Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
The Moment
I think part of why my generation loves The Princess Bride so much is that each of us kind of feels like we discovered that movie on our own. We saw it on cable, and then found out for ourselves what a special movie it was. Not only that, but no one told me what to think or how to feel about the movie before I decided for myself.
I don't have time for that anymore. Even if I did, I have the internet and it tells me all about any movie I might want to hear about. I don't just suddenly come across a movie on my own anymore. On the other hand though, I didn't have to wait for years to get to see Black Dynamite. Even that though, I had people tell me what they thought about the movie before I got to see it. That's sort of hard to balance, if I want to hear about new movies I need to read up on things, but those things will always come with opinions about the things.
So yeah, I'll never have another Barry Lyndon moment again.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
How things have been 2
I haven't taken photos for Buddy this last week or two, got to get back to that. The problem there is that I haven't done the research the story needs. Once we get going, it'll be fun, but I've got to do my research and... yeah.
I have three ideas for Jack Collier Stories, and there are even a few pages of each one, but again... stuck. The stories are fighting me, not wanting to come out, and I get frustrated and stop. Then there is The Epic, but we all know what's going on with that. If I could just get back to sitting and writing, I could finish it in three months of feverish typing. It's plotted out in my head, I just need to get it out.
Movie reviews haven't been coming because I haven't seen much lately and what I have seen doesn't warrant review. You can't say much about The Musketeer, because it's so boring it's just plain bad, and people have already said enough about Jackie Brown.
I've got some things I've been wanting to talk about, but again, there just doesn't seem to be time enough or spirit enough. Spirit tends to be a big part of my problem, but just having not enough sounding boards to bounce ideas off isn't helping. Syd tries hard, but she can only listen to so much blather and her interests in fiction are not the same as mine.
As things have been, I've just had these rather pointless photos to go with. I know, some of them are still nice photos, but I feel like I'm just shooting the same things over and over again. So yeah, there's that as well.
Twins in Death: Chapter Eight – Part Two
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Eight: Concerning Birds and Clones
October 24th, 2002
11:26 p.m.
The Weirdo sat alone in his bedroom, thinking about things. He was thinking at the moment about how he liked the autumn better than any other season. He liked how the days grew shorter and the cooling in the air. He liked the air itself, the very smell of the air. He loved the winds, the odors and the scents that were carried on the air. The spiced apple smell seemed to be coming from a million scented candles and things were just very much in the sort of mood his world needed. Besides there were cloudy days with wind, strong winds at that. What every trench coat wearing person wants, really wants, is a good cloudy day with a lot of wind to blow their coats and hair dramatically. It makes them feel like they’re in a fantasy novel, or at least an Anime.
He closed his eyes and suddenly the image replayed itself for him. The young girl’s head exploding in a rush of blood and skull fragments, in delicate slow motion. His high-speed camera of a brain had recorded the spin and trajectory of each piece, so it could be played back for him at a moment like this. He saw the pavement shattering and the single piece striking the mother on the back causing her to turn, as the tiny body fell. The young face looking around the square, and then simply a cloud of blood. The image came over and over again, accusing him, reproaching him. He should have moved sooner, shouldn’t have tried to banter, and should have run in front of the bullet. Omega would have caught it, but Omega was dead, just like the little girl. The little girl was dead because of him, and there was nothing he could do about it. If he had done something when he’d had the chance, she would still be alive.
He looked at the full moon beams as a figure appeared in the flapping curtains. She had a form so shapely that simply observing her was one of the world’s five most erotic experiences. He watched as she walked into the room. The silk and lace that billowed around her exposed every curve of her form as she walked towards the sixteenth century chair he sat in. His eyes seemed to look right through her at the photograph that lay at the other end of the room. She placed her still partially transparent hand at his chin. After a few more seconds she became whole again.
“Hello, Weirdo,” she said to him. Her soft fingers touched his cheek. “So alone, still you mourn her?”
“Yes Eoster.” The Weirdo said as she moved around the chair and ran her fingers over his chest. “I still mourn her.”
The Goddess of spring and re-birth smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.
“Then I can’t take you into your bed?” She said, kissing his cheek.
She walked over to his bed and sat down on it. The outline of her breast was apparent as she leaned against the post and let her sable hair curl down. Odd that she hadn’t had dark hair before. She looked at him with a seductive air of someone who was trying to look right for him. Her body was soft and taught, promising of a thoroughly athletic and faith assuring lovemaking session. The sort of thing that left a person, or perhaps people, lying in a heap, sweaty and breathless. It would be the sort of thing that would result in being a physical wreck in the morning, no matter how good it felt tonight.
The Weirdo, however, was not impressed. One might almost say that he didn’t notice. It would be untrue to say that he didn’t notice her per se, because he noticed everything. It would be more true to say that he didn’t care to be swayed by the argument. There were things that had come and gone in his life and he thought this was one of them. He noticed her body, the seductive face, and yet he could do nothing. It was as if he didn’t remember what he was supposed to do at this point. There had once been a rather short series of commands, but they had gotten lost somewhere. They had been too near his heart, and that had been torn out. Now the thoughts of her body, possibly glistening with sweat, only touched the raw spot of pain in his chest.
“Eoster.” He said shaking his head. “It has only been a few months now, and yet, once a month you come to visit me.”
“I was sent to comfort you, I still await my opportunity.”
“No.” The Weirdo said. “You can’t. No one can. That part has died.”
“It hasn’t, you just won’t let her go. You’re keeping the wound open and raw.”
“It hasn’t even begun to try to scab over, much less heal.”
“You keep picking at it.” She said leaning forward, placing her arms together in such a way as to accentuate her breasts. “You won’t even let the wound close.”
“It’s not time yet.” He said.
“It won’t get any easier.” She said. “I know about this, it will get harder the longer you drag it out.”
