The Razorclown Returns

Brainstorm:

[something with Zippy. setting?
(medieval/fantasy) (modern/urban fantasy) (futuristic/cyberpunk)
maybe a series of short stories of his different incarnations. that could be cool. but where to start? at the beginning, surely. so, fantasy it is.
doing what?
start en medias res. that's more fun than not.
but still, what's he doing? ooh! got one. fighting a dracolich and its zombie minions. and he takes it out with [edit for suspense]. heh.
probably wanna start with him in midair. having been whacked? dodging?
how long has he been fighting? i'm seeing it underground. that could work. ooh! a tomb with a big central chamber. perfect.

game on.]


Okay. No sword. No magic carpet. A few knives, a few dried herring, ten flasks of lamp oil, and the Gloves of Fish Ignition. And no one knows I'm here.

He lowered his shoulder, ramming past the shambling corpse blocking the narrow walk. A cloud of dust and dried skin puffed from the zombie as it spun about and tumbled stiffly over the edge. Zombies everywhere... Zippy shuddered and checked over his right shoulder, the path before him clear for ten paces. He squeaked and dived onto his stomach. The colossal, rotting claws swept over his head, scraping deep grooves in the stone wall behind him.

And that thing.

The dracolich roared in frustration, lurching forward to attack again. "Die, you accursed clown!"

"No!" Zippy shouted back. The undead dragon's half-decayed talons swept down from overhead, and he had half an instant to consider. And as he contemplated the thirty foot drop to the solid rock below, his instincts rolled him over and off the edge of the catwalk. The dracolich knocked a five-foot section of the wooden walkway into splinters, and Zippy spun sharply about in midair, raising an arm as the dragon's arm slammed into him. Zippy's head jerked hard, glancing of the monster's exposed bone. His vision sparking and his arm numb from the impact, he smashed against the dracolich's thigh and dropped the remaining ten feet to the ground, feet down. Expertly, the tucked and rolled, snapping back up to his feet and looking up at his enemy. His eyes blurred and the room swirled.

Naw, it's not worth the risk, he decided three seconds too late.
The dracolich swung its gray-black head about, looking for its quarry. Dizzily, Zippy realized he had landed in a crowd of undead. No fewer than eight zombies stumbled toward him, dead arms outstretched. He shook his head, and only got dizzier.

The dracolich caught sight of him, and the two locked eyes.

Probably should have planned a little better, he thought for the thousandth time.

Even as he thought it, a zombie latched on to his backpack from behind. Zippy tugged, and its grip held firm.

"Perhaps you should have thought ahead, fool," the dracolich rumbled, smiling a jagged, malevolent smile.

"I was just thinking the - oh, no," Zippy said as he saw the dragon's mouth open wide, its head driving down for the fatal chomp. For the merest fraction of a moment, Zippy froze. Then, he swung his arms back and lunged forward, leaping out of his backpack's straps. The dracolich snapped shut its jaws, catching only the zombie and the backpack.

Zippy rolled over his right shoulder, springing back to a low, ready stance. The remaining zombies slowly turned toward him, and the dracolich whipped its reptile head about to face him, a broken shin bone protruding from its mouth. It ground its carnivore teeth together once, and, staring straight at Zippy, swallowed its mouthful.

To the dracolich's amazement, the clown's jaw dropped - not in fear, but in delight. "Wow," Zippy said, lifting one leather-gloved hand. "Thanks." And he snapped his fingers.

~

The Razorclown grinned and grabbed another biscuit, stuffing the entire pastry in his mouth. The barmaids waited as he chewed, eager to hear the rest of the story. After half a minute of chewing, he took a swig of coffee from his tankard and gulped down the lot. He turned back to his audience, smiling.

Silence.

"...what?" he asked.

"Well?" the farmer in the corner said. "How'd you beat the dragon?"

"I told you! I snapped my fingers!" Zippy said, holding up his hand. He wore leather gloves with the middle finger and the thumb cut off, along with an open patch on the palm. Emblazoned on the back was a curious design of a flaming fish with Xs for eyes.

The barkeep snapped his fingers. "There! I done the same! Sure ain't killed me no zombie dragon!"

Zippy shook his head. "Oh, simple townsfolk. Don't you remember? It ate my backpack!"

Silence.

"...which was full of fish..."

A gasp from the dark-haired barmaid, who nearly spilled the mug she was carrying. "And lamp oil!"

Zippy clapped his hands and pointed to her. "Someone buy her a cookie!"

The farmer in the back got it, and burst into racous laughter.

The barkeep lifted an eyebrow at Zippy, and finally, the Razorclown caved. He reached into his new backpack and pulled out a small salted fish with one hand. The other he held up for all to see.

"Behold, the Gloves of Fish Ignition, my second..." he thought for a moment, "...yeah, second most prized possession. One snap of the fingers, and any fish... bursts into flame!" And he snapped. The herring in his opposite hand was instantly engulfed in blue fire, sizzling and popping with heat. Zippy calmly dropped the fish into a nearby mug of beer, which emitted a short burst of steam and a very unpleasant odor.

"Now," Zippy continued, dusting off his hands, "What happens when ten flasks of lamp oil are suddenly ignited by ten pickled herring in a dracolich's throat?"

The laughter had already begun. The light-haired barmaid lifted a fair eyebrow, smirking. "You don't mean..."

"Yup." Zippy smirked back.

~

The dracolich barely had time to register its surprise before its head was propelled forcefully from its neck. Zippy yelped and leapt to the side as the smoking skull hurtled past him, crashing into the wall with an echoing crack! He looked back to see the dracolich's dead left eye staring at him. A glutteral sound escaped, somehow, from its mouth, and the head crumbled to dust. The dracolich's decapitated body fell to the stone floor, disintegrating on impact. A collective moan filled the cavern as the entire throng of zombies collapsed, the unclean magic animating them dispelled by the death of the caster.

Zippy stood still for a moment, surrounded by dust and corpses. The echoes faded, and the catacomb was silent.

Maybe, he thought, this story will get me some free goodies at the tavern.

He sneezed at the dust.

Behold!

What? A post? How is that possible?

Big news. The college group at my church has begun a podcast. I'm excited.

Check it out in the iTunes Music Store. Search for "Pipeline Ministries," and you'll find one with a black logo with little red stars. That's us. It's free, and full of good content: daily devotionals, mini-messages, and the lesson from that week's Sunday's Cool (don't blame me. i didn't name it).

Also, for more devotionals (some written by myself), audio and Pipeline news, check out our MySpace page. We're putting that blasted social networking site to good use!

Expect more soon on this particular site. Apparently, I'm supposed to be writing.

A song isn’t just a song when it’s attached to a story.

People didn’t think of that when the first exiles arrived. They didn’t have much with them – didn’t have time to get anything together. We’d heard stories of how rich they were. How much money they spent on things they didn’t even need. “They’re fat and lazy,” my brother-in-law said once, “and they don’t even work for it.”

They definitely worked hard when they got to the city. Within the first two days, one family had a fruit stand up and running. I found out later that my aunt helped them find an old farmer to work with, a guy who needed help getting to the city and back. For the wage they got, they were doing him a favor.

I stopped by the fruit stand that first morning on the way to work. Bought an orange. Two things I’ll always remember about that first time I talked to them: one, the look on the mother’s face. I looked her in the eye as she handed me my change, and I could tell that she had been crying. But she smiled at me all the same, and wished me a good day.

Second, they were playing the radio.

Seemed like every time I went by a group of exiles, the radio was going. Our stations played their music a lot. It was more popular then than it is now. So they listened constantly. It’s like they drank it in, like they needed it. Once I saw an exile kid wearing these little headphones, and trying to hide something in his pocket, but he kept fiddling with it. It was one of those little pocket radios, an MP3. One of the guys from my work saw him and asked him what he had, and he took off.

I was walking back from work two weeks after the first exiles arrived, and the younger sister was running the fruit stand. Little brother was unloading crates of berries from the old farmer’s truck. She looked at me when I walked up, and tried to smile, but then, out of nowhere, she just broke down and started weeping. Mom rushed out and tried to calm her down, and then she was crying too. And then I realize, the song was playing on the radio.

I’d seen it happen before. That stupid song comes on, the one with the whiny girl singing about how bad she wants some guy back, the one with the thumpy bass and the annoying synth noises, and the exiles just break down. They can’t handle it. We made fun of them for it.

I had to know. “What is it,” I asked, “about that song?”

They both looked at me, for a moment, like they were going to come across the counter and strangle me. Then they realized that I just didn’t know. Mom put her arm around her daughter and looked me in the eye. Her voice was steady enough that I could understand her through her accent.

She said, “That song was playing when the city fell.”

I really enjoy putting together playlists. Something about establishing a mood with music, then elaborating on it. There's an element of storytelling there for me - I get a lot of story ideas while listening to music, and I always visualize action to go with a song.

Here's a CD I put together recently. I looked through my collection for different shades of alternative rock and assembled them into something of a flow. Expect other playlists in the future. But for tonight, DJ Razorclown presents:

One Alternative or Another

1) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Official Soundtrack

2) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

3) Bush, "Jesus Online"
   from The Science of Things

4) Switchfoot, "This is Your Life"
   from The Beautiful Letdown

5) The Wallflowers, "One Headlight"
   from Bringing Down the Horse

6) Maroon 5, "Harder to Breathe"
   from Songs About Jane

7) Green Day, Oasis, et. al., "Boulevard of Broken Songs"
   from www.partyben.com

8) Foo Fighters, "New Way Home"
   from The Colour and the Shape

9) Imani Coppola, "Legend of a Cowgirl"
   from Chupacabra

10) Incubus, "Stellar"
   from Make Yourself

11) Damien Jurado, "Ohio"
   from Rehearsals for Departure

12) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

13) Stone Temple Pilots, "Trippin' on a Hole in a Paper Heart"
   from Thank You

14) Gorillaz, "5/4"
   from their self-titled CD

15) Fuel, "Walk the Sky"
   from Godzilla: The Album

16) The Refreshments, "Mekong"
   from Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy

17) Sarah McLachlan, "Possession (Live)"
   from Mirrorball

18) Bush, "Letting the Cables Sleep"
   from The Science of Things

19) Cold, "Sad Happy"
   from Year of the Spider

20) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love (Studio Mix)"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Original Soundtrack

For once, I have an excuse for not posting recently. Ironically enough, that reason is also a good occasion for a blog post. And thus, once again, I'm left without a defense.

