Friday, December 12, 2008

That Time of Year Again

Every year around Christmas, I do a rant. Not really a tradition I want to keep, or even something I do intentionally, but I can't help it -- just the way the time of year goes. Generally, it's tied to the season, and I bitch about something that's going on or things people do -- usually bad or stupid crap that just pops up. I always paint the season in a negative light. For all the cheer and happiness we're supposed to espouse during the festive season, there is a lot of negativity to be had. Tempers flare, patience is in short supply, and the so-called Grinch in all of us is happily flaunting its stuff. And while I will be jostled and screwed around by the machine that is the world and all it entails this season much like any other, I'm actually making strides to not let it get me down.

The military managed to find a way to screw me out of a week of leave. It was either one week of leave or a year of severance pay. I chose to keep the money and drop the days off. A friend of mine might have cancer, he's going to be checked out, but I chose to believe he's fine and it'll all be nothing. I haven't heard ANY Christmas songs this year. That's a blessing in and of itself, and has made me happier. I also received my income tax cheque from the government today. I was surprised, expecting only two get a couple hundred dollars. Well, they gave me over a thousand. I was surprised that this happened, and count it too as another blessing. Things are looking up.

But even for all the good that's been coming my way, there are the downers. I won't be able to spend as much time as I might like to with my family this year. I need to find a job and do some house hunting over the holidays because in the new year, with my time in the military expiring, I'll need to have some place else to go and a job to support myself with. It does make things hectic. But, all in all, it isn't the worst. I've managed to get around the line-ups and avoid the places where my patience might be put to an extreme test. It has made for a much simpler holiday season. I'm hoping it'll continue like this.

Here's hoping.

Happy Christmas and Merry New Years.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Dominion/Crossover - The Alliance

The rustic swirls of red-brown glazed over the planet marked by dashes of blue water and a smattering of chilly white clouds painting abstract art on the spheroid. Little patches of green clung to the blue in a haze, the only plant-life that was stubborn enough not to be washed away by the drifting deserts. It was an old planet -- an ancient world without significance found in a system on the edge of the arm of a misty-colored galaxy. The only planet in a system full of blasted chunks of rock. Devoid of sentient life, it had lain unused and unwanted. No strategic value, no minerals, no reason to colonize. Nameless beyond a NAV tag. All...until now. Now it was different. The invaluable held value. The unsettled was going to be settled. After all, what better place to build the first intra-dimensional planetary gateway then on a place that could be defended at all costs? Bombarded without worry of loss to civilian life or infrastructure. Destroyed without casualties to the larger entity that was the Joint Alliance. The perfect staging point; the perfect bastion.

Construction started slowly. Forward scouting parties had to find an appropriate location and then prepare it. Ground break happened, and it would be decades before the whole of it was completed. The Dalaquen Sovereignty was consulted for the construction and engineering of the gateway and surrounding buildings. Plans decided that a Plinth-like structure would be best based on planetary surveys. Hagasian Hegemony and Jyollenar Federation labor had been brought in with the Lyzrantii Dominion providing technical support. It was a joint affair by all the nations and peoples of the Aka'eehnLaa. The Joint Alliance had been formed.

It was called it The Monolith. A massive structure with a radius of seventy kilometers filled with towering spires and various buildings. It was the military and political headquarters for the Joint Alliance and their Security Forces. An ash-tan monstrosity of a spaceport honeycombed with landing facilities, hangars, retrofitting and repair facilities, warehouses, import/export points, barracks and dry docks for atmospheric frigates. Joint species offices, embassies, intelligence offices and more. It was organized into three concentric rings with outstretching arms bristling with defensive platforms and hangar launch bays set at centrifugal points about the outer ring. The lowest ring held the warehouses, the middle the landing and hangar bays. The center-most was topped by disjointed towers of embassies, offices spires, towers and automatic weapons emplacements and shield generators. Surrounding the whole thing was a giant, slopped wall designed not to deflect high winds, but to keep things out...and other things in.

The intra-dimensional gateway was much like The Monolith, requiring large amounts of engineering feats to produce. Two semi circles placed a hundred meters apart stood next to one another. The radius of each was eight hundred meters alone, making the distance across seventeen hundred meters. Seven large support shafts fell away from each half circle to bury itself deep into the earth. They were studded with tightly-packed cylindrical, green-hued power-generators that were strung within in a helical fashion. A road led away from The Monolith down toward the center of the Gateway. The whole thing was monitored by the most powerful weapons systems conceived in case a break-out were to occur, to stop a beachhead from forming. This was especially so since the planet was meant to be a staging point for the Joint Alliance to begin wars beyond to mists of the dimensional convex...

Eventually, when everything was finalized and up and running, the Joint Alliance took seat in their Intergalactic Senate Hall within their new capital and began their first order of business, to name this place they had claimed as the heart of their new empire. In the end, after much arguing and bickering and deliberations they arrived at a name: Byorentu, 'The Place of Oneness.' It was the most apt name, striking a balance between all races and their goal of working together for a common order. When it was settled upon, they deliberated on the second. The second order was for advance scout parties from the Joint Alliance Security Forces to depart at once. Intelligence, after all, was power, and it would lead to victory...


She moved through the massive crowds in the city of Argul. A mixture of humans and aliens of all shapes and kinds. It allowed Stent to move about freely, tracking her foe. Intel said he was dangerous, very dangerous. Fleet Commander Visarett had said something about not directly initiating contact with him. Oh, sure, she could take him if necessary, he had said, but it would cost her far too much. And the collateral damage would cause problems for the Joint Alliance, something she was to avoid. It would bring attention to a number of things that both parties (the Joint Alliance and Valorian himself) wanted to keep under the radar.

The street she found herself on was a ruler-straight affair angling somewhere into the horizon. It was lined on either side by tall trees spaced every so often, and those flanked by even taller skyscrapers as was the wont of the business district. Giant gray edifices that reached up into the sky like claws; giant money hungry hands. The industrial mega-corporation office buildings and banking institutions owned this street. The skylanes were a crowded affair of hover cars and loaders flashing past at speed. Holographic logos and ads floated in the air above streetside boutiques and luxury stores that hoped to ply their wares on the lunch rush crowd that spilled out of those self-same buildings. Everyone was well dressed. Except Stent. She wore a form-fitting bodysuit of black and orange with a set of baggy utilitarian pants that featured a hole in the seat for her tail. An orange tank-top, dark-hued shoulder bag and goggles finished off the ensemble. Most ignored her. Sure, she didn't appear to be like the other aliens about, but she was alien -- nothing special. Not with black scales intermingled with orange and yellow scales that could alternate color between green and red respectively. She was working hard to keep the pattern colors from shifting, if at all. Last thing she needed was for some idiot to think she was a decoration of some kind and pin her up on the wall amid Technicolor flashes of annoyance.

Insertion had been easy. Meteor strikes along the southern hemisphere of a planet several lightyears away provided the initial access jump point. From there it had been easy to procure transport. Her ID docs were up to snuff, no doubt. Customs was a pain -- seven checkpoints to get through in all -- but even then she was moving with impunity. She visited every dive, every cesspool and pisshole imaginable. Bars, taverns, pubs, cantinas. Stiff drinks and stiffer people with smug looks and cocky attitudes. Smugglers, traders, gun runners, slavers -- she met them all. No person was too low for her to talk to. A few drinks to loosen a tongue and gain information, that was the plan, unless it was to be drugs and a few beatings. The latter being only if absolutely necessary. It all worked wonderfully in the end. Stent had traced Valorian from several systems away and over a half dozen planets. Oh, she might be near him now, if her lead panned out, but if not -- then it'd be back to square one and the dives to ask more questions.

She was looking for the Naruda Argul. A giant thousand story building done in concrete with blue-tinted windows. It was a javelin point towering above all the other buildings in the area. Local directories didn't say what it was, let alone what was in it, or even who owned it, but anyone with any know said it would be the most likely place to find Valorian. Why this was? Well, nobody knew, just that it was the place to look. The sign out front of the projects styled office building was a purple logo with flickering wings on one side. Stent shrugged, slowed her pace before ducking down into a side alley. She followed it up, dodging around the few loading vehicles there were. Checking to make sure she wasn't being watched and that her surveillance jammer had been activated long ago to glitch the cameras and sensors tracking her, she turned and made her way down a sloped entry into the depths of the Naruda Argul building.

Another massive loading dock. There was security, but less than at the front door. Mostly because only sanctioned vehicles could get past the gate, and they were scanned upon entry for...vermin. Those vermin were incinerated by flamethrower devices set into the ground. It would explain why all the vehicles coming out of the building had black scorch marks on their underside -- and the guard that watched the whole process was behind a blast proof viewscreen. He looked bored. But his little office of sorts was the way in. Stent approached, making herself look annoyed, a little flustered.

He sat up straighter, eyeing Stent as she walked up.

"Can I help you?" he purred. He was some alien, bluish skin with what looked like gills on his neck that went down his back. He wore a bodysuit (green) with vertical piping of yellow in some spots.

"Yeah, I, uh, I got a delivery," Stent began, attempting innocence in her voice. "They told me to take it to the back, though. I really don't know the process, though. First time."

"Oh, well, just slide your ID and certificate of delivery through the scanner there, and we'll move it along."

Stent nodded, grabbing at her bag. She fumbled a bit with it, before sliding something into the scanner, and while the guard looked at the scanner screen, she slammed a device onto the viewscreen. He looked up in surprise to see Stent making a feral, lipless smile at him as a high pitched whine started and ended with a shockwave on the inside of the viewscreen, hitting the guard and knocking him into the wall. She ripped the device off, pulled another from her bag and began to hack into the security for the door. The pad beeped and the door opened. Stent went over to the guard, propped him up in his seat after closing the door behind her and hit him in the back of the skull with a needle injecting him with a neurotoxin that targeted recent memories. He'd wake up feeling groggy, wondering what happened and think he'd probably fallen asleep from boredom.

She moved to his computer and began to access it. Still unlocked since he'd just been there a moment ago. She understood that anything important would be in a discrete server somewhere, and wouldn't be a part of the main terminal mainframe. It would be separate, which was fine. There were always maintenance crawlspaces and hallways, and it was more than likely down in the basement. Stent pulled up a quick building map, including the maintenance schedule. Then tried the maintenance mainframe. Nope, secluded in a different part. She made a couple queries about where it was, just little innocuous stuff so her questions wouldn't be flagged as odd. Just the usual information anyone would ask. Once she had what she needed, she blew a kiss at the knocked-out guard before slipping through the back door into the main docking bay.