“What do you care?” He asked, looking at her with something coming close to anger. “Why are you so obsessed with this?”
“It’s my job to guide you through.”
“Who gave you this job?”
“I can’t say.” She said.
“Then you can’t do the job.” He said turning away. “I won’t spend that kind of time with you, if you aren’t going to be honest and open with me.”
“I’m sorry.” She said standing up and walking towards the open door. “Have you thought to consider that can’t isn’t the same as won’t? That maybe I’m just not able to tell you who sent me?”
“Yes.” he said nodding. “I’ve considered that, but my answer remains the same. I think that even if you can’t actually say, there are things you could say but aren’t.”
“Okay.” She said. “Just so long as we understand at least that part of it. That I can’t actually answer the question you’re asking.”
“You could help me find the right question.” He said.
“Not right now I can’t.” She said, “I wish I could.”
“I’m sure you do.” He said turning to watch her fade from view.
December 7th, 1208
10:04 p.m.
The Weirdo could feel Kei’s warmth next to him, and it was amazing to think that she was here with him. He had missed her warmth last night, when he had sat out with the other monks, in nothing but the thinnest garments. They had knelt down and concentrated and managed not to freeze to death. He knew that they should have died, that the Tibetan winter was not that warm in the day, the nights could kill at fifty paces. Yet they had endured the entire night in the freezing cold.
He had ignored the cold, like they had told him to, and it had worked. He had wondered for a long time before going out if it would work, but it had. If one centered properly, La Kin had told him, you could survive anything. He didn’t know if he would always have the time to center, but he could certainly hold onto the center if he had to.
He rolled gently and looked at the dying fire, as his gray cloak dried in the heat. He was going to have to leave soon, and he was going to have to leave Kei behind. She was going back to Japan, but he hated to just break it off like this. It had to be done though, and he had to move on. He thought that it was going to be Australia next, if he understood right that is. He was going to have to start the gun work now, now that he had finished with the swords and the temples. It was time to start with the last few parts of his journey. It was time for the guns and the science, all the science he could manage.
October 24th, 2002
11:29 p.m.
There was a knock at the door, The Weirdo looked at the door. He looked at the place where Eoster had been a moment ago and then back at the door.
“Come in.” The Weirdo said.
“You all right?” Max asked as he entered
“No.” The Weirdo said. “No I’m not fucking all right. I am very not fucking all right. I got beat today, how could I be all right? I mean it was all over before you guys even had a chance to show up. I didn’t even wait around for the police.”
Max wanted to tell him he knew all of that, which he had shown up about the same time as the locals did. That the federaliees had also shown up and it was only Jack threatening to kill them that made them finally leave him alone, that was also an issue. He couldn’t say these things though, because he didn’t know how. The Weirdo had saved him, and yet had left him in the tiger trap.
When Chip had shot him and let him drop into the river, he had been alone. The bullet had sunk into the vest, which had saved his life, but his collarbone and a few ribs broke under the strain. His left arm still didn’t want to raise above his shoulder without great pain. He had fallen in the river, caught hypothermia as it turned out. He had swallowed water and as the hypothermia was just taking hold pneumonia had swept in, but that was all later. He had lived through it all, and he had even killed his good friend Chip, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem had been that later The Weirdo had told him he knew all about Chip, that he thought it safer to know where he was. Chip had tried to kill Max and The Weirdo had thought he might do it, yet he had let it happen.
Max had been all right in the end, but it still galled him a little that they had known and done nothing. Max couldn’t say any of this either, because he had understood the lesson before The Weirdo had talked to him. He had been forced to do something for himself. He had chased Chip down and shot him.
The Weirdo took the bottle of scotch and poured it into the glass. He closed his eyes and the glass lifted, floated toward his open mouth and then turned. The liquid remained at the bottom of the glass. It began to pour out suddenly, flowing like a bronze spike. The liquid hung in the air, like a horizontal stalagmite. It then poured into his mouth, which he closed.
Max was annoyed at this and felt this he could talk about.
“I thought you didn’t believe in using magic like that?” Max said.
“Any point?” The Weirdo said.
He looked exhausted. Even though the bruises had faded from his face, and the cuts had closed, he still looked beat. It wasn’t that he was wounded in body so much as spirit. He had gone a long way towards trying to heal the internal wounds. His spirit didn’t fix itself in the same way that his body did though.
“I guess not.” Max said.
“There you have it.” The Weirdo said.
He looked at the bottle and a bulb of liquid exited from it and flew towards his mouth. The scotch floated like a soap bubble through the air, which was gently pushing its spherical shape out of a perfect sphere with the air currents. He opened his lips and the scotch slipped into his mouth, sliding down his throat. Max looked at him with some disapproval. The Weirdo looked back and understood the stare.
“I got the hell beat out of me today. I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
“So you’re a bit rusty.” Max said. “Just have yourself a workout, wait out the problem and just roll along.”
“It wasn’t rust.” The Weirdo said. “He’s stronger, faster and can immediately heal from gun shot wounds to the head.”
“So we all gang up on him, get a tactical nuke and blast him from the solar system.”
“That might take most the city with it.” The Weirdo said.
“Would it?” Max asked, rubbing one of his eyes.
“Yes.” The Weirdo said scratching his scalp.
“Well we’ll think of something else.” Max said. “There’s always a way isn’t there?”
“Sure.” The Weirdo said. “I’m going to bed.”
He got up and walked to his bed, pulled back the sheets and fell into the mattress. Max watched for a moment, expecting him to move, instead he began to snore. It was such an immediate and rolling snore that it couldn’t have been faked. The Weirdo didn’t know what he sounded like snoring, so he couldn’t fake the effect. Max sighed and pulled The Weirdo’s legs into the bed and covered him with the blanket. He looked at the can of coke and wondered how well The Weirdo slept with all the caffeine in his system. He lifted the bottle and held it in his hand, watching The Weirdo roll over. He walked slowly towards the door and opened it, walking out the door and into the hall.