I started working full-time at JPlus Architects last Tuesday. It's quite an adjustment to go from relative idleness to getting up at 6 am and working over eight hours... and loving it. My time feels more precious now, which I greatly appreciate. I know I've done something in a given day, though I have much to learn about my craft.

God continues to bless. Life is good.

More to come soon!

“You keep laughing at me,” she said, because I did. She was chuckling herself.

She had stories to tell, and I was glad to listen. She’d managed to pay for our coffee, as my female friends tended to do somehow, and there we sat - indoors in Adirondack chairs, tall coffee cups just short of spilling over. We’d last happened upon each other in the True Love Coffeehouse, not long before it evaporated. Even before then, it had been a while.

Kelly (her pseudonym for this post) and I had been friends in high school, and behold, we still were. She had lived in interesting, unforeseen ways since I last knew her well, and I struggled not to compare. I imagine myself to be an extraordinarily boring guy, when it comes right down to it, so I was more than content to listen. And as she told her stories, I laughed.

It always annoyed me in English class when irony was broken down and defined as juxtaposition: when expectation and reality are far removed from each other. But with Kelly and me, this was exactly the case. Our lives are completely dissimilar. The fact that we’re friends at all kind of baffles me, but I love it.

So, I laughed. And thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind. I hope she actually didn’t.

When she asked me what I’d been up to, I was fairly embarrassed to describe my life for the past couple of years. Whereas she has been working in politics, making contacts and advancing her career, I’ve been… well, certainly not doing that. Only recently have I found full time work, and that through a full-on conspiracy of the Holy Spirit. No kidding. The circumstances surrounding my employment are miraculous in their timing.

We talked about the times. About the various choices and circumstances that lead so many of our generation back to their parents’ houses (as I myself have done). About politics and economics. Briefly, about elephant tattoos. And we talked about old friends we had and hadn’t seen. More stories there, some wonderful, some downright depressing.

Eventually, we said goodbye for the evening. I waited for her to pull out of the narrow parking lot before I backed out of my space, still smiling. It had been a while since I had sat down and had a cup of coffee with an old friend, let alone Kelly. For all the nostalgia, the evening felt somehow new.

I worked an eight-hour day for the first time in a long time today. And I saw a dear friend I hadn’t caught up with in years.

There is a momentum shift at work in my life. I feel in plainly now. And I love it.

Praise God! who makes living worthwhile. Amen.

Here’s the difference.

Man-made gods tend not to make too many demands (not always true, mind you, but a strong tendency nonetheless). Quite the other way around. It’s man that goes to the idol with demands, and sacrifices to appease. A little blood to grease the wheels, to keep the days carefree and the crops coming in. If things get tough, throw more blood on the altar. And if things don’t improve, maybe it’s time to find a new idol.

“When Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were amazed at his teaching, because he taught as one who had authority, and not as their teachers of the law.” –Matthew 7:28-29

Jesus, on the other hand, sets standards. Draws lines. He makes demands. He says he doesn’t want sacrifices, but obedience. As it turns out, he knows our hearts, our intentions… so we can’t appease him. We can’t get away with giving him lip service, because he knows when it’s just lip service.

Idols get any power they might have from belief. If no one worships them, they’re just another ugly little sculpture. This is not true of Jesus. He does not need anything. He is the author of the universe, and that will never change, no matter what we believe.

Yet, even though he does not need us, he loves us. To the point of death, and beyond, to life again. No graven image can claim that.

The difference is, Jesus is worthy of worship. Man-made gods are not.

Apparently, this is not as obvious as it should be.

I'm back.

Or, as Drake would say: "FINALLY! The Rock... eh, Brian... has come back to Sacramento!"

I'm currently staying at Mum's, in order to save up cash for a few months and then find a place to live.

For my new phone number, please contact me through e-mail (found on my Blogger profile), MySpace, or what have you.

Woot.

I've posted a short prose poem at Nights Awake 2.0.

On the WWE website is a little section called Foley is Blog. As it turns out, Mick Foley (see also his profile on WWE.com) is an excellent writer, and something of a humanitarian. I found the February 22nd entry to be particularly inspiring, and wanted to point it out. The entire entry is good, but check out the section under the heading Herma Grace.

I found this on Liesel's blog, and was intrigued. I've always been curious about what people really think of me. Not an uncommon thought, I'm sure. But this is an interesting device to discover just that.

Behold. The Interactive Johari Window and its counterpart, The Interactive Nohari Window.

If you decide to participate, perhaps the use of a nondescript, anonymous pseudonym would be in order. Something like "X1," so the next person can take "X2." That way, there will be no reservations about being totally honest. Just a thought.

I've made a couple posts over at Nightsawake 2.0. Be thou informed.

Also, I'm greatly enjoying Mark Buchanan's Your God is Too Safe, a well-put-together treatise on how wild, dangerous, and loving God really is. He is, you know. Thanks, Mum. Good Christmas gift.

And finally, Amanda has introduced me to a softer world, a very artful project indeed. Please, browse the archives and find your favorites.

I remember being advised to stay within the lines when I was coloring as a child. It’s not like anyone was trying to limit my creativity; it’s just that if you don’t stay within the lines, the picture is totally incoherent at the end. The lines blur under patches of color, and the image becomes something else.

Today, we in the modern West are presented with an increasingly abstract image. Long-familiar lines have become blurred and obscured.

The line between life and death – should it not be clear? – is disturbingly ambiguous. Medical technology permits us to prolong a failing pulse… indefinitely? How alive is the comatose woman, devastated by a car accident a decade ago, sustained only by life support? And who decides when to turn off the machines? Somewhere, there is a line between life and unlife, but where? As a nation, we still cannot agree on whether a pregnant mother carries within her an unborn child, or merely a fetus. The difference cannot be overemphasized.

Gender lines have been drawn and redrawn. A thousand maps exist, a thousand theories on who is who and why. I told a friend that I’d never met a transgender person, and she told me that I had, naming them. That, I realized, was why I’d had a problem figuring out whether they were male or female: they were in-between. Even for those who remain in their natural sex, gender roles are continually rejected and recast. Homosexuality moves into the mainstream, and the questions continue to pile up. What happens to parenting, or romance, or family, when male and female are all but interchangeable?

The private blurs more and more into the public. People worry about the prevalence of surveillance technology, the constant monitoring and tracking of their day to day lives. They then proceed to post deeply personal information – thoughts, gripes, vendettas – on the Internet. (I am sharply aware that this blog is accessible by a startling number of people throughout the world, but it seems that many bloggers are not.) While on the Internet, they can easily find descriptions, pictures, and video of the most explicit and intimate personal acts imaginable. Sex and more. This trend is reflected not only in the dark (and light) corners of the Internet, but in practically every other form of mass media. Is it permissiveness, or openness?

Truth and falsehood slip increasingly into obscurity. Spiritual beliefs have been assigned their own corner of reality: they cannot be right or wrong. Everyone believes what they believe, and everyone is right. Even if their beliefs contradict. I posed this question to a friend: if she didn’t believe in trucks, would she die if a truck hit her? “No,” she said. I hope she was an extreme example.

Change is afoot.

And the price? Confusion, at least, and on any number of levels. Loss of innocence. Some of our social experiments, I think, shall fail. All that remains to be seen is which, and how badly. Some, however will be great boons to society. I am cautiously optimistic about the advent of the blog, and the idea of bringing wide scale publishing to the masses. I think a certain level of openness on the subject of sexuality is quite healthy.

But when I read in the first chapter of Genesis about the Earth being formless and covered in darkness, I think of a world with no lines, no boundaries. Everything is permitted, supposedly. But the Holy Spirit still hovers over the face of the waters, eagerly awaiting the day when the darkness will be utterly removed, and the lines that have always been there will be undeniably clear.

Because in the end, some lines cannot be erased by man.

Every so often, there's a survey or somesuch making the blogging rounds that's worthwhile. The following is a list of questions you ask a music player set on random. Given my extensive iTunes playlist, I had to give it a shot.

In the end, it seems that iTunes is generally a poor oracle. I hope.

Here goes.

~ ~ ~

Q: What do you think of me, iTunes?
A: “A Stray Child” by Akira Ymaoka, from the Silent Hill 3 Official Soundtrack

Either I’m a street urchin, or I’m doomed to whack horrid abominations with a lead pipe. Cool.

Q: Will I have a happy life?
A: “Skyway” by the Replacements

Hmm. The song is about an imaginary transportation system. This does not bode well. And the girl gets away.

Q: What do my friends really think of me?
A: “P5hng Me A*wy” by Mike Shinoda and Stephen Richards, a remix of “Pushing Me Away” on Linkin Park’s Reanimated.

Oh, grand.

Q: Do people secretly lust after me?
A: “Tonight” by the Orange County Supertones

A song about the end of the world. So, maybe if I were the last man on Earth.

Q: What does [insert significant other] think of me?
A: “Technicolor Jackets” by Blood Has Been Shed

Whoa. A hardcore rock song. Whatever they feel, apparently they feel it strongly. The lyrics suggest that I have a lot to learn. About… something.

