Skydrop Gunshot

fish eye view

2006-12-31T23:26:00.000-08:00

I stood there in a flourescent-lit fish tank with his arm firmly grasped in mine and asked him what he wanted out of life.

"Let go."

His face was as impassive as the arctic glaciers I see in magazines and books and dreams. I couldn't tell whether he would flip out and scamper out of the room or just stand there and smirk and say nothing.

"What are you going to do?"

"Let go."

I could tell I wasn't getting anywhere. Like a kitten who wants nothing more than milk and warmth. So I let it go.

The others came and went. It seemed like hours or days or weeks or months and all I could do was trap myself in the moment and force myself into believing that the moment was all I had.

In reality, it was. I lived for those moments. But everyone else came and went.

I realized my serious questions were getting me nowhere. I begged to be asked such serious questions but got a shrug, a smirk, got shunned.

A million smiling faces asking me, "Why can't you just relax?"

"You take things too seriously."

I smiled and swam away, but in the end I really was just a tadpole wanting to swim with the big frogs.

But I was stuck in the tedious habit of laying more and more tadpole eggs. I couldn't stop. It was what biology and economics and society mandated. I was not meant for greater things. The pond was just too big.

My short life span would be spent before I had even the inkling that I'd grow my frog legs and jump up, jump away from the bottom of the lonely, murky pond.

I would just live out my days laying my eggs and swimming with the young, being on the bottom, dreaming about the top.

And in my dreams I could see them laughing. Always a big grin full of rotten yellow teeth, teeth who've seen and tasted more than mine had dreamed. And they chomped down and laughed hysterically and made me salivate and sharpened and evolved and lived and laughed and I just stayed there, stuck in the bottom of the pool, knowing my skeleton would disenegrate and integrate itself into the ecosystem and feed millions more like me.

And I couldn't find comfort in the fact that so many lives were spent this way. I couldn't find comfort in such great numbers.

Skydrop Gunshot 3

2006-05-05T22:12:00.000-07:00

Quit your yappering, I've been busy.

Cameras fix in on a small squirellish female figure with long unkept brown hair scribbling madly in a notebook. I recognize the irony of this scribbled observation. She looks up momentarily, showing wide, blue eyes behind a screen of glass for just a second, before a tint of red appears on her countenance and she returns vigerously to her paper.
Bailiff - Ms. Jones, you really must be ready for this by now.
There is an air of confusion that hovers over most of the audience, with only the occasional knowing smile on a few stray reporters here and there. I recognize the name finally when he says it again.
Bailiff - Rapweather Jones here has earned herself enough fame and fortune to retire herself and anyone she might have ever cared about quite comfortably. Yet, here she is, a shining avatar of journalistic devotion.
This explaination seems to confuse the audience even further.
Bailiff - What? Does anyone even read anymore? Rapweather Jones is the now-legendary reporter who first brought this story to light! While I'm sure you lazy sogs got the word through 'late breaking exclusives' on top name network channels, those high brow, ivy league anchormen were all plagurizing one woman. A woman who went out to asmall, once nameless town to investigate a minor distirbance. The story at hand was that a young boy had been horsing around with a handgun he had found or stolen, accidently loaded it, and shot himself in the foot. It was to be an amusing piece with a hint of a message to parents about keeping an eye on their kids, and so on. But when the child would not stop telling everyone a fantastic story about how the gun had fallen from the sky itself, Ms. Jones knew she had something monumental on here hands.
The audiences oohes a mighty 'Ooooooh...' and slowly breaks into a polite and embarassed appluase. Rapweather, for her part, sinks into her lap to show her appreciation.
Bailiff - Finally, standing regally above us in his skybox, our illustrious leader, President Durhil Faust, who has taken the time out of his consuming and difficult job to visit our modest trial as the symbol of this great nation's absolute justice.
The irony of Bailiff's statement is that no serving president could ever hope to be re-elected if he missed a skydrop trial, and the only one that ever did was immediately and unanimously impeached anyways. The irony of this irony is that since his inauguration 3 years ago, Durhil Faust has outlawed both elections and impeachments.
This reporter has seen countless pictures and videos of Durhil Faust in his line of work, but sitting in my advantagious position barely 20 yards away from him, I am struck with a power of his presence I have never felt before. At 6 foot 8, he is a broad shouldered, monster of man. He sweeps over the audience slowly with his dark eyes, and I can see a chill move around us as if cast by his gorgon powers (editor's note: President Faust may or may not have said gorgon powers.) After taking us all in, his eyes shine a little, and smiles as he casually pulls a old-fashioned 6 shooter revolver out of his military jacket. The same single, stifled gasp can be heard faintly echoing several dozen times. Even Bailiff is visably shaken at this point. Durhil Faust dangles the gun from an extended finger for a second, then lets it drop to the floor. When it hits, he roars with enourmous laughter and spreads his branch like arms out, as if inviting us all to do the same. Some do, some don't, some get up to use the bathrooms.
Bailiff - F-Fantasic! Truly a man of such impossible talents is blessed to also weild such a...stunning sense of humor as well. Bravo, sir!
Bailiff - Then, without further ados, allow me to introduce the man who bears the honor of bringing down the hammer of the law on Mr. Gallent this evening. His honor, please rise for Judge Justice!