She walked at a brisk pace. The few lifeforms working the area with loading bots ignored her. This wasn't unusual to them. Happened rarely, but often enough not to draw suspicion. She waved at a few workers, making a happy face. They smiled back at her, or nodded. She went past several of them, under a sliding door and into the main dock. She kept her pace going past row after row of packing crates, past numbered doors until she found the one she wanted and ducked into it when she was sure nobody was looking. She held her breath a moment, then slid into the room fully. The room had lockers along all the walls and some benches. Further inspection put a couple washrooms with showers further in back for employees. She rummaged a bit more, found a technician bodysuit, floppy, grubby, baggy. A bit too big, but she slipped into it anyway and tossed on the hardhat that went with it, the utility pouch and slung her bag. And then the human owner walked in.

"Hey,...who are you?" Before Stent could answer, he asked an even more pointed question: "What're you doing in my work suit?"

She lashed out at him, fast. A fist into his face, the crunch of his nose. We went to scream, but her body twisted and her leg came around in a kick knocking him back into a locker. He cried out in surprise from it as she charged in jamming an elbow to his throat caving it in. He died with eyes wide open. She pulled him out of the locker and stuffed him into his own before closing it. She waited a few moments, listening to see if anyone had noticed. When she was certain nobody had, she checked the dead mans maintenance schedule, then began to move on, her bag over her shoulder.


Finding the maintenance server was easy. Hacking it was even easier. Apparently nobody had thought that that might be used against them. It gave her all the codes she would need this week to access all the mainframe servers in Sub-Basement K. She made her way down there, using the stairs instead of the elevator to draw less attention. She kept a low profile, in case somebody threw a fit. After that first death, she really didn't feel like causing any more. Not necessary, and could prove costly if found when she needed to extract. Last thing she wanted was a security detail trailing her. That'd just make her day a whole lot worse.

She made some edits, saying that some ducts needed a look at inside the mainframe server room. She also put in a fake report about a severe water leak and some flooding in the area. It was just a precaution, in case the guards wanted to do a double check of her work.

She slowly made her way down to Sub-Basement K, and once there, had to work through the maze of pipes, electrical wiring, data cord, data crystal matrix interfaces and a whole host of other paraphernalia that kept Naruda Argul running. The corridor to the server room was a side one, out of the way. She made the turn, and found herself face to face with four guards chatting amiably amongst themselves. When she stepped up, they turned in unison.

"Hey," one said. He was human, salt-and-pepper hair. Big grin, too. "What can we do for you?"

"Just some regular maintenance," Stent said.

"Shouldn't be until a month from now," a second said, eyeing Stent up.

"Yeah, and only Smitty comes down to do it. Who're you?"

"Smitty's replacement. He's sick, couldn't come in. Look, just pull up the report yourself. Water leak."

So, a man pulled up the report. "Yeah, water leak."

"Something's not right."

"Huh? Wha'd'ya mean?"

"I saw Smitty this morning, seemed all right to me."

Oh...crap. Stent didn't even bother to think. She was already close enough to salt-and-pepper to be in his face. She stepped in, fast, driving an elbow into his windpipe, causing him to chock. He started to go down but Stent got one of his arms on her shoulder, supporting him with her weight as the first guard pulled a firearm. He let off a shot, it rippled through the air, coherent energy, slamming into his now-dead buddy as she threw a knife which took the shooter in the skull. The last two took cover. Bad move for them. Stent tossed in a concussion grenade and ducked back out the corridor. When they stood to pursue, it went off and they went flying. Stent came back in, looked down at them. One was dead, his head at an odd angle with an arm bent in a direction it shouldn't go. The other guy, definitely an alien with tan colored skin and four eyes spaced in a 'V' looked at her. His mouth was set in a scowl. Stent took her knife from the other fellow, walked up to the guard and stabbed him in the eye, ratcheting it back and forth a couple times to make certain he was dead as his body spasmed.

She policed the guards for keycards, IDs and weapons. Once she had them all, she moved to the door, a giant industrial affair. Inserting a keycard, she smiled faintly as the door dropped into the floor. Behind was row upon row of crystal matrix servers. Oh, you gotta be kidding me! she thought. It would take a while to find what she needed. Angry, Stent went back to the bodies, grabbed them and pulled them into the server room. Cleaned up the area and closed the door before hacking into the door control and putting an override on it so nobody could walk in on her unannounced.

Now all she had to do was find the right server and jack in.


Five hours. It had taken five hours of searching before she had found the correct data matrix, and once she had it, she had to jack in and make her way past encryption. The massive crystal monstrosity that towered eight feet tall and was three feet wide in a square stood before her. She blanched as she plugged in a series of cables that attached to a composite case. The DSSF had promised her the best in quantum computing and decryption software to get past all the security blocks and firewalls. When the whole system had booted up, she scowled. A few system checks later and it began to chip away at the edges of the security. A progress bar flickered at the top of the holographic projection. It was a lie. It could actually go faster or slower than what was represented, but she didn't like wasting time. It meant that someone was going to come down to replace the guards and would wonder where the other four were. And the dried, congealed blood stains wouldn't help her out, either.

Stent didn't bother to sit and watch. Instead, she moved to the door. She knew it was probably inevitable that someone would happen to come down here and find her. She began planting satchel charges around the interior of the frame, back far enough so that when they went off they'd kill whoever came through. She put the proximity sensor to scan for non-friendlies. Should do the trick. She moved back a bit to the first crystal stacks and set up another set of directional charges, these ones aimed at the door so that after the first charges went off, the second set would take out the reinforcements, if any. Satisfied, she began to move about the bunker-styled server room.

There were a couple ventilation shafts moving out. Taking out a quick-affix rope, she moved up and cut out a section with a fusion cutter. Once the hole was large enough, she moved inside and looked around. She pulled up her maintenance information again and began to trace the vents to a point where they'd drop her out at a few levels above the streets in the alleyway she'd originally come through. Now she wished she still had access to the maintenance mainframe. Moving forward, she found a sensor in the vent itself. Jacking in, she hacked it quickly, disabling it. She left the device plugged in, and logged into the maintenance mainframe where the sensor reported to. She picked out her route, then created a program that would cause all the sensors along that route should be turned off when she sent her signal. Smiling, she dropped back down, leaving the rope in place for a quick exit.

It had taken a good forty minutes for her to prepare her exit strategy. It was solid, but she knew how quickly things could change and go sour. A plan is great up until you actually have to use it, then it's time to improvise. She went back to the device plugged into the crystal stack and looked at it. It was nearly through, and then even then, it would have to search for the files and copy them. That might take a while. Who knew how many trillions of yottabytes it would have to sift through before finding the necessary stuff. Ankra Anris -- why'd this infiltration crap suck so much? Whatever happened to the point blank assassination missions? Oh, right, Joint Alliance formed. That's what.

She made her way back to the decryption device, ditching the technician clothes and hardhat along the way. It had made it past security by now and was copying massive amounts of data at an astonishing pace. She checked the time. This thing was fast. Much faster than anything she would have realized. Quantum level computer, they had said. Capable of doing computations of several billion zettabytes a second. It added up after a while.

Stent began to pace, walking back and forth. She got only so far before a boom echoed through and the change in air pressure caused her ears to pop before they started to ring from the blast. Oh, crap! She pulled up her firearm, a compact bullpop plasma rifle. The goggles began to pipe in target data from thermal vectors as the dust began to clear. She didn't see anything, but that didn't mean nothing was happening. Somebody had to have cut through. She was surprised she hadn't heard it at all. She continued watching, waiting, keeping an eye on the data-hacker behind her and the rope dangling from her vent exit.

It took a while. Oh, somebody had to have heard the explosion. That was expected.

"Holy crap!"

"Yeah, man. I wonder what happened. Look at this! The guards are dead."

"Damn. We should report this."

"Yeah, you get to tha-"

Stent shot the first one in the face, the plasma round drilling in and melting away his flesh. The second turned to stare at his buddy who was falling with a molten crater where his face had been before. Stent shot him, too, side of the head. Two idiots slagged with gushing piles of molten flesh with their brains should be, and she still had to wait for the information to finish copying. She checked her mission timer. Too much time had passed already. It wasn't until she had shot the third person who came and stumbled upon the scene that her decryption device beeped for attention. Finally.

She made her way over, disconnected all the wires and dumped it into her bag. Shouldering the bag and her rifle, she moved to the quick-affix rope and clambered up it. She pulled it up after her, wound it into a coil and slipped it into her bag as well before moving through the vent system, following an inertial guidance system. At least the mission was nearly done. All she needed to do was make street level and she'd be good.


A grate flew off the side of the building with a flash, crashed loudly against the ground when it hit and rebounded a couple times, massive dents having formed from the impacts. A rope snaked out the opening and a slim-feminine creature dropped out, repelling the three stories down. Feet touched down, and she waggled the line a moment before it loosened and fell as well. She glanced about. It was dark, night. Streetlights threw off ethereal glows at the alley mouth combined with the light hemorrhaging holo ads and displays. Coiling the length of rope, she dumped it into her bag, along with her plasma rifle. She wandered over to the vent grate, hunched over and picked it up before making her way to a trash bin and dumping it there. Mission accomplished.

Sighing, she went to the street, made a left, and walked up the road. A waiting taxi was there. She flagged him down, hopped in, smiled politely and asked to be taken to some low rent corner of the city to lose herself in. She'd need to find passage off-planet soon, report in, get this info passed on. Wouldn't take long. Couple days, no more. She smiled, flicking out her serpentine tongue.

The driver was taking about the rise in crime and how it was bad for the city. If he only knew what she'd been up to...

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Chat - Vol 3

(10:10:32 AM) Vakarro: nothing really matters west of ontario

(10:10:35 AM) Vakarro: i mean what do you have

(10:10:38 AM) GuardianAnubite: >_>

(10:10:39 AM) Vakarro: 2 provinces of fields

(10:10:43 AM) GuardianAnubite: Alberta has oil.

