tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46611667968149112212024-03-13T05:03:31.034-05:00The Non-ReviewHumor, reviews, non-reviews, cats, movies, music, by the numbers, non-obits, TS HendrikTS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.comBlogger989125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-11673889160682234112021-01-15T23:31:00.000-06:002021-01-15T23:31:13.905-06:00Mr. Jones Paints A Fence [Short Story]<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ziI7ij9xhZ4/YAJmvfRwtGI/AAAAAAAADds/mnH4SSAzYSUcfU8Xxy8QOt5Wq_YgrvbRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/jones.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ziI7ij9xhZ4/YAJmvfRwtGI/AAAAAAAADds/mnH4SSAzYSUcfU8Xxy8QOt5Wq_YgrvbRQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/jones.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">"Do I really need to be here for this?" the young human girl before me asked. 15 Years old and the ward of the alien that sat beside her. She wore a ragged pair of jeans and a t-shirt with some generic cartoon on it. Around her waist was tied a long sleeve shirt she never wore. "Couldn't I just get my punishment handed down to me later from Mr. Jones?"</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Young lady, you are here for a reason and you know it," I growled. Not particularly angry with her, just the nature of my species; the Carawong. We are one of three peoples known as the Cats, due to our similarity to Earth's common house variety. In truth they're like to us as apes are to man. We walk upright and dress ourselves in fine suits. We're also built like body builders.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Wolfe, If I may interject," Jones spoke up from beside the girl. His small hand was raised as if asking a teacher for attention. In said hand was a tiny cigarette the size of a toothpick.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"No you may not," I hissed at him, "and put out that damn cigarette. You know how I feel about smoking in here."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones slowly lowered his hand, deliberately exaggerating his actions to emphasize it. With no ashtray in sight he settled for my desk. Jones has a way of getting under my skin, today however he seemed particularly needling. Once the cigarette was disposed of his trademark flask and folding martini glass made an appearance from inside his custom made, Armani suit. A tiny amount of liquid that would hardly register as a sip to me (but to his species a sizable glass) was poured out.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When you think of the classic image of an alien -big head, grayish complexion, big black eyes- that's Jones' people. The only real difference is none of them are taller than 4 foot. Jones himself is rather average at 3 feet tall. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones took a sip of the drink he'd poured, scratched the bump on his face where a nose would go if he had one, and motioned me to continue.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"This isn't like the last time you were called in here because you stole another girl's bike. You stabbed a boy with a fork. His parents are very unhappy and demanding you be sent back to earth. Frankly, I'm beginning to wonder if that might not be the best thing for everyone, including yourself."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The girl sat upright in her seat at those words.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Send me back? You can't send me back. I belong here now..." She turned a pleading eye to her guardian, "with Mr. Jones."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Anna," I sighed, "I know your affection for Jones, but these incidents keep happening, and I have to wonder if a change of environment would resolve the issues for you."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Now hold on," Jones interjected. "I've read the report and I happen to think she had probable cause."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"All the boy said was that he 'liked' her," I growled.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Sounds like probable cause to me."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Jones," I muttered, rubbing my temples, "I'm tired of feeling like a principle at a school. I've got too many irons in the fire as it is."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Look, I'll take her on my next mission. That's the other reason I'm here, right? It'll give everyone a chance to calm down, and then we can discuss things when we get back." For an alien with a rubbery exterior and no eyebrows, he was able to convey a surprising amount of emotion on his face.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright Jones, I'll see if I can calm the parents down. But I must insist she apologize to the boy." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I turned to Anna who, unlike her alien counterpart, had nothing resembling humane in her expression. "Agreed?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Agreed," she stated blankly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Good. Why don't you go and attend to that now while I discuss business with Jones here."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She nodded and got up. I watched her exit through the door, unsure how much, if anything, had registered with her. When I turned back to Jones, his feet were propped up on my desk, the martini glass had refilled itself and a new toothpick was lit in his hand.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Kids..." he muttered and shook his head.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Jones!" I roared at him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A look of pain filled his face. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What did I do?" he asked, voice dripping with hurt.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"If I weren't married to your cousin, I swear I'd-"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"How are Marie and the kittens doing?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I've asked you not to call them kittens before. As far as Marie, she's good. Been on another weight loss kick. Nothing but boiled vegetables for days."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I feel you my brother. I mean, this burger I had last night had tomatoes on it. You know how I am about tomatoes."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You like tomatoes."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Right," he said. Jones took one last puff and, having delayed long enough to finish, put it out on my desk.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We've really gotten off track here. There's a rather time sensitive mission requiring SSSS attention."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For those of you who don't know, there is a force for good in the galaxy. The SSSS (Solar System Secret Service) acts as a governing body to make sure our agreed upon laws are enforced. Our branch has just a few active planets, so most of our work comes with protecting Earth and Venus. Pluto, which actually is a planet, has surprisingly little problems. Likely because the Plutonians are exceptionally dull.