Fannonfiction

2006-04-23T10:30:00.001-07:00

Brilliant. I need to see an example now though.

EDIT: Im announcing the first annual Fanfiction write-off. Each contestant will submit a fanfiction by 4/30. Winner to be decided by general argeement. Good luck.

Vinny Mac's Five Steps to Writing a Successful Fan Fic

2006-04-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

Step One: Pick a popular franchise.
Something that will grab the populous into reading. It doesn't matter if there are ten or ten thousand stories written on the subject, people never get tired of popular franchises. For example, Final Fantasy. More specificily, Seven.

Step Two: Pick the most popular character in the franchise.
This is a double shot. Not only is it a popular franchise, but by picking the most popular character, you'll even be grabbing the attention of those who aren't die-hard fans. In this example, Cloud.

Step Three: Teleportation.
In some point, usually the end, the main character should be teleported into the real World. Generally outside and arcade, or a place with access to an arcade. See next step.

Step Four: DDR.
Yes, Dance Dance Revolution. This is a must folks. I can't tell you how many fan fics I've read that had no dance off. No matter how good a story it is up to this point, this is an automatic DQ. The main character is challenged by, or challenges, the author. Always have the author win, since you wrote it you can be as egotistical as you want. People understand this. Also have some cheesy line the character said in the franchise at one point.

Step Five: Sex.
More importantly, gay sex. Even if you yourself are female (unless the main character is female), this is the part where you unravel that you are really male. The main character is fine with this, (S)he actually prefers homosexual encounters, but was always afraid to tell their friends. Be specific about details people. Use different terms for the human reproductive organs constantly, we may forget what's going on and need constant reminders. Remember this rhyme: Under four, add one more. Having five, you will strive.

So remember, no matter how popular something is, or how many fictions already exist, there is still much more room for yours. But only if it involves teleportation to a DDR arcade with gay sex right afterwards. Be sure to praise to me when you start making the big bucks with this guide. Go ahead and tell your friends. I'm always here to help.

okay. i'm fucking weird. i don't know where this came from.

2006-04-17T17:08:00.000-07:00

"I'd like to buy my freedom!" a woman shouted from the back of the room.

"With what?" The scientist approached her with a stun gun, increduously, eyes slanted.

"My..umm...blood!"

"Oh? And what's your blood type?" The scientist was skeptical. The screams of the gaunt, terrified people grew louder as they were being corralled into a holding cell by the armed guards. "Speak quickly," he ordered.

"I'm a universal donor--type O positive," she said firmly, pressing her quivering lips together tightly.

"We'll see about that," he buzzed in a monotone from the speaker on his plastic bubble helmet. He quickly removed a syringe and a small plastic vial from his suit pocket, approached her steadily, like a mechanical, ant-like god.

Her knees wobbled but she kept her feet planted firmly on the floor; swollen, red eyes looking straight ahead from a shaky yet expressionless face.

She didn't wince when the needle pierced the vein in her left arm. When he had his sample, he grabbed her by the arm with his metal pincers and pulled her quickly toward another room. At this point she lost her resolve. "Oww, that hurts, asshole!" He said nothing and shut the door of the one-way mirrored room.

He came back into the room thirty minutes later with three other scientists. They all removed their bubble helmets and marched towards her. Shocked, she rose from where she had been sitting on the floor with an expectant and desperate look on her bloated face.