He walked, with silent grace, down the hallway, bottle in hand. He knew this was expensive stuff, but he didn’t much care. His mother had been killed by a substance deadlier than this, but it reminded him of her. She had gotten to the point where she couldn’t hold the needle any more, and asked her young son to do it for her. He had held the needle until he couldn’t take seeing her like that any more.
He had spent everything they had on that last hit for her, even the money she still had the presence of mind to set aside for food. He had spent it all on the last hit, which he, like a dutiful son had cooked and injected for her. He knew it to be far too much, but he also knew it wouldn’t hurt her to go like that. She had simply slipped away, falling deeper into a sleep until her breathing stopped. He had held her hand until he couldn’t feel the pulse anymore. He had thrown up, for a long time after that, and it still bothered him. There were nights where he woke up, his face wet with tears and could only beat the pillow.
He opened the bottle as he entered a bathroom, unscrewing the cap so hard that it spun from the top of the bottle and onto the floor where the plastic cap made an odd hollow noise. It bounced around on the tile floor like it was doing some sort of dance. He took a whiff of the booze and held his head back from the smell. There was about ninety-three dollars worth of scotch left, he could tell that somehow. He knew it was ninety-three dollars worth. He looked at the bottle and poured the ninety-three dollars worth of its contents into the sink. He watched as the bronze colored liquid drained away all ninety-three dollars worth. He washed the bottle out and threw it away into the garbage, where it made a defeated bang against the can.
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Monday, April 22, 2013
How things have been
The new store opened, and things have been going pretty well. Everyone has been working hard, it's been pretty good. I had a couple of incidents though, during the grand opening. Don't worry, these are probably good things.
Some old woman's car died in the drive way of the new store. She ran out of gas. So I grabbed my coat and pushed her into the parking lot. Then we hopped in my car and I drove her around the corner to the nearest gas station. She got a gallon of gas and we filled up her car. I got gas all over my coat, but that's a side issue. She got to the gas station and filled up and thanked everyone in the store. It's a little embarrassing to be knee deep in executives at a time like that, because everyone wants to tell you how awesome you're being and I was in a mood where I just wanted to get back to work and not talk about it.
So then... one of the executives was having a problem with her rewards card. That was a two second fix, and she then went on to express to the other executives nearby how she's been to ten stores in the last couple of weeks and has told those people how the card didn't work and no one even tried to fix it, but I did it in about two seconds. That kind of annoyed me, because (again) I didn't want to be patted on the back, I just wanted to do my job. Second... why the hell did it take her that long to work this shit out? People know who she is, they should be bending over backwards to get her stuff taken care of. I'm the first person who thought to say "Gimme the card, lemme see what I can do" in all that time? Failure of leadership man! Turns out the person in question is like VP in charge of career development though, so if I need to develop my career later she'll have a favorable idea of my abilities.
Now, I will admit that this is the reason I moved to this store. I wanted to be seen by important people, but these things that I'm being praised for... they sort of bother me. I have an unhealthy relationship with praise to begin with, partly because I was a beautiful boy once and compliments are the sounds ordinary people make when I walk by. Second, I am a genius and I tend to forget that other people don't see and act on things the way I do. Third, and this is the kicker, I keep getting told that a lot of people wouldn't do what I did.
The old woman, they keep saying that so many people wouldn't go that far. The executive, people didn't help her. I have pretensions to being a person though, and as a result I extend myself in order to keep everyone believing I'm a human rather than some sort of robot. My boss is also getting around to the idea that I don't have problems, just a series of solutions. I tend to say "Yes" and "We can do that" while at work a lot. Managers aren't used to hearing that, it worries them at first. A couple more weeks and I'll have him used to it.
So all in all, a pretty good week or two lately. The fact that this winter finally seems to be ending is also a good sign. It went on far too long for my liking.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Friday, April 19, 2013
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Twins in Death: Chapter Eight – Part One
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Eight: Concerning Birds and Clones
October 24th , 2002
6:47 p.m.
Kestrel McLeary sat on a couch in the den of her Long Island home and looked at the television. She barely paid attention to the story; she was thinking of something else. She was thinking that she was a little too old and experienced to be making a slip-up like that one. She hadn’t just been seen, but photographed. She had looked right at the camera and gotten her damn picture taken as good as a mug shot. All while trying to take that stupid picture again. She didn’t even like The Scream, but it had been a pride thing. Take the painting instead of swiping jewels all the time, and she got caught for it, or thought that she had. The camera had looked right at her, it couldn’t have been helped.
Then it had been those stupid diamonds, those goddamn stupid diamonds. She had only had them in her possession for maybe two hours before dropping them off, but they had somehow been connected to her. It was just supposed to be a little drop off to get a little money and apparently they had her.
The people in her neighborhood had been avoiding her the last few days, the police had been asking questions. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know before, everyone had known who and what she was, or she thought they had. They avoided her nonetheless though and this marked difference in their attitude could only mean one thing really. The only question was when the police would come kicking the door down and slapping the cuffs on her. She wished they’d hurry up, as she was getting tired of waiting for them.
She had more or less guessed the time of their arrival within a few hours. She knew the date, and that they would come in the evening. They didn’t need helicopters as far as they knew. They thought that they could just walk in on her. That wasn’t to say there wouldn’t be helicopters, since they used those whirly birds for everything these days. There wasn’t the sound of any helicopters just yet, but there wouldn’t be just yet would there?
She was preparing for their impending visit in the fashion of all polite hosts. She had set out some cookies and a large bottle of very expensive whiskey. However, it was taking them an awfully long time to arrive, and she had already opened the whiskey. It would be a shame to let the whiskey go bad and turn to vinegar, so she figured she’d better start drinking. By the time she remembered that it was wine that had to be consumed immediately and not whiskey, she’d already consumed over half the bottle and once you’re at that point, why stop?