Q: How can I make myself happy?
A: “Stalker Goes to Babylon” by the Pillows

*laughter unto death*

Q: What should I do with my life?
A: “Good King Joy” by Trans-Siberian Orchestra, a medley of “Joy to the World,” “Good King Wenceslas,” and some blues action.

Make a joyful noise. On it.

Q: Why must life be so full of pain?
A: Track 2 on Nick Cates’ “Jesus Songs”

Amen. Heh. Y’all gotta hear Nick’s stuff. Ask me about Track 4 sometime.

Q: How can I maximize my pleasure during sex? (hey, it was on the list.)
A: “Until It Sleeps” by Metallica and the San Francisco Orchestra

*fighting back chuckles* Note not only the name of the song, but the fact that it’s fom a CD called S&M.

Q: Will I ever have children?
A: “H.” by Tool

If that’s the case, I hope not. Yeesh.

Q: Will I die happy?
A: “Prayer” by Disturbed

A resounding no.

Q: Can you give me some advice?
A: “Battle, Scene II” by the Black Mages

Cool. I’ll get my sword.

Q: Do you know where your children are?
A: “Ghost Love Score” by Nightwish

…kids! Time to come inside! KIDS? Uh, oh.
Good think I have my sword.

Q: What do you think happiness is?
A: “Sad Happy” by Cold

Dang, iTunes. You okay?

Q: What's your favorite fetish?
A: “Death Star Canteen” by Eddy Izzard

Turn-ons: Black plastic armor, asthma. (A Drake running gag.)

For me, every day is Christmas. Though the official feast day has passed, Jesus continues to invade.

Today, a repost of a story I composed and put up last year. I hope it will remind you of miracles.

The First Noel, 2004

    The Hanukkah travel rush was over, and Bethlehem was quiet again. Hence, the corner where Ben Simon worked the graveyard shift hadn’t seen a car pass in ten minutes. He looked up from his English textbook and peered across the street, to the small booth where his friend Isaiah worked. They had both gotten late-night jobs at gas stations at about the same time, and frequently used faux company loyalty as an excuse to pick on each other. Diagonally across the intersection from Ben was a third gas station manned by Mordecai Steinberg. While Ben and Isaiah had the occasional squeegee fight in the middle of the empty road, Mo usually stuck to his booth dutifully, reading the Torah.

    Tonight was too cold for squeegee fighting, and the batteries had just run out in Ben’s Game Boy. His parents were mad at him for working on the Sabbath, and he had homework due on Monday.

    Ben was all but dozing off when someone knocked on his Plexiglas window. He started and sat up on his shop stool.

    “Sorry. What do you need?” Ben rubbed one eye with his palm as he looked up.

    Outside the window stood a young woman wearing a military dress uniform. She was all straight lines – vertical spine, squared shoulders, and perfect uniform creases. And yet her face was gentle, hinting at a smile. Ben had no doubt she could take him apart in a hand-to-hand fight, and no one would make fun of him for getting beaten up by a girl afterwards.

    Her eyes grabbed his, very pale and very clear, and she smiled. “What are you doing here?”

    All at once, the world burst open. Light poured through the dingy windows of the gas station, and left no shadow. Ben Simon’s ears popped, his eyes widened, and he threw up his hands in terror. The woman outside the window threw light like a pure white sun, her smile only growing wider.

    “Don’t be afraid!” she whispered to Ben. “I bring good news. The best news the world has ever heard. An hour ago, right here in Bethlehem, a Savior was born. The Messiah, Ben. Right here.”

    At her words, the fear began to drain away. Ben lowered his hands and looked at her. Her eyes were bright and full of joy, and they stole his breath away.

    The Messiah. Here.

    He found his breath, struggled to pull it in. “Wh-“

    “Not five blocks away. Down the street,” she said, lifting her arm to point, “you’ll find a newborn, wrapped in cloth. He’s in the laundry room of the hotel, lying in the sink.”

    Ben barely had time to picture the King of Kings in his makeshift cradle before the angel looked over her shoulder, laughing. A battalion of soldiers in the same uniform, burning brighter than the day, swept in on wings of gold and silver, filling the intersection and the surrounding streets. Their voices shook the walls of Ben’s booth as they shouted, “Hallelujah in the highest! Peace on Earth to the favored of God!” There voices were as joyous laughter, filled with love and zeal.

    The angel looked back to Ben, her wings unfolding like the sunrise. “Go, go!” she shouted giddily, and he lifted herself from the ground. Behind her followed the rest of the brilliant soldiers, shouting their chorus again and again. Moments later, the night was quiet again, and Ben could hear only his own riotous pulse. He stumbled out of his booth, staring at the sky, until he finally looked down to see Isaiah and Mordecai standing next to him.

    “You... you heard that. You saw it,” Ben stammered.

    “I know which hotel she meant,” Isaiah started, stealing glances at the stars. “We should... I mean, we’ve gotta- Mo! Wait!”

    Mordecai Steinberg had turned and run headlong back toward his gas station, pumping his arms like an Olympian. He spun about breathlessly and shouted back:

    “I’m getting my car! Don’t move!”

* * *

    “Fernando! Is it refreshing?”

    “Crap, I’ve got no bars. We hit a dead pocket... no! Wait, there it goes. What does it say?”

    “Turn around! Shaun, turn around!”

    The van halted sharply, and the young man and woman in the back braced themselves as best they could. Bina Zarafshar clutched at the notebook computer on her lap as the monitor swung forward and down. The cord running from the computer to their team’s cell phone snapped taught, and Bina caught her breath.

    “Ai!”

    Fernando noticed at the last second and pulled down his hand, slackening the cord. He chuckled nervously and sat down. “That was bad. Almost tugged it right off your lap.”

    “It’s okay. It’s fine. Wait. Did we-“

    “Yes, yes, we got dropped. But we’ve got good reception here. Good spot to reconnect.”

    Shaun parked the van and climbed into the back.

    “How close are we?”

    Bina looked to the chart. The latest data from the feed had been factored in, and the numbers were huge. Monumental.

    “Oh, we’re close.” She couldn’t help but laugh. They were almost on top of it. “Try turning right back at that last intersection.”

    Fernando nodded and grinned eagerly. “This is too good. Too good. You should redial now.”

    “Oh! Right.” Bina double-clicked the link to her ISP, and the cell phone began dialing. None of them considered the absurd charges they were racking up, connecting to the Internet through an international call. The signal shot through the atmosphere, and a few moments later, the connection was up again.

    “Good,” said Shaun. “You let me know if we get dropped again, okay?” His eyes grinned every bit as much as his mouth. He hopped back into the driver’s seat.

    “Of course. Just brake easier!” Bina looked back to her screen. She logged back into the University network, and the feed began again. “All right, we’re receiving data... yes, definitely turn right back at that intersection. The stream was almost off the chart right there.”

    “Let me see,” Fernando said, leaning in to see the screen. Bina turned it toward him, and he laughed aloud. The graph, which read “Divine Particle Density,” showed a spike in an already remarkably high, steady level at about the time they had passed the intersection.

    “When we show this to the Nobel committee,” Fernando smirked, “do you think they’ll mind the name ‘divine particle?’”

    “It’s as good a name as any for what they are,” Shaun shouted from the front, putting the van back in gear. He swung the vehicle around as fast as he dared and headed back along the road. “Tell me the convergence hasn’t moved.”

    Bina shouted back, “No, it hasn’t moved for hours! And it has to be in this town... where are we?”

    “Bethlehem!”

    “No, what country?”

    They all laughed. For all they sleep they had gotten in the past week of tracking and traveling, they should have been exhausted. But sleep was far from their minds.

* * *

    No one was doing laundry this late, thankfully. There was a slight draft from under the door, but other than that, the room was warm enough. Joseph leaned on the wall by the sink, sleeves rolled up, looking down at his son. He hadn’t stopped grinning for hours. He couldn’t help but think that there was a better place to put him, but he had dried out the basin well enough. And besides, the child had been sleeping peacefully since the doctor had left.

    Joseph sighed happily and threw a glance at Mary, who stirred on her cot. A few thin, dark curls still stuck to her wet forehead, and her face was still ever so slightly flushed. Joseph knelt by her side, by his wife’s side, and let himself just stare at her face. Her mouth was barely open, her breath steady and calm. A nice change of pace from... had it only been an hour ago? He shook his head in awe and smoothed Mary’s hair back from her face.

    “My God,” he breathed, “you’re amazing.”

    Her breath drew in sharply, and her eyes flickered open.

    “Oh! Did I wake you up? I’m sorry...”

    “No, no, it’s okay,” she said sleepily, squinting her eyes and stretching. “Is the baby still...”

    Joseph nodded. “Yeah. Still asleep in the... sink.” He chuckled despite himself.

    Mary smirked, shaking her head from her prone position. “The sink. Oi.” She slipped her hand into her husband’s, catching his eye. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

    Joseph squeezed her hand and held her gaze. He merely nodded, and leaned in to kiss her.

    It was then that the doorknob turned. The couple looked up sharply as a young man poked his head into the room.

    “Hello?” he said.

    “Hello,” Mary replied. There was suddenly no sleep in her voice, and she sat up on her cot.

    The young man was jostled forward by someone behind him. He stepped through the door, and two other teenagers followed, all scanning the room expectantly. They all wore blue uniforms with the logos of three different gas stations on their breast pockets. Their eyes settled on the sink in the corner at the same time. The one in the back gasped. “Is that... is the baby...?”

    Joseph threw his wife a confused look, and found her doing the same. “How do you...”

    “This way! It’s got to be right here!” came a woman’s voice from outside, speaking English.

    A moment later, three Americans burst into the laundry room, carrying a laptop hooked up to a cellular phone. They all wore wrinkled, lived-in shirts and jeans, and were watching the screen of the laptop with awe in their eyes. The only light-skinned one of the three, who had nothing in his hands, looked urgently to all those assembled in the small room.

    “Please, tell me one of you speaks English.”