"Mam, your blood is made of earl grey tea and honey."

"What?"

"Do you realize what this means?" the man addressed the other scientists while looking at her.

"Yes," one of them said, "Yes, I think I do."

"Amazing," another muttered while shaking his head slowly.

"What the fuck are you talking about, mister? I mean---"

Before she could say another word, they had her surrounded with syringes in their determined hands, knees bent as if for a rugby match. They began to dig into her flesh. Her arms, legs, stomach, neck, every vein they could find. She smacked at them and screamed. A million bee stings, all at once, and she didn't understand why.

"Heeyyy! What are you doing to me?!! Get off me!!"

They grunted and worked, filling several pitchers with her rare blood.

"Mmmmmm," they all mumbled the entire time, licking their lips. They didn't talk to eachother, just went steadily on drawing her blood. She screamed and cried and kicked. "Stabilize the subject!" one man shouted. They tied her to an exam table.

An hour later, she was dead, to the relief of the scientists, whose eardrums couldn't tolerate any more of the blood-curdling screams.

The first scientist picked up a vial of the beautiful burgundy liquid and held it up to the sky. He looked at his partners and smiled.

"Cheers."

Trailer for Cop Show Guy vs. Vinny Mac

2006-03-28T03:07:00.000-08:00

This is my roughly thrown together draft for the trailer for my movie. As of right now, probably nothing in this will make it to the actual movie, so enjoy it now.

[blank screen with text and voice over]
In a World that needed heroes...

[blank screen with voice overs from reporters]
Reporter 1: ...Crime is up five hundred percent...
Reporter 2: ...Rioting has occurred all over the World...

[blank screen with text and voice over]
One would be chosen by chance...

[changes to a police station, with the chief yelling at someone]
Chief: "Listen, that bad guy keeps getting away. You have one last chance to catch him, or you're off the force!"
Cop Sow Guy: "Yes sir, I understand."
[Cop Show Guy is shown sitting down, sullen]

[blank screen with text and voice over]
The other, chosen by destiny...

[changes to Cop Show Guy and Vinny Mac driving in a car]
Vinny Mac: "He's my evil twin brother, every generation has two opposites that do battle for the World."

[blank screen with text and voice over]
Together they would meet, to protect what matters most.

[changes to a warehouse with three people in a triangle]
Cop Show Guy: "Hey, don't do anything stupid."
Vinny Mac: "Just put the Yoo-Hoo cases down, and no one gets hurt."
Bad Guy: "But, I'm just doing this for my girlfriend. She said she was thirsty, and told me to grab some."

[blank screen with text and voice over]
From the creator who brought you Cop Show

[changes to the Cop Cam chasing Bad Guy]
Cop Show Guy: "Get against the tree! Get against the tree...Now!"
Bad Guy: "Not while cars are coming, not while cars are coming."

[blank screen with text and voice over]
And the creator who brought you The Chronicles of Vinny Mac

[changes to an elaborate office]
Ginny Mac: "This makes what, the third time now?"
Vinny Mac: "Yeah, and it'll be your last."

[blank screen with text and voice over]
Comes one of the greatest team ups ever in cinema.
[fade]
Cop Show Guy [slight echo]
versus [slight echo]
Vinny Mac [slight echo]

[blank screen, only a voice over]
Rated R
Summer 2XXX

Ryan is a Fat Baby Head Faced Man

2006-03-27T22:22:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the lack of updates. Im going to a fun-ral Wednesday to Thursday, and promise that I will be working on Skydrop pretty much nonstop, unless mom asks me to drive.

PEACE OUT

Skydrop Gunshot 2

2006-03-17T08:36:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday, I promised you 'more Skydrop tommorow'. I haven't been to my matress since noon Thursday, so I really have not broken my word. Dreary sleeplessness does increadible things to my state of mind. My thoughts become loud and forceful, and even the more fantastical things I conjure up seem reasonable. It's the perfect mind for this bizarre story. Also, I may be becoming addicted to this haze. It is a challenge to achieve and maintain, but while I have it, time slows down incredibly, and I can easily tap sections of my mind normally reserved for motion reflexs and ability to control the pitch and volume of my voice.