She looked at the photograph again, a bad photo, but still her. Her face had been photographed in the act, which meant she’d been burned, connected to a crime. Thieves don’t really have what you might call a code of conduct, but they do have rules of thumb, one of which said you don’t keep working in a place if they have a photograph of you committing a crime. This rule, like most others, exists for a very good reason. She should have cleared out a while ago, she knew that of course, but she was tired. She had enough money to hire an excellent lawyer and simply the fact that so many countries wanted to have a word with her would keep her bouncing around for a while.
She couldn’t think straight, the whisky rolling around inside her made things fuzzy at the edges. She felt that she had drank the first one to help take the edge off, and found the edge to be quite sharp and the dulling of it required a few more drinks than she had originally anticipated. Then of course whisky has that habit of not hitting you all at once, or at least it didn’t hit her all at once. By the time she had come to the conclusion that she was going to be drunk, she had already taken a few too many.
She looked from the newspaper shot of her to the television where the newsreader was complaining about how violence had plagued the city again. They were showing footage of The Weirdo, trying to gather himself and chase after someone. Another shot came to the screen and the passing resemblance between the man in the red coat and The Weirdo was mentioned. The red man’s picture was kept on the screen for a long time and she watched it with great interest.
Her attention was fixed entirely on the glowing screen, something about the smile on the face of the red-coated man looked familiar. There was something about the two men which made her shudder. There was something there, something deep within her long disavowed memories. It was like having something stuck in one’s teeth that you just can’t get to. It wasn’t something that she could identify, but she knew it was deeply unpleasant. In a sudden move she clicked a button on the remote control, blanking the screen. Still feeling chilled; she retreated from the den, wanting to not think about it any more.
She walked out of the room and began to ascend the stairs, holding the rail to steady herself. The oak rail felt warm beneath her fingers, she moved up the cold stairs and looked around her with a sudden feeling of impending danger. She looked over the loft where the stairway ended and glanced at the front room. Something wasn’t right, and she could feel it. She thought it had something to do with the twinkling of the lights outside, but it was hard to think past the alcohol. She looked outside and shook her head again, trying to remember what those particular lights meant.
Moonlight shone down brightly through the enormous skylight, bathing her bed in its blue-white light. She ran her fingers over the king sized bed and felt the firmness of the springs. She thought of sleeping for a moment, as she was very tired, but that same danger instinct wouldn’t allow it. Finally, she entered the adjoining bathroom and flipped on a light. Standing before the whirlpool bathtub, she turned on the faucets, watching as the porcelain tub began to fill.
She pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it to the tiled floor before stepping out of her jeans. The air felt cold, goose pimples rising on her flesh making her shudder a little. She looked around at the people who were assembling outside and moved more quickly. She had completely forgotten about the jewel theft, which had led them here, and forgotten about the photograph of her.
She slid her left foot into the warm water and then lowered herself into the tub. Flipping a switch on the small control panel to turn on the jets, she leaned back into the water with a sigh. Her eyes unfocused, she gazed out the window at the blue and red twinkles and let her mind wander. The lights were so pretty. She wondered what they were. They were flashing brightly in red and blue, reflecting off the houses. She knew that she should have some idea what those lights mean but it was hard to remember.
Her mind was sluggish with whisky and tears, moving like a drunk trying to negotiate his way down a particularly difficult street. It was a particularly old drunk, one who had wandered the streets for a long time and had been drunk nearly every night of his life. She didn’t have any memories left anymore because the booze had washed them all away, over a thousand nights. The old drunk of her mind slid from one lamp post to the other, trying to decide where to flop down for the night.
October 24th, 2002
7:00 p.m.
“Keep those damn lights off!” Detective Murphy yelled. “God, do you wanna let her get away?”
‘The police were readying themselves for a raid on the house.’ Detective Murphy thought to himself. ‘The woman inside, known as Kestrel McLeary, was an oft suspected but never actually arraigned jewel thief. She was very careful, very clever at covering her tracks, but someone had finally caught her in the act of taking a consignment of Swedish diamonds, though only on paper. They hadn’t been able to get her in America, until now. After that, it was only a matter of getting the warrants; and now, finally, they could storm the house. They loaded the rubber pellet guns and gas guns, they were going to take this one alive. There was going to be no slip-ups this time, this time they’d take her.’
It’s no use trying to make excuses, this is actually the way Detective Murphy narrated his life. What can you do with a person who narrates his life, particularly with such a bad script? He would have said all of this out loud had his men not been close enough to hear him. Here was the sort of man who put an unlit cigar in his mouth because while he liked to be seen with a cigar he couldn’t stand the smell of one lit. There is, I’m afraid, no hope for poor Detective Murphy. He wasn’t actually a bad guy, it was just that he wanted to be in an action movie. He wanted to be the kind of cop he had seen on TV as a child, and was terribly disappointed that he had been a real police officer. Starsky and Hutch never showed the massive amount of paperwork that was required. That being said, he was currently having more fun than he had ever had in his entire life.
A shotgun was put close to the doorknob, Kestrel’s head slipped under water, holding her nose. The gun fired and the knob and surrounding door was suddenly pocked heavily. The heavy thick door ram, held by two officers, swung in and broke the knob away from the door. Kestrel raised her head above the water as the front door was flung violently inwards. The door smacked against a small table and knocked a cheap glass candlestick off the table. It didn’t break as it hit the wood floor, but it clanged loudly. In a flash of understanding, she realized what the twinkling light had meant. She cursed herself for not seeing it earlier, and cursed herself again for allowing herself the weakness of getting drunk. Even now her mind felt fogged, her muscles not quite in sync with her will. Rising, as quickly as uncooperative limbs would allow, she got out of the bath and shook her head around to get some of the excess water off. Then, fumbling for precious seconds with the latch opened the window as wide as it would go. One punch knocked the screen out to fall the ground a story below. The rush of cold air revived her somewhat, clearing her mind just enough to think.
