Four Posts

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

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

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

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

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

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)

(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

Fuck 'em.

On to the main event!

A Piece of that Kit Kat

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?

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 . . .

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 . . .