Silence falls over the crowd like a blanket, Baliff smiles.
Baliff - Gentlemen, I have the very distinct duty and pleasure to welcome you all to the fourteenth National Skydrop Gunshot Supreme Trial-vaganza!
Crowd roars a deafening roar.
Baliff - But before we begin the festivities, there are a few, a few...a...few?
Baliff stops speaking and looks around, as if suddenly confused by something. After a few tense moments, he leans back on a desk and points dramatically.
Baliff - Ah ha! Maybe you all missed it, but not me. Who is this, front and center, sitting in the world's most coveted chair? This very seat that has warmed the asses of men who now reside only in our history books? On this very cushion that has seen more decades than most men years, and is so ancient as to have been sewn from dinosaur hides and stuffed with unicorn feathers!? And look, now, who is this geezer who presumes so much honor? Look now, gentlemen!
Big screen televisions above which I had not taken notice of flicker on and show the stadium's center seat. Despite Baliff's traditional excitable exaggerations, I am surprised to see a a man of no less than eighty years standing up slowly with the assistance of a knobly cane. He wears an old military outfit and mighty scowl as he stares down at Baliff.
Baliff - Out with it! It takes alot of wieght to sit on that throne, and you sir look like you might float away if we were to so much as crack a window in here. Who are you?
Baliff is smiling openly at this point.
I blink hard and the old man has dissapeared, replaced by a much younger man standing tall and easy with short black hair and toothy smile that blinds me even through the televisions. He is dressed in loose slacks and a casual, untucked shirt. On his chin there is a spotty goatee, that would look obscene on any lesser man. No one fails to know who he is.
Baliff - Ah ha ha! I know this man! This is the master of a million faces, able to fool even his own reflection. This is the billionare playboy, notorious for once satisfying three women at the same time, simply by gazing at them intently from across a crowded banquet hall. This is the prodegy thespian, who has recieved every single acting award that has ever been conceived and even a few that haven't. Mr. Deadwood Flint, I hope you can accept my deepest apologies. No one as famed as you has ever laid cheek to that seat before.
Baliff takes a deep bow. Deadwood laughs and returns the gesture, tossing his wrinkled mask to the crowd behind him before returning to his seat.
Baliff - How exciting! Surely there is no man who could have seen through such a convincing wall of geriatric falsehood. A man would have to have the eyes of an owl-eagle hybrid, which certainly does not even exist yet. However, I am convinced that one man here did know Deadwood on sight, and that man is not even a man at all, but a gentlewoman!
Cameras fix in on a small barely female figure with long unkept brown hair scribbling madly in a notebook. I recognize the irony of this scribbled observation. She looks up momentarily, showing wide, blue eyes behind a screen of glass for just a second, before a tint of red appears on her countenance and she returns vigerously to her paper.

This is all coming to me loud and clear. It may take a few more crazy day night days, but that's a price I'm willing to put on my body's credit card.

"Your name is John Wilkes Booth? Were your parents high? Did they hate you?"

2006-03-15T18:46:00.000-08:00

Skydrop Gunshot update tommorow.

New translation went over extremely well with the teacher. The task is serving as a fantastic conduit for learning the fine points of the langauge.

(Lo, and on the Third day, He did click)

I thought Dr. Thunder needed a new ad campaign.

Two Tales of a City

2006-03-14T23:08:00.000-08:00

Apologies. I thought I was going to write fiction this weekend, instead I worked on my translation.

(oclicky kudasai)

This is near perfect, and I understand it achieves at making Japanese people laugh 10% of the time. Sucsess!

Greatest Assassin 2

2006-03-11T21:24:00.000-08:00

I relize that the nature of archives and chronological posts makes reading stories I post in pieces difficult and confusing. Suck it up.