She closed her eyes for a moment, focused her willpower, and her body began to shrink. It seemed to waver, as it grew smaller, changing form. Her bare legs thinned, flesh becoming scaled and toes become claws. Her arms stretched out, becoming wings, and feathers replaced hair all over her body. When the police broke into the bathroom, they found a mottled brown bird the size of a robin. It was in fact a Kestrel, the smallest of all falcons. It looked at them and shook its head in irritation.
“What the hell is that?” Murphy yelled.
“It’s a bird, sir,” one of the officers said.
The little bird flapped its wings and flew out the open sky light window.
“Stop it!” Murphy yelled, but the bird was already gone. He could tell that with the bird probably went his current prospects for a promotion.
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Friday, April 12, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Twins in Death: Chapter Seven – Part Four
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Seven: Face to Face
October 24th, 2002
4:21 p.m.
The Weirdo hadn’t actually stuck around to talk to the police as he had been in no mood for their antics. They would likely make a whole bunch of not funny jokes and would all express faux concern for him because he hadn’t killed everyone. Then he would shoot one of them in the leg or break one of their noses and they would all get offended because he couldn’t take a joke. Nevermind the fact that if they had been there, they would have just been another set of corpses in the wake of that red leather encased lunatic. They were to him a fairly useless lot and since he didn’t have to talk to them he rarely did.
Besides, he was going to hear enough of that if he actually bothered to turn the television on later. The cable news pundits would be all over this one, decrying what a blood bath it was and how dangerous the city was because of him and his kind. They would conveniently forget the fact that the drive-by shootings had gone from daily occurrences to having nearly vanished in the two and a half years he had been around. They would forget that the mob was no longer in this town. They would forget everything in fact. It was going to be all his fault.
He thought of going to a few of the news stations and just shooting a few of the cable news pundits, so that they would have a legitimate axe to grind against him. It was the daily reminder that they had begun to revise his actions over the last few years. They had really revised their thoughts since he had been hiding away They had all decided that it would be a lot better if he hadn’t shown up. They would all have preferred the mob rule of the city, as it had been when the mayor had been shot openly on the steps of city hall two months before The Weirdo returned. How that shooting had never actually been investigated, they had simply arrested two blacks from Harlem and they had been conveniently hung on a lamppost the same night.
That sort of thing apparently didn’t bother them, but being able to walk the streets did. The cable news guys would prefer all the costumed superheroes, The Weirdo in particular, would just go away now that the city was becoming safer. He stood outside a McDonalds with a large order of French fries in his hand and thought about how they were going to attack him on this one.
He also thought about what Loki had said about the street gangs though. They had just been looking for someone to lead them. They had just needed a god they could believe in, that’s what he had said. He thought that if he wanted to gain an army he would go to the street gangs and teach them about strategy, form them into a loosely collected fighting force. Let them each do their own thing, but all taking orders from him. He had the perfect disenfranchised angry groups to fight for him. All they needed was the promise of a place where they could be men on their own terms. They had just taken the old tribal system and he had adapted it. He thought about how his old friend Sun would have done this and thought there would be a few changes, but it was such a perfect collection of lads. They weren’t afraid to die, only to live without honor. They had just wanted respect and he was giving it to them.
He bit into a French fry and thought about the problem, and couldn’t see an easy solution. The only useable solution was to shoot all of them and he had been trying to avoid that as it was. They had already been in a situation where they’d killed so many in one room they had stood in blood up to their knees, he had no desire to do that again. It had all worked out in the end, but he didn’t want to pull it off a second time.
He just stood for a moment, on the busy sidewalk and ate his fries, watching the traffic go by and glancing at the girls as they strode by in their high leather boots and other autumn clothes. He liked the autumn weather clothes better than any other. They had a way of revealing in a covered way. You could watch the movement of legs encased in jeans, and note the buttocks as they shifted. You could try and guess how the movement of the sweater disguised the bosom beneath, and how well it enhanced the look. The young ladies hadn’t yet gotten out the heavy coats that would obscure all there was to view, they had just brought out enough to keep warm. He very much liked autumn, and he liked watching girls.
What he didn’t like was failure, and that brought him back to the events of an hour ago and nearly six months ago. The way the child had been thinking about the movie about the clown fish, and then her head had been splattered across her mother’s coat. How Shannon had been laying in a pool of slowly congealing blood. How after the initial quick run, blood became thick and sticky. How the woman had screamed, holding her daughter’s body. How the blood had sprayed across her face when she squeezed the little girl to her.
Ah, such were the things late night bouts of insomnia were made of. It wouldn’t matter how tired he thought he was, he could always have a few more hours of looking at the card catalogue of dead faces of those he had failed to save. When that was done of course he would have to go through the long drawn out painfest that was reliving every nanosecond of Shannon’s death as if it were an hour. He put another fry into his mouth and munched it down like a child, slowly moving the stick into his mouth as his jaws munched it to tiny bits.
Not having Tommy and Jack there had been a problem, but he couldn’t see what they would have done had they been there. Besides, he had a feeling this was going to have to be a personal thing. No one else was going to be able to take care of this unless it was him. There was some sort of pact that had begun with the two of them. Loki was going to kill him (No he’s not, but you must jump) or he was going to kill Loki.
