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.