     The three gas station attendants, Mary, and Joseph, all began speaking at the same time, in English.

    “Oh, thank God. Look, there’s a completely unique quantum event happening in this room, right here! We’ve been tracking it from America for the last nine months, and... what is it?”

    Bina had set down the laptop and walked over to the sink, almost in step with Ben. Joseph took a step toward them, but Mary put a hand on his arm. The Jew and the gentile peered over the edge of the basin.

    And there, wrapped in three of his father’s old t-shirts, was the child, his breath whistling softly through his nose. If peace were a child, it could be none other than this. Ben’s breath caught in his throat, and Bina’s eyes lit up.

    “It’s him.”

    “It’s a child,” Bina gasped.

    Joseph breathed deeply, still uncertain. “How did you know we...?”

    And all at once, the rest of the new arrivals realized that they had found what they were seeking. Suddenly they were all laughing in delight. Ben knelt by the sink, eyes locked on the Anointed One. Shaun grabbed Fernando by the shoulders, tears in his eyes. “A child! Of course it’s a child!” He turned to Mary and Joseph to explain just as Mo Steinberg did the same, and they launched into their stories as one.

    “Wait, wait, wait!” It was Ben, who only now looked back up from the sink-turned-cradle. He held up a hand for silence, and turned reverently to Mary and Joseph. “What is his name?”

    Mary met his gaze, slowly beginning to smile again. “His name is Joshua.”

    They all took in the name in silence. Fernando grinned and nodded in approval. “Joshua. Jésus in Spanish. It means...” His voice trailed off.

    Mary nodded with him. “The Lord saves.”

Christmas Morning

It's been decided.
For a change of pace,
it will be the stars
that will shine down
on God.

There's been an interesting discussion on existentialism on Chase's blog. Check the comments on the Friday, Nov. 18th post.

I am contemplating becoming a student again, this time at William Jessup University in Rocklin. Those of you readers who pray, please do pray for me. My plans are only the most basic at the moment, but I'm hopeful things will come together soon.

I'll bet you'd never have guessed my next post would be about artificial sweeteners.

Not long ago, my Mom and I attended a nutrition class at our church. The instructor loaned Mom a video entitled Sweet Misery: A Poisoned World. Mom was so impressed with the movie that she had me watch it.

As it turned out, is was a documentary on the harmful effects of aspartame, commonly markeded at Nutrasweet. I took the information to heart and have since been telling people, offhand, that aspartame is dangerous. I didn't really questioned the documentary until last night, when Liam raised some objections to the chemistry behind Sweet Misery.

So, I leapt this morning into Wikipedia, and found their article about aspartame, which, incidentally, confirms the content of Sweet Misery.

I encourage you all to at least take a brief look at the findings before having another diet soda. A quick summary: when digested, aspartame breaks down into methanol, aspartic acid, and phenylalanine. All of these substances are potentially harmful to the human body, though to what degree remains controversial. That said, please note the heading "Recently published research" near the bottom of the article.

Heh. Also note that from here on out, you will be seeing a lot of Wikipedia citations in my posts. It's an amazing site, and I encourage you all to visit it frequently. Poke around, and see what you can find.

While I'm not generally one to repost quiz results, I had a feeling about this one. Took the test, and turned out to be right. In color, at least.

Your Hair Should Be Purple

Intense, thoughtful, and unconventional. You're always philosophizing and inspiring others with your insights.

What's Your Funky Inner Hair Color?

 


The picture above is from several years ago. Every so often, I think of going back. Very tempting, indeed.

[a brief sampling of quotes I've saved from friends and family:]


You can go places in crazy, even if you already are crazy. It’s a matter of partitioning.
   - Amanda

Some people are so smart that they just have accents.
   - Alex

Damn you and the alphabet!
   - Cody

Oh, Eh, FBI Can Kiss My Ass *Speaks Directly Into The Camera*
   - Matt, from an IM conversation

It’s so much helpful…er.
   - Jenna

Twinkies are the snack equivalent of roaches.
   - Cody

Do not butt me with your butt!
   - Kathi

Nick, make a reflex save as the tyrannosaurus breathes fire on you.
   - Dave

I think caramel corn is the answer to my problems.
   - Mum

Yeah, I've been at this roleplaying thing for a while. It's essentially an exercise in improv acting and using a rules system to your advantage. I try to focus more on the character aspect, but it's easy to get involved in a discussion of character classes, hit points, and special abilities.

There's been at least one game of one kind or another going among my group of friends for several years now. I've been involved in a lot of them, creating and playing a whole bunch of characters in a whole lot of settings. There have been a few serious moments, but mostly just frivolous good times, making up stories and getting away with stuff you just can't do in real life.

It's time once again to sort through the stack of roleplaying character sheets in my satchel, and figure out which to let go. Only this time, it's interactive! I'm gonna run down the list, and any of the relevant Storytellers, Dungeon Masters, etc. who read this may kindly let me know if I'll ever need them again. Feel free to also post reminisces, etc.

And now, from top to bottom:

Whisper of the Rushing Wind, Celestial Exalted.
Modeled after Judi Dench. Functioned as a guide in Liam's Exalted game, in which the characters were invited to the renewal of wedding vows between the Sun and Moon. I only played in one session, but it was quite amusing.

Lee Simons, a.k.a. Lost Packet, Seattle Police cybercrime officer.
I sorely miss this game. A cyberpunk setting, as one might guess, with much of the game taking place in cyberspace. Lee's avatar was a cartoon rabbit with ghetto wear and twin uzis. There were hilarious antics involving a swarm of digital bats. Hats off to Liam for that one.

Caleb Tears-of-Gaia, abomination.
That is to say, a vampiric werewolf. It's easy to miss the fact that abominations are full of roleplaying possibilites, because they're so powerful as to be unplayable in most settings - except by the most trustworthy of players. I took the opportunity to play one in Shannon's post-apocalyptic World of Darkness setting, since it wouldn't have been particularly unbalanced there.

Kar'Dath, Narn drug dealer.
I know I don't need this character sheet any longer, since the character has long since lost his mind and died in a prison revolt. I'm keeping it mainly for the picture I drew of him, which started a tradition in Carolyn's Babylon 5 game. Goofy pictures make for good character sheets.

Vinzo Targa, Centauri telepath.
My unplayed successor to Kar'Dath in Carolyn's B5 game. The game was thoroughly enjoyable because of the emphasis on social play rather than combat. Anyone who's caught an episode of Babylon 5 will understand that tendency. The game was particularly memorable because of several moments, including the introduction of the immortal Dio Sabbath, Space Cowboy. Thank Drake.

The Razorclown, Abyssal Exalted.
An outstandingly evil, twisted incarnation of Zippy the Razorclown from days of old. Prone to flashy combat maneuvers, calculated madness, and jesterish dialogue. This game had less to do with full-on villainy than high adventure with a group of rather wicked people. Very fun until the lava tentacles showed up. Ow. Lenny did admirably besides, it should be noted.

Sergei, mutant Russian spy.
Member of Kyle Katarn's entourage in Matt's Rifts game. Post-apocalyptic fun for the entire family. And an opportunity for me to deliver snappy dialogue in a Russian accent. Many fun pseudo-memories.

Remar Sukos, Solar Exalted and travelling merchant.
I think I'm holding onto him so I'll have an Exalted character ready, in case Lenny decides to start up again. Notable because of his cool anima banner, and for the fact that he convinced a pirate not to sack his ship.

Thorn, dimension-hopping demon.
Making characters in any Palladium Games system - Palladium, Rifts, Beyond the Supernatural, etc. - is a gigantic pain. One day, I noticed that fiends in Palladium, Thorn's native setting, have the "dimensional teleport" ability. When Matt decided to run a Rifts game, Thorn simply leapt from high fantasy to sci-fi, just like that. His equipment list reads: halberd, mace, NE-300 "Stutterer" grenade launcher. Handy.

Zippy Von Zippy, the Razorclown.
A long-enduring character of mine in prose and roleplaying. The idea of a gothic clown with a gigantic sword and magic gloves that make fish catch on fire popped quite suddenly into my head, and hasn't left since. His character has developed significantly, in my mind, at least, since his original incarnation. I plan to have a story or two about him written... someday.

and finally,

Pedro Vallastrada, a.k.a. Pantera.
Anthropomorphic cat superhero. Also deceased. The tradition of goofy character pictures continued in Nick's superhero game, in a big way. And it was a good game besides, with a shocking twist ending: half of our heroes defected to the Nazi party, and only villains survived the grand melee that ensued. Alas, Pantera took his super-secret past with him to the grave. Unless I told everyone afterwards. I forget.

And that's the stack as it stands. Oi. That's a few characters. There are more besides, but those sheets are long gone. Marcus Robinson. Milos Daskalos. Gully Ironblood. Stuart the Bug. Sachiel the Blackguard. Orson "Osh-Kosh" Montblanc. Plenty of stories, lots of memorable moments.

I'll get into the philosophy behind roleplaying in a later post. For now, I'll sign off.

Whew. It feels good to be writing again, at least.

Dan pointed out to me how long it's been since I last posted something here. Sorry. Didn't feel like that long. In any case, there's news to report.

The car has been recovered, in working order, no less. In a twist of fate - ha, ha, bleh - I sprined my left ankle quite badly a week after my car was stolen. Will be in a cast for a couple more weeks, approximately. Only after I've healed will I be able to drive my car, which has a manual transmission.

All this thinking about career paths lately has led me to consider the ministry. That's still a big question mark at the moment, but I am particularly excited about a couple things. For one thing, more Christian education. Been wanting to learn more about the Bible and theology for a while now. There's a lot there to be learned. Also, connecting and serving more at Arcade Wesleyan. The suggestion has been made that I volunteer to be a Sunday School teacher. I like that thought. More and more, I see myself as a teacher of some sort, working with kids. Exciting. I haven't had a goal that I could actually describe as exciting in a long time.