There wasn’t going to be any sort of middle ground, it was going to be a struggle between the two of them, trying to kill each other. He thought about the black gun for a moment and reached into his coat. He felt the cold handle immediately and while he wanted to draw it out, this wasn’t the place. It hadn’t been there when he wanted it, why not? There was no reason for the gun to have been hidden, and yet it hadn’t been there when he wanted it. He wondered if the gun had run from the prospect of having to kill him, even if it was a copy. He felt that there was a certain amount of truth to the idea, but it was an uncomfortable truth. What if the gun began to make other executive decisions about when and where it was going to show up?
That worried him.
May 2nd, 1643
2:21 p.m.
Japan
The old man was a mess, but he was always a mess. He rarely bathed, and took no particular care of his appearance. The Weirdo was quite the dandy compared to the old teacher, dressed in a clean kimono and having shaved only two days ago. The old man was as nearly beloved by The Weirdo as any teacher could be though. The aged samurai had none of the formality of many of his other teachers. Particularly the sword masters seemed to have an idea about formality. This one had no such leanings though, nor did he have a sword. He had dropped the blade of steel long ago and only used the wooden boken.
“You have improved.” The old man said.
“Have I?” The Weirdo asked.
“You have.” The old man said. “There is only one thing that will improve your fencing now. That is to go out there and fight.”
“I’ve been doing that.” The Weirdo said.
“Yes I know.” The old man said. “And you have told me that the sword may not serve you in your journey.”
“That’s not completely true.” The Weirdo said. “There is more to fencing than the sword.”
“So I keep saying.” The old man said. “Still you have learned all you are going to learn from me.”
“I know.” The Weirdo said.
“And you will return to your own place and begin the process of this thing they want you to do.”
“I don’t know what they want me to do.”
“But you know that there is a task to perform.”
“Yeah.” He said.
“Duty is not compulsory.” The old man said.
“I’m not sure they’ll let me escape it.” He said. “If I sit around, I think it’ll come for me.”
“You could run.”
“I think I’d run right into it.” The Weirdo said. “I might be trapped.”
“Hmm.” The old man said. “Then try to figure out what this mighty task they want you for is, then come at it from an angle they don’t want you to.”
“That might just work.” The Weirdo said.
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
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Thursday, April 4, 2013
Twins in Death: Chapter Seven – Part Three
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Seven: Face to Face
October 24th, 2002
3:06 p.m.
The Weirdo had been in Europe during the mid nineties, learning all about counterterrorism. He therefore continually called the device in his pocket a mobile instead of a cell phone, as is the more normal practice in America. He wondered for a moment what old Sean might think of this? Was he even still alive? Hard to say, but he had lived through everything else, even that foolishness with January 30. It would be easy to surmise that Sean was probably still alive and well in London to this day. The mobile began to rumble in his pants pocket and he reached in and got it. He looked at the number on the small screen and recognized it as the one used earlier.
“Yes Loki?” He asked.
“Nice to see you here brother.” Loki said. “I wasn’t sure you were going to show.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I’m going to kill you.”
“But not yet.” The Weirdo said, but I must remember to jump when it happens.
“No.” Loki said. “Not yet.”
“I’ve got some youngsters watching me.”
“Yes I know.” Loki said. “They have come to see their god in action.”
“Did you convince them all of that?” The Weirdo asked.
“You think of them as street vermin.” Loki said. “Rats, which you act as rat catcher against. Never killing all of them of course, just enough to get a fee and another one tomorrow. They’re not vermin though. They’re just hungry. They’ve seen the privileged classes get the good schools, the big cars, and all the tax cuts. They just want to be let into the party. They just want to be accepted as part of the club. All they really needed was something they could believe in. They just needed a god that could deliver them from the wretched squalor that their Jesus put them in. All the other churches and societies had failed them. I gave them something to believe in and we shall go against all those who kill them and their families for pay.”
“I don’t collect a fee.” The Weirdo said.
“Not all fees are payable in cash.” Loki said.
“Well that’s true.” The Weirdo said nodding. “But it’s not the adulation or fame I seek.”
“Then what?” Loki asked. “I’m really quite curious. Do you think you can make a safer world by lashing out violently at its more violent members?”
“Nope.” The Weirdo said. “Just trying to keep the lid from flying off until the solution arrives.”
“You’re not the solution?”
“Don’t think so.” The Weirdo said. “Just a stop gap.”
“I see.” Loki said, and The Weirdo really thought he did.
“You’re not really a god are you?”
“Of course not.” Loki said. “They made me in a lab and sent me back in time thirty years. For what reason they did this I can’t even begin to pretend I know.”
“You’re not as dumb as you’re trying to pretend you are though.”
“Oh?”
“You’re vocabulary belies your intellect.” The Weirdo said.
“My father wanted to hear his little fuck toy speak well when he presented me to the group.” Loki’s voice took a cold edge of menace.
“So you had a father?”
“Oh yes.” Loki said. “A drunk who demanded that his boy know how to speak and a pill popping mother who demanded the screams of the creature who had sprung from her unholy womb.”
“I thought you said a lab?”
“You think I was just grown in a vat?” Loki asked. “Someone had to carry the fetus up her worthless cunt.”
“And they let them keep you?”
“They stole me.” Loki said.
“You sure you don’t want to stretch out on a couch?” The Weirdo prodded. “You’re being pretty open.”
“You don’t understand.” Loki said. “I came from the future, if I kill you and the parents and young doctors who are going to become my tormentors, then it can’t happen.”
“You’ll vanish in a puff of Einstienian logic though.” The Weirdo said.
“You have no idea the pain of my existence.” Loki said
“You know if you want to die, come down and I’ll do it myself.”
“It’s going to have never happened.” Loki said. “I’m going to prevent the pain before it happens.”
“You’re setting up a difficult paradox.” The Weirdo said.
“I will never have been.” Loki said. “Then I will be free.”