(10:10:49 AM) Vakarro: a bunch of mountains

(10:11:00 AM) Vakarro: alberta is full of angry warehouse workers and oilmen

(10:11:08 AM) GuardianAnubite: WHAT DO YOU HAVE EAST OF ONTARIO

(10:11:12 AM) GuardianAnubite: QUEBEC AND NEWFOUNDLAND

(10:11:16 AM) GuardianAnubite: GODDAMN, MAN

Friday, November 21, 2008

I Weep

I hear the trumpet play, I see the sun fall, and I weep.
I hear the trumpet play, I see the flag fall, and I weep.
I hear the trumpet play, I hear the guns fire, and I weep.
I hear the trumpet play, I see the casket fall, and I weep.
I hear the echoing scream, I see my friend fall, and I weep.
I hear the blast ring, I see my sergeant calling, and I march on.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Why I Love the Military

So, the military is screwing me around ... again. I guess it's to be expected these days. I mean, they don't have anything other to do than fuck with the troops, so that's what they do. It's a bureaucracy thing this time around, a nifty little loophole in the system designed to screw over the people who weren't prepared. And why would one be prepared as you never find out about this dirty little secret until you decide to release. Or unless you've been in a long enough time to have seen it. What is this loophole, you ask? Well, before I was sent out to Basic, I was sworn in. The time between being sworn in and beginning my Basic course, I was on "leave without pay." It means that I'm not technically in the military at that point. So, when I finish off my contract and I go in to see the Release Clerk about Severance Pay, I'm told that I only get two years instead of the three years I've actually been in. How wonderful!

So, I'm out over a grand in Severance Pay on a technicality.

Well, turns out I can actually do something about this. What? Well, I have to give up a week of my leave time at Christmas and work. You see, leave days can count on a one-for-one basis with these "leave without pay" days that I had before starting Basic. I need eight days in total. I have twelve leave days. That's days off to you civilian folks. I'm giving up time off to work and stashing those days to get me my Severance Pay. So instead of a full three weeks or more I could be getting, I instead get only two weeks. Exactly two weeks. No more. On top of this, I was thrown another little curve ball, just to stir things up a little more. The so-called week off I'd get to go house-hunting up in the city of choice was a complete and utter lie. So, now I have to use my leave time at Christmas to go house hunting instead of spending time with friends and family. Also, job hunting.

The only bit of good news I got was the dates when I get to see the clerks, kit return, full medical, and various other appointments. Oh, yeah, and I will be paid money for going out to the province of choice based on where I first enrolled. And because it's a good distance away, it's a nice little sum of money. Oh, yeah, and supposedly, I'm going to finally get that damned block heater installed in my truck on Saturday. Here's hoping everything goes as planned -- I'm tired of being fucked around.

Friday, November 14, 2008

In Memory

Today I wasn't expecting too much. I knew the battalion was holding a memorial service for all those lost, and that the family's of the fallen would be there. It was a closed event, open only to the families and the units that had deployed overseas itself. I thought it would be one of those usual boring events with long speeches and back-patting by high level officers who would each congratulate one another like they always did whenever there was an gathering of them. I was wrong. And I was taken by surprise by something that happened during the event. I met the mother, father and wife of my now deceased platoon commander, Capt. Richard Steve Leary.

The platoon was called forward, and gathered around the couple. Everyone was shaking Mr. Leary's hand, offering up a word here or there. When it came my turn, I gave a blank expression a moment as I found myself standing in front of the old man, who looked much like Capt. Leary only older, and all I could do was say, "I don't know what to say." He looked at me and nodded, as if understanding. It was then that his wife stepped up to me, and she looked me in the eyes. Again, I was at a loss as I took her hand. And I again said "I don't know what to say." Only I continued this time. "I have no words. I can't say anything to make you feel better about the loss, or even to console you. I'm sorry." She, much like her husband before her, nodded, but said to me that it didn't matter and that she understood and was proud of me for my actions regardless of what I could or couldn't offer. I had done what I could, and for that, she had been grateful.

It struck me later how much it had hurt me when I had lost Capt. Leary in Afghanistan. How difficult it was to carry his stretcher out during the firefight. How difficult it was to take in that evening when I was told he had died during the chopper flight into Kandahar Airfield. And I couldn't even begin to imagine how hard it must have been to lose a son or a husband. And I felt somewhat ashamed because I had been so selfish with my thoughts and feelings. And now that I think about it, was I still justified in those feelings? And I don't feel there is an easy answer, because a 'yes' implies I'm callous, and a 'no' says that my feelings don't matter. In the end, it was an eye opener, and a digging up of emotions I had for the most part buried.

But, hopefully, I never forget. I cannot allow myself to forget his sacrifice to me and the platoon I was in, or to his country. To do so would be to dishonor him, his family, and everything he had done.

In Memory of Capt. Richard Steve Leary.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

All I Wanted was a Block Heater

There are books out there written about people being stupid, incompetent, retarded, and other words to describe these people and their actions. I have been dealing with a company that seems to be bathing in incompetence. No, more like they ooze it from their pores. It's a stench, an oder -- I am a dissatisfied, disgruntled and otherwise angry customer. Why? Because the persons I have entrusted to do a job for my money have otherwise made excuses and failed to follow suit on their promises. Now, I'm a simple man. While I might complain, I generally keep it to myself as long as the job gets done. But the complete and utter failure to do so, well, that in and of itself warrants a lot of frustration on my part, doesn't it?

A week ago, I called Canadian Tire about the possibility of getting a block heater installed in my truck so as to keep it running, and have the ability to start the damn thing when the temperature drops below forty degrees centigrade. They informed me, after I provided a little information about myself and my vehicle, that they would have to order in the part. I scheduled a time for installation, that being Monday. I was looking forward to finally getting this nuance out of the way. Now, some might be thinking that that was my own mistake, asking Canadian Tire to do it, and you know, you're right, it was a mistake. I should've gone someplace else, but I don't know of any other places, which is why I'm sticking to my guns on this one.

Anyway, Monday roles around and I get a phone call. It's Canadian Tire, and they're telling me they don't have the block heater at all. When I inquire as to why they don't have it, they tell me that it wasn't ordered. Yet the previous week I had been assured that it was ordered. Checks in the mail, you know the deal. Well, that didn't happen. So, while blinking for a moment as I process this supreme fuck up on their part, I ask them when the soonest they can get the part in. They tell me Wednesday. I then say, call me back when the part is ordered. I hang up. Fifteen minuets later, they call back. The part has been ordered. When should I come by for installation? They suggest Thursday. I tell them no, as I have previous engagements thanks to my job. Friday. Again, no, same thing. Saturday? Again, no, for the same reasons. And they don't work Sunday's, leaving today, Wednesday, as my only opportunity to get this over and done with.

So I take my truck in. Suffice to say, they didn't have the part. Their supplier won't answer their calls. No word. I sat there for a couple hours waiting, and nothing was done. Finally, one of the attendants decides that it might be in her better interest to inform me of all these "hiccups" that are keeping them from completing the job. Finally, it came down to them saying they would call me when they have the part and take it from there. Here's hoping the third time is the charm. Fuck.

Sunday, November 09, 2008

WPCA - Depths

The Technicolor verb of the pastel holograms blasted past on the periphery of her vision. Giant cascading mono-graphic entities displaying the latest and greatest in consumer items. Things for the home. Things for the family. The brand new hoverbike, the Yukazi Samurai. The horn of a slow-moving garbage disposal vehicle bellowed causing a number of pedestrians to jump back. Dressed in their singlesuits, most. Some, the hookers, the prostitutes, wore dual suits, clothes that covered in a strip around the waist and around the chest, covering and revealing at the same time. Built in microchips and holographic displays turned the clothes into their own advertisements. Sex shops and toys flashed flamboyantly along in a mismatched circle about the womans frame as they cantered about. A halo like that of an angel seduced by the darker side.

Madeleine rushed, skirting through the crowds on the edges and through gaps and openings. She could hear the ruffled people behind her squawking and flapping their arms in mid-stride as she rumbled past. Her heart was pounding. She saw in the corner of her vision, where her neural and cellular wetwiring interacted with her vision kept throwing up a word in bold, red typeface: INFECTED. Infected. A lie. It was the program again. She had dived into some nether region of the NETs. The mainframes where the arrays were undefined. Where there was data, but you couldn't see or understand it. Her avatar had drifted in the black sea, beyond the interpreted glow of the digital world. And when she had come back to her analog self, she had a new gift. A change, a morphing, a shift. Dizzying, she had unlocked things. A great many things were cast off, but never truly forgotten or lost. The NETs held everything, and things thought hidden could be found. Things thought buried could be unburied. And Madeleine had found just that -- a something.

And now it was overwriting the programming of her implants.

Military grade. It had to be that. She was rushing because she didn't know how much time she had until it overtook her. Until this virus, this computerized digital artifact overtook her analog self and overwrote her entire being. So much of the analog and digital were amalgamated into one. She was scared. She didn't want to lose herself. But...was it even possible? She was hoping the Advanced Neuroscience & Wetwiring Department of the St. Patrick's Hospital could help her.

Her vision crackled. White snow. White noise. It was like standing in a snowglobe. Someone was shaking her world and filling it up with dazzling sparkles.

"GO AWAY!" she screamed.

The crowd about her stopped. Jerked a moment. Eyes, weary, watchful, fearful, annoyed -- every spectrum of the emotional rainbow -- turned upon her. Then like a stop-motion camera jolting onto the next scene, they moved again. The stop in the automation of the human walking on the sidewalk ended, and they resumed their conveyor belt motion in their given direction to be deposited like varied and packaged goods. A bubble formed around Madeleine. She was given wide berth now. Nobody wanted near this young woman on the verge of tears who cradled her head in her hands, who got to her feet, who stumbled forward into a mad dash with brazen brunette hair blazing a broken and shaky path through the air and crowd alike.

A spattered response as a siren wailed for attention. Authoritative, it demanded respect. Whizzing past on invisible jets of plume, hot backwash assaulting the pedestrians below who made rude gestures at the passing so close to the ground. The vehicle dropped, a rock caught in gravity, before stopping dozens of centimeters above the ground. An officer stepped out, blue singlesuit with blastplates inserted. Pockets full of gear and a belt filled to near bursting. He was clutching his compact-slug thrower to his chest, black visored face scanning behind a veil of anonymity. His attention caught itself on the wayward child and he began to approach.