As the plane moved on its ten hour trip to the Madagascar coast, a language specialist operative drilled him in hundreds of useful French phrases he could use to make his way around the civilian nation by. As the trip was ending, he had mastered three. He made his thirty thousand foot jump right as the language expert radioed in his resignation.
Some people paid top dollar for the rush of the free-fall. For Mac, it was just another part of the job, and thus vital for him to consider it in a completely professional manner. He spread his arms out and made professional bomber plane sounds.
As soon as cloud cover broke, he opened the parachute and let himself drift down gracefully into the ocean water. Next to him, two older men in a small fishing rig eyed Mac with suspicion. As he unlatched his backpack and let it fall to the bottom of the ocean, he mentally congratulated himself for having the foresight to leave his lucky American flag chute at the base. He turned to the boat and unloaded the first of his new French powers.
“Quelle façon est Madagascar? S'il vous plaît indiquer.”
(Which way is Madagascar? Please point.)
Both of the men just stared at him for a while, so he tried smiling to reduce the tension of the situation. It can always be hard talking to new people, he knew this best. One of them finally pointed in the opposite direction than the ship was bearing.
“Thanks a bunch.” He waved, and started backstroking in the direction. The backstroke was his specialty.
A half an hour passed, and he was tempted to look around and see if he could spot the coast, but his swim coach would have never forgiven him. The time-tested secret of the backstroke was confidence, reaching back and trusting your fingers to find the end before your skull did. Reach. Reach. Reach.
A few more minutes, and his stroke was halted by sand. He turned around, stood up, and raised his arms victoriously on the beach of Madagascar. A group of four children playing in the shallow water stopped to stare at him. He gave them a thumb up to let them know everything was ‘cool’, but was cold-sweating in fear that these children might start questioning him. He might have to dispose of them. They studied him for a few seconds, and then went back to their games.
They were the world’s luckiest children that day.
He found small beachside cave once he had moved out of the children’s sight. There, he stripped off his wetsuit and buried it behind a rock. Now in his civilian clothes, he checked the pockets for the bills he’d been given and found them in short order. Two hundred dollars. Satisfied, he moved away from the coast to find a road. As he walked, he began to understand what Ginny had told him.
“Madagascar suffers from massive deforestation in the area you’ll be deployed at Mac. Your cameo won’t be of any use.”
“But cameo is IN, baby.”
He found a beat up two lane gravel road shortly, and prepared to hitchhike. It wasn’t long before a beat up truck sputtered down the road. The driver stopped and motioned for him to get in the passenger seat. He slid in beside the grinning man, who patted him on the back.
“Où allez-vous, l'étranger?”
“Wee, alli-hold on. Oh, oh, yeah,” the man wanted to know where he was going, he had written this down on his hand so he wouldn’t forget. Tragically though, all his swimming had unexpectedly blurred his writing.
“Uh…Ma..mo..katro..ra?”
“C'est Maromokotro?”
Mac nodded and mimed stepping on a gas petal while making car noises, so this man would understand that, yes, he wanted to go there. The man laughed, and took off again.
As they traveled, the man prattled on endlessly in French, much as the person in the plane had. Mac understood about as much of it as the time he had gotten into an argument with a fly buzzing around his bathroom on the issue of needlessly buzzing around, which is to say, only a little. But, in order to seem less suspicious and friendlier to this man, he dropped the second of his French phrases after a short silence to try and ‘fit in’ with the local.
“Je ne paierais pas trois dollars pour un taco deux fois plus délicieux que ceci l'un.”
(I would not pay three dollars for a taco twice as delicious as this one.)
The man’s silence for the rest of the trip signaled his success. Now that they understood each other, they were sharing a unilingual peace. Talking through non-speaking. Very deep.
He was dropped off at the train station he pointed at when they finally got to the city a few hours later. He waved at the friendly man, who seemed in a hurry to get where he was going as he sped away.
Inside the train station he located the lockers quickly, and fished a key from his pocket. The key had the number four etched into the side.

The rest of this story is on paper, not data. I need to type it up. I haven't even looked at what I just posted (in a hurry), so if a kind reader could comment on grammatical errors, I'll be sure to call you a jerk, demean you in public several times, and make the approriate changes. In that order.

Greatest Assassin

2006-03-09T23:20:00.000-08:00

I'll be divining up new fiction this weekend for sure, but in the mean while, thought I'd recycle some old garbage. Please excuse grammatical errors and a slight complete lack of any refinement whatsoever.