The rifle aimed out the window and swept around the plaza, searching for the perfect target. He found her, Alice Peterson, age eight. She was dressed in a red beret, and a red and hounds tooth wool coat. She had been insisting on wearing the beret since the Peterson’s went to Paris in August and her father had bought it for her. Loki centered in on her. He realized he could hear her thoughts as she was caught in his cross hairs. She was thinking about a computer-generated clown fish, and his turtle friend. She was just wondering how a turtle could learn surfer lingo, and thought it was because of all the time he must have spent near the surface to breath.
A snap cut into the air, deadly quiet when compared to what people think gunshots sound like. Alice’s small head suddenly exploded in blood and particles that seemed to hang in the air for far too long. The Weirdo’s eyes caught the whole event, from the child’s face, to the explosion of blood. The bullet that had torn through the child passed through and also tore away a huge piece on concrete that fluttered into The Weirdo's face. The universe did that lovely slowing down trick it can do at times like this. Well, actually it went at the same speed it always does, but The Weirdo's mind processed things differently. For most people their brains cease up and they panic. The Weirdo's mind took in everything and his mind played it at a speed where it was appropriate for him to still react. A reasonable example might be the fact that in truth, deer almost never really freeze in headlights, it just seems that way to the observer whose mind has ceased up do to the sudden panic.
The head of the child had actually exploded, leaving only part of it connected as it began to slump. The Weirdo looked at the woman; whose hand the child held. She looked down as the tiny hand tugged on hers. This of course was due to the fact that the body was sharply banking to one side. She screamed as she saw that nothing remained of the right side of the child's head, and began to scream more uncontrollably. The Weirdo’s mind recorded every image, every instant, for later playback. He would remember that image for the rest of his life, just like all the others.
Had he been like Omega he would have seen the bullet moving like a snail, and reached out and taken it. Omega would have been able to snatch the bullet out of the air, and put a stop to all this foolishness right away. The problem was Omega was dead. That nameless thing had shown up and killed him. They had called him Apocalypse or some other dumb name, but it had simply been a nameless killing machine. It had been a huge event and the months that followed had kept The Weirdo’s personal tragedy and subsequent self-exile away from prying eyes. The problem was that now there were no Superheroes here; there was just The Weirdo. He watched the little girl die and looked at the windows looking for the place where the shot had come from.
“I thought you wanted me!” The Weirdo said into the phone as his right hand slunk into his coat and pulled his forty-five out.
“Just to get your attention.” Loki said and re-aimed the rifle.
The Weirdo could tell where the window in question was suddenly, and without a doubt. His attention had somehow managed to zero in on the right spot. He began to fire towards the open window, emptying his gun in a few seconds. He threw himself down below a concrete barrier meant to keep people from falling into the ice rink and lunch café. Loki fired another round and an elderly man clutched his chest and The Weirdo would have thought he was having a heart attack if not for the blood seeping through his fingers. He fell to his knees and the old man and The Weirdo looked at each other. The old man’s face was questioning and he shook his head slightly. He wanted to know why The Weirdo didn’t save him, why was he hiding when there were people getting shot? The Weirdo reloaded the pistol and decided his only hope to prevent more of this was to make himself a target.
‘Are you going to wave you hands over your head and scream shoot me?’ Grandma’s voice enquired.
Never one to take sarcasm lying down, The Weirdo decided that was a fine course of action. He stood up, and then stepped up onto the high concrete barrier. It was such a stupid suggestion and meant sarcastically, but what the hell? He waved his arms over his head and hooted out to the window.
“C’mon! You want me? Let’s go, come on out.”
The Weirdo expected to have a bullet punch into his chest and yank his heart out the other side, but it didn’t happen. Instead Loki emerged from the window. He got out onto the ledge and began to walk slowly along the wall to a corner where he could lean in. The Weirdo watched him and felt the gun in his hand begin to rise. He was balanced on a ledge of his own as well. If he fell forward it was nearly fifteen feet before he hit the cold hard ground. Loki had a longer drop, but a better position. He slunk his back into the corner and set his feet apart to steady himself.
The Weirdo steadied himself on the concrete barrier and aimed the pistol carefully. It’s quite hard at range to hit the side of a barn with a handgun, which is something most people don’t consider when they heft one up for the first time. Even after years it takes a pretty good pair of eyes to hit the target. The Weirdo fired a round and part of the stonework next to Loki’s head vanished into dust. Loki aimed the rifle down swiftly and put pressure on the trigger, nothing happened because he hadn’t cocked the weapon.
He spun the rifle like a band leader’s baton and he worked the bolt on it. The Weirdo watched him as he went through an amazing amount of rig-a-ma-roll to cycle a new round into the chamber. He watched how Loki did all this and wondered about the amount of energy the boy went though to do things. The Weirdo had learned long ago about math and fighting. He had learned from the math teachers about how the shortest point between two points is a straight line, and from his fighting teachers about efficacy of movement. To this end, The Weirdo never made as big a production of reloading as this boy did.
Loki aimed the rifle down again and The Weirdo fired two shots at him. He aimed for the mass, and struck the body twice. The force bounced him off the wall and caused him to lean forward. The gun fell from Loki’s hands and he tumbled from the building’s ledge. There was a thump as Loki’s body crashed into the ground below a few seconds later. The Weirdo jumped down to the street level again and began to walk around the place where in a few weeks the ice rink and the massive tree would be put into place.
It was just beginning to be cold enough for thoughts like that. Soon it would be time to think about a turkey, and the gathering of cranberries for sauce. Soon it would be too cold to go out without a hat and he’d need his big black velvet scarf as well. It was going to be Halloween very soon, and everyone would dress in their costumes. What was he going to be? He had a funny feeling that there was an extended answer to that question.
He came towards the place where Loki landed and found a somewhat surprising sight. All of Loki’s various bones should have been pretty much broken. There might be a finger or toe bone left unbroken, but all the major and important ones should have been shattered. Even if the bones hadn’t all been broken, there is really a lot less damage the internal organs can take than Hollywood would have you believe. In short, The Weirdo was quite surprised to see that Loki was slowly, but inexorably getting up to his feet.