"Citizen," a voice barked out, loud, using not only his own audio enhancement but the speakers wired into the lampposts. Everyone halted, machines programmed by their masters. "Citizen Madeleine Young: halt."

She found herself turning, tear-flecked eyes seeing a monster. She screamed. Everyone near backed away. The officer began walking toward her, and she looked upon the faces of those around her. Dead, gone, lost -- lost within the NETs, uploading and downloading, showing what was happening to this girl now, soon, at what would be the hands of the government agents ready to sweep her up into their squadcar and into the night air.

Saturday, November 08, 2008

WPCA - The Silent War

In the year 2025, the world governments collapsed. With the world economic repression having started late in 2008 and continuing onward, it forced many businesses and corporations to amalgamate into much larger entities to survive in the economic downturn and the following depression. And when, in 2025, the governments did finally collapse, a shifting of powers happened. No longer were there countries as people had once known them. No one swore allegiance to the flags of their fathers and birth countries, but to the corporate logos that soon became the new countries, the places of their loyalty. Massive identities that held massive quantities of land and resources. But with only large corporations left, mergers weren't to be.

The companies became power hungry, and launched several wars in an attempt to seize and hold more resources, more material. In 2085, in a research lab near Shanghai, the first Dark Matter bomb was detonated. The resulting explosion destroyed the entire coastline and surrounding area and all the research. It also bled a large amount of oxygen into space, a giant irradiated plume -- a gash in the skin of the planet.

It was also the beginning of a massive ecological shift, the death of the planet as man had known it.

With the detonation came droughts and strange disease -- the dying off of plants and animals and the catastrophic morphing of the worlds ecologies. No longer verdant green vegetation but massive wastelands and deserts. The planet was dying and at an astounding rate. The world company leaders met, deciding that by working together they could live, or at least postpone the inevitable. So, the Arkship Programme was begun, and a race to leave the planet before it became their tomb. And it was a race, a race to leave their tomb before the door was sealed shut behind them.

By 2109 the first Arkship, the AMI 01 as built by the Apple-Microsoft-Intel Conglomerate, was launched. This was the beginning of mans new era unhinged from his dependency of earth as his lifeblood, the oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere that had nurtured him for so long, bled out into space. By 2115, the earth had been abandoned, leaving more than 5 billion persons behind to die and suffocate on the barren rock mankind had once called home -- the wasteland of his birth.

As it happened, in 2144, the Arkship Bosch AMG Universal after traveling for 32 years at .8 C came across a star system. Surveys found the seven planets to be uninhabitable, with atmospheres containing toxic gases or barren wastelands. Beginning to run low on resources, the leaders of Bosch Universal decided to found their first asteroid colony in the systems belt in what would later be known as the Stuttgarian System. But this wasn't the abnormal. Asteroid settlement after asteroid settlement began to crop into existence, and by 2224, they were all aware of each other and the systems they existed in. There were some, however, that thought they could go on and find a habitable planet. None did, and these ever hopefuls were the first to die out.

But, it didn't take long for old tensions to come about again, and in 2245, the first intergalactic war was fought by the survivors of earth in what would be called the First Asteroid War. It was resolved 15 years later, but it wouldn't be the last...

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Needs Doing

Well, the definitive answer is that there, of course, is no answer. I've been brooding away, biding my time. Wondering, as I often do, about my lack of motivation and initiative on certain subjects. So much is necessary, but I cannot find it within myself to commit to what must be done. This needs to be done. That needs to be done. And while the this and the that are arbitrarily needed in the "getting done" category, all things considered, I just procrastinate. Or I "forget," which is to say I suffer a common lapse of memory for a short while while engaged with other things. Things that, of course, distract me from my hitherto unmentioned obligations. Unmitigated, I berate myself for these little lapses in my attention span, creating derogatory comments as if to spur myself into action. But failing that, I return to my morbidly innate state of motionlessness where motion is the obligatory method.

So, I need a means to conduct myself into a fruitful labor that will bear forth much. To create a habit of the things that must needs doing. I wish with a hope toward the bottomless pit I call the depths of my soul that I can see these things through. Because if I cannot, well, the results could be disastrous. Drastic measures are indeed needed.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Mumbling to Myself in the Morning

The amusing jumble that is my mind makes for good times. Laughing the whole way as I attempt to make heads of tails of any given thought at any given moment. It contorts so well, a gymnast making shapes on a floor while taking Yoga lessons. The true contortionist -- and I wonder as to the why's or the how's but never get an answer. And if the glinting of an answer is to be had, it only makes way for the bulldozer and paving crew as they make an in-way for more questions. Lest we forget that the mind is a funny thing, the questions are all comical, as all questions are. A why here, a how there, with puzzling little question-marks in tow like ducklings following a mother. Only they're crossing a highway and being squashed by passing vehicle traffic. All my questions, smashed and turned to gunk -- a pile of gunk on the side of the road with fast congealing blood and rotting paraphernalia. But talking about these questions, attempting to reveal what they are, there's no fun in that. Just musing about them being there and why I have no answers is more interesting. I could seek out answers, or wait for answers, or never even attempt to find answers. Regardless, some are answered, others are not.

So as it may seem that I have an answer to the whim of a question, I in fact do not.

And now I'm off to go write something else...that needs answers to questions. How's and why's and where's and what's and who's and when's. Extrapolations of ideas and musings and inklings and thoughts rolling into a massive compilation of jargon. A mishmash of technical literalnesses that could make sense and won't make sense but just might make sense. But only to someone with an eye for it. Forget reading between the lines.

Thursday, October 09, 2008

On the Side of the Road

I was with my brother. We were driving to Kamloops. We were talking, as people often do, about all sorts of things. But we were drawn into a silence when we passed a person. He was an Asian man, no problems here. He was sitting on the stump of a tree. Still, no problems -- nothing that would draw us into silence for a split second. The stump as at the end of the driveway. Still no reason to pay attention, only it was what he was doing -- rocking out to a guitar while sitting on a tree stump at the end of his driveway that was next to the highway. The whys of this will never be answered -- we didn't stop to ask him. But it silenced my conversation with my brother as we both wondered a moment, then voiced this wonderment with the all encompassing exclamation of misunderstanding -- What. The fuck.

Mind you, I've seen some interesting things in my life, but a man rocking out on his guitar while on a tree stump next a highway takes the proverbial cake on this one. At least until I can remember another little twisted thing from the depths of my memory. But, it wasn't just the fact that he was playing guitar, but the way. Head banging was taking place, full body rocking -- a back-and-forth as he slashed himself through the air his hands tracing the strings frantically.

Again, I won't know the why. I could speculate, but that's all it would be. But I'll do it just the same:

  1. Maybe he was trying to cheer up drivers with his antics. They were amusing to see, and after the episode of confusion had passed, I laughed.
  2. Maybe he's trying to distract drivers and cause an accident. Wouldn't be an impossibility.
  3. Maybe he's actually a hitchhiker and doesn't actually live at the house at the end of the driveway and this is his best method for getting people to pull over and give him a ride. A bum on the road with his thumb up? You might pass him. But a bum on the side of the road playing a guitar with so much energy and just hoping to get a ride to his next destination while playing "Stairway to Heaven"? Oh, very possible indeed.

Either or, it certainly made my day.

Sunday, October 05, 2008

WPCA - Welcome to Hell, Enjoy Your Stay Prt 7

As Beast, Sniper and Demon exited the pub, which was more a run-down shabby establishment for the mentally insane (it said so on the sign), they ran into a DemonicHoard. Oh, it could be said that this hoard was a single person with many selves, which could be true, but the reality was his original name was Demonic. He only became a hoard after a very badly done exercise in cloning. The problem stemming from the fact that they all thought and said the same thing at the same time. And there were about fifty of them.

"Oh...oh God," Demon said, smelling the smell to end all smells. "What is that?"

"What is what?" asked Sniper, who, as per his usual idiosyncratic self was off in something less like reality.

Beast was wrinkling his nose (more like wrinkling the area in his face where a nose may have been, but the fur was shaggy enough to make it so the telling of whether there was a nose or not became difficult).

"I think the smell in question is them," Beast said at length.

The army of three faced off against the DemonicHoard of fifty. The glazed over red eyes seemed to penetrate their very souls, hungering, thirsting for blood. Demon actually began to wonder if this might be the end of his life. That he might die here today at the hands of one of these freaks. But he was saved... As a boy in a monkey suit yelling "DKFAN SMASH!" came whirling through the hoard spinning like a cyclone. The hoard, distracted from its stare-down of Demon and Co. turned toward the kid and began to move like zombies (which they may have been).

"Run!" Demon yelled, and ran.

Beast followed. Sniper stood there picking his nose. Demon and Beast got a fair ways away when Beast turned, then asked, "What about Sniper?"

"He'll be fine. Let's get out of here."

And they did.

Friday, September 26, 2008


Well, seven months later, I'm alive, I'm well, I'm oh-so-wonderfully bitter. Did I mention spiteful? There's that too. Oh, how awesome it was to go to Afghanistan. Todays forecast? Dusty with a slight chance of rockets. Sounds like fun, sign me up again. But, thankfully, we won't be seeing a repeat of that shoddy network programming. Instead, we return to our usual pandemic of misbegotten writings and piss-poor humor, not to mention the heavily angst-ridden rants. Oh, to be the emo kid.

But enough of that. I'm well, alive, and elated!

In all honesty, though, I was literally shaking as we came into Canada. Several hours and I couldn't control it. I'm not sure, but it's something I can't describe properly. All I could think was "it's over." Not to say that what I had gone through was anything too, too stressful. There was stress, it's just I can't say that I had it any more worse off than any number of other people, because I sometimes think I had it better off in some cases.

On the flight back, about an hour out from Quebec City International Airport, we had a CF-18 (F-18) fighter escort. Was pretty sweet since they were nearly touching wingtips with the Airbus A330 I was on. The bad part was touching down in Quebec and spending an hour and a bit clearing through customs. Not a fan of doing that. "Do you have anything to declare?" "Why yes! I have a stripped down AK-47, a couple PKM's, an RPG-7, some fragmentation grenades. Nothing too serious, but you know."

Back on the plane, flew to Winnipeg where we hit dirt, grabbed our kit, handed in some paperwork and on the bus for home. Got a police escort out of Winnipeg, which was nice -- made getting out of the city quick and painless. Got back with time to spare. Even if it was oh-dark-stupid in the morning. I'm still tired from being awake so long, and that was a couple days ago.

Thursday, May 01, 2008

WPCA - Welcome to Hell, Enjoy Your Stay Prt 6

Vakarro found himself wandering the steets himself, much like Demon did. However, Vakarro considered himself a re-born Samuel L Jackson, even though he wasn't black. It didn't matter. He was on a mission to wipe-out the entire Fascintern army, no matter the cost. However, as he was best deciding on how to move his troops forward so they might destroy (the largely imaginary) army, he felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck. Looking, he saw a woman with a cookie starring at him. Oh, she was devilishly cute. Why, Vakarro was certain she could probably be the most wonderful woman he had ever laid eyes upon. But, it wasn't a compliment that spewed forth from his mouth.

"The hell you looking at?" he demanded of the woman.

She starred at him, mouth agap, jaw slowly sliding down to the ground.

"I said, what. The hell. Are you looking at?"

The woman still had no reply for this. She began to make murmuring sounds, "ums" and "ahs", but never quite getting to the elegent point of eliciting a spoken response.

"Do you speak English?" Nothing. "Sprechen Sie English?" Still nothing. "Parle vou Anglishe?" More nothing. "Speaky you English?"

Then, as if jarred loose, she managed a reply: "You are such a jerk!"

"Oh, my dear Lord in Heaven! She speaks! Can I get an Amen?"


"I said, can I get an Amen?"

"No, you creep!"

"Creep? You're the one starring at me like a stalker and suddenly I'm the creep? Where do you think you can come down at me like that?"

"Well, I, uh,..."

"I, uh, think you should get the point."

"Well, I thought that maybe,..."

"Girl, I don't think you took the time to make a coherent thought! Why, your brain is probably attached to your listless little jaw, dragging on the ground too much. I think you got brain damage!"

The girl didn't reply. She turned beat red, fury overtaking her. Then, in a fit of rage, "I'll get you, you stupid Imperial scum!"

"Scum? I don't even know who you are? How are you, going to get me?"

"Well, uh..."

"That's what I thought, uh, what was your name?"


"Yeah, that's what I thought, Blossom."

But she didn't reply then. Angrily, she turned and stalked away, arms held rigidly at her sides. Then she was off around a corner and out of sight. Vakarro was certain he'd see her again, and when he did, he would definately get her number.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Graceless Infidel

Blaze the night black, see the stars shine
Firearms clack, face-down in the brine
I hear my sergeant calling, screaming for a man
The mortars are a tolling, killing the little lambs

So I'm joined up in the stack, pass along the tap
Enter the room and crack! Fallen for the trap
Caught up in a crossfire, shooting at the dust
Fallen in the mire, this battle is a bust

And now a trumpet trembles, wailing like my mother
The recruiters, they just scramble, to try and enroll my brother
The people begin to protest, say "the sacrifice's a waste!"
As our freedom's put to rest, and our country's lost it's grace

But this war is here to stay, a fight like any other
Extremists in drug addled stupor, killing my sister and mother
So I take my rifle and gear, and head for the door
To fight with my peers, against the insurgents war

They say I am an infidel, I call them little beebs
Monkey's with Kalashnikov's, I fight and begin to seeth
But the war will never end, a pity, what's the more
They've no sense of time, and wait to settle the score

So even when I'm old, unable to continue the fight
Their kids will take up arms, to kill off us infidel blight

Monday, February 25, 2008

C'ya, chaps!

Goodbye, so long, farewell, auf weidersehen, adieu and all those other little pesky miscreants intended to convey my complete departure. And depart I must. Taking my leave, jumping the fence, hitching a ride. No so much downtown but out of town. I'm gone the way of the dodo in the most lackluster of ways -- but not extinct. Been fun and all that jazz. But I must go participate in the most amusing of hijinks this side of crazy Saturday Morning Cartoon antics. I'm deploying, and heaving off like the dickens. If this leaves you with a sour taste in your mouth, it surely wasn't me that made it that way. Honest.

However, if you've got a bad case of the evil juju riding hitchback on your shoulder giving you the nasties in terms of emotive feeling (or even your intuition's gone afoul of some wave-breaker out in the ocean and it's shipwrecked), well, let me put that at ease. I will be back. I say that with utmost certainty. I'm not gonna bite it. No buying the farm. No relegation to the underdog position. No pink mist or being a Bottoms-Up-Barney finding my ass upturned in the dust. This guy is coming back whole. Of body, yes. Mind, well, that's for the courts to decide.

So, yeah, I'm off. Say your goodbyes if you have any. See you all the world of tomorrow!

Saturday, February 23, 2008

WPCA - Welcome to Hell, Enjoy Your Stay Prt 5

The drink certainly was stiff. It was dead body stiff. Rigor mortise set in five days ago and rotting stiff. It smelled of it, too. He said it was whiskey. It didn't even begin to smell like whiskey. The glass wasn't clean, either. It had smeared mud stuff on it. Brown, caked on something. Demon didn't even touch it. Wouldn't touch it or drink it. Only grimace that this was in fact the cleanest glass available and the best whiskey in house. The best booze. He looked around. Someone was puking in a corner, heaving away. The sound of his retching unnerved Demon. Plus it looked like someone was pissing behind the flatscreen that was hanging off the wall. He had gotten up on a chair just so he could piss behind the TV.

Beast picked up the glass and downed the whole thing in a single shot. Demon could only stare wide-eyed.

"You are aware of the lack of sanitation?"

Beast looked at him with a blank expression suggesting he hadn't, and neither had the rest of the clientel.

"So, what're we going to do about the Trio?" Sniper asked.

"I'm not going to do anything."

"Why not?"

"Because it isn't my fight."

"Well, the Imperials are too busy with the Fascintern to be able to do something about it."

"The Fascintern are real?"

"Well, not really, but like I said."

"Oh, oh yeah. I got ya."

Beast, who had been quiet for a moment, brightened, then said "We could get Drago and Corbow to help! They'd be in for this!"

"And who are they?" Demon asked.

"A couple Imperials," Sniper said.

"I thought you said the Imperials were busy with the Fascintern."

"Well, not ALL the Imperials. Just...most of them."

"So where do we find them?"

"Where indeed!"

And then they were off, Beast humming the Batman tune behind them. Demon told him to stop that, so Beast hummed a Crazy Train. Demon again said stop that as they walked down the street. Beast then hummed a tune he didn't recognize. Demon asked him what it was. Beast said it was a song titled "Let's Get Fucked Up and Die." His face dropped to the ground, at which point Sniper took a snow shovel to pick it up off (not literally) and place it back into place (almost literally) before patting Demon on the shoulder like he understood (again, almost literally), but then, Sniper had been shotting at Barbie dolls wrestling over ruby stilettos.

When would the day end?

Friday, February 22, 2008

WPCA - Welcome to Hell, Enjoy Your Stay Prt 4

His name was Overmind. He was evil. His companions name was Destructo. He too, was evil. The third companion was Super Calo. He wasn't decidedly evil, but had a lot of cool, shoddy merchandise that flooded into the market and had a habit of incapacitating small children, if not killing others. This made Super Calo only somewhat evil, but only through proxy of shoddy design. This little trio was spearheading the Fascintern army, which actually didn't exist. However, in their minds, and the minds of their adversaries, did exist. So it might as well have existed, even if it only did on paper.

However, despite being evil, this trio was agonizingly polite. And though they might threaten your life, would do so with a smile, a wink and a nod. A tip of the hat, a dash of respect, and making sure your little ones got their lunch and were off to school before offing you. It was in one of these scenarios that the trio was found, with Overmind standing over a woman indicating how he might kill her. Destructo stood by the door looking out to make sure no enemies were nearby. And the least evil of the three sat playing with his own horribly maladjusted merchandise with a five-year-old boy. And the boy was winning.

"Why good lady," Overmind began, "would you mind if I aimed this firearm and your torso and activated the firing mechanism, thus propelling a leaden projectile into your cardiovascular ultimately resulting in your demise?"

The woman was paralyzed a moment as her brain took in this. She was being given an option. She replied with a flat no.

"Well, then, my dear woman, what would, dare I say, lead you to believe you have in good graces the abilities to so refute my question as to the future of this arrangement?"

The woman thought. She hummed, hawed, made motions with her arms amid the giggles of her son and the disruptive curses of Super Calo and the biting remarks of Destructo. Then said, "My husband will kill you." This led to a series of questions, all resulting in the same answer: the woman's husband was none other than Flash. But of course, he was overseas. But she did have a phone number by which he could be reached! Super Calo was given leave to make the call. The only problem was calling out, since this was a hotel.

Super Calo called down to the front desk to ask for a line out. There was the buzz, the click and a voice.

"Hello, Room Service!" came a chirpy reply.

"Oh, uh, I'm trying to get a line out of the building."

"Oh, here, let me re-route you to the front desk then."

Super Calo expressed his thanks and was rerouted. There was the buzz, the click, and the same chirpy voice.

"Hello, Room Service!"

"Hello, it's me again."


"The chap who called down a moment before asking for a line out."

"Oh, you'd want the front desk then."

"Right. Think you could do that for me?"


The buzz, the click, the voice. "Hello, Room Service!"


"And what can I get you?"

"A line outside the building."

"Oh, well, you'd want the front desk for that then."

"You just attempted to patch me through to the front desk, twice."

"Then why do you keep calling here?"

"I'm not! You keep buggering up the whole damn thing!"

Then Super Calo made a remark about the woman and how she might have been in relation to a harlot. She made a scolding remark back and said she would report him to the authorities for the sexual harassment. Super Calo offered her luck in her attempts to call out.

"Well, I can't get a line out," he said at length after staring at the phone he had slammed onto the receiver. The Trio then launched into a long argument. They didn't notice when the woman left. They did however notice when the authorities showed up asking about a call down to Room Service and a charge of sexual harassment against on Sirith. They expressed not knowing anything about it, but maybe to try some of the other rooms. The police apologized for their screw up and left. The trio, realizing their quarry had left, did so as well.



"Are they really?" a boy asked.

The clown, Boka, who wasn't a clown but may as well have been, screeched to a juddering stop, looked at the boy, was about to start screaming in his face when he ended up speaking in tongues. Only it was English. But it still made no sense. Oh, there were some rhymes involved. Some kind-hearted words (kind-hearted in the screaming death metal sort of way), some ominous words, and definitely a lot of talk about the uses of tomatoes in bed with the wife. This of course went over the child's head, but the child was soon saved by the appearance of the aforementioned Imperials. Only, it wasn't the Imperials. Just Demon -- and of course Beast. But, Boka screeched, spun about in a circle, ran into a wall.

There was a whipcrack of a rifle being shot. Then a ping like metal being hit. Boka spun in place and ran the opposite direction. Then another shot, a ping, and Boka, still unharmed, spun in place and ran the way he had just come. This continued until the weapon was out of ammo, at which point Boka managed to scurry away like a rat (literally), squeaking before disappearing down an alley.

Demon only watched. Beast was clapping. The Sniper (who killed the woman with the ruby stilettos but the woman had disappeared) was unhappy.

"So, what're you doing?" Demon asked.

"Who, me?" Sniper asked.

"Who else is there?"

"Well there's Big Blue over here."

"Fuzzy Carpet? Naw, I was referring to you."

"Well, I'm doing well."

"No." A sigh. A facepalm. A wish that HE had the gun. "What are you doing? Why are you shooting at people?"

"Oh, well, I'm trying to stop the Evil Trio."

"And who are they?"

"Oh, well, they're these three guys. One's evil. The second one's evil. But the third isn't so much evil as being kinda evil but with crappy merchandising with flashy labels so he might as well be evil."

There was that face ripping feeling away. Like the muscles couldn't quite handle the kind of contortionist motions needed to make all the expressions necessary to describe the serious strangeness of this conversation. Beast said it looked cool. Sniper thought it was odd, but nonetheless "very sweet, dude." It didn't help.

"That's the least useful information," Demon said, "let alone the worst explanation I've ever heard for killing people. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a very stiff drink right now."

Demon walked toward the pub...

Thursday, February 21, 2008

WPCA - Welcome to Hell, Enjoy Your Stay Prt 3

It happened that somewhere along the line, Demon might in fact run into someone semi-intelligent. He did not, however, see it as being a giant, blue furred monkey-thing standing outside the coffee shop smoking a cigarette. The thing drawled on the coffin nail before casting him a look. At first, Demon thought it was just another freak. And when it spoke, he thought it was just another freak. But when it told him to look out for the evil, zombie Undead Penguin behind him, he still thought it was just another freak.

Then he came bustling over and smacked that Undead Penguin one-for, launching it into a side wall in an alley.

"You gotta learn to pay more attention, buddy," the thing said. "There's lots of crazies about here."

"Oh, you're telling me. Ever thought about looking in the mirror?"

The thing bristled. "I might look the part but I certainly don't play it, ya idgit!"

There was a momentary pause, then, "So what do I call you?"


"Just Beast?"

"Just Beast, with a capital 'B'. And you?"


"And you said I sounded like one of the freaks."

Then the Undead Penguin began to get back up. Red eyes glowing, menace and squawking noises and almost-words interpreted as killing family and making everyone suffer. Demon froze. Beast, did not. "Is that Poison Ablaze! you got there?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

Beast snatched the can away, walked up to the Undead Penguin and sprayed. There was a moment where time stopped. A moment where the Undead Penguin, rotting with the stench of death, looked over its new glossy coat. A moment, where the craziness might stop and reality would reassert. Then...

"OH GOD IT BURNS! IT BUUURRRNNNSS!" screamed the Undead Penguin as it began to fall apart. Chunks were sloughing off and turning into ooze that was seeping into the drains. "I'M MMMEELLLTTTIINNG! MMMEELLLTTTIINNG! I'LLL GEEEETTT YYOOUU, ANNNDD YOOUUEE PRREETTY BLUUUUE BEEASST TOOOOOO!"

And as the Undead Penguin melted away, it revealed a pair of bright red stilettos, ruby in color. They looked encrusted in rubies.

"You have got to be shitin' me."

"That's what I was thinking," Beast chimed in.

"THEEYY'RE MINE!" a woman screamed then.

"NO, THEEY'RRE MINE!" another female voice wailed.

And then the two women, clad in bikinis, covered in mud despite there being none in the street, dived in from atop the buildings nearby and began to beat the crap out of each other. Knees and elbows and fists and kicks and power bombs and arm bars and all sorts of violence was erupting. Up until one of the girls pulled the head right off the other girl revealing her to be nothing more than a life-like Barbie doll.


Then this other woman put the stilettos on and began saying the mantra, "There's no place like home." She repeated, clicking her heels together. Nothing happen. She did it again. Still nothing happen. Cursing, she tried a third time. Then she was shot.

"Damn that Abby girl," the voice said, "doesn't know when to quit. She'll be back later, though. Doesn't matter how many times you shoot them, they're always back."

Then the Sniper took off. Beast and Demon turned and looked back, but the bodies of the two dead females were gone. All that remained were the ruby stilettos.

"I don't think we should touch those," Demon said. "And I could use a stiff drink about now."

"Yeah, I think I'll join you."

And the pair walked off into the street...


There were three of them. Each had one some suit. One looked more like a woman, but Demon thought it could well be a man. Beast said it was a man. In the end both agreed it was disturbing. Each of them wore armor suits. Each of them talked a lot of jargon about specs; a lot of high end stuff involving words that had meanings in a scientific journal somewhere but certainly wasn't on Demon's top ten list of best reads. Probably on his top ten list for yawn inducing, though. In the end, each of them sounded like five year olds. Five year olds that talked like British Lords...

"You know who these ones are?"

Beast hummed and hawed a moment. Scratched at his blue furred chin. Made grunting noises. Demon was sure he could hear wheels grinding, gears churning. Hear the little men inside that massive skull yelling for more coal to stoke the flames as wisps of steam flowed out his ears and rose up to make a halo about his head. And Beast said he wasn't one of the crazies...

"The one that looks like a wolf-thing, that's Wolfgang."


"The one that looks like an aristocrat, that's Zeon."


"And the one that looks like a chick but is actually a dude..."

"...but has boobs..."

"...but has boobs..."

"...and a shapely figure..."

"...and a shapely figure..."

"...and if was really a woman I would hit..."

"...and if was really a woman I would hit, that's Libram."

They approached the arguing trio. They heard phrases like, "Well, my good chap, my ECHO armor is capable of the most astounding hyper-velocities. Why, I do say she can cross the Atlantic pond in well under an hour," and "Oh, really," and "Quite" and "Indeed," and "Well you certainly have no idea the stresses such a motion might have upon your armor. Why, I do say that it would tear it to shreds," and "Preposterous."


The trio turned as one. Only one looked angry. And slobbery. And absolutely appalled all the same. Then Demon knew why. Beast was behind him, sniffing his wolf-thing ass even though he was wearing some kind of techno-suit of armor. Oh, well, there went his "I'm sane even though I'm a massive, hulking blue thing featured off the Muppets!" card.

"I was wondering if you three could point me in the direction of a bar."

"Oh," said Libram.

"Dear me," said Wolfgang.

"Bar you say?" said Zeon.

"Well, good chap," said Libram.

"The pub you see," continued Wolfgang.

"It's such a shame," finished Zeon.

Then Wolfgang turned and made a mess of Beasts skull. Whimpering much like a dog, he came back to Demon, made mumbling sounds that were almost like, "well I never liked his ass anyway."

"What's a shame?"

"The pub burned down," said Libram.

"But there is the coffee shop next door!" continued Wolfgang brightly.

"Oh, but they do serve the most glorious Earl Grey. Don't you agree?" asked Zeon. The other two agreed most unanimously.

Directions were forthcoming, and of course required each of the trio to again speak in turn. Demon tried to keep his attention but constantly found his eyes wandering to Libram's massive cleavage. He kept reminding himself that this was, indeed, a dude. But he couldn't help it. By the end of it, though, and having his leg pissed on by Beast, he left -- Beast of course still in tow and his sanity in question.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

WPCA - Welcome to Hell, Enjoy Your Stay Prt 2

He walked. He was glum. He was down. Demon was scraping dirt bottom, and he was certain somewhere, out there, somebody was about ready to lend him a hand with a pickaxe, a shovel and a backhoe to reach China in the next couple hours because Lord knows that with all the crazy antics going about he wouldn't get there of his own motivation or free will.

Looking about, Demon noticed a couple kids, maybe five years old, wrapped up in fur and rags. What a sad state of affairs. Homeless children. He looked away.

"Can you spare some change, kind sir?"

Was that...was that a normal human being asking for money? No, wait, was that a normal human being actually paying attention? You mean this entire world wasn't just full of NPC's!? How utterly crazy! Then Demon looked and felt the world sinking away. He was expecting bums. He was expecting homeless. He was expecting the raggedy kind of guy who hadn't showered in the past year with clothes in tatters and the weight of the world on that man's shoulders just to get by and survive. What he got instead though, well, that nearly sent him over the edge.

But then, the edge had this massively deep chasm that looked mighty hungry, and Demon didn't quite feel like feeding it. Not yet anyway.

"I, uh," Demon began.

There were two men. They were dressed in sharp pin-strip business suits. One had a saxophone. The other had a guitar. They didn't look down on their luck at all.

"What, you don't got no money to spare?"

"You two don't even look homeless," Demon started to say.

"WHAT!? I haven't showered in five months, my girlfriend kicked me out, I live in, filth! And you say I DON'T look homeless!? What kind of world are you living in? Reverso Land?"

"Well, actually, funny thing," Demon started to respond with.

"Maybe he wants us, to you know, play something," the kid with the guitar said.

"Oh, OH!"

"Well, I'm SaxDude," said the one with the saxophone, "And he's Geetarkid."

"Uh-huh, yeah."

Then they launched into a tune. It was jazzy, it had a twinge of Spanish to it. It sounded classical. The guy with the saxophone started to croon. He sang, loud and hard. He sang about his girlfriend never putting out. He sang about his girl kicking him out. He sang about how he didn't have any money about. He even sang about how his buddy with the guitar was in the same sinking boat. But most of all, he sang, played the saxophone, and moonwalked at the same time. It was pretty good, so Demon thought. In fact, it was spectacular. Why this duo hadn't been picked up to play concerts yet was something couldn't quite understand. Then he realized that their suits, upon closer inspection, where actually made from skunk fur.

And when he thought about it, they really did smell like they hadn't bathed in a long time. And now that he was really looking really closely, they weren't fully grown men with a guitar and a saxophone. They were five year olds with a box with elastic bands strummed across it and a duck bill. And the kid was wailing and blowing into his duck bill while moonwalking and shaking his skinny all about the sidewalk. Boogying like it was the 19-somethings.

"MAH BABY, SHE DUN WANT ME IN HER PANTS NO MORE!" he screamed. And it was the kind of ear-infection-inducing scream you hear from five year olds at the check-out who keep pulling their mothers arm trying to get her to buy that pack of gum for the dollar something in that tantrum voice what reached areas of vocal cord dominion that only Maria Carey could get to. Are they really singing that? Am I really seeing this? I'm not drunk, am I? Demon thought. He put his hand to his mouth, breathing into it and smelling it. Not enough toothpaste was what he decided on. Could've used the Listerine.

"What that... You're kids!" Demon cried at last when the illusion ended.

Both kids stopped, looked at each other. Then...

"AMNESIA DUST!" the one with the duck bill cried throwing a bottle of talcum powder in Demon's face before running away through the streets, dodging oncoming cars while screaming "FOR LIFE INSURANCE!"

Standing dumbstruck a moment, Demon shook his head. He didn't need a coffee to clear his head, he needed a shot of something strong to make him forget. This city was giving him the creeps.


Demon wandered the streets despondently. The proverbial badass was feeling more like he was the only sane person left, thus making him less of a badass and more of the resident nerd. After all, when you're the only person left with smarts, you're definitely the nerd.

The plants, strangely enough, were singing. On in particular on a windowsill was talking about the finer points of weed consumption, and what kind of sprays to use to get rid of them. Demon's face sank when his brain came around to the idea of a talking plant. In fact, it broke right in half. It shattered to the point where it became so messed up, one half was still sinking into the lower abyss of a frown while the other side seemed to have its own gravity and was trying to separate.

Slapping himself, he walked up to this animate thing.

"What are you?"

"Why, I'm flowerpot!"

"Well, I can see you are a flower in a pot."

"No, no; one word -- flowerpot!"

He felt that ripping sensation on his face again.

"And why is it that you can talk?"

"I could always talk! I was once a member of parliament."

"I can see that happening."

Then he noticed the bottle next to the flower in a pot named flowerpot.

"What's the bottle for?"

"Oh, that's Poison Ablaze! It's good for getting rid of all that high quality weed that tries to strangle my roots."

Demon picked up the bottle and read the label. Poison Ablaze: we're not sure what it does, but damn is it somewhat entertaining! ... Entertaining? There were warnings all over the bottle for how poisonous this stuff was. Choking hazard. Poison hazard. Inflammatory hazard. Incendiary hazard. Explosive hazard. He was trying to find what it wasn't a hazard to. The ingredients were a long string of names he couldn't read except for the part about being made with weapons grade uranium.

"What...what kind of substance is this fuck anyway?"

"It's Poison Ablaze!" cried flowerpot.

"Yeah, yeah. I think I'm gonna keep this a while."

The flowerpot began to protest but Demon was already off. Already he was wondering what else might pop out to brutally rape the remainder of his sanity. Oh, wait, he was the proverbial badass -- what need did he have for sanity?

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

WPCA - Welcome to Hell, Enjoy Your Stay Prt 1

This is a tribute to a group of people on the boards over at GameFAQs on the Veterans board. Read, laugh, enjoy.

He was the proverbial badass. The scum on the bottom of society's boot, feeding away on the lower lifeforms. He was Demon, and he was the greatest monster this side of a B-rate horror in a theatre without popcorn or soda pop available. Nothing enjoyable to be found. And he was so good at what he did (he was an outstanding swordsman, but since losing his sword had since switch to a butterknife, but it still had the same effect he assured himself), which was robbing banks.

Just recently moved to this new city. He'd heard great things about it. Oh, how he would be the greatest terror this side of Godzilla in Tokyo.

Entering the Smith & Smith Bank or Piers and Jaunt Ave, he pulled out his butterknife, and menacingly, demanded all occupants hit the deck and that the clerk begin giving him all cash or he start cutting. Then, oddly, nobody complied. In fact, he was so blatantly ignored he thought this might be reverso land or something.

"I said, hit the fuckin' floor! This is a bank robbery!"

Then it happened. of them?

He dropped through the ceiling with an explosion of plaster, dust and a fit of coughing. He also hit the floor like a slab of meat dropped from fifteen stories up and with all the grace of said. In his racking fits of coughing, he pulled out an inhaler, put it to his mouth, pressed the button and inhaled deeply. He was dressed all in black, except for his face, he got up, ripping his katana from the scabbard with a nice little ringing noise that sounded like an ear infection waiting to happen -- then he talked, and it was worse.

"I am Kiori Hayabusa," he said, "you attempt to rob my bank -- prepare to die!"

Even after he finished talking, the ninjas mouth kept moving for a moment in a fast paced action like he was saying more. Man did the dubbing suck. Should've just subtitled his speech. Even before he could move, half the bank exploded inward. Rubble splashed across everything. The patrons continued to ignore everything, as though what was happening really wasn't happening in their reality.

He couldn't even have time to duck when the flash of artillery flew overhead. Someone was outside yelling, "For the Imperium!" He looked about and saw troops running through the bank. The ninja ignored them. The patrons ignored them. Hell, the army guys ignored him, the ninja and the patrons!

"What in the hell is going on?" Demon demanded.

Then a piece of the ceiling fell, landing on the ninja and flattening him forever. Only he kept coughing as the dust overpowered his previous use of the inhaler. He wanted to find answers, and fast. Good things about this city? It was a nuthouse!

Demon's search didn't last long. He found a man dressed somewhat elaborately and encrusted with insignia while carrying a dao-like sword in a stately scabbard at his waist. He was flanked by guards and looked ominous. Demon thought he was THE MAN, up until he took a closer look. For all his stately grandeur, he had a clown nose. Demon, sighing, found himself walking up to this, this prince clown and demanding to know what was going on.

"The Fascintern army is attacking the city!"

"Uh-huh. And you are?" "Vakarro Anstruth."

"So where are these...Fascintern's anyway?"

"They're right over there! My men are engaging them as we speak."

Demon looked over. There was nobody but the troops in the street. Who were making lively attacking noises. Who were also making lively dying noises. Who were actually...playing dead? No, no, wait. Back up. They were an imaginary enemy? What kind of nonsense is this? Demon asked Vakarro. Vakarro gave the kind of curt reply that said it was stupid that Demon couldn't see the enemy out there and see them slaughtering his men and the women and children in the streets. Only...the women and children carried on with their day completely ignored by this imaginary foe and the army playing the game with the imaginary foe. Then Vakarro fell over, clutching his chest.

"I've been shot!" he was screaming again and again. The guards flanking him tightened in around them, looking about for this enemy. Not wanting to wait and find out what was going to happen, Demon started running.

What in the hell was wrong with this place anyway?


Demon found himself actually...scared. The proverbial badass was having a hard time assimilating the completely out-there-ness of this city. People fighting imaginary armies. Ninja's with asthma and unable to sense falling debris. What the hell? What was next, floating warships? And what was that massive ... shadow ... tracing ... ground ... yeah. Yeah, that definitely wasn't good. No, there was no need to look up, but he did.

"You've got to be shitin' me," Demon said.


"MAN THE HARPOONS!" Tier Bladesinger cried like a banshee from atop his high pedestal of his new warship, the Prometheus X303.

"Sir, this is a spaceship. It doesn't have harpoons," Verdugo said.

"Dammit, then fire the fricken laser beams!"

"Firing the fricken laser beams!"

Bright lances of coherent energy splashed out into the sky and struck against another ship that was playing gracefully along the air currents. Then everything ground to a halt with a screech like a man had just come along and pulled the record right off the player. The jarring sensation sputtered into reality, which then reasserted itself.

Tier Bladesinger was rocking back and forth on the quarter horse outside the supermarket, yelling and screaming, Verdugo holding on tightly behind him.


Demon could only stop and stare.

"This...this can't be," he found himself saying.

Two, no wait, THREE grown men were riding the quarter rides outside the supermarket. Two on the horse, one in the helicopter, knees bent up to his chest and flailing his arms frantically screaming about how the Tesair would destroy the U.R.F.

"WE'VE HIT HIM! WE'VE HIT HIM!!!" Verdugo was yelling at the top of his lungs, hurling spit balls at the helicopter.

"MY SHIELDS ARE HOLDING!" Guardian Anubite yelled back, throwing rocks he was picking up from around the quarter helicopter.

A rock careened through the air and struck Verdugo right in the side of the head. He fell to the ground with a thump and began to wail. Tier looked down at his stricken comrade and jumped off the horse.

"Verdugo,... Verdugo!?"

"I'm, I'm hit, Sir." He coughed. "I don't think I can...I can go on."

And then...Verdugo played dead. Throwing a dramatic pose in Tier's arms, arms flailing about with such spastic spontaneity that it looked like an act. Only, the guy holding him didn't look like he was acting. Tears clutched at the corners of his eyes, his face trembled, his lip quaked. He arched his head back and screamed. "VERRRRDUUUUGOOO!! I'LL AVENGE YOU!" Then he jumped back on the horse and rocked back and forth even more frantically than before, yelling the whole time about harpoons and lasers, and his opponent in the quarter helicopter kept throwing rocks back at him.

"I need a coffee..."

Demon wandered off. This wasn't getting any better.

Monday, February 18, 2008

What a Riot

That blasted little freak that inhabits some run-down, grotesquely of a basement won't talk to me. He might have moved on, might not have. I really don't know. No job (last I heard), no motivation, no initiative to strike forth into the underbelly of society with a knife and gut it. Won't take what he wants from everyone else, just from the people around him. Won't accept help when the crushing sensation of a planet on ones shoulders begins to weigh in as the heavyweight when he's the lightweight. Can't see past the frustration of existence -- no logic. No time for thought or pondering the greater emphasis actions have on surroundings and people and places and time.


I have no time. I have none for myself. But everyone has time for me. Calling, phoning, emailing, demanding. Attention whores all. They seek my eyes like insects to a bug-zapper. They want my focus, my mind. Weaseling in, wresting my thoughts. Jarred, unsettled, I bring down my wrath, however impotent. It does nothing. I still have no time except to feel nervous and anxious and wonder at things that need wondering and things that don't. About a past that wasn't and that is and about people and who they are and aren't and about places where I want to be but can't be and where I will be but don't want to be.

To many states of being that I must assume. Take the roll, take my hand. Lead me away to someplace nasty and hateful and horrible and empty. Follow the leader down the rabbit hole into the frivolous reality of wonderland. The only wonder, I wonder, is that there is nothing but desolation. What a riot.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Thanks for Nothing

I'm tired. I'm tired of the bullshit antics of popularity contests, of how even when you do well or put your all into something it doesn't mean shit because you aren't buddy-buddy with whoever happens to be running the show; that prick of a ringleader -- the high and mighty God from Mount Olympus, descended to let us lowly mortals realize how crappy we truly are. I should very well be comatose for all the hijinks I put up with on a day-to-day basis, about how it appears that for all my tenacity toward a goal and success I end up short-sticked. I pulled the short one, again, and again, and again, like it's some proverbial universal joke being played on me that I don't happen to be privy to.

Ha ha. Yeah, funny. Funny how it always seems I can't pull ahead when I'm clearly doing better. Funny how it always seems like, for all my worth, I'm dirt-poor. A bunch of rich-kids slumming around pretending that little old me is worth the time because they want to have a little fun. Oh, what's that? I really don't matter in the end because I'm not like the rest of you? I don't have class? Well, gee, sorry for not living up to your gloriously and righteously high standards. Maybe you misinterpreted exactly how good you are. What a crappy little shank to better judgement.

Politics. It's all shoddy little political games played by the shadow regime of the clique. I don't quite click into place in the clique. I have none there. I'm that extra piece in the puzzle that doesn't go anywhere. The floater. The random guy that shows up to the party uninvited because my invitation didn't happen to have been sent (because there wasn't one), yet everyone told me I should be there. I'm not wanted. I can see it, but at least let me have my glory moment for being top-dog at least once. Oh, wait, I can't have that because I don't seem to measure up to whatever prolific ideals you've got sprouting out the side of your head like a fungal growth. Thanks for nothing, jackass.

Friday, February 15, 2008


Untitled. Wrote it just now.

When the winter night ends
And you begin to pretend
That that light is the sun up high

That morning is braking
As the stars are shaking
And the frost turns to summer spry

With soft breezes blowing
The summer storms flowing
But the rainy ground soon is dry

You live for the moment
And seem all hell-bent
On never letting summer die

Saturday, February 02, 2008

WPCA - Victim to Another Level Chap 2


Her name was Jess. Not Jessica, not Jessie or Jessy, just Jess. Any sort of infraction upon that gilded and wholly original name would cause this rather large woman with bulbous glasses to match to turn those steely, pale-green eyes upon you and whump you one-for. She was in her mid-thirties, a single mom and a clerk. Attempts to flatter her did nothing save to bring on the ravaging ire she so kept with her like an ill-repute husband. One man said this large woman with the shock of frizzled blonde hair and coke-bottle glasses was a bitch. Probably the most accurate statement given to her. Jess wore it like a badge of honor.

If you asked her what she was a clerk of, she would wave a piece of paper in your face as though you were stupid. Fact, Jess didn't like talk, unless she was the one talking. Asking after her family elicited a story about her father, an over-weight and bald fellow, quite irate--to explain Jess' own personality--who, as Jess said, suffered from a chronic itchy ass. He, as Jess so said, carried with him everywhere one bottle of Ex-lax and one TV remote, the latter for purposes unknown, and the former for purposes not wanting to be known.

Suffice to say, Jess was a character. Funnier still, this irate woman of mid-life crisis with a sniveling brat of a child affectionately called "Princess" worked for a man she despised and only stayed on for the fact that even for the asshole that he was, he was a decent enough fellow as to pay her well and on time knowing full well that the shambles that his office was would die at once if it were not for this Queen of Office Clerks.

"Fuck," she says, leaning back in a chair that screams for a lack of oil and the weight being pressed into service against its sole coil spring.

"Andy? Andy where the FUCK have you been?"

The person in question walks in. A tall man, wiry thin with a hallow look about his face and eyes of such a clear and icy blue they look almost white. He has a hawkish nose and a shock of brown-gray hair, fulfilling the role of another middle-aged and very much over-worked individual. His face is set in a twisted little grin, like he's some fox who got into the chicken coop. Only Jess think's he might've just raped a girl for that demented look in his eyes.

He's drenched from the walk, black trenchcoat soaked through. He pulls it off, revealing a damper black shirt to match the sopping blue jeans. he rubs his alien hands together. That's what Jess calls those hands with their huge fingers and short, filed nails. Andy is an even stranger fellow than Jess.

Unlike Jess with her horrid little hellion, Andy is celebrate. You might think he's Catholic, a Priest maybe, but he isn't. Always mumbling under his breath about how them evil Catholic's are out to get him. Stranger still, Andy reads a Bible devoutly, a massive tome of a book smothered in a slick, brown leather cover. He's a man with a father and mother, of whom he never speaks of either ill or well. He has two brothers, both he says are jerk's damned to hell who should die, and a sister that he calls "Hell's Forgotten Bitch," in those exact words.

Much stranger still, Andy, as scrawny as he is, once served five years in the infantry, of which he will not speak about until rightly drunk. Of course, getting the man to drink is a completely different task that Jess is set upon doing. She desires to know the whereabouts of our wiry fellow with a bad case of "Smilingalotus." Only Andy says not a word as he moves into his office, lowers the blinds and slams the door shut.

Cursing vividly with her dexterous tongue, Jess sets about doing the paperwork before her. Bills, bargains and everything money-wise passes along her desk. She knows for a fact that Andy isn't exactly a wholesome citizen, but Jess realizes that if the Police ever come by snooping with enough evidence, this practical woman would turn that bastard in while seeking amnesty from whatever crimes she might have "unknowingly" committed alongside him.

Not long after the door had closed, it opens again, Andy peering out, then walking toward the coffee machine. He takes it black, like usual, guzzling down the boiling liquid and refilling the stained cup that declares he is the "World's Greatest Fisherman," only Andy doesn't fish.

"Where have you been, Andy?" Jess asks after he finishes gulping down the second cup and begin refilling the mug again.

"Oh, I got the latest accessory."

Andy is a coffee addict. He could take up to fifteen cups of the stuff in a day, if not more. It doesn't even keep him awake. Jess thinks he's got some condition and coffee calms his nerves maybe.

"So, you got some calls earlier. I put the papers on your desk so you can take care of 'em."

Andy merely nods, his head bobbing like a bobblehead as he makes his way back to the office. Jess hopes he knows what he's doing. Lord help her, she would make it out of whatever it was this freak was planning this time around, and the next time, and the time after that.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Chat - Vol 2

(2008-01-29 18:54:27) Wolf: No doubt.

(2008-01-29 18:54:54) ImperialDingo: I'm a bit I'm going to call them and see if they carry 360s.

(2008-01-29 18:55:15) Wolf: I'm a bit I'm?

(2008-01-29 18:55:18) Wolf: WTF...

(2008-01-29 18:55:27) Wolf: You're like the grammar/spelling Nazi of Doom.

(2008-01-29 18:55:30) ImperialDingo: DON'T QUESTION!


(5:00:13 PM) D3M0N65: Mad English Skills: -100

(5:00:36 PM) D3M0N65: Net Mad English Skills: 389

(5:00:40 PM) ImperialDingo: lolno

(5:00:47 PM) D3M0N65: GA has been demoted to Junior Nazi

(5:00:53 PM) ImperialDingo: I'm still over nine thousand.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

WPCA - Clear.

A successive flash of hand signals flew up the line. Two enemies behind the door. Flashbang prepped. They waited on the tap. It came along with a flurry, then hell was unleashed. A hand gripping the door handle was given a nod. It flew open, the grenade flew in, the door shut. The wake of the boom and the crashing waves of the det clawed their way into the room amid a standard of hacking, coughing and teary eyes. The exercise of room clearing came along with the echoing staccato of trigger pulls, the sudden rapture of the enemy identified as dead-man stares.


The quick spastic motions of hands across bodies policed for their weapons and ammunition took place. They began to move again. Firefights started and died as fast as a trigger was pulled, the quick cry of fire echoing long and loud in the corridors. It was quick and quiet -- but for all the stealth, the rude scream of weapons clatter was a prevalent banshee. The quarry was spotted. Stifled laughter evoked by the burp of a machine gun perforated the guardsmen. Choked-on blood congealed languidly beneath still frame macabre art style stills of dead men plastered to the floor.

Mission accomplished.

Monday, January 21, 2008

What's In the Box?

People lose stuff all the time; it's a natural thing to misplace something, especially if you have a lot of other things to keep track of. I've done it, I know my friends have done it. It's completely natural. And of course, since some people lose stuff, other people find it. There are two different kinds of people to who find things: they either keep it for themselves, or they make a lost and found box and hope, on the honor system, that the proper owner comes along to collect it. Well, there's a lost and found box in my building, a glorified college dorm styled building. The box is meant for people who've either a) lost their room keys, or b) lost their meal card for the mess. That's what the box is meant for.

Anyway, I was standing around waiting for a cab to go into town with a friend when curiosity overtook me. I walk up to the box, the first time ever, and peek in the slot. There are three things that I can clearly see in the box. The first is a lighter. I've no idea whether it is full or not, just that it's there. Second, there is a pack of cigarettes, open, and missing probably three from the pack. So let's tally what we got so far in the box: a lighter and a pack of cigs. Rather odd for a key and meal card slot box, eh? Most curious, though, is the last item in the box: a GST cheque. I could even read the print for how much it was worth: $54.00.

In total, what I saw in the box was a Bic lighter, a pack of cigarettes (Player's), and a GST cheque for $54.00.

Why these items are there, I can't begin to fathom, but considering that there was a beer bottle on the top of the entire ensemble, I can only imagine the kind of drunkard that put everything there in the first place. Maybe I should try and claim all the stuff in it. I could go for an extra $54.00...