So, I'm looking to get back down to Sacramento soon. Have to heal up and take care of a few expenses first, but barring disaster, I should be down there by the end of the year.

I'd like to get back to my much neglected fiction stories as well, but I'm not promising anything. I've got several hundred pages of deep theology to read in about a week, drafting work to do, and a wedding reception to attend.

Matt Turner's wedding reception, no less. Yeah, you read right. 3:00 this Saturday at Santa Anita Park. Come, ye friends from days of old. Shake the guy's hand.

Ahh, a post. Needs a closing. May as well steal from Paul.

"May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all." - 1 Corinthians 13:14

Amen.

Life update:

Plans had been formed to 1) find an extra job in Grass Valley, 2) save money, and 3) use said money to move to Sacramento and get my own place. Phase One had been completed - washing dishes at Rebecca's Mighty Muffins - and all was proceeding according to plan.

Last Sunday night, however, my car was stolen.

The plan has been, and is being, adjusted substantially. Details once the fragments settle into place. Suffice to say, the goal of being in Sacramento at the end of the year is looking well in hand.

Pray for me. Pretty stressed, not a little lonely, but hoping for the best.

Incidentally, I've invented a word.

Godwork: n. a seeming coincidence which is clearly an act of God, usu. resulting in an obvious, often long-awaited blessing.

Oddly enough, I didn't care terribly much when I discovered my car was missing. I knew God could use that for the best, and I'd manage. The stressful bit is having to decide on a timeline for moving to Sacramento, given a number of recently-emerged factors.

I get the feeling it's gonna require more work than I'd like. Which is to say, any work at all. I'm also getting the feeling that this is all part of God's plan to break me of my absurd laziness. Part of me is, understandably, dreading that process, but I'll be glad for it.

Much is coming.

I would like to note that there has been an uncharacteristic amount of activity over at Nightsawake 2.0. Please do visit.

As per the directions, I post the following:

1. Reply with your name and I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavor of jello to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I'll tell you my first memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal. You MUST. It is written.

I'll at least pick a few of the above. The default jello flavor is champagne, because if there's gonna be any jello wrestling, it's gonna be a classy affair.

Destruction is certain for those who say that evil is good and good is evil; that dark is light and light is dark; that bitter is sweet and sweet is bitter.
-Isaiah 5:20 (New Living Translation)

Yesterday, Pastor Steve continued his sermon series on the book of Revelation. We had come at last to Judgment Day. Steve was excited about the message that morning, and us along with him. His energy was contagious. At last he read aloud the passage in which Satan's two servants are cast alive into the lake of fire, receiving their just reward, and he called for an amen! ...with rather weak results. He tried again, with a little goading, and we responded loudly, if still a little uncomfortably. Same thing when Satan himself was condemned to eternal torment. It was hard for us to cheer, somehow.

I thought about it during the service, and I realized that they all deserved it. For one thing, God's justice is just. The Bible is clear on that. And if you take into account what Satan and his servants do in the book of Revelation alone, their punishment should be harsh indeed.

Still, it's hard for me to cheer someone else's demise.

A case of sympathy for the devil? Perhaps. Largely, with me, it's just the fact that I myself totally deserve punishment for things I've done. Thanks to Jesus' grace, I'll be fine on the day of judgment. If we take the images from Revelation, God will call me to account for everything I've ever done in my life. Every secret, every vile thought, every drop of malice... and in the end, I'll have no excuse. And in the very end, He'll say, "All right. I'm glad that's done. Welcome home, son." Sometimes I envision myself feeling guilty for accepting grace, like it's a cop-out or something. But nah. I think I'll likely be a little to thankful at the moment.

I hate the idea that not everyone will make it to Heaven. Hate it. Some days it's easier than others to accept the idea that people are given a choice to take in Jesus, and that God knows everyone's heart, and is thus the only person who can rightly judge us. Some days I see people perpetrating evil in the world, malevolent and unrepentant, and I pray for justice. A second later, though, I often pray for their hearts to soften instead.

Some won't repent, but I pray that all will.

Then Jesus told them this parable: "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.' I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.
-Luke 15:3-7 (New International Version)

I've posted two of my anime music videos to AnimeMusicVideos.org. There's Killswitch Exile, and my Big O video. More to come, possibly. It's a large download, so those of you with broadband, go nuts.

To find my stuff, you can go to the main page of the site and search for "the razorclown."

We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.

We extort, we pilfer, we filch and sack.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
Maraud and embezzle and even hijack.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.

We kindle and char, inflame and ignite.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
We burn up the city, we're really a fright.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.

We're rascals, scoundrels, villans and knaves.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs!
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.

We're beggars and blighters and ne'er-do-well cads.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
Aye! But we're loved by our mommies and dads!
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!

"Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.

(lyrics reprinted without permission. yar.)







Today, Liam is off and away to begin his service in the Navy. Abruptly. A fittingly dramatic exit, to be sure.

On the upside, I now have a chance of winning a game of Risk.

You shall be sorely missed while you're away, Crwuidth.

I’ve had a man shout at me because I made his lox and bagels closed-face, not open-face. Same ingredients, mind you, but different presentation. He literally slammed his plate down on the counter and stormed out of the bagel shop.

I watch people mutter when the have to stand in line for more than a minute. I’ll be standing behind them, and they’ll turn, shake their heads at me, and make little comments about how long it’s taking.

We have TV shows and magazines devoted to what celebrities wear and what they do on the weekend. Lots of them.

A couple weekends ago, I was talking to my friend Tony outside of Arden Fair Mall. You can usually find him down there, hanging around out front. Working, actually. He’s homeless, and he spends his days begging for change, so his family can stay in their hotel room for one more night. We talked about his wife and daughters, his medical problems, and God. During our conversation, he referred to the mall as “that Babylon over there.”

When we finished talking, I walked to the food court to get lunch, and was more disgusted with the mall at every step. For the price of one stupid-looking, supposedly cute pair of shoes, Tony and his family could keep their only place to stay for a few more days. While Tony stood out in the sun, begging for money for food and shelter, someone was complaining about the price of a video game, which they simply did not need. Pointless, I thought, glaring at the designer clothes and DVDs.

Even as I thought it, I knew I would be playing City of Heroes by the end of the day.

I’ve calmed down a little since that afternoon. See, I’m something of a capitalist. I like having cool stuff. And what I’m thinking is that the problem with our consumer culture isn’t having goodies. The problem is when we take them seriously.

People actually think they need frivolities. Whether they take the form of Calvin Klein pajamas, some oversweetened coffee thing at Starbucks, or what have you, the fact is that they’re extras. Non-essentials. The problem is, some people seem to be buying into the message the commercials are feeding them: you need our product, and you deserve to have it however you want it.

The problem is, that’s just not true.

While the iPod is a brilliant invention, doesn’t really matter. You can make it worthwhile – a friend of mine was working on copying the entire Bible into a text file on hers – but that’s not what it’s meant for. Like so many things, it’s for fun. And in today’s culture, we’ve begun to prioritize fun above serving others, personal responsibility, and morality. Obviously problematic.

I don’t believe it’s wrong, in and of itself, to buy cool stuff and enjoy it. Just don’t pretend you have to.

New picture added.

The last mission of Starcraft is preposterously hard. I feel like if I beat it, I'll become some sort of superbeing. Like I'll graduate to a new level of tactical mastery. The secrets of the Xel'naga will be opened to me. Every last one of the outlying colonies will be brought in line. I'll command the Zerg swarms with a thought, and the galaxy will fall before my onslaught.

It's seriously pretty hard. And I'm giving it a fair amount of my time. When I do beat it, I'll more likely sit back in my chair, watch the ending cinematic, and think... okay, now what? Next time I play against other humans on the network at Lenny's, Chase and Adrienne will still flatten me. Probably.

And even if not, I'll just be better at Starcraft.

I've gotta kinda re-insert myself into society. Sitting on top of eight acres in a small town next to the small town just outside of Grass Valley isn't quite my speed. I'm extremely grateful for the open couch at Lenny's house, which gives me a chance to see people on the weekend.

It's hard to be a servant when it's just me and dad. Dad's house has always been sort of an alternate dimension to me. A different, lazier place. Have to remind myself to get up after dinner and do the dishes, since dad never asks. Come to think of it, I have to remind myself to be a servant when I'm around my friends, too. It's far to easy to slip into self-centeredness.

I'm once again in a place where I must figure out what my life is and isn't about. Careers, relationships, what have you. As yet, it's all pretty ambiguous. Expecting some sort of resolution soon.

(a second draft of the story i posted last time. i've changed the ending for clarity.)

The young swordsman squinted out at the desert. “What do you think it is, Sir Isaac?” He drained the last of the canteen, then spit the lukewarm water over the edge of the parapet with a grimace.

Isaac was just coming up the stairwell, polishing his sword with a square of cloth. “Should have swallowed that. We’ll be on short rations until we take the oasis.” The knight glanced up at the sun, which was perhaps an hour from its slumber beyond the horizon. Squinting himself, he peered out at the glint of light atop the dune, perhaps a thousand paces outside the fortress wall.

“You see it? Looks like someone left a sword out there. I thought we gathered them all after yesterday’s battle.”

“Apparently not,” Isaac replied coolly. He regarded the younger soldier’s curved scabbard, and the ornate hilt emerging from it. “I see you’ve got yourself a nomad’s blade.”

Grinning, the soldier glanced down at his own sword admiringly. “It’ll hold me over until I get one like yours,” he said, nodding at the knight’s unsheathed blade. Even at this distance, he could see the sky in Isaac’s sword, a reflection creased with the nicks of battle.

“Indeed.” Isaac narrowed his eyes once again at the light in the desert. His left hand still polished the blade with an uneven rhythm, the cloth jumping back and forth across the steel.

“Sir Darren said he’d make me his squire if I made something of myself in the desert campaign,” the soldier said, his eyes distant, his mouth grinning still. “Not bad for a merchant’s kid, and a half-blood at that.” He turned and leaned against the parapet wall, looking back at the single tower of the fortress.

Isaac looked down at his sword for a moment, tilting it in the slowly fading light. Then, the rag moved once again, up and down the blade. “See that you do. This kingdom needs more low-born knights.”

“Amen,” the soldier agreed, turning back to the desert. He went to grab his empty canteen, then remembered. “Right.” With a shrug to himself, he threw Sir Isaac a glance. “I’ve heard that your mother was a nomad too, sir. Like mine.”

“Quite right.” Isaac stuffed the rag into his belt and sheathed his sword with a heavy clink, giving the young soldier a hard look. “Several have made an issue of it, and lived to regret it. I suggest you don’t.”

“Of course, sir. My apologies.” The young man lowered his head, surreptitiously looking back out at the dunes. As he did, the light flickered twice, and disappeared. The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Huh. What do you make of that?”

Isaac flicked his eyes at the missing glint and walked back toward the stairs. “The sun’s setting. It isn’t in the light anymore.”

“Of course, sir,” the soldier repeated. Something in his voice made Isaac pause, turn back to the swordsman. His eyes remained on the desert, averted from the knight. Sir Isaac shook his head and began to descend the stairs.

"My mother taught me the nomads' signaling code, sir."

Isaac stopped. His gaze remained fixed on the stairs, but his hand went slowly to the hilt of his sword. The swordman watched as the knight's fingers wrapped around and gripped the handle. Isaac said nothing, and looked out at the dunes.

The swordsman, with a sigh, drew a dagger from his belt. "You told them when the guard changes." Eyes on Isaac, the swordsman flipped the dagger at the watchman's bell at the corner of the parapet. The dagger took one slow turn and struck the bell, the clatter of its landing on the stone deck lost in the bell's single, reverberating toll.

Down the stairs, the sound of armored men approaching, fast. Isaac slipped his sword from its scabbard and returned to the top of the stairs. The last of the sunset echoed from the blade, bright as a signaling mirror. Hesitantly, the swordsman drew his nomad steel, raising it to guard.

"So, you want to make something of yourself," Isaac sneered, taking the first step forward. The armored boots reached the bottom of the stairs behind him. "You think I'm a traitor, don't you?"

The half-blood swordsman flexed his swordarm. "Not to the enemy."

Dark eyes seething, Isaac stopped halfway across the deck. More than ever, he looked like a nomad raider, scowling fiercely at the swordman and his plundered blade. The soldiers behind him topped the stairs.

"Your mother would be proud," the traitor Isaac spat, the moment before his head left his shoulders.

The young swordsman squinted out at the desert. “What do you think it is, Sir Isaac?” He drained the last of the canteen, then spit the lukewarm water over the edge of the parapet with a grimace.

Isaac was just coming up the stairwell, polishing his sword with a square of cloth. “Should have swallowed that. We’ll be on short rations until we take the oasis.” The knight glanced up at the sun, which was perhaps an hour from its slumber beyond the horizon. Squinting himself, he peered out at the glint of light atop the dune, perhaps a thousand paces outside the fortress wall.

“You see it? Looks like someone left a sword out there. I thought we gathered them all after yesterday’s battle.”

“Apparently not,” Isaac replied coolly. He regarded the younger soldier’s curved scabbard, and the ornate hilt emerging from it. “I see you’ve got yourself a nomad’s blade.”

Grinning, the soldier glanced down at his own sword admiringly. “It’ll hold me over until I get one like yours,” he said, nodding at the knight’s unsheathed blade. Even at this distance, he could see the sky in Isaac’s sword, a reflection creased with the nicks of battle.

“Indeed.” Isaac narrowed his eyes once again at the light in the desert. His left hand still polished the blade with an uneven rhythm, the cloth jumping back and forth across the steel.

“Sir Darren said he’d make me his squire if I made something of myself in the desert campaign,” the soldier said, his eyes distant, his mouth grinning still. “Not bad for a merchant’s kid, and a half-blood at that.” He turned and leaned against the parapet wall, looking back at the single tower of the fortress.

Isaac looked down at his sword for a moment, tilting it in the slowly fading light. Then, the rag moved once again, up and down the blade. “See that you do. This kingdom needs more low-born knights.”

“Amen,” the soldier agreed, turning back to the desert. He went to grab his empty canteen, then remembered. “Right.” With a shrug to himself, he threw Sir Isaac a glance. “I’ve heard that your mother was a nomad too, sir. Like mine.”

“Quite right.” Isaac stuffed the rag into his belt and sheathed his sword with a heavy clink, giving the young soldier a hard look. “Several have made an issue of it, and lived to regret it. I suggest you don’t.”

“Of course, sir. My apologies.” The young man lowered his head, surreptitiously looking back out at the dunes. As he did, the light flickered twice, and disappeared. The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Huh. What do you make of that?”

Isaac flicked his eyes at the missing glint and walked back toward the stairs. “The sun’s setting. It isn’t in the light anymore.”

“Of course, sir,” the soldier repeated. Something in his voice made Isaac pause, turn back to the swordsman. His eyes remained on the desert, averted from the knight. Sir Isaac shook his head and descended the stairs.

The swordsman waited until the knight was out of sight, then silently drew the dagger from his boot. Lifting it above his head, to catch the light of the setting sun, he signaled to the swordsmen waiting atop the distant dune. Confirm?

Slowly, the reply came. Sir Isaac. Returning to base.

Serrata only nodded and sheathed his dagger. The half-blood swordsman sighed, remembering when his mother had taught him the nomad’s signaling code. He’d used it in childhood games, flashing the signs for attack and retreat to his friends.

It would be only minutes before the men returned with the spyglass and the signaling mirror, and a handwritten copy of the traitor’s message, sent by light of sword.

My dad listens to Rush Limbaugh in the morning, and thus, so do I. Every half hour his program takes a break for a news update, which is produced by ABC. Listening to Limbaugh and ABC News in close succession is absolutely dizzying. It’s a rodeo. One moment the talk is leaning to the far right, then it sweeps left with a snap, then back again. When Clear Channel Broadcasting switches to Fox News this summer, there may be a bit more continuity, to say the least. But the current situation is truly strange.

Is anyone else disturbed by the state of the modern media? It’s been said that newspapers and television media are losing ground to talk radio and Internet blogs. The two sides of this division – the papers and TV versus talk radio and the blogosphere – are notoriously politically slanted, left and right, respectively. Personally, I lean toward the right in my politics, and prefer the latter media. My personal preference isn’t necessarily an indicator of better accuracy on one side. I think Tom Sullivan is more trustworthy than Charles Gibson, but I honestly don’t know. What I do know is this: both sides can’t be right. That’s what disturbs me.

The current debate over filibustering judicial nominees is a good example. In the Senate, Republicans are trying to change current procedure that allows Democrats to filibuster President Bush’s judicial nominees. Limbaugh and others proclaim that the Constitution outlines specific areas where filibustering – holding the floor and speaking for an extended period, in an attempt to keep a given issue from going to a vote – is appropriate, and the nomination of judges is not one of them. This idea, true or not, is never mentioned by the nightly news, which refers to the Republicans’ current efforts as the “nuclear option,” a denial of minority rights and a political power play. Anchormen and reporters refer to years of Senate tradition which would be abolished by the removal of the filibuster in this situation.

Follow me here. Talk radio says that filibustering judicial nominees is actually against the rules, and shouldn’t be allowed in the first place. The nightly news says that it’s an established tradition in the Senate. The only way both views could be true is if the Senate has been filibustering judicial nominees for years despite the rules. This is possible, but more likely, at least one side of the media is badly skewed. Badly.

Maybe I would side more with television and newspapers if they were more even-handed. I recently watched a report on NBC that left my jaw hanging. The gist was that moderate Republicans in Congress are leaning toward the left, and that Bush would have to alter his agenda to recapture them. That was it. Not a hint of counterpoint. Not a mention of the fact that Republicans have majorities in both houses. Just the idea that there are Republicans shifting toward the Democratic side, and that Bush would have to do the same. By contrast, talk radio has frequent liberal Democratic callers that get to bring up points and spark debate. The discourse is not always functional, but there are often good, logical arguments that actually illuminate the perspective of both sides. That doesn’t happen on the nightly news.

All of this just speaks to my general ignorance of the facts. I don’t know what’s really going on in Washington, Iraq, or Guantanimo Bay. I rely on secondhand reports, many of which come from people with agendas. It’s getting hard to trust anyone bearing news, including and perhaps especially the old, established news outlets. The spin is making me dizzy. As are the reversals of position we’ve seen from Newsweek, CBS, the Sacramento Bee, retractions of stories and apologies for inaccuracy.

How trustworthy is Jim Lehrer, I wonder? And do I want the news badly enough to sit through the News Hour?

(for the players of my BESM game: a little update. forgot the name of the city where the battle took place, and have thus officially renamed it.)

Dragons End Battle at Mesa

Mesa City, Midlands- One could only guess what the Southern troops were thinking as the burning projectile streaked down at the city. Perhaps they thought it was a Northern missile attack gone wrong, or a secret weapon their queen had failed to mention.

The Lithoventian soldiers had only a slightly better idea what was headed their way at roughly the speed of sound. Moments earlier, a communications satellite in low orbit miles above the battlefield had abruptly stopped working. The second object trailing the fallen satellite, the one bearing the rune of invincibility, was the true mystery.

Shortly before dawn on Tuesday morning, the satellite and the dragon struck Mesa City, carving a 300 meter wound in the center of the settlement. Immediately, the dragon arose unhurt and destroyed the city as both Northern and Southern troops fled. According to data from Central Order Defensive Technologies, the dragon flew into space, destroyed the satellite, and flung it down, following close behind.

“This is an eventuality we hadn’t even considered,” said Lt. Jerome McManus of the 24th Psionic Commando Division. Five soldiers from PCD 24 were killed when they attempted to defend the city from the attacking dragon, and were immolated by the dragon’s breath.

When asked how the military would proceed after the attack, Lt. McManus replied, “That all depends on Congress, and the dragons,” implying that an emergency resolution may be forthcoming.

The dragon, as yet unidentified, was also seen to have attacked a group of Southern mechanized troops who apparently fired upon it. While the reports of Southern casualties vary, approximately five magitek armored troops were destroyed by the dragon.

Several Lithoventian soldiers report seeing a second dragon approaching from the south, and sensing its mental presence. As that dragon neared Mesa City, the soldiers heard a psionic message, saying: “If this city be what thou sought, and fought to gain, consider it lost.” The military has yet to issue a statement on the meaning of that message.

The Joint Chiefs of the Armed Forces have convened in the Capital to discuss the incident and plan further strategy.

Mesa City has been abandoned by both Northern and Southern forces. Satellite imagery shows that the city has been utterly destroyed, and that no less than three dragons remain at the site.

Please forgive the lack of storytime. I realized, rather suddenly, that I didn't know nearly enough about the story I'm telling. The problem with my writing method is the distinct lack of prewriting. I'll start into a story without first charting out a plotline, or a setting, or detailed characters. As a result, I have a lot of fragments of stories, and only a few complete ones.

I'm taking some time to flesh out Walter Kleinmann and Broadgate. Also, I've been much inspired lately to work with an idea I had not long ago. Expect to see pieces of that sometime, at this address.

So until I next have something new, here's another old fragment. Kinda like this one. I've edited a bit, deleting terms and adding little explanations for those not familiar with the World of Darkness roleplaying setting.

Enjoy. And thanks for reading.


One cool summer evening, the pack descended from the foothills. They numbered four, and had traveled far together. Lean and tough, they had endured much, surviving through times of starvation and battle, always together. Through hunger, invaders, and cold, they survived. The wolves raced down as one from the Sierras, into the valley, toward the city. Close together, teeth bared, they moved swiftly toward Sacramento, the rushing wind in their ears, the light of the setting sun glowing in their eyes. All around them, the constructs of man sped by, and the wolves barely noticed. Unlike others of their kind, they did not fear nor loathe man. Intentionally, they headed for the city, their path straight and true. Soon they would walk the streets and alleys, searching for food, watching for prey…

…and begging for change.


“This one! This one! Get over!” Muffin shouted, pointing frantically at the fast-approaching offramp.

“Aye, Captain!”

Scruffy saluted sharply, gripped the wheel of the mopar green Dodge Dart convertible and slammed the brakes. A dissonant chorus of horns blared from behind while the 18-wheeler in the right lane swept by. With a quick BLAAT! of the horn, Scruffy stomped the accelerator and wrenched the steering wheel to the right, sliding the car over the white wedge painted on the asphalt and onto the Watt Avenue exit, five inches off the bumper of the PT Cruiser in front of them. The light ahead was green, and they slid around the corner, heading south.

Scruffy sighed in satisfaction and leaned back in his seat. Gully had stopped blinking. Roads was huddled in a corner of the back seat, his tail wagging subtly. Muffin relinquished her deathgrip on the door handle, and a look of incredulous amusement passed over her face. She turned to Scuffy. “That was pretty tight.”

Roads whined from the back seat.

Muffin promptly turned around and spied his tail beating the air. “Oh, shut up. You thought it was fun.”

“We gonna get something to eat, Gully?” Scruffy called to the back seat.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s see if there’s something along here.”

Roads looked up at Gully, his ears perked, and made the pre-arranged growl and head-bobbing motion for Jack in the Box.

“Walks-the-Roads votes Jack in the Box.”

“Second!”

“Scruffy?”

“Mmm. Potato skins.”

“The motion passes!” Gully smirked down at Roads, who gave a wolfish smile and wagged. “And we’ll go through the drive-thru so you don’t have to change.”

“Dude! I haven’t moved my legs since Nevada!”

“We can stretch in the parking lot.”

“And I gotta shift sooooo bad…”

“Just use the bathroom.”

Muffin suddenly smacked Scruffy on the arm and pointed at a McDonald’s on the right. “Pull over! Right here!”

“What? We’re going to Jack in the Crack!” Still, he turned abruptly into the parking lot and stopped. Muffin usually had a reason for these sudden outbursts.

And she did. She nodded at a door set into the wall of the building, away from the main entrance. “Bathroom’s on the outside.”

“Ah! Muffin, you’re awesome,” Gully smiled. “Scruffy. Go for it.”

“He-ey!” A second later, Scruffy’s seatbelt snapped upwards and the door slammed behind him. He flung open the bathroom door and leapt inside. Seconds after the door swept shut, a feral roar echoed dully from inside, and a young couple entering the restaurant turned and shuddered.

Muffin sighed. A few moments passed, and Scruffy emerged from the bathroom, whistling merrily. His lime-green hair was freshly spiked from a splash of water, and he looked quite refreshed. Muffin slugged him in the shoulder as he got back in the car.

“We heard you, smart guy.”

“Ow! It’s not my fault if they have thin walls! Dude…”

Standing on the seat, Walks-the-Roads yipped at Gully in the Garou language. [I should change here. There might not be another good place.]

“Yeah, cool. Pop the trunk, Scruffy?” Gully stepped out of the car and took a second to stretch. Muffin followed, placing her heel on the hood and leaning forward, groaning. Rummaging through the whatnot in the trunk, Gully found the small sack with Roads’ clothes and walked with him to the bathroom. When the coast was clear, he opened the door and slid the bag inside, closing it after his friend. Through the door he heard the usual sounds of transformation: claws on tile, bones popping and snapping, subdued yowls of pain… and then, the rustling of the bag. After a minute, Walks-the-Roads emerged from the bathroom in Homid form, dressed in a stained pair of khakis, leather sandals, and the white shirt Gully had given him, untucked.

He grinned. “Bathrooms are so wrong.”

Gully grinned back. “They really are.”

“Hey! Food! Now!”


The Gravelthrower pack sat in the far corner of Jack in the Box, drawing uneasy stares from the other diners. Nothing they weren’t used to. The scene, they had all realized, would be much the same if they were human. A pack of vagrants, shabby and not a little smelly, is on the fringe even if they aren’t werewolves. Still, the supernatural barrier between human and Garou, the invisible wall of fear built by the Rage, was hard to bear. Without a pack, without understanding friends, none of them could have endured it. They had endured much and traveled far, all together.

Scruffy stuffed a small handful of ketchup packets into his pocket. No one else in the pack gave him a second glance. Muffin already had two packets of mustard and five of salt. Gully and Roads had similar stashes. In the Bone Gnawer tribe, they never had to worry about food – just seasoning. Their spirit benefactors had taught them to make food of anything: by throwing an old shoe, some gutter sludge, and a newspaper into an old rusted pot and stirring, they could, in moments, create a nutritious paste. However, the mush wasn’t much for taste. Bone Gnawers quickly found out that a little ketchup went a long way.

“Hey,” Muffin smirked, peering out the windows, “we should find a Chinese place and get some soy sauce.”

Scruffy grinned and flashed Roads a look. “Sweet and sour sauce.”

Muffin looked genuinely distressed. “Aw, I hate sweet and sour mush.”

Smirking softly, as usual, Roads said, “I like sweet and sour mush.”

“Everyone likes sweet and sour mush but you, Muffin!” Gully joined in, stabbing a finger at her across the table. A gawking six-year-old in the next booth caught his eye, and he threw the girl a nod. Gully barely heard a muffled, “Don’t stare, Jenny.”

The predatory look leapt into Muffin’s eyes. She turned to Scruffy and leaned forward. He leaned back. “All right, Flips-the-Bird. We fight for it.”

“Why are you looking at me?”

Muffin bared her teeth in a grin and swung her gaze around the table. “I’ll take you all. Come on.”

Suspiciously, Scruffy asked the right question. “What’s the game?”

“Not hide-and-seek,” Roads interjected, “I don’t like soy sauce.”

“No, no hide-and-seek. I mean fight.”

Puzzled looks flew around the table. Gully leaned forward. “Three on one.”

“Yup.” Muffin had her poker face on.

“What? To a knockout? Pin?”

Shaking her head, Muffin laid out the plan. “We have a circle on the ground. First one out loses. You come at me one at a time. No holds barred. You each get one chance. Deal?”

Silence fell on the booth. This had to be a trick. Muffin was the Ragabash of the group, born under the trickster's phase of the moon, and she took it seriously. And she was an amazing fighter, but not compared to her three packmates together.

Scruffy munched a french fry and shrugged. “What the hell. I’m in.”

Gully and Roads nodded assent. “Yeah. All right.”

Poker face solid, Muffin stood and emptied her tray into the trash. The men of the Gravelthrower pack exchanged glances.

“Just to see what she’s up to,” Roads nodded.


The circle was drawn in ketchup in the back of the parking lot. Muffin stood ready in the center, arms hanging at her sides. “You choose the order.”

Scruffy elbowed Gully in the ribs. “You’re the Ahroun. Get the job done, man.”

Gully sighed and stepped to the edge of the circle. “No holds barred?”

Muffin shook her head and took a step back, tensing for the attack.

In the blink of an eye, Gully pounced, charging forward and grabbing for Muffin’s waist. She let him come to her, even let him get his hands about her – then drove her fingers into his sides. Gully’s eyes went wide, and he lost control, bursting into a fit of laughter. His momentum shifted instantly from attack to retreat as he dropped the Ragabash and cavorted to avoid her fingers. Tickling mercilessly, Muffin planted her foot and shoved the Ahroun - born under the warrior's moon, champion in battle, unmatched in combat - out of the circle. He collapsed on the asphalt, giggling hysterically.

The poker face broke. Muffin looked up at Scruffy and Roads, grinning like a self-satisfied coyote. “…nnnnext.”

Roads guffawed.

Scruffy looked down at Gully, who had finally caught his breath. “Oh, man….” Then, yowling an impromptu war cry, he bound into the circle, diving low to take out Muffin’s legs. She vaulted over him, landed straddled above him, and attacked the nape of his neck with tiny scratches. The battle cry slipped into a mad cackle, and Scruffy scampered out of the ring. The instant he left the ketchup circle, Roads leapt forward and wound up to shove Muffin from behind. At the last second, she ducked, Roads’ arms shooting out above her head. Her arms flashed up to find Roads’ armpits, and he hooted, trying to swat her away. It was simple enough to ram the wolf out with her shoulder.

The triumphant Ragabash looked down at her defeated packmates, who stared back at her, still giggling.

“Aw, man!” Scruffy cried, “we… he, he… got owned…”

Muffin raised her fists above her head and howled in victory, her eyes flickering with guile.

A minivan honked at them to get out of the way.

Natalia clung to him for a moment, grinning into his chest. With only a moment’s hesitation, Walter slipped his arms about her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. She giggled and took a step back, looking up at him with her intense dark brown eyes. As the night wore on, she would be cold in her miniskirt and high-heeled sandals, if she were still outdoors.

“So, is tonight the night, Walter? Do I finally get to feel you-“

“Not tonight.” It was a struggle to hold eye contact. He caught the little spark in her eye even before she smirked at him and punched him in the solar plexus. Surprisingly good swing for a girl her size, at which Walter smiled very slightly.

“I know. You’re one of those nice guys. Come on, buy me some coffee. It’s a slow night. Whatchu doing out here?” She walked beside him toward an all-night café, re-rolling the sleeves off her white button-down dress shirt.

Walter’s eyes lingered on her for a moment before he answered. “Trying not to think about a case. I hope to come back to it with a fresh mind later. Just airing out my mind tonight.”

Natalia nodded, pulling a pair of costume glasses from her purse and slipping them on. “Good idea. Get your mind off work and come see your favorite little ho.” She grinned at him mischievously.

He winced. “Natalia, that is not how I….” Strictly, it was an accurate description, but he hated thinking of her as a whore. The look on his face said exactly that, in no uncertain terms.

She laughed and looked away from him surreptitiously.

The young man behind the counter at the café saw them approaching. “The usual, right?”


“Ah, Donovan. Thanks for showing up.”

Councilor Donovan Llewellyn squeaked at the sudden noise and about-faced sharply. Somehow, he never heard Giovanni approaching. The young Councilor was wearing another expensive, form-fitting shirt and baggy slacks. One of his many nightlife outfits, though not one that the tabloids would latch onto. Not compared to some of the others. Giovanni bowed smartly to Donovan, hands in pockets.

“Giovanni. Looks like you’ve got other plans after this.”

And there was that twinkle in the young man’s eye once again. Whenever Donovan had seen that look in his own children’s eyes, he never hesitated to punish them. “Yeah, just a physical therapy appointment. You should try her sometime, Donovan. Get the hormones moving again.”

Donovan yawned, just in time to conceal a look of utter disgust. “Actually, I like my hormones how they are. Tepid. What did you want to discuss?”

“Geoffrey Harrison.”

It was silent for far too long before Donovan managed a reply. “Have you heard something?”

Giovanni appeared to look up at the sculpture above them, but was really watching the question hang in the air. The small pin attached the right pocket of his slacks, the knife of the Cult of Masael, caught the light.

“I heard he was a good worker.”

“Yes. Very thorough.”

Giovanni nodded, pointing his finger at Donovan. Exactly, the gesture said. The junior Councilor never took his eyes off the sculpture. “Do you think that’s why he was killed? Maybe he saw something?”

It certainly sounded like he was asking a question. “I can’t imagine what.” And honestly, Donovan couldn’t. There was certainly corruption in these halls, but it didn’t tend to get people killed.

Giovanni chuckled good-naturedly. “That’s good, I suppose. I mean, if you knew, you’d probably be in trouble!” He looked to the elder Councilor, and there was only laughter in his eyes. Still though, that kind of laughter Donovan hated to hear from his own children.

Donovan found his pulse climbing. “What do you know, Giovanni?”

“Know? Nothing you don’t,” he replied, looking Donovan in the eye. “I just wanted to say that I hoped you’d stay safe through all this.” With a soft, statesmanlike smile, Giovanni patted Donovan on the shoulder as he walked past. “Good night, Councilor.”

At such a time, Donovan would have expected himself to say something. But as the young man, his peer, made his way casually to the door, he could only muster: “Wait… what…”

“Sorry, got that appointment. No way I’m gonna be late for her.” And with a backwards wave, he was out the door.

It could have been an hour that Donovan Llewellyn stood there beneath the steel moebius strip, dumbstruck at the fact that Giovanni Tolermo had just told him to stay out of the way. Of what, he had no idea; which was, of course, was the worst part.
Kleinmann. He was investigating. He had to have discovered something.


“So you can’t talk about it?”

“Not legally,” said Walter. “I can say that it is a very disturbing murder investigation, but that’s all.” He took a sip of his house decaf, noting once again that he only drank coffee with her.

Natalia stirred her usual drink, a high octane mix of espresso and mocha. It occurred to Walter that he had never seen her drink anything without caffeine. She leaned onto his arm comfortingly. “I’m sorry. That’s no fun. It was probably exciting the first time, huh? But not anymore.”

Walter nodded in agreement. “True. The first time, I was out to prove myself, test my skills. But now, it is just…”

“Frustrating.” She gave him an understanding look. Not one of the practiced looks she gave her customers, but a look full of insight. Sipping her coffee, she gave him a little scratch on the back.

“Yes. Frustrating. I wish I could tell you more. Perhaps you could help me figure it out.”

“Pshh. Not my line of work, guy.” Her eyes jogged to the side as she took another sip, widening suddenly. “Ha. Work. Here comes my only appointment for tonight.”

Walter narrowed his eyes, looking up to see Councilor Tolermo emerging from the Council Halls just across the street, looking eager.

“Oh, come on, Walter. You’ll see me another night. Don’t be greedy.” She grinned at him, squinting as she did. It was the same look she gave him every time they parted.

Walter removed the look from his face as best he could and nodded to Tolermo. “Councilor.”

“Good evening, Court Officer. And hello, Natalie.” Tolermo wrapped an arm around her waist. “It was Natalie, right?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Natalia said. “Right this way.” She quickly led the young man off. “Good night, Walter. See you later.”

As Kleinmann waved, Councilor Tolermo looked over his shoulder and mouthed a name. Natalia. He smirked wickedly at Kleinmann and turned back around.


Donovan looked out the door to see, in the midst of the usual midnight crowd, Walter Kleinmann. The Court Officer had his back to Donovan, and seemed to be watching someone. What they had to discuss, Donovan thought, was best discussed in private. Perhaps in the morning, after he had tried, and likely failed, to get some sleep.

Once again, Kleinmann found himself walking the streets, airing out his mind. He had left his uniform back in his apartment, along with his notes. Still, the case stalked behind him, casting its shadow over him. He tried to feel the warm night air on his short-furred arms, to listen to the melange of sounds from the clubs and cafes around him, to do anything but think about the investigation.

Still, the faces of the Harrisons stared at him expectantly from the back of his eyelids.

A club's door stood wide open, breathing sweat and strange fumes into the street. At a sniff, Kleinmann picked out three different hallucinogens, swimming in the razor scent of alcohol. Bass whumped against his tall ears, which folded back instinctively. Kleinmann slowed his pace as a dogman ambled out of the building, smoke curling from his nostrils. One one arm, whispering behind her hand, was a young girl. On the other, looking more nervous than the other two, was a young man. The dogman tugged his two companions along the promenade, laughing with the girl.

Kleinmann watched them go, trying to clear his mind.


As usual, Giovanni was late. Donovan was unsure why he himself insisted on being anywhere on time of late. Even the old guard was getting lazy, when it came to official business. There was, of course, time for politicking any time of the day, any day of the week. Which was what annoyed him most about Giovanni's latency. Donovan knew the junior Councilor's priorities. So why couldn't he be punctual about them?

Thus, Donovan was left with time on his hands. A strange feeling, of late. It seemed the city-state that was Broadgate took more and more effort to run smoothly every day. More meetings, more phone calls, but most of all, more deal-making. Every day, Donovan met someone else he had to appease. Mostly the Cult of Masael, lately. It was becoming quite trendy, which caused Donovan no end of irritation.

He stood alone in the foyer of the Council Halls, contemplating his red-lined shadow on the floor. The wash of city light floated from the low cloudcover through the wide, domed skylight above. In the center of the great circular chamber, suspended from the walls by taut steel cables, was a giant moebius strip of steel. Below it stood a great classical pillar of marble.

Donovan rarely found subtlety where he wished.


Four days had passed, slowly, since the murders. Kleinmann was certain the murderer had military training, given the precision of his work. Every cut had been purposeful, intentional. And there was something familiar about the killer's technique. Kleinmann hadn't caught it at once, but after reviewing the scene a thousand and one times, a memory had spoken up. At that crime scene was something he'd seen before. After four days and nights, he couldn't decide what.

Perhaps, Kleinmann thought, there is a better place to clear my mind. And far in the back of his head, a reasonable voice suggested that perhaps there was another reason.

"Walter! Hey!" called the other reason.

Already, Walter could feel the weight. He turned around, sliding his padded hands from his pockets. There she stood, thankfully without a man attached to her.

"Hello, Natalia."


(to be continued soon...)