The Weirdo ran towards him and swung his leg to give a pretty good kick to the solar plexus. Loki’s hands swung out and he caught our hero’s leg though. He stood and threw The Weirdo towards the side of the building. The Weirdo put his hands up and stopped himself from becoming one with the stone face of the building, pushing himself back from it and landing on the ground.
“When did this become big time wrasseling?” He asked regaining his ground.
“Just now.” Loki said rushing towards him.
Loki had what looked like a straight razor in his hand, and it swung out at The Weirdo in a wide and complicated arch that was easy for the gray-coated hero to not only dodge but take a hold of the arm. Loki’s speed was pretty amazing though and his left hand caught The Weirdo in the kidney’s before he knew the punch was coming.
The Weirdo didn’t let the hand go, rather he grabbed the head and smashed his own visage into the ground twice very hard, hearing something crack on the second strike. Loki managed to slip from his grasp on the second strike and caught The Weirdo under the chin with his blade. The Weirdo fell back and Loki leapt on him, the blade cutting a deep wound on his check under his eye.
Loki’s face had already regained its normal countenance. The nose had moved back into place and much of the blood seemed to be vanishing as well. The Weirdo’s hand was busy with the blade that was trying to cut deep into his head but couldn’t help but notice how the blood was drying and seemed to be drawn in through the pores to get back into the body. This scrambling on the ground wasn’t working very well in The Weirdo’s favor. He kept wondering how Loki could be so strong when he was such a skinny kid. Even though he was so thin, his strength was as great as The Weirdo’s. He shifted his weight and brought both legs up under him and flipped Loki over his head. He stood, and grabbed at his fallen gun, turning quickly and pegging Loki twice in the chest.
The blood spurted up, and then sucked back in, the wound closed and he saw with amazement that the shirt closed in behind it. That wasn’t an advanced healing that was going on, that was something else. He didn’t know what, but more than his own accelerated healing was going on, something more. He knew his face had probably already healed, that there would be no scar. It could be the same power that let him close his own wounds up had been a trick on the genetic code. He had learned it, but he had been better than anyone else at it. It could be that this was an accelerated pace; he had said the power had been turned up.
“You can’t kill me.” Loki said. “You can shoot me as many times as you like, but you can’t do it.”
“Well you did invite me.” The Weirdo said and fired a few more times.
The forty-five stopped firing, the chamber held open to allow for easy reloading. When the fresh clip was inserted, the chamber would close and the first round would already be primed. He had hit Loki twice in the head and was dismayed to find that he didn’t even knock him down. He had taken two forty-five rounds to the head and managed to stay standing. There wasn’t much a person could do after that, but The Weirdo had an idea.
“You’ve got nothing.” Loki said softly. “My followers will now be convinced, having seen you shoot me and still unable to kill me.”
The Weirdo was still aiming the pathetically empty pistol, mainly because he didn’t know quite what to do after that. He dropped the gun, and his hand went under the coat again. He caught the grip of another gun, but not the one he’d wanted. He had wanted to draw up the black gun, but the coat had presented him with a different gun.
Still, a weapon is a weapon, even if it wasn’t the one you wanted. The Weirdo pulled the Thompson sub-machine gun out from under his coat where no such weapon could have possibly been. He aimed the big gun and felt his heart thudding in his ears. He wanted to kill this man but didn’t know what trying would do.
Loki reached behind his back and pulled out a small sub machine gun of his own. The Mac 10 looked like an Uzi from the worst manufacturing plant in the world. It was an ugly boxy weapon without any class whatsoever. He aimed it out into the crowd, who had actually gathered to watch this idiotic struggle. The Weirdo once again wondered how many of these people managed not to get run down in the street every morning. When danger was clearly a few feet away, the people of New York would move in, expressing that if it was a few feet away, they could get at least a foot closer.
“We could see how much you really care about these tiny mortals.” Loki said, panting slightly from the expelled effort. “You’re choice is to let me go, or to watch a blood bath.”
“You would.” The Weirdo said. “Just to see the result.”
“You know, I know I would.” Loki said, stepping back slowly. “But I must admit I’m not sure you wouldn’t. I’ve been reading about the difference between genetics and environmental influences. Now I can’t be sure, but I’ve got this odd feeling that some part of you would just as soon let all these people die, just to get me.”
“Some part of me doesn’t care about them.” The Weirdo said. “A few of them die but I get you and less die later.”
“Practical.” Loki said nodding. “But is it really you?”
“We could find out.” The Weirdo said.
“But you’d rather not.” Loki said, looking at him sidelong.
“Maybe.”
The Weirdo was a trained shooter, and Loki wasn’t, so the movement was quick and the man in red wasn’t looking for it. The Weirdo’s waist moved slightly and he trained the gun on the Mac 10. When the shots exploded from the Thompson, the Mac 10 shattered in Loki’s hand and part of the hand went missing as well. Loki screamed and held his hand to his chest. He turned and began to run, his left hand reaching for another gun behind his back. The Weirdo raised the machine gun again and caught Loki in the back a few more times. Loki tumbled to the ground and two of the street punks helped him up as another one began trying to draw covering fire. The Weirdo shot the one who had picked up the gun before he could get a shot off and aimed his gun up at Loki again, they had turned the corner and The Weirdo began to chase after them. When he came out into the crowded street he ran into two men in business suits and fell to the sidewalk, his gun clattering to the ground next to him. They looked down at him shocked, and he looked up at them annoyed.
“Had to be a couple of old drained yuppies, didn’t it?” The Weirdo asked.
“What?” The bald man in a dark suit asked.
“Nothing.” The Weirdo said. “Just go away.”
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions