leather.
Richard sniffed officiously at the carpet, then walked in a circle several times, and dropped to the floor in front of her chair.
"Good boy," she said.
He stretched out and gave a cavernous yawn, then lay still, like a golden bearskin rug.
Sung Li kicked off her shoes and ran her feet over his soft coat, shuddering in pleasure at the feel of the warm fur between her toes.
Richard dozed, trying not to think of the past month, of the atrocities he had committed for Umbrella. He shut his mind to the screams and the warm blood splattering across his face. He snuggled into the thick carpet and droned out the gunfire and explosions. The men yelling in fear, the women crying. The terror and carnage.
He loved Umbrella!

Tony mashed the keyboard in frustration, sighed deeply, and sat back. He rubbed the corners of his eyes. For hours he had been sitting in front of his massive holographic computer, diligently searching for some clue as to his friend’s whereabouts. He had pored over the extensive files detailing the movements and policies of the Umbrella Corporation. So far, his search was proving fruitless.
"This search is proving fruitless!" Tony exclaimed.
The robo-pigeon on his shoulder cooed with digitized sympathy.
Tony snatched the phone out of its cradle and angrily dialed a number. Several dozen stories below deep in the archives, Sam dropped a stack of documents and grabbed his cell phone.
"Yeah, whadya fuckin’ want?" he groaned.
"Sammy!" Tony hollered. "How is your end of the search progressing? Any leads?"
"Nah, notta goddamn chinking thing!" he huffed. "Fuckin’ Jew files!"
"Well, keep looking," Tony sighed, "Umbrella has to have slipped up somewhere."
He hung up the phone.
Tony couldn’t stand staring at the computer any longer. He stood up in a rush and the carefully balanced robo-pigeon on his shoulder toppled off with and indignant synth-hoot.
Still standing, Tony reached forward and hit the intercom button on his desk.
"Veronica, page Agents Konefal and McMenamin for me, would you?"
"Sure thing, boss," Veronica cooed in her sultry whisper.
"Oh, and Veronica, where are those damage reports I requested?"
"Oooh," she said, unconvincingly startled, "I guess I must have forgotten them. Oh, I’ve been naughty. I deserve a spanking."
"Did you purposely forget the files just so I’d discipline you?" Tony asked.
"Oh no!" she cried, even more unconvincingly. "You found out. Oh, you’re sooo smart. Well, that was naughty of me, being naughty on purpose . . . I deserve an extra hard spanking . . ."
"Sorry, no time," Tony said. "Just have the damage reports on my desk before you leave."
He sat back down and drummed his fingers on his desktop. The robo-pigeon cautiously reclaimed its perch on his shoulder.
After a minute or two, after Tony had just gotten the hang of drumming the Freakazoid theme using both hands, the door opened and Veronica walked in, followed closely by Amy and Steve.
Tony leapt to his feet again, once more upsetting the poor robo-pigeon, which spun through the air like a pinwheel, finally righting itself and flying to the other end of the room.
Tony’s buxom secretary was wearing a fiendishly tight, drastically low-cut blouse (one could almost see her navel) and a skirt so short she might as well have wrapped a thin scarf around her hips.
"Here they are, Mr. Celi," she said, leaning forward about 35 degrees more than was necessary.
"‘Mr. Celi’ is my dad," Tony said, "I told you to call me Tony."
"Sure thing . . . Tony," she said in a low, breathy voice.
"Now give us a moment, would you please?" he asked Veronica, looking passed her as Amy and Steve.
Veronica slowly twirled around and strutted gracefully away in her five inch stiletto pumps.
Steve looked longingly back at her and gave a long, low whistle.
"You need to shave before stepping out in a skirt like that. And I don’t mean your legs," he said.
Amy slapped him in the arm.
"Steve!"
"Sorry, beautiful, just admiring Tony’s office . . . decor."
"Chivalrous of you," Tony muttered.
"This is a gorgeous office, Tones," Amy said, glancing around the massive, well-lit room.
Steve was determined to not to show he was jealous of Tony’s sanctum.
"Well, some people like things big and flashy, babe; usually when they’re trying to compensate for something."
He directed a savage wink at Tony.
The level-minded Italian ignored him.
"Thanks, Ames," he said, "I like it too. Had to kill five guys to get it, in fact."
Amy laughed. Tony chuckled along.
"No, I’m kidding. Only three."
Amy abruptly stopped laughing.
"Now, why don’t you guys have a seat?"
Amy and Steve sank into the plush leather chairs in front of Tony’s desk with involuntary sighs of satisfaction.
"Okay," said Tony, standing and looking from Amy to Steve," I need you guys to run through what exactly happened when you were captured by Abattoir. Right up to the docks."
His guests groaned.
"We’ve been through this twice already," said Steve.
"Humor me."
He sat down.
Steve gave an exaggerated sigh.
"Alright. I was heading home from Saint Anselm’s for the Christmas break—"
That reminds me, Tony," Amy cut in, "it’s three days ‘til Christmas and we need to talk about decorations. Those severed zombie heads impaled on the fence outside don’t exactly scream ‘holiday cheer.’"
Tony considered this. He leaned forward and hit the intercom button.
"Veronica, have someone from maintenance go string lights and tinsel around the severed zombie heads."
He sat back, then leaned forward again quickly.
"Tell them to be careful around the ones that still bite."
Tony looked at Amy.
"Better?"
She was speechless.
"Carry on, Steve," said Tony.
"So I was coming home from New Hampshire, along I-495 when these two helicopters appeared and forced me off the road. Oh! They were flying . . . uh . . . Northeast."
"Hmmm . . ." Tony murmured. "That could . . . but no. They might have been circling the area. That doesn’t necessarily prove anything."
Steve shrugged. "I’m no cartologist."
"Cartographer," Tony corrected.
Steve shrugged again and continued.
"They drove me off the road. My car flipped over. By the time I was out they had landed and were all over me. That chubby tool– Abba-something? –just grinned at me and said he was taking me to be "re-educated," back to the place of origin."
"Place of origin?"
"I think that’s what he said. He had a weird accent."
Tony was quiet for a moment.
"What about you, Amy?" he said at last.
"I was walking to my dorm from the Dirty one night, and I had just gotten to a bit of woods when they started to drop from the trees, rappelling down."
"How many?"
Amy thought. "At least 30, I think."
Tony smiled.
"You gave them a good fight, didn’t you?"
Amy smiled as well.
"I’m not gonna lie to ya, man," she said, "they picked the wrong co-ed to pick on. Eventually, though, Abattoir shot me with a trank gun. I was out soon after that."
"He say anything?"
"Yeah . . . same re-education nonsense . . . he, uh, he made some leering comment about how ‘purty’ I was. Then he said I’d like where I was going . . . back to where it started."
"‘Where it started . . .’?" Tony asked no one in particular.
"Well, we all contracted these viruses at the Umbrella Corp headquarters in Holyoke. Is that what he meant?"
Tony considered this.
"No. Couldn’t be. Rich and I saw to it, there’s nothing left there but a deep, flaming hole in the ground."
"On top of which," Amy said, "We were on a ship when you found us."
"A big one. Probably for a long voyage," Steve said.
"What if by 'where it started,' Abattoir meant the Umbrella Corporation’s main headquarters?" Amy asked.
"No such luck, I’m afraid," answered Tony. "The Umbrella Corp central headquarters is in Paris. Our operatives checked there. No sign of Rich."
"So the ship wasn’t going to France . . ." Steve mused.
"Was there a ship’s manifest in the cabin?" asked Amy helpfully.
"No . . . our agents searched the ship. They found no documentation of destination."
"Coats," said Steve simply.
"What?" Tony asked, surprised.
"There were crates of thick winter coats and harsh weather gear. Granted it’s winter, but it wasn’t that cold."
"And there was an arctic exploration vehicle in the cargo hold," Amy said.
"Long voyage to somewhere harsh and cold . . ." Tony pondered for a long while, sitting as still as a statue. Perhaps it was his resemblance to one that made the robo-pigeon think it was safe to land on his shoulder again. The unfortunate bird had just settled, its inner cogs and gears thrumming quietly, when an idea struck Tony like a bolt of lightning and he jumped several inches into the air while still in the sitting position.
The pigeon, in its terror, discharged a stream of gooey white hydrolic fluid from its exhaust pipe onto the shoulder of Tony’s shirt.
Tony gave an irritated swat at the robot before turning his attention back to his guests.
"I’ve got it!"
And he dashed out of the room maniacally.