The World's Greatest Assassin: A Modern Fairy Tale

Mac looked at himself in the mirror, and the face that looked back at him was screaming. A silent scream that told of the infinite spiral of man’s suffering, his tragic doom to experience a hundred deaths before his own. A powerful scream that rippled through the air and bent the world with its terrible agony. Also, he had lost weight, and was suddenly bald.
“Agent Mac, why are you staring at the Munch painting? Didn’t the Admiral want to see you?”
He whirled around at the sound, and saw a stunned young man holding an empty coffee pot. Looking up and down the hallway quickly, he saw no one else, and tackled the youth against the wall. The glass pot dropped from his hand and shattered to a hundred pieces on the tiled floor. It was very dramatic looking.
“What do you know about the Admiral? Where did you put him?” Mac stuck his face in the youth’s and dropped his tone to a near whisper, “Speak up, boy, before I have plant a couple on that dainty lookin’ chin a’ yours. Where!?”
The youth looked more irritated than afraid, “Agent Mac, the Admiral’s office is at the end of this hall,” he pointed to Mac’s left, where he could see a door several yards away, “where it’s always been.”
The youth had given up too much information, too quickly. Mac figured he was either a fast liar, or too scared to hold anything back. He didn’t have time to figure out which though; the Admiral’s life could be in grave danger. Every second was life and death now.
“I see, skip the dungeon, eh? The best eggs are laid right in the open, aren’t they, scum?”
“What are you talking abou-“
Mac hit the youth with a sleeping neck pinch…or deadly Wu Chu neck pinch; he couldn’t remember what made them different anymore. He tried to say something witty as the youth’s body slumped to the ground, but all that came out was: “Sleepy, night-night.”
Fortunately, no one else was around to hear it. He sprinted to the door.
Breaking the unlocked lock with a fantastic-looking jump kick, he got right to the point.
“Where’s the Admiral, cockmongers?”
The secretary at her desk did not even glance at him; she motioned with a careless wave of her hand at another door in the tiny room.
This door was also kicked in. The room he flourished into had a more elegant décor than the white-washed labyrinth of hallways he had traversed to get there. Cases full of hard backed books lined the walls to his sides. In front of him was a large window, and a large person dressed in military clothing, similar to that of an admiral. The floor was a fine carpet, a lighter shade of brown; it had a fruity oriental design-
“Ahem,” the Admiral cleared his throat.
“Admiral!” Mac saluted the man, who was looking at him sternly.
“Agent Mac,” his look relaxed, he sighed and rubbed his temple, “why did you break my door down?”
“Sir. I am an assassin, where are doors when you go through them?”
“What? What are talking-“
“Behind you, sir. I was taught never to expose the enemy my backside.”
The Admiral slouched, and stared at him for a second, probably amazed at his fantastic reasoning. “Enemy? I…you…” he seemed to be struggling with something, perhaps Mac’s genius of both watching his back and looking awesome at the same time. He was like an assassin prodigy, or an assassin…mathematical theorist. That’s what had the Admiral calling on him now, he was sure.
“Agent Mac, were you not also taught to maintain silence above all else?”
“Yessir, I…ah, I understand sir. Mum’s the word on my door breaking tactic.” He winked suggestively.
The Admiral sighed again, and motioned for them to sit in a pair of comfortable looking chairs. They did.
“Comfortable chairs you got here Admiral. Sweet deal,” he bounced in it a little.
“Agent, your mission-“
“These some kind of super-tech military chairs? They’re really comfy.”
“You need to infiltrate-“
“I bet this thing’s got a turret on it somewhere,” he searched the arms for hidden buttons as he talked, “or, or even disarms nukes in a two mile radius, right?” He got up and lifted the chair to find the disarming lasers.
“I got them at Sears! Sit down!”
Mac knew the tone change, and sat quietly. After a minute, the Admiral continued.
“Your mission, Agent, is to infiltrate a new base on the island country Madagascar. A previously convicted scientist has set up there and is conducting experiments outside of our surveillances. We cannot send an armed unit in there to arrest him for violating his parole, or we risk international involvement. We need you, and you alone to go, and break into this base.”
“Then I pow-pow-kikikiki-pow, right?” He made motions with his arms like he was shooting a gun, and then winked again so the Admiral wouldn’t be alarmed.
“No Agent, you’re on reconnaissance after what happened last time, go talk to my secretary for the remaining details. Dismissed.”
And that’s how it was, he thought as he got up and saluted the Admiral again. You get one stinking target mixed up, and the big wigs on top never let you live it down.
The secretary was a classically beautiful blond, with the big blue eyes that could suffocate a man, and the razor sharp lips that could draw the marrow from a coconut. She looked at him with the scorn a cat would look at a bowl of baby carrots with. Lots of scorn.
“You put the intern in a coma this time, Mac.”
“That fresh-faced terrorist douche bag? Serves him right for jumping me like that. What’s he got that I don’t got anyways, baby?”
“A high-school diploma.”
“What about a romantic soul?” He leaned onto her desk, moving closer to her face.
“Ugh. Mac, I’m obliged to inform you that, like you, I also have a license to kill.”
“And I’m obliged to inform you that that is hot.”
“No really,” she pulled a small card out of her desk and handed it to him, “look at the expiration date.”
Ginny Malone…Age: 26…blah, blah…Expiration Date: 2010. Mine is in 2008. That means in 2008, she could legally kill me and I wouldn’t be able to kill her back until I got my license renewed. Damn.
“I see…” he said, hand it back to her and backing off the desk slowly, “I think I get your point.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’ll be your contact for this mission, Mac. We need photos and tapes of what’s going on in that base. Find the labs, find the crucial security points, and find the target, Dr. Julies Carter, then get out.”
“Scrapbook of the nerd, his toys, and his ‘stay out’ sign. I got it.”
“Your plane leaves tomorrow, from the military airbase, o six hundred hours.”
***

This is just part of what I have. It might entertain you to know though, that I got full credit for this as a major assignment in a college level fiction class. Take that, the system.

Short Story

2006-03-09T11:40:00.000-08:00

If you haven't seen this yet, do so:

Red Riding Hood

But not right before you goto bed.

soup test.

2006-03-09T00:12:00.000-08:00

I went to the soup kitchen today. They slapped my wrist and told me to never come back. They shook their fists at me as I ran away from them, laughing with my pants down. I'm gonna come back later and eat all your soup. Better watch it, sucka. (this is a test post).

Into the White

2006-03-08T12:12:00.000-08:00

A ravaging sickness has been keeping me awake for long stretches of time these last few days. In my tired shuffling from classroom to classroom, my mind enters a new state, unachievable without the use of sleep deprivation. Today, in this state, I have found my religion. This lays to rest 22 years of exectential(sp?) wandering.

The book, which will be short, I plan to write over the weekend. It's titled The Humor. But now I have to sleep.

G is for Great Expectations of MURDER

2006-03-08T00:59:00.000-08:00

I have a good friend. I'm starting this post with this sentence, possibly the least exciting sentence writable. So now I'm thinking of ways to use it as a story opener.

I have a good friend, a close mate if you live in or were once conquered by the UK. I enjoy his conversations that he has with me...and him, but lately I have found out that he is more than a little sexist. His concept of a woman is inferior to his concpet of a man. It's not raging, but its definately pronounced.

I treat sexism the same way I treat racism, with some distain that tickles at my mind while I think about how or why a person might have developed these ideas. That is to say, it bothers me. I've never been able to set aside parts of my brain for dark bodeings on why a certain kind of person is responcible for bad things, socially inferior like animals (the lowly Vole), or inheriently wicked (naughty). I've never been able to form an automatic internal reaction when I see a different kind of person, no warning flares or temptation to scoff. Such things seem foriegn and difficult to me.

Lately (and this is what sparked my relizations) he and I have been debating. He attributes the lack of willpower in our generation to woman's civil liberations. His arguement is that with equal footing in the household, and a great deal more face time with children, a mother is capable of instilling her male offspring with inheriently female attributes like pacifism, and co-operation over competition. I point out that the problem of stay home/work roles is at hand, and that no problem can be truely blamed on the solving of a bigger problem.

Removing ourselves from the main debate (which I have gone into as far as I will), I notice that he has on a couple occasions brought up wife-beating (striking the out of line spouse). I fear he believes this to be a nessecary piece of the family relationship, which is mainly why I write about it now. And writing it takes it out of my head and puts it out here.

That is all, dear readers. Sorry for spoiling your mood, or if you were in a rotten mood already: who am I, your mother? Go play a video game.

Taking Everything Everything at a Time

2006-03-04T21:39:00.000-08:00

(You clicky clicky)

I have recently negotiated for and won the ability to translate comics for grades in my class. Needless to say, I am overjoyed. Such work is maticulus, but satisfying. It is the work of passion. It is the sort of work I would not be adversed to doing in the future for barrels of cash, maybe even barrels full of cash. Who knows. The above product is a rough translation of John Allison's mighty Scary Go Round, episode 1. It is probably 20% incorrect, so if you read these fancy little symbols, don't take it to heart yet, I'm not finished.

Speaking of the crazy lands to the West, if I can trick the university into giving me 6000 dollars I'll be headed to Iida, Japan in late May to study puppetry. If everything goes according to plan, I'll be giving low budget Muppet ripoff (tribute) performances on a New York street corner by the end of the year. Living the dream.

Skydrop Gunshot

2006-03-02T01:07:00.000-08:00

I have no doubt in any part of my body that one day I will try to live on the written word, and probably fail. But relax, dear reader, for I'm certain that the gibbering madness that would ravage my mind after I recieve my third rejection notice will fuel the latent insane hobo poetry (hoboetry) that lies deep inside me. This of course, will be highly regarded in all circles, and I'll pioneer the NeoRenaissance of the 3rd millenium.

No, hoboetry does not rhyme.

Recently, I have come to the conclusion that the normal boundaries of fiction bore my mind into states of 'putting the pencil down' and 'doing something else'. I have henceforth decided to completely disregard any restrictions I may have been inclined to adhere to in the past. If I decide to change something in the universe of my characters' conflicts, I'd rather assume my readership (best friend, mother) is capable of figuring out what's different and acceptable and wacky without me have to spell it out in, you know, words.

Skydrop Gunshot is a project falling under these non guidelines. To you I present my scribblings of an opening:

The most heinous crime in the universe is to throw a loaded pistol out of a plane.
Results of this deplorable act are completely irrelevant, the moment the gun leaves the perpetrator’s hand he is subject to every single conceivable system of justices’ most unusual punishments. In most cases, before the man can even be apprehended his fellow passengers have pummeled the familiar features out of him. This is why a professional recognizer can be seen in every courthouse these days, which is heavily regarded to be the easiest job possible to have. He just has to point at the fellow that looks like he challenged a horse to a three round kickboxing match. Most children, who can’t even do sophisticated things like scribble their names illegibly in cursive or rent automobiles, will spit curses and throw uppercuts at these criminals. Truly, a powerful moral cable unites all good people in their hatred of this bullshit.
The technical name for this crime is ‘Belligerent intention and execution of release of firearms of capable mischief and harm from avionic location.’ Courtroom broadcasts adopted the popular term ‘Skydrop Gunshot’, because it was much more poetic sounding, and fits on a television screen. Every Skydrop trial since the invention of television has been covered in full by all of the network channels and by half of the cable channels since their creation. The other half, who didn’t buy their tickets in time, was usually forced to broadcast less exciting things for minimal or sometimes impossibly negative ratings. Truly, Skydrop Gunshot cases are the concern and entertainment of all good people.
No biography or interview of a convicted Skydropper has ever been published or even written. The suicide rate of men found guilty of this crime has been a steady 100 percent since planes were invented. No man could be expected or allowed to enjoy a single moment of his life after conviction. Even Senior the Eternally Optimistic failed to lower the bar when the judge passed down his sentence to drown himself in a kiddy pool or starve to death trying. Truly, it is the obligation of all good people to watch these events as warnings to future would-be Skydroppers, and truly, who can blame good people for laying a couple of well-meant bets on the side.
All of this is about to change though.
What follows is the unedited documentation of the trial of alleged Skydropper Marcus ‘the Rigid Liar’ Gallant written down by a local reporter. Since all ‘alleged’ Skydroppers become ‘convicted’ Skydroppers, and all Skydrop cases define the decade they take place in, the public quickly began assigning the defendants’ adjective-noun before the bailiff had even cleared his throat. Judge Justice presiding. Official court record taken by the new experimental 'Dr. Von Computer' prototype, Druvee for all good people’s hatred of syllables.

The Rigid Liar – Skydropper
About 3ish, Dec 4th 1999 – Freddy Wilkins reporting

Courtroom is packed. Video cameras in every hand. New stadium seating a big improvement. Bailiff eyes the crowd. Excited talk dies down. He puts a hand in the air, people tense up. Absurdly large man on my left clenches my knee hard, I voice concern about this, he doesn’t seem to hear. Bailiff speaks. Mic on his collar carries his words across the sound system. Knee hurts.
Bailiff – Gentlemen? Gentlemen, may I have your attention?

This is all very raw. Grammar may be off, letters and characters may be missing here and there. Your praise is my supper though, so please cook it thoroughly.