He blasted past startled office workers, pushing people left and right. Papers flew through the air, coffee spilled, interns toppled. Tony darted down a stairway. He had a long way to go, and took the steps seven or eight at a time. After two dozen stories, he stopped for a breather, collected his thoughts, and then continued.
Finally he reached the floor he sought. It was an infrequently visited sub-basement slightly below Storage Sector T3Q and the power plant, and several floors above the Customer Service Department. (When asked once, why the Customer Service Department was located in such a place, CEO Tony Celi was heard to remark, "Because, hey, we never said it wouldn’t explode.")
Tony paused at the stairwell door. He knew it was locked and rigged to an alarm.
"Beluga whale," he said.
Instantly, a touch pad projected itself from a blank stretch of wall. Tony entered his password (SassyScarf) and then placed his hand on the glowing green screen.
He waited several seconds for authorization.
"Welcome, Tony Celi," said a soft voice. "Enjoy your stay."
The door slid open and Tony stepped into the sub-basement hallway. It was drab and featureless, but clean, and brightly lit with partially shaded halogen wall lights. The floor was a light grey tile, the walls unadorned cement. There were but two doors in this hallway. They were directly opposite each other, halfway down the lane.
Tony made his way to one of them. Using an NPInc electric key, he opened the door, stepped inside, looked around for a moment, then flipped a switch. He left the room.
He entered the second room.
"Lights," he said.
And the lights came on.

Sub-basement Level 39 Gamma is not on any NPInc floor directory. As far as the general company population know, it does not exist.
It is the floor which is used to house NPInc technologies of a dangerous (more so than they regularly are) and classified nature. Though Tony only saw this one hallway on this trip, the floor is in fact a honeycomb of passages and storage rooms, each containing technological marvels the likes of which have never been seen. They are accessed only in times of great peril, great curiosity, or when company parties show signs of slowing down.
There is but one employee stationed on this floor. His name is Jasper. He’s 82, tall, completely bald, and quite friendly. He talks to himself unnervingly, though. And he collects stamps. We will not come to him in this story, but I thought you’d all like to know he’s there.

Tony blinked as his eyes became adjusted to the bright lights. Then his vision cleared and he smiled. The thing before him was just waking up, as a result of the switch in the adjacent room.
"Hello, Cap’n," Tony said, warmly. "Good to see you again."
In the center of the room was a large oblong structure. It shone under the glare from the ceiling, black glass and steel, like a neo-modern sarcophagus. It had slid slowly opened with a hiss and a thick, velvety fog poured out. A creature lumbered up from its sleep, climbed stiffly out of the box, and smiled at Tony.

The Captain Blackjack Huzuki-bot 3500 opened his large, dark brown eye. His red robotic eye slowly glowed to life. His mechanical joints creaked slightly, and he grunted with exertion. His movement was encumbered by a mass of wires and tubes connecting him to the life support systems. They trailed from him like multi-colored vines from a hairy, metal-plated tree. Still, even unable to stand to his full height, and dimmed with disuse, the Cap’n was an imposing sight.
He towered close to nine feet tall, and was five feet wide at the armor-covered shoulder. He was a cyborg. His robotic parts gleamed dully in the light; his human parts looked pale, but still thickly muscled as ever. His beard and hair were wild black brambles. His mismatched eyes were fierce. He smiled.
"Tony, lad! How goes the bizzerness? Be it 2020 already?"

The Cap’n had been the CEO of Ninja Pirate Incorporated since its official formation in 1952. When Tony and his friends overcame the Umbrella Corporation in a series of grand battles and acquired its subsidiary NP Inc, they did so with the help of the Cap’n, who defected due to matters of conscience. After the dust settled and the smoke cleared, and Tony and his friends were left with a company to run, the Cap’n stepped down as Chief Executive Officer, to remain on in an advisory position. Recently, he had decided to take a personal period of decommission, as he had been running non-stop for fifty-three years. He was put into cryogenic sleep, his systems shut down, for 15 years, only to be woken up in times of great emergency.

"No, Cap’n, it’s not 2020. It’s only been a few months."
"Trim me binnacles, lad! What happened?"
"Richard was kidnaped, and we don’t know where he went."
"I thought ye were close to figuring that out. I ne’er woulda taken time off if’n I knew the boy were still in the hans a the enemy!"
"I know, Cap’n. All our leads turned out to be dead ends. But I think I’m onto something. I remembered from your story about the origin of Umbrella, Trans went somewhere . . . other than the cities of Europe. Where was the origin of the Umbrella Corporation?"
The Cap’n thought for a moment.
"When Trans was a young monk in the Dark Ages, he journeyed to the Holy Lands during the crusades. It was there that he first discovered whatever secret he’s used to form the ‘Brella Corp."
"No good," Tony said. "We need someplace colder."
Again, a pause for thought. His systems were still warming up.
"After he was fired from Oxford, and cast out of civilized England itself, Dr. Trans retreated to his private island off the coast of Norway."
Tony’s heart leapt.
"That’s it! That’s where they’ve taken Rich!"
"Now wait a minute. ‘S far’s I know, no one’s been back there since he returned to Europe to start Umbrella. The place is deserted."
Tony frowned.
"No, there’s got to be something there. It’s the only place that makes sense. Thank you, Cap’n. Rich’d be lost without you.
"Now, do you want to return to your sleep?"
The Cap’n chuckled.
I figger it might be best if I stayed up for a wink, ter help yer through this."
"Much appreciated, Cap’n."
And together the made their way back to Tony’s office, the Italian ninja filling his gargantuan comrade in on the events of the past months.

They reached Tony’s office quickly, taking the elevator instead of Tony’s previous route, a grueling 50 odd stories worth of stairs. Tony had just come to the best part of his narrative, when he kicked a grenade at the head of an insidiously difficult to kill Umbrella Corp agent named Gits. He paused and opened his office door.
Amy and Steve were not there. Instead, sprawled on his desk was Veronica. At first Tony thought she was naked. Then it seemed that she was clad in a skimpy white dress. It was only after close scrutiny that he realized Veronica had finally brought him the damage reports. She was wearing them.
"Hey, boss," she breathed, "I’ve got those reports you wanted."
Tony strode boldly over to her.
"So you do. Well done. Did you see where Amy and Steve went?"
"They went looking for you after you left. Is there anything else I can do for you now that I’m here?"
"Nope," Tony said briskly, and tore the pages off of Veronica’s curvy frame. He helped her off the desk, walked her quickly to the door, and pushed her out, naked as a jay bird, into the office with a terse, "Good day."
He walked back to his desk and shuffled through some papers.
The Cap’n was stunned.
"You know, lad, I think she might be tryin’ ter tell yer somethin’."
"Oh?" said Tony absentmindedly, "I’m not good at picking up signals like that. Where could Steve and Amy have gotten to?"
"Right here, chief," came a voice from the door.
Steve and Amy had entered Tony’s office.
Steve’s face as smudged with lipstick marks, Amy’s hair was disheveled. They looked as though they had put their clothes on in a cement mixer.
"Where the hell have you two been?" Tony asked sharply. "I’ve figured out Rich’s location."
"Oh . . . we . . . uh . . . erm . . . we went to look . . . uh . . . for you," replied Amy. She looked tired. She perked up considerably, however, when Steve, sporting a randy smile, slapped her in the ass.
She hit him in the arm.
Tony regarded them silently for a moment, then continued on.
"Richard’s on an island off the coast of Norway."
"Huh?" they said in unison.
"The origin. The place where it all began. That’s where Trans finished the evil experiments that got him fired from Oxford and exiled from England. That’s where they’ve taken Rich."
"Well let’s go get him, then!" Steve said earnestly.
"It’s not that easy. The place is sure to be hard to find, and guarded like Fort Knox. We need to strategize. We need to organize. First, though, we need to find it."
He reached over and plucked the robo-pigeon from the air beside him, and looked it in its bright blue LED eyes.
"I need you to get Sam for me. Tell him we have a breakthrough and we need him in my office. Can you handle that?"
The little device nodded its head vigorously.
Tony nodded back, and then threw it towards the door. It fluttered awkwardly, and then took off for the archives.
Tony sat heavily in his chair.
It was going to be a long day.

Richard tore through the snow once again. His heart raced, his eyes gleamed. The hunger was especially potent tonight. He bounded up onto a rock formation and howled excitedly at the moon, which was glowing brightly, though obscured by the falling snow.
He caught the scent.
It wasn’t elk. He had driven the herd to the far side of the island whence they awaited the impossible cold of January and the ice bridge that would lead them back to the main land. Richard was content to let them be; he had grown tired of elk flesh.
This scent tonight was something new. It was sweet and clean. He inhaled deeply. Steaming strands of drool fell from the corners of his fanged mouth. After savoring the smell a moment longer, he gave a brief howl and started the chase.
He leapt off of tree trunks and over rocks, tearing across the tundra. His shaggy, golden coat was frosted with snow.
He came across his prey’s footprints in the powder. They were small and ovular . . . oddly familiar. They harkened back to a time when he had occupied a different form. He could not recall the type of creature that made them.
He bent down and sniffed at the tracks, his nose dusted with snow. He started off again.
Finally, he came to a clearing. His quarry was there, waiting for him with large, round eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Richard stood and advanced, growling. The little girl retreated backwards, staring at him in horror.
Richard came right up to her, put his wet nose against her red cheek. He breathed in the salty, creamy smell of her skin. He bared his fangs preparing to tear into her when the little girl spoke. "N-nice doggy," she whispered, her voice hoarse and nasal from crying. She extended a hand and patted his thick coat.
Richard’s monstrous face softened. He hesitated. His mind struggled to recall his humanity.
And then it hit him. Like a wave, cold and sharp, it knocked him dizzy. He reeled with the remembrance of what he had done and what he had once been.
He backed away from the little girl quickly, sank onto his haunches and bellowed sorrowfully to the winter sky. Richard collapsed, whimpering, to the ground.
The girl approached him cautiously. She patted his head.
"Good boy," she said. "There, there. Good doggy."
Richard blinked at her through red-rimmed eyes. He brushed his tears away with a rough swipe of his massive paw.
Then he smiled. This startled the girl, for a werewolf’s smile is not a sight to one at one’s ease. But then he licked her face with his long, warm tongue and she giggled in relief.
He nuzzled her gently, and let her press against him for warmth. He reverted back to humanity enough to speak.
"You must be cold," he said in a soothing growl. "Put your hands as deep into my fur as you can; it’s quite warm."
The girl gasped.
"You can talk?"
"Not as well as I write, but yes." Richard answered with a chuckle.
The girl plunged her small, white hands into his fur.
"Now," he said thoughtfully, "How do we get you out of here . . .? I don’t suppose you’ve ridden a horse before?"
The girl shook her head.
"Hmm. Well, we’ll have to play it by ear. Hop on my back, hold onto to my hair tight."
The girl began to clamber onto Richard’s back when a bullet whizzed through the air and plowed into the snow near his right forepaw.
"Just what do you think you’re doing here?"
Richard spun around to see Dr. Thaddeus Trans, Sung Li, and a dozen Umbrella Corporation guards walk into the clearing. The guards were in Umbrella Corp insulated white arctic armor and carrying automatic weapons. Sung Li was bundled in a parka and thick elk-skin boots. She looked ill-equipped for winter. Trans was wearing a thin black suit with a black silk shirt. He was perfectly still, not shivering or moving to keep warm. In his hand was a smoking pistol.
"I’ve been watching you on the monitors," he said, explaining, "The whole island is under tight video surveillance."
Richard moved slowly between the UC soldiers and the little girl, shielding her with his massive, furry bulk.
"This girl is the daughter of an enemy of Umbrella. A politician who imposed environmental sanctions on our operations in the rain forest. We kidnaped her to keep him from working against us any more, and now that he’s out of office we do not need her anymore. You were sent out here to finish her. It was supposed to be a treat for you. Do you have any idea how delicious fresh little girl meat is?"
Richard growled.
"Now, kill the girl."
Richard turned and looked the girl in her wide, brown eyes.
"Kill her," said Trans behind him. "Think of what we’ve given you. You owe us this."
Richard did not move.
"Oh, for goodness sake! Don’t pretend to develop a conscience now! Not after what you’ve done. You remember the mission we sent you on in Morocco? You wore a man’s spleen as a hat!"
The soldiers advanced slightly.
"Don’t do this, Richard. We had an agreement. Things were proceeding smoothly."
The soldiers advanced even farther.
Richard barked sharply at them, and the stopped.
"Last chance," Trans said.
Richard did not move.
Trans shook his head. Then he shrugged and smiled.
"Take them," he said.
The soldiers rushed forward, firing. Richard took all the hits, and barely slowed. He smashed into the goons and tore them to bits, ripping and biting. They scrambled over each other to escape.
When Richard turned around, his heart sank.
Trans was holding the little girl in front of him, his white icicle fingers playing about her shoulders.
Richard realized the guards were just a distraction.
"Now," Trans said, a wide shark smile spreading across his smooth face, "perhaps we can re-evaluate our bargain."
Richard started forward, but Trans’ hands moved instantly to the girls’ soft, thin throat.
"Tsk, tsk," he scolded. "Let’s be reasonable."
"Let her go," Richard growled.
"Not until you agree to serve me again."
Richard’s insides boiled.
"Fine," he said. "I’ll do whatever you want. Let the girl go."
Trans’ smile broadened.
"Too late," he whispered.
With a flick of his wrists he snapped the girl’s neck. There was a sound like that of a man biting down hard on an ice cube and the girl’s brown eyes rolled up. She fell to the snowy ground.
A roar of pure rage ripped from Richard’s throat. It echoed through the woods like thunder.
He charged forward, eyes blazing with hatred.
Trans was caught off guard by his fury. He struck the mad doctor, sending him flying into a tree. He bounced off like a rag doll. Before he could get up, Richard was upon him, clawing and clubbing furiously.
Trans caught Richard’s wrists and held them still. He smiled head-butted Richard with a glancing blow. Then he threw him across the powdery ground.
Richard was up and after Trans, he felt no pain, knew no fatigue or fear.
Trans blocked all of Richard’s swipes, still smiling.
"Who do you think you are, boy?"
Richard roared again and redoubled his efforts.
Trans did not expect such fury. He struck Richard across the face repeatedly, finally felling him. Then he dashed to a tree nearby, grabbed a thick limb, and with a fearsome strength, snapped it off.
He walked back to Richard as he was getting up.
"Stay down, doggy!" he said, madly.
He brought the branch down heavily onto Richard’s broad back. Again. And again. And again. And again.
"Play dead!" he shrieked, and hit him one final blow.
Richard was crushed and still.

Trans dropped the limb and straightened his jacket. Turning his back to his fallen enemy, he pulled out a walkie talkie and spoke into it.
"We’ll need a clean-up crew here soon."
He looked at Sung Li and the terrified guards.
"What?" he asked as they retreated in fear.
"Traaaaans!" Richard bellowed.
Before Trans could even turn fully around, Richard was on him. He swung his claws and tore out Trans’ throat. The doctor's eyebrows raised in shock. A viscous, black ooze pumped out of his veins. It hit the snow and sizzled. The slime smelled sickeningly sweet, like rotten peaches.
Richard had no time to be horrified. He hit Trans again, tearing his scalp up. Again, knocking his arm loose. It hung at a disgusting angle and flopped uselessly. He hit Trans again, scoring claw marks across his chest. Trans stumbled back, putting up a futile fight. He tried to deflect the hits while stopping the flow of ooze from his neck. He tripped and fell into the snow. Richard lifted him up and brought him close to his terrible jaws.
"This is for my friends." He clawed at him savagely him.
"This is for me!" Wham!
"This is for the little girl!" Wham!
"This is for Pachuco!" Wham!
"You . . . will . . . never . . . hurt . . . another . . . living . . . thing!" he said, punctuating his words with devastating hits. "This . . . is . . . my . . . VOW!"
He threw Trans’ limp form as hard as he could. It struck a tree and snapped at an impossible angle.

Richard, panting heavily, turned to Sung Li.
The shotgun blast hit him in the chest. He staggered backwards.
A second blast, and the a third.
He toppled over.
Four, five, six blasts.
Phillipe Abattoir hobbled into the clearing, using the shotgun as a crutch. He fired at Richard three more times before he was satisfied.
Then he turned and leered at Sung Li.
"Let’s get ‘eem up da lab queek, ye-uh?"
Sung Li was speechless.
"Who-ree, afore he heals! Yee-ah?"
He motioned for the guards to bind Richard and haul him up to the complex.
"The doctor! He killed Thaddeus!" Sung Li cried.
Abattoir smiled.
Nah, he no deh yet, mon sher. You jus’ follow me up ta the buildin’ yee-ah. He be fine, I gair-ron-tee. Ol’ Phillipe," he said, tapping his chest with a stubby finger, "he been wit ‘Brella for lon’ time. He know. C’mon now." He grabbed the teetering Sung Li and led her back to the lights of the building.

At NP Inc, Tony had reached a breakthrough.
"I’ve found it!" he ejaculated.
Sam, Amy, Steve, Sprockets, Jake, and the Cap’n gathered around Tony’s table.
They were in the archives room, each at his or her own broad table. Each table was littered with charts, graphs, documents, and maps, cups upon cups of coffee, and, on Amy and Steve’s ash trays spilling over with cigarettes.
Tony pointed dramatically to a dot on one of the maps.
"There! It’s small, uninhabited, and avoided by all craft in the area. It is not under Norwegian jurisdiction. Moreover, a team of scientists went there once, accompanied by a regiment of Norwegian soldiers, to study the examples of early civilization. They were never heard from again.
"Norway sent a recovery team. They were never heard from again. The Norwegian secret service closed the case.
"If there’s one place Umbrella is holding Richard, it’s here: Trans’ personal island."
They all stared at the map silently.
"Well," said Sam finally, "let’s go get my brother!"

Back at the base of the tree, space tore down the middle.
A ragged rip appeared in the fabric of reality, and an eerie light shone forth from the madness beyond.
Dr. Thaddeus Trans stepped slowly through the tear and looked around. He walked briskly over to himself, grabbed himself by the jacket, and hauled himself to the portal.
"Changing of the guard," he said, and chuckled, throwing his broken, shredded corpse into the glowing tear.
The rip sealed itself back up with a gurgling scream.
Trans cracked his vertebrae, shot his cuffs, and strode boldly toward the Umbrella Corp complex in the distance.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

(Sorry, but that ain't the end of the Interim Adventure. This became a lot longer than I'd originally intended. There'll be just one more small one. This time I am not pulling yer legs.

Sorry also to Becky. I'll have your review done posthaste.

Hope you liked it. I'll see you next time)

Current Mood: Sleepy, expectant, and homosexual.
Current Music: Freedom's Child, performed by Hootie and the Blowfish, from The Civil War, the musical.

The Interim Adventure (Or, Episode IV.V) Part Four

2005-10-20T00:32:00.000-04:00

Beneath a small, brightly focused winter moon, two warriors battled against impossible odds. The clanging of their weapons and their grunts of exertion rose above the eerie, undead dirge of the zombie horde they were facing. The dead grass around them was smeared with the ghouls’ congealed blood and strewn with severed body parts. For what seemed like hours they had been fighting, and still the weight of the undead army pressed upon them. Countless as the leaves in an autumn gale they surged forward, clawing with rotting fingers and gnashing with jagged teeth.
Tony nimbly ducked the swipe of a zombie’s tattered arm and swung upward with his katana, cleaving the monster in half. He spun in an elegant circle, lobbing off the heads of three approaching fiends. Fatigue was taking its toll. At the conclusion of the spin he toppled backward, blinking dazedly. An undead hand grasped his sword and wrenched it from his grip. Another zombie struck him from behind, its talon-like fingernails digging furrows into his narrow back. A third ghoul delivered a heavy blow to his shoulder, and he fell to his knees with a gasp of pain. His sword gone, Tony grabbed two daggers from his belt, spun them expertly in his hands, and leapt forward. He drove the blades into two rotting skulls, twisted, and stabbed two decaying spinal columns.
"I think we’re lookin’ at the end here, Jake," he remarked to his comrade.
Beside him, Jake was fairing no better. He used his bulk to knock zombies left and right, chopping them to bits with swings of his cutlass. He also made good use of his right hand, infused as it was by malleable nanobots. It changed from bludgeon to scythe to axe in seconds, as determined by his need and will power.
"This’ll be a good death," he said reassuringly to Tony.
Tony cocked his head to one side.
"Being ripped to shreds by a pack of slavering corpses and eaten? That’s a good death?"
"Indeed."
Tony nodded, seeing the truth in this.
Jake skewered a zombie on his sword then, turning his hand into a bear trap, snapped off its head.
Tony threw dozens of knives into the fray, each one thudding into necks, skulls, or eyes . . . or empty sockets.
"Tony!" yelled Jake over the unholy howl of their enemies.
"Yes?" Tony called back sweetly.
"I have an idea!" he stopped there to cut off an arm or two. "If we can lead the zombies back toward the main doors we can force them into a bottleneck on the bridge."
"That’s a great idea! You think it’ll mean survival?"
"Hell no! We’re still very much going to die."
"Well, then . . . what have we got to lose?"

The Ninja Pirate Headquarters building is composed of a single, towering main structure and three wings. The front of the main structure, the most impressive and primary entrance, is on the banks of a small lake, which stretches the length of the facade, like a one-sided moat. There is a sturdy stone bridge which leads up to the front doors, and it is this to which the heroes were trying to get.
Slowly, the two friends backed toward the lake, taking swift glances behind them as they fended off the undead horde.
Finally, they reached the bridge, which was wide enough for seven men to stand uopn it abreast. Once they had stepped onto the reassuringly solid stones of this bridge, they turned and ran like mad for the front doors.
Tony immediately tried to open them. He pulled and tugged like a caged lemur. He gripped the door handle and placed both feet upon the opposite door, straining with all his might.
"Won’t work," Jake said, calmly surveying the advancing zombies. "You ordered the gates sealed to protect those inside when we first stepped out to battle, remember?"
Tony let himself slide to the ground.
"Seemed like a bright idea at the time," he said sheepishly.
"It still is," muttered Jake, nervous now. "It’ll save scores of lives. Sadly, not ours."
The zombies were clambering over each other, some tipping off the sides of the bridge, in an effort to get at their prey. The change in required pack movement had temporarily confused them, and they were slowed.
Tony stood and brushed himself off. He drew his two remaining daggers and took a deep breath.
He and Jake stood stoically watching the mass of walking corpses squeezing slowly toward them.
The two friends were quiet, each alone with his thoughts.
Tony lowered his knives for a moment. He turned to his life-long comrade.
"Jake I . . ." he paused. "If this is the end I just wanted to say . . . you . . .," Tony’s voice broke. A tear rolled down his cheek.
Jake pulled his friend into a crushing hug.
"I know, buddy," he whispered in Tony’s ear, "I know."
And then the zombies were upon them, all red eyes and yellowed teeth and ravenous hunger.
Tony stabbed and sliced heroically, calling his every skill into play.
He groaned in dismay as a zombie he had stabbed through the eye toppled off of the bridge and into the icy black lake below, taking his knife with it.
Tony had one dagger left.

Jake swung doggedly on with his cutlass, leaving piles of zombie bits in his wake. He was using the sword more like a bludgeon than a blade now, so dulled was it from the night’s battle. He gave one mighty chop, hacking through two ghouls, and connected with the wall of the bridge. His blade snapped in two and dropped from his throbbing hands.
In a flash, a half dozen zombies were on him, ripping and tearing.
He threw two from him, decapitated a third with his nano-hand, now a machete blade, and knocked a fourth of the bridge. He was grappling with the fifth zombie when the sixth rose behind him, about to pounce. Jake felt something whir by his left ear very fast and turned to see the sixth zombie collapse in a heap, Tony’s last blade buried in its skull.
Tony was now unarmed.
He was, however, still very dangerous.
Using his immense vampric strength and blinding speed, he darted from ghoul to ghoul, tearing them apart with his bare hands.
But he was fighting a losing battle. The zombies kept coming. They crawled over and around each other like ants, eyes glowing in the moonlight.
Tony was eventually overpowered. He and Jake were piled on by scores of ghouls.
Tony’s world went dark. He closed his eyes.
Lucky Jake, he thought to himself. He doesn’t have rapid healing. It will take a while for the zombies to finally tear me apart, he reflected. He had just let the last threads of hope blow away in the wind when something miraculous happened.
Cutting through the cold night air came the most beautiful words he had ever heard.
"Fucking monkey whore cock shit!" cried a drunken-sounding voice.
And suddenly, the zombies were driven back.
Tony’s red eyes snapped open.
His heart leapt at what he saw.
Sam had opened the front doors and charged out swinging twin hammers with reckless fury. Zombies were pulped before him. He laughed insanely.
"Tony, get up, ya fuckin’ Jew!" he yelled.
Tony looked around. Sam was not alone.
Pounding across the lawns came Steve. He was in full bestial form, his red, shaggy coat shining, his blue eyes wild. Steam shot from his nostrils. Foam flecked his jaws. He reached the end of the zombie horde and began ripping the fiends to pieces without hesitation. He roared something the sounded to Tony mysteriously like "I love lamp," and waded into the mass of walking corpses, a furry engine of destruction.
Tony turned his attention to the center of the army, over which a green mist had appeared and with it, Amy. She stole Tony’s breath, so beautiful was she. Her green eyes sparked dangerously. She licked her fangs with a long red tongue.
Amy was still and serene for a moment, as even the zombies were frozen by her captivating presence. Then, in a blur of speed, she drew two swords, long, slender, glinting silver blades, and began to slice her way through the packed ghouls in graceful twirls.
A zombie grabbed Tony by the arm and attempted to sink its teeth into his neck when there was a flash of light and searing heat and the creature’s head was suddenly missing.
Tony looked up.
His secretary, Veronica, was firing into the monstrous ranks with a laser rifle. Her hair was tousled, her voluptuous breasts heaving.
"You leave my boss alone!" she screamed.
Tony smiled.
Then, for some reason, various parts of the zombie army started to explode in flashes of technicolor flame.
Tony craned his head backwards and looked up into the sky.
Dr. Bartholomew J. Sprockets thrummed by in what appeared to be an upside down beanie cap, a solid metal bowl with a propeller on the bottom. He was dropping plugged beakers of glowing liquid onto the zombies with a manic gleam in his eye.
"Here’s some tuti-fruti for ya, ya goddamn undead pricks!" he yelled madly.

Tony had performed on stage enough to know a cue when he saw one.
He hefted Jake up and joined the fray with a smile.
The air hummed with the clamor of battle. The friends fought with renewed hope and unquenchable courage. Soon the zombie horde was genuinely finished.

Sam ran around beating things with his hammers for good measure.

Tony, Jake, Amy, and Sprockets regrouped near the front door.
Amy immediately pulled Tony into a hug which lifted him off the ground. He grimaced, still sore from the fight.
"Easy, Ames," he breathed.
She appeared not to have heard him, and, instead, squeezed tighter.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she hollered.
"I was trying to be heroic . . ." Tony mumbled.
"Well, whatever your reasoning, I’d say I’ve paid you pack for that dock rescue."
Tony nodded.
Sprockets turned to Jake.
"Good to see ya, Karl. Looks like those nano-bots are coming in handy."
"Handy? I get it, Doc!" Jake laughed.
Sprockets raised a bushy eyebrow.
"I wasn’t making a pun, you dumb fuck."
Jake shook his head.

Meanwhile Steve was busy down by the shore of the lake, fishing corpses out of the water. His lupine visage contorted with disgust as he pulled a particularly revolting ghoul, dripping and oozing, onto the sandy beach.
He was so distracted by the gruesome task at hand, his sense so assaulted by the stench of decay, that he failed to notice the dark figure behind him until it was too late.
His blue eyes widened in shock as the needle punctured his thick hide. With a gasp of pain he tumbled to the ground in a furry heap.
The dark figure dragged itself slowly away into the shadows with a pleased gurgle.

"So, by the time we realized what was happening," Amy explained, "you guys were already alone in the fight. Then we had to get the door unlocked because you insisted on sealing us in."
Tony shrugged.
"And then you were across the bridge." She lit a cigarette and took a satisfied drag. "Sprockets took off from the roof. Steve had the bright idea to try a tunnel exit. That’s how he managed to come from behind."
She paused and looked around.
"Has anyone seen Steve?"
"He was near the water last I saw," said Jake.
Awww, what a cutie," cooed Amy. "I’ll go get him."
She strutted off down the bridge.
Tony turned back to Dr. Sprockets.
"What exactly was in those beakers?"
Sprockets then began to rant for ten minutes about the poor quality of the Ninja Pirate Incorporated cafeteria muffins.

Amy walked along the bank of the lake, smiling and calling sweetly to Steve.
"Stevie . . ." she trilled, "Stevie?"
Then she stumbled upon his limp form, no longer a monstrous, red-haired beast but a sad, limp, nude bundle of teenage boy. Hids pale skin was covered in cuts and bruises.
"Oh, no!" she cried, "Stevie," And before she got any further in her lamenting, a needle was rammed into he delicate neck and emptied of an acrid smelling, burning liquid.
Amy collapsed, nerveless, to the ground.
The shadowy horror moved away again.

"Well," said Tony, holding up a hand to restrain Sprockets, "I’ll see if we can hire some better bakers."
"You do that, Lankaster! You do that!" bellowed the deranged old man, "or so help me I’ll ram a goat up your ass!"
"Hey," interrupted Jake, "Is it just me or is Amy missing now, too?"
Tony and Sprockets looked around.
"The rodeo clown’s right," said Sprockets.
Tony frowned.
"Normally I’d tolerate them having an intimate moonlit stroll along the banks of a zombie-choked lake. ‘A l’amour,’ I would have said with a shrug and an indulgent smile, but there’s still work to be done. Dr. Sprockets."
"Eh?"
"Would you be so kind as to hop in your hover beanie and scan the area? Embarrass them if you want."
"If they’re naked, can I take pictures?"
"Why not?"
"Blue bottle!" ejaculated the doctor with gusto, and waddled off to his awkward craft.
Tony and Jake began to collect weapons from the carnage, chatting amiably. Occasionally Sam would pass them, smashing things.
In the distance, the shrill thrum of Sprockets craft could be heard.

Suddenly, they heard Sprockets call out.
"Aw, fuck!"
Tony and Jake turned to the sound like startled prairie dogs.
"There’s something here you guys should see." Sprockets called, hovering above the ground, his searchlight peeking through the darkness.
"Oh no!" he added. "No . . . it can’t be! You’re— aaarggh!"
Sprockets’ vehicle burst into flame and rocked violently, struck by a thunderous force. It fluttered weakly in the air and then crashed to the ground, tearing clumps of the earth and leaving a long scar in the lawn.
Sprockets was thrown from the wreckage. He rolled along the ground like a plaid potato.
"Dick screw!" he yelled. And then he passed out.

Tony, Jake, and Sam started forward.
Out of nowhere, another explosion rocked the bridge.
The heroes were thrown backward. Sam and Jake collided with the wall of Ninja Pirate Incorporated’s main building and were knocked unconscious.

Tony struggled to stand. His legs were both broken.
Then, out of the shadows, came a horror which nearly drove him mad.
Slowly, with great effort, the thing dragged itself, dripping, toward Tony. It was a bloody, charred, and ruined mess. An ungainly heap of limbs. It looked to be in various stages of completion, like medical diagram. Muscle, exposed bone, flayed skin. A burnt and mangled wreck which might have at one point resembled something human.
"Hello again, vampire," said Gits.
The giant zombie’s bazooka fell from his hand.
He stared at Tony for a while. The one eye he had left was hidden by a cracked sunglass lense that had melted to his face.
Tony’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as he witnessed the torn muscles of Gits’ ‘face" tighten in a smile. The agent’s teeth were all still intact and perfectly white. Gits licked the spot where his lips used to be with three quarters of a tongue.
"I told you I was hard to kill. Neigh unstoppable. This would have been so much easier if you had just played along."
Tony reached desperately for a knife. His fingers closed upon one a few feet away. He could feel his bones mending.
Not long now and I’ll be able to stand, he thought. Just gotta hold him off until then.
He hurled the knife at his gory foe. It buried itself up to the hilt in Gits’ forehead. The fiend kept coming. He did not even slow.
"That wasn’t nice," scolded Gits. He let out a wet, rasping cough which Tony guessed was supposed to be a laugh. When he did this, fluid spurted from the hole in his forehead where Tony’s knife was currently located.
"It’s going to take a few days to heal after that incident with the grenade. That makes me mad."
Gits was very near Tony now. He kicked at the poor ninja’s still-broken legs savagely.
Tony cried out in pain.
"Now, I believe we can conclude our business here."
Gits drew a third syringe from the tatters of his black jacket.
"This may sting a bit. Don’t worry, though, you’ll be dead by the time it really takes effect."
He lunged forward and rammed the needle into Tony’s heart. The caustic fluid seared Tony's lungs and cardiac tissue. It felt as though his chest were melting from the inside out.
Tony tried to yell, but found to his chagrin that he could not. His last vision before the blackness overtook him was of Gits ruin of a face, peering down at him with a satisfied smile.

Gits took a deep, rattling breath and tried to stand a little straighter. Several ligaments snapped, so he gave that up. He adjusted the shreds of his tie. Then he spoke into the Umbrella Corporation pin on his lapel.
"Gits here."
The voice of Dr. Thaddeus Trans came through from several thousand miles away.
"You sound as if you’ve been stuffed into a blender. Was the mission a success?"
"All three resisted capture. There was quite the battle."
"How many zombies remain?"
Gits took a quick head count.
"None."
"None?"
"Not even the Nemesis prototype?" demanded Trans, slightly aghast.
"Unfortunately he was blown up. I hope you have a warranty."
"Was the mission a success?"
"All three threats have been eliminated."
"Good, report back to the Boston headquarters immediately."
"Do you want any trophies?"
"No. There is much work to be done."
"Are you sure?" persisted Gits eagerly. "Heads? Hearts? Eyes, perhaps?"
"No."
"Shall I demolish the building?"
"No. I plan on reacquiring Ninja Pirate Incorporated. Do not perpetrate and more damage than you already have."
Gits sighed.
"Very well, then. Gits out."
He looked around wistfully at the destruction. He smiled broadly, turned, and limped away into the night.

Sam and Jake slowly regained consciousness to the sound of Veronica pounding frantically on the glass doors. They immediately wished they hadn’t. They moaned, rolled over, and rubbed their throbbing heads. Finally, Sam, hauled himself up and, with a rueful cuss, opened the door.
Veronica bolted out shrieking wildly.
"The monster! The monster killed Tony! Oh, my sweet Tony!"
She was positively wailing, and the two warriors felt as though their skulls were splitting apart at the seams.
"Lady!" Jake bellowed, "if you don’t shut your nosie hole I will drown you in the lake!"
"But Tone-nee-hee-hee-hee-hee!"
"Gah! What about him?" Sam groaned.
"He’s dead! That monster blew up Sprockets, then you guys, then he killed Tony!"
Sam and Jake finally got around to noticing Tony’s broken body on the ground.
"Sweet Jesus," Jake said.
"No! No, Tony!" cried Sam.
"What the hell are we going to do?" Jake wondered aloud.
"Sprockets!" Sam yelped. "He’ll know what to do."

They made their way across the ruins of the bridge. Upon reaching the opposite bank, they saw Steve and Amy.
"Boo hoo," said Sam, marching on to the wreckage of Sprocket’s vehicle. They found the doctor trapped under the debris, muttering to himself in an annoyed manner and drinking from a beaker.
Jake and Sam stepped forward and helped the doctor to his feet.
"What can I do for you?" hiccupped Sprockets.
"There are casualties," Jake said.
Veronica sniffed loudly, threatening to burst into tears again.
Sprockets took one last swing from his beaker and tossed it into the field, where it exploded in a ball of green flame.
"I’ll do what I can. Lead me to ‘em."

The crazy old bastard first looked as Amy and Steve. He checked for every vital sign he could think of. Finding no trace of any of them, he groped Amy pensively while whispering to himself.
"Carry them to the doors," he said at last.
Sam and Jake hauled the limp forms, vampire and werewolf, across the bridge and gently laid them next to Tony.
Sprockets performed a similar series of tests on the Italian ninja, scratched his be-stubbled chin, stole twenty bucks from Tony’s wallet, and then stood up.
"They’re dead," he explained, as if this cleared matters up to some degree.
Veronica fainted.
Well, is there anything you can do for them?" asked Sam, exasperated.
Sprockets thought for a moment.
"Well, Pete," he responded, "There is one treatment I have at my disposal that does not involve hideous black magic."
Sprockets punched a series of buttons on a wrist computer.
Within seconds, a small hatch opened on the side of the building and three robotic hover-gurneys flew out.
Sam and Jake placed their currently deceased friends upon these and then followed anxiously as Sprockets led them to his laboratory.

All mad scientists need to have their offices as close to the roof as possible, for obvious meteorological reasons. Sprockets’ was on the second-to-top floor, directly below the avionics department, which was directly below to roof.
The crazy old codger had the most state-of-the-art technology available, partly because NP Inc realized what a valuable, if tipsy, asset he was, and thus gave him whatever he asked for, and partly because he designed most of the world’s state-of-the-art technology himself.
The lab took up almost the entire floor, with a fifth or so of the square footage closed off as his office and personal lounge.
Stretching away into the cluttered distance were tables covered in sparking electrodes, diodes, and wires. Strange robots trundled around, sifting through piles or whizzed by through the air. Stools were tipped over, glass broken, porn everywhere. His vast legion of file cabinets looked like they had been violently ill and vomited papers across the room. Machines of indistinguishable purpose stood at intervals around the lab, in states of varying completion. The place smelled of ozone, burning plastic, cheap cologne, pipe smoke, and Scotch.
In the far corner were three blue, egg-shaped structures. It was to these that Sprockets directed them and the robo-gurneys.

Sam, Jake, and Veronica stared apprehensively at the three ovular pods standing against the wall. They were ungainly and dangerous-looking, with large patches of inner circuits and diodes exposed, wires trailing in all directions.
"All right," said Sprockets. "Get ‘em in there."
Three doors sprung open with a collective hiss and a release of a pungent smelling fog.
Sam, Jake, and Veronica eased the bodies as gently as they could into the cushioned interior of the pods. They quietly closed the lids, as if afraid their friends might awake in a temper, and looked sadly at the three warriors through the glass panels on the front of the machines.
Tony, Amy, and Steve.
They all looked so still and lifeless.
This was probably because they were clinically dead.
Sam turned to Dr. Sprockets.
"This will bring them back to life?"
He nodded. "That’s the plan, Stan."
Sam frowned.
"How?"
"Well," said Sprockets, fiddling with some switches, "I’m not exactly sure how they works, myself, as I was plastered when I designed the things."
He paused and chuckled to himself, recalling good times.
"But I think it works like this: I discovered sometime ago that there is a sixth force which governs the Universe."
"You mean fifth?" asked Sam.
"No, putz, I do not mean fifth. There’s gravity, electro-magnetism, a strong nuclear force, and a weak nuclear force. The fifth force is of course Love, but that’s too abstract to get into now. The sixth force, though, which I discovered, is a Life Force. It is present in all living things. Well, after death, an organism’s body begins to shut down, but retains a gradually dwindling supply of this life-force. Now what these machines do is draw out all a' that life-force they can and pool it in one compound supply. They then focus this and deliver three successively large blasts of it to the organism, in effect jump-starting the life systems. The result is similar to rebooting a computer. The systems start again from scratch. Temporary amnesia is a common problem. But, the blasts will hopefully rekindle some spark of life and bring the organism back from the dead."
"A bit like a defibrulator?" suggested Jake.
"Goddammit, son!," Sprockets roared, "don’t talk to me about none of that mumbo-jumbo witch doctor shit! Defibrulator? Ha!"
After an odd silence, Sam spoke up.
"But, what about the Afterlife?"
Sprockets smiled.
"I am given to understand that there is a considerable waiting and processing period before one’s soul is assigned to its next location. They haven’t transcended yet, don’t worry."
"Have you had any success with these before, doctor?" asked Veronica, trembling slightly.
"Nope," said Sprockets, busying himself with some dials, "I never tried ‘em before."
Before any of the friends could protest, Sprockets nodded authoritatively, leaned forward, and pressed a large, green button.
"Initiating life systems restart . . . now," spoke a soothing female voice.
There was a sound like a drain being unplugged. Then a tremor and a flash of light. The machines sparked and fizzled, hummed, and, finally, whooshed.
Everyone froze.
Then the lights went out.

Okay, so not exactly a concluding conclusion, per se. More of a cheap cliff-hanger, when you come right down to it. There is, in fact, at least one more chapter of this installment left to go. Obviously, as Tony has yet to get off his clinically dead, zombie-slaying ass and save me. I'm being sexually tortured, for Pete's sake! (Not that I'm really complaing, mind you, but anything gets tiresome in large doses.)

But, what a place to leave off, eh?
Do you think Tony will be revived?
(Well, he is with us today, so that's a bit of a no-brainer)

And what about Gits' return? Creepy, no?

Alright, you mugs, get lost. If you wanna see what happens to me, and, indeed, what's in store for all of you, be sure to read the next installment of The Interim Adventure!

Tune in next time for Becky's write-up, and, of course, some Preliminaries.

Current Mood: Oddly satisfied.
Current Music: Barenaked Ladies, Maroon

Some Preliminaries

2005-10-13T16:29:00.000-04:00

And so I return to the tedium of telling you how great you all are with the third installment of my Reverse Quizzes. The following write-up is on the subject of my friend Anthony Celi. It will be presented in a lecture series at the universities of Oxford and Cambridge, but you may view it here first.

I have shared my thoughts on Tony's shining qualities before, in this very blog. Click the link to read it. (It's one of my favorite Friends editions.)http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004/08/hair-apparent.html

Now, just a few quick notes before I launch into the feature presentation.

Firstly, some explanations.

One: Tony has asked, as Steve did before him, for an open and frank reverse quiz write-up. He did not want me to sugar-coat. If you want a more honest reverse quiz, let me know, Otherwise it'll all be sunshine and chocolate.

Two: The next post after Tony's write-up will not be another personal write-up. It will be the continuation of my Interim Adventure. If you're uninterested, don't return to my blog for a while. Most of you will not be interested, based on the startling lack of feed back for the previous edition of my fictional adventures. This next one will hopefully be the last for this story arc. it will leave off with the beginning of the Christmas vacation of last year.

Okay, now on to the finer points of the Reverse Quizzes.

So you don't have to waste time and energy scrolling down for reference, here's my Reverse Quiz in its final form:

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph length.)

02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you.

03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be...

04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)

05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.

06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.

07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.

08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.

09. I will describe my ideal day with you.

10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

As you no doubt noticed, when adapting this infuriating howler monkey of a blog-filler to my personal online journal, I deviated from the format somewhat. Well, I will continue to deviate from the format in finishing the blasted thing, and so here are some things you need to know to receive the full, unadulterated effect of my love:

1. Self explanatory. Same as errbody else's, but longer than most.

2. I'm big on making things as explicit as possible. Perhaps it comes from the years of being misunderstood and subsequently villified, but whatever the reason, I go out of my way to explain what I say. One fish, two fish. Red fish, blue fish.As such, when listing the songs you remind me of, I will include a description of the ditty, my reasons for picking it, and specific lyrics. Unlike my illustrious predecessors, I feel you shouldn't have to hunt for specifics on these.There is one other variation from the formula I am including. I realized that in order to do justice to this thing if more than one person is involved, you need to create some sort of similar scale. I needed something which would unite my readers and make them easier to describe. Thus, in addition to telling you which random song or songs you remind me of, I will tell you which Mike Doughty song you remind me of. This way I can capture your personalities more fully.

(One last note for this one: If you think about someone enough, every song you hear, and every movie you see, will remind you of him or her. So, while the tunes and films I pick have some relevance to who you are as a person, I choose them more because you're special to me and I think of you a lot.)

3. I over-did it on this one. When choosing time I picked not only an o'clock, but also a day, season, and month, and, in Tony's case, year.

4. Impossible. I did my best.

5. Ditto. Also, I probably held back on these.

6. Once again the universal scale approach. Aside from picking assorted animals of varying genus and species for y'all, I picked for each of you a dog that you remind me of. I got this idea from Amy, because she's not creative.

7. Obviously held back on this one.

8. Yeah, the Hanky Signal.
The Hanky Code was a system of wordless, sartorial communication developed by the gay community, which has spread in limited amounts to the fetish world as a whole. It shows, by the color of the handkerchief you wear and its placement in one of several locations on your person, what your particular kink is. I declined to post explanations for these. Have fun looking them up and remember to clear your history when your done.

You know what's really funny? The code varies!

(I used this one: http://www.fetishexchange.org/hanky.shtml).

I also got this addition from Amy, because her full Medieval title is Lady Aims, the Corruptress.

9. Might be partially based on actual events.

10. You won't know who this is in many cases. Just "role" with it.

Good, I think that wraps it up.

Two final notes on the concept of Reverse Quizzes as a whole:

Note One:

When describing something it is often necessary to compare it to something else. When composing my Friends paragraphs, I held back as much as I could for fear that in complimenting one amigo I would insult the otro. In this series of personal write-ups, however, I have decided to take Caution, douse him in gasoline, light him on fire, piss on the ashes, and throw him to the wind. So, fair warning, you may see some comparisons when reading these. If they offend you, I am sorry. I do not mean for them to, and will try to keep them as bland as possible. If you're still sore, feel free to write mean things about me in your online journals. That always helps me relieve stress. Or, punch me in the face. Seriously. If you're angry, I won't stop you.

Okay, Note Two:

I am not an insightful person. I agonized over these for hours before finally deciding to just write what I thought was coming from my heart (but what might very well have been coming from my right kidney.) As such, don't put too much stock into what I say. Regard me less as a prophet and more as one of those shallow online surveys which, based on a pattern of dots, decide the kind of person you are. I tried to be intelligent about this. I doubt it worked.

Also, know that I love you all, and this is mere grain of sand in the Gobi of feelings I have about you.And with that sappy line, here we go!

Some additions to the last Reverse Quizes:

Steve reminds me very much of the song Chemistry, by Semisonic.

"Some time later I met a young graduate
When I had nobody to call me own.
I told I was lookin' for someone to appreicate;
I just couldn't do it alone.

So for a while we conducted experiments,
In apratment by the river road.
And we found out that the two things we put together
Had a bad tendency to explode."

Also, Amy reminds me of three other songs:

Great Divide, by Bruce Hornsby

"And you always go your way
And I always go mine
Maybe one day we'll come together
Across the great divide.
And I always cross to the other side
But I go back every time
Maybe one day we'll come together
Across the great divide"

Over My Head, by The Fray

"I never knew
I never knew that everything was falling through.
That everyone I knew was waiting on a queue
To turn and run when all I needed was the truth.
But that's how it's got to be
It's coming down to nothing more than apathy.
I'd rather run the other way than stay and see
The smoke and who's still standing when it clears

"Everyone knows I'm in
Over my head
With eight seconds left in overtime
She's on your mind

"Let's rearrange
I wish you were a stranger I could disengage
Say that we agree and then never change
Soften a bit until we all just get along
But that's disregard
Find another friend and you discard . . ."

And finally, Amy is the perfect model for Invisible Touch, by Genesis:

Well I don’t really know her,
I only know her name
But she crawls under your skin,
You’re never quite the same.

And now I know
She’s got something you just can’t trust,
It’s something mysterious,
And now it seems I’m falling, falling for her.

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah
She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart
She seems to have an invisible touch yeah
It takes control and slowly tears you apart.

She don’t like losing, to her it’s still a game
And though she will mess up your life,
You’ll want her just the same.
And now I know
She has a built in ability
To take everything she sees
And now it seems I’ve fallen, fallen for her.

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah
She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart
She seems to have an invisible touch yeah
It takes control and slowly tears you apart.
She seems to have an invisible touch..."

And I did Amy a disservice by comparing her to the subject of Brick House. That girl was purely physical. Amy is so much more. She is in fact, the oppostie of that figure. The girl in that song got by on her looks and amazing body. Not to say that Amy does not possess these. But Amy purposely manages to succeed on her brains and charm, her natural aptitude and concern for most living things.

"When she walks
She swings her arms instead of her hips;
When she talks
She moves her mouth instead of her lips."

Done!

P.S. I am pumping these bad boys out one atta time, and sticking fictional posts between them. Everyone other than Amy, Steve, and Tony will have to wait a while. Sorry I didn't mention that first.

P.P.S. The actual hanky codes for Steve for all those curious enough to want to know but lazy enough not to left click on the link and read several words, are as follows:

Gold: Into threesomes. He has done two chicks at one time.
Apricot: Looking for an overweight partner. He is a fan of the "heavy hotties."
Dark pink: Breast/nipple torture
Purple: Piercings
Tan: Smoking
Leopard print: Tattoos

Okay, now onward to victory, Mule!

Looney Tones

2005-10-13T07:01:00.000-04:00

Tony

1, What About him?: I took my time crafting this particular write-up, because a friend of Tony’s caliber deserves a thoroughly thought-out tribute. In fact, I took far too long. True to form, I left things to the last minute and am still no closer to anything satisfactory. The thing about Tony is, there is no thing about Tony. Steve has his dual natures, Amy is complex (and hot), any one of my other friends has some quirk I can build into a thesis. Not Tony, though. I am lost as to where I should begin.

How about at the beginning?

I first really noticed Tony at HCHS. I had seen him in CCD and in South Hadley public school (suppresses shudder), but I didn’t know his name. I was misquoting (for me a crime punishable by torture) lines from Monty Python when, swear to goodness, I hear Tony properly quoting the same lines (Spanish Inquisition) down the hall in the Student Union.

"Well, fuck," mused I. "That’s one less place I can steal jokes from."

And so I began to study your every movement; to watch for your moment of weakness and then strike!

No, no I didn’t.

I just grudgingly developed more and more respect for you, over our years at ol’ Hypocrisy High, until our Senior year, when we were forced together to work on a magazine drive skit. And the rest is history.

Ever since we accepted each other’s gifts we have become the closest of allies on many fronts. I have more in common with you than most anyone I know.

You are intelligent without being pedantic or pompous. You have staggering skills but do not flaunt them. You are religious, but do not let it get in the way of your natural curiosity or let it narrow your perspective. Indeed, you are one of the most open-minded people I know. You have unshakable beliefs, but do not pressure them on others.
You, Tony, for all your erratic manias and sword collections, are the definition of laid back. Socially, at least.
You’re the one friend I have who is comfortable and content just being with me. Most others always want to do something. You realize that being in the company of one you care about is worth more than botched adventures or forced conversations. This can be infuriating at times.

"Tony, what do you want to do?"
"M’eh."
"Movie? Okay . . . what do you want to see?"
"H’eh."
"This one? . . . Okay, where do you want to go?"
"B’eh."
"Goddammit pick something!

Mostly, though, Tony’s extreme desire to go with the flow of reality is a Godsend. It is an oasis in a desert of agenda-minded individuals.

You are alternately wacky and serious. Your humourous side is boundless in its wit and insanity. From clever to psychotic, your sense of humor is never dull. You’re one of the few people I know who can genuinely get me to laugh out loud on a regular basis.
Your serious side is properly reserved and quiet. You listen with intensity. You offer sage advice. Somber. Wacky.
You can switch from one to other in a flash, but never when it is uncalled for.

Touching back on your humor: It has the broadest range of anyone I know. From the antics of Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, through the lunacy of the chaps of Monty Python, sliding into the sexually-charged puns of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, skidding into a bloody mess in the grievous violence of Johnny, the Homicidal Maniac.
You love screw-ball Anime, political stand-up, Freakazoid.
From satire to slapstick, you appreciate it all.
And you can create comedy in any field. You can be witty, you can make puns both innocent and lewd, you can babble nonsense with the bets of them.
Your sense of humor is one of your greatest strengths, and, like all of your strengths, is never flaunted.

You are the best host I know. Perhaps due to your large stocks of cream soda (suppresses shudder) or your laid back nature. Either way, you make one feel welcome and at ease at your house with a simple gesture of your hand.
And, what is more important, you know a good party movie.
Many of my friends try to add a touch of class to parties by playing serious films. You see the folly in this, and instead break out Megaman and Commando. You have an infinite patience for so-bad-it’s-good humor.

Your tastes in media range from Batman: the Movie, with Adam West through Million Dollar Baby.
You like everything from The Beatles to Johnny Cash.
You’ll read The Dark Night Returns and Archie comics (so long as Archie is targeted by The Punisher.)

Perhaps it is because of your wide range of seemingly incompatible tastes that I feel as close to you as I do.
Who else among my friends could stay right with me as I joke about Bruce Wayne, Ultron, and Sergeant Pepper? At once?
And who else could reciprocate, and out-joke me?

It is a testament to your soothing nature that people do not feel more intimidated in your presence, for you are a force to be reckoned with. You write like a calculating philosopher with a shoe on his head.
This is, of course, a compliment. Your writings are always clear, concise and rational, while being poignant, thoughtful, and thought-provoking, and also howlingly funny. You put all other writers to shame.
You are an MS Paint master. The best I can do in that medium is circles and squares. You can recreate battle scenes and capture memories with a quick click of your mouse.
You’re a sword-expert. A knife thrower. Proficient in causing untold damage.
You like chubby babies.
You know equal amounts comic book mythos and factual human history.
Your knowledge spans the gap between academic and fanatic. You know about Japanese culture as much as you know about Anime. You have one-upped the scholars and the fan-boys alike.

You are the greatest poet I have ever met. Your grasp of visual imagery and emotion is second only to your ability to rhyme.
(Tony is a rhyming fiend. He will not, nay, cannot, be stopped.)

You adopt your natural aptitude to everything you come across.

You want to write a skit? Bam! You bang out the two best skits HCHS has ever scene.
You want to act? Bam! You chilling portrayal of Sturman gave the audience goose bumps. You stole the show.
You want to make a CD? Bam! You use your wit and gift of rhyme to make the best songs on our album.

You are a warrior, a poet, a sage, a thespian, a lunatic, and a rebel. I am honored to call you a friend.

But who am I to talk of honor when describing you? You have the most rigid personal code I have encountered. You may seem harsh when you hold people to seemingly unreachable standards, but you make yourself answer to the same standards. If there is one thing you are no it is a hypocrite. You are honest, but never brutally so. You know when to be straight-forward and when to be tactful.

You may bother people some times with your stubborn nature, but for one of your principles, I suppose that is to be expected.

It shows how crucial you are to our social groups that when you are even slightly miffed it throws a substantial monkey wrench into the works.

So, while you may alienate people with your high expectations, while you may bring down everyone around you with a sudden sadness, while you may be slightly unforgiving and refuse to change, I am happy still.

I hope you stay stubborn. I hope you never relent.

Because you, Tony, are near perfect enough the way you are.

2 Song/Movie:

Fuse, by Farmer Not So John

(See if you can spot which lyrics . . . )

"Take my hand
Turn on the fire.
I’ll burn all
But the last card.
I’m out in the yard
Crushing rocks with flowers.
Shake my, opinions free.
They’re like vines
Choking the tree.

"Wake me up
Before I end up
Staring down a fuse.
You might be more
Than I can afford to lose."

Roland the Thompson Gunner, by Warren Zevon

When I Go, by Dave Carter

Mike Doughty: Down to This

"Nerves’re up an’ the eyes go screwy.
Blood like a pan fulla boilin’ ratatouie.
Muscles in a mess like a mass of spaghetti.
Hack through the rest with a greased up machete!
Well you grab the ankles an’ I’ll grab the wrists!

"You grab the ankles an’ I’ll grab the wrists!
You grab the ankles and I’ll grab the wrists!
It comes down to this, ah!"

Movies:

Equilibrium
The Ghost and The Darkness
The Last Samurai

3, Time: Tony, you are Feudal Japan, circa 1336, the Ashikaga Period, whence came the Samurai. This is due to your love of Japanese culture, your personal code of honor, and your warrior instincts. You’d be in the late spring, when the blossoms were just starting to fall from the trees in gentle, white pirouettes. Midday. The perfect time to duel.

4, Word: Intelligent. I think of you as possessing many qualities, but, oddly enough, brains ain’t usually one of them. I suppose I take it as writ that you’re such an unbelievably smart fellow. Your eloquence knows no bounds. You have a genius-level IQ. You never use your powerful mind blatantly, though. With some friends, and indeed, with me as well, one can tell that they go well out of their way to make themselves seem smart. You do not engage in such petty contests. You possess a calm, detatched intelligence that is only apparent if one looks closely.
‘Twas Amy brought the matter to my attention. "Tony is so amazingly smart," she remarked to me one evening as we were discussing cuttlefish and cuddling. She probably doesn’t know how right she is.

5, Memorable Moment: My laziness pays off in that I am given a larger number of events to choose from when picking my favorite moment spent with you.
I have many.
Getting free breakfasts at Otakon was a good one.
Then there was the most recent trip home, during which we nearly had to push a much debilitated Falcon from Palmer to Chicopee.
The Clearing. I was honored to be onstage with you, bullying EJ and persecuting the Irish.
Python. Both times, we rocked.
Skits for ol’ HCHS, especially brainstorming and rehearsals.

You’re so admirably talented that any time I’ve gotten to share a corner of your spotlight I’ve been full to the gills of happiness.

Also, cast parties. You’re at your best as a host when the party is the most volatile and raucous.

I can’t decide.

6, Animal: Obviously, the elusive mole dragon. That’s a given.
Other than animals that don’t exist and were dreamed up by girls who’ve turned their grey matter into mush with too much urban folk and hair dye, I’ll say a Panda. Cuddly, Asian, quiet.
An owl? Wise and such.
You are very feline, as well. You remind me of a temperamental black cat.
Dog?
Basset hound. Seriously. You’ve got those Droopy Dog eyes that the ladies find so adorable.

7, Wonder: I wonder a lot if you masturbate.
I suppose I should keep this write-up above the carnal curiosity which flows so powerfully through me (realize, audience, what a challenge this presents).
Hmm . . .
I wonder what your thoughts are on many things (The Catholic Church, abortion, poetry, the art of writing, music, film . . ..) We don’t have as many philosophy sessions as we should.
I wonder about the inner workings of your complex mind.
I wonder if you have chest hair. (So far, the only person I know to have a hairy chest is myself.)
I wonder how many melons he could chop with a katana while simultaneously eating as many steaks as he could.

8, Hanky Code: Teddy bear. That was a no-brainer. But also leather, you have an obvious leather fetish, and burgundy.

9, Ideal Day: My ideal day with you would start early. This would be difficult to pull off, rousing you from your slumber, but as you always start our days so late, you lazy punk, and end them so early, I’d ideally like to spend as much time with you as possible.
We’d go on a driving adventure, first in the Falcon, then in your silver speedster when the Falcon inevitably exploded. We’d wind up at a nice bistro, where we’d discuss fiction concepts, comic books, and Caitlin’s rack. Then to the Thirsty Mind, where we’d get a cup of joe, work on NPInc.com, as well as a few humourous skits, and discuss Amy’s rack. Then we’d buy swords, and discuss technique, maintenance, and sword racks.
We’d then perform a Python skit, as well as a few we wrote, (preferably one with a fight scene) for a group of wealthy patrons of the arts, and some of our friends.
Then off to Amadeo’s, where your dad would have arranged a delicious pizza banquet for everyone.
Then finally to your house to watch on the big screen the exploits of Bennet, in Commando.
Whew.

10, Villainous Character Actor: You, Tony, remind me of a few villainous character actors.

One is Tom Wilkinson, of Batman Begins, and, more recently, The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I chose this seasoned Brit because he would be my top choice to play the role of Sir Charles Sturman in a production of The Clearing. He can portray callous, pompous, officious cads like no one else. (Save Tones) Also, he channels Frank Sinatra for his role as Carmine Falcone in Batman Begins.

Next is Chiwetel Ejiofor, of Serenity.( http://www.imdb.com/gallery/granitz/3375/ChinetelEj_Kambo_5543663_400.jpg?path=pgallery&path_key=Ejiofor,%20Chiwetel&seq=8)

Yes, I realize he’s black. But you and he both have the same dark, soulful eyes, and portray sword-wielding, meticulously polite killers with ease.

Finally comes Angus Macfayden, of Equilibrium.
http://www.imdb.com/gallery/granitz/0791-mis/macfadye.nan?path=pgallery&path_key=Macfadyen,%20Angus&seq=13

He looks a bit like you, Tones, and can convey the same quiet madness. If I were re-casting Equilibrium, I’d put you in Angus’ role as the shadowy Big Brother figure.

Well, that's all I got. I need to go collapse now. You should, too.

Next time: The conclusion of The Interim Adventure (which none of you philistines will read) and Becky's write-up. Preceded, as always, by Some Preliminaries.

Current Music: The Fray, Over My Head
Current Mood: Precocious . . . Combustionable . . . but still not thick enough.