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Bring it on big daddy," said Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I rolled my eyes in disgust but continued, "There's been reports of people disappearing in a small town in Pennsylvania, America, Earth. When they finally return, usually a week later, they have completely different personalities."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Abductions?" Jones queried finally clicking into gear.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"The town is pretty isolated with really only one plant supporting the majority of people living there. A paint factory as it happens."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones sighed, "Miners."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Looks like it."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones slipped on a bowler hat and clambered off the chair he'd been propped up on. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I'm on it," he stated confidently.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Good man. I'll forward the coordinates to your ship. We actually have a contact there who I want you to meet with. Thomas Denniby. I think he can help you get access into the plant."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"A contact? Since when do we keep contacts on Earth?" he responded skeptically.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"This is a special circumstance," I smiled back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I stood and showed him out of my office. Before the door closed I could hear a boy screaming in the distance. I could only assume that was to do with Anna's apology and I wanted nothing to do with it. My stomach growled miserably. <i>Maybe I'll send out for dinner tonight</i>, I thought.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> ******************************</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the southern Pennsylvania town of Mills Creek, a man named Thomas Denniby was sweeping his front porch. The house was a rundown little number that had been standing thanks to faith more than structural support for the last 40 years. Its new owner was the perfect reflection of the house. In beatdown overalls, his thin frame and sharp cheekbones reflected the life he'd lived. Honest and hardworking, he'd managed in 37 years of living to scrape together enough to buy the little tumbledown shack. The first step had been buying it, the next step would be repairs. A task he was more than equipped to handle.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The morning was still freshly risen when out back of Thomas's house, a small saucer-shaped ship, about the size of children's swimming pool, landed in the freshly mown grass. Around the perimeter, a chipped and peeled white picket fence witnessed a small alien in a fancy blue suit emerge from the ship. Behind him a girl who should not have been able to fit in the saucer stepped out as well. The opposite in more than one way, while the raggedy jeans still adorned her, she'd swapped out her tshirt for an oversized hoody. Her blonde hair blew lightly in the morning sunlight as she looked around.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones took a step, stopped and raised his shoe to take a look.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Every damn time," he exclaimed, "your world has to be the most poop filled planet I've ever been on. I bet he doesn't even have a dog."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Don't forget to turn on the image projector," Anna warned.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Jones clicked a button on his belt and suddenly the image of a very short man holographically covered the alien.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Good thinking. No telling if he's alone."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now Anna was laughing.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You're still the same size!" she gasped.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Obviously. Can you imagine if someone thought I was taller and tried to touch me? They'd be grabbing thin air."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I think you look very cute," she said, finally getting control of herself.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones frowned at her, "Could we?" </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Giggling lightly, Anna led the way around to the front of the house. As they approached from the side Thomas paused his sweeping and eyed them cautiously. As the little girl and even littler man climbed the three steps up to his porch, Thomas gripped his broom tightly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Howdy," Anna called out as she crested the porch.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thomas cocked his head in acknowledgment but gave no more.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Are you by any chance, Mr. Thomas Denniby?" Anna enquired.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A guarded nod of the head.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Is there anyone one else around?" the little man asked him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This alarmed Thomas who held out his broom, keeping them at a distance.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Listen you, I don't know who you are or what this is about, but I don't want no trouble," Thomas asserted, swinging his broom back and forth.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones held up his hands in peace.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Dude, relax, we're on your side. See..." Joes hit the switch, shutting the holograph off. "My name is Mr. Jones and this is-"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Upon being faced with the vision of a tiny alien in front of him, the broom came down, sweeping Jones into the side of a building before he could even finish his sentence. A dazed Jones looked up into the sunlight as the broom was lowered again and again on his head. Anna at first frozen suddenly seemed to wake up.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What are you doing?" she yelled at Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You stay back there little girl," Thomas answered, continuing to wail away. "Ain't nobody getting their asses probed today."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What are you talking about, no one wants to probe your sorry ass," Jones hollered deflecting the blows as best he could.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, that's what your kind said the last time!"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anna had gotten behind Thomas and was pulling at his arms. The tiny alien seeing his opportunity scurried out of the way, pulling out his gun. A standard blaster, red and yellow, with twin disks encompassing the barrel. A flash of light burst out the end of the gun, instantly disintegrating the broom. This had the desired effect as Thomas froze where he was.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Oh sweet Mary, mother of God, I can't take it up the ass again."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Would you shut up about anal probing already? Oh, look at my suit, it's all scuffed to hell. Do you have any idea how much it costs to get a suit like this tailored to my size? You know what, never mind that now. I'm a little confused. My boss said you were a contact of ours and... And..." Jones winced in sudden realization, "They probed you didn't they?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yes, God, yes. Please, don't do it again!"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I thought you said you guys didn't actually do probes," asked Anna who had moved away from the man and was now looking at him with something approaching, but not quite, sympathy.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We don't. Well, I don't. They did years back, before my time. Back in the 90's there was a 2 year project that ran for a while. It was scrapped when the then director of the SSSS, was discovered to be a fetishist posting the images online. But let me assure you sir, we no longer do that."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That's very comforting," Thomas mocked, "I suppose you traveling around with this little girl is all above board and not some impregnating deal? Unless of course she's really another one of you."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Oh no, I'm all girl," Anna chipped in.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"The interspecies pregnancies have always been illegal," Jones returned, "as for the girl, I saved her some time back from a villainous species of aliens that had already sucked out her family's brains."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thomas glanced at Anna who didn't seem phased by his words in the least.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"She doesn't act like someone who's had what you just said happen."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Sorry," Anna jumped in, "not everything registers with me. My own brain was damaged by one of the aliens. The part of my brain that feels empathy and emotion, doesn't always work."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Look, we're here for a reason, and I'd much prefer it if we could finish our conversation indoors," Jones said.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright," Thomas said, noting the gun still in Jones hands, "but if you try anything, I just want you to know, I've got a whole closet full of brooms inside."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>If there was something to be said for the interior of the house it was that it appeared someone had tried to clean it. Otherwise the house was somewhat of an abomination. The walls were covered in a flowery wallpaper pattern, intersected with large gashes where one can only assume previous residents had had a go at trying to remove it. There were holes everywhere; in the floors, wall, and a pitiful staircase that dared you to try it and see how you faired. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Love what you've done with the place," Jones quipped.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's a work in progress. I only got the house a couple weeks ago."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You paid for this?" Jones asked while sidestepping a hole that was practically a canyon to his small body.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Original wood," Thomas responded sardonically.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They made their way down a hallway to the other end of the house where the kitchen sat. Not to be outdone, the kitchen housed only the highest end appliances from 1953. The room appeared to be covered in dinge. On closer inspection, it would seem everything had been cleaned, but years of dirt had left it stained and patterned into the makeup of the kitchen. In the middle sat a sad, beat up, little, wooden table with three chairs. It was clear on top except for a bowl of yogurt covered pretzels. Thomas beckoned for them to sit down.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones, once he had climbed up, observed the pretzels with great interest. Never shy, and always a fan of Earthen edibles, reached out and helped himself. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Jones," Anna hissed at him, "that's rude. You haven't been invited yet."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thomas waived it off, "It's alright. Hardly think it matters considering you're holding me at gun point."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones tipped his bowler towards the gentleman and began nibbling at the pretzel.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Right, let's get down to business," a mouth stuffed with pretzels spoke, "You work at the local paint plant, yes?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, everyone in town does."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Notice anything strange?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I'm sitting across from strange."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I mean at the plant."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Do you mean the disappearances?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones nodded, keeping his attention on the bowl in front of him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"One day a couple weeks back, half the town vanished. A few days later they came back. Since then a couple people a day have gone missing. But they always return."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Memmppfhhsdn," Jones attempted to speak through a mouthful.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Did you find that odd at all?" Anna translated. Jones gave a thumbs up to her.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well sure, but I've always lived on the outskirts of people, half the things people do make no sense to me. I mean, yeah, people seem different when they return, but it didn't seem like any of my business."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones wiped crumbs from his mouth before speaking up, "It's probably for the best you didn't or you'd likely have joined their ranks."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Ranks?" Thomas asked, still eyeing the blaster in Jones hand. "Do you suppose you could put the gun down now? It's really making me nervous and I'm already having trouble holding my bowels in check."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Gross, man, I'm eating." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nevertheless Jones holstered the tiny gun. In it's place he pulled out a familiar flask and cup. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Little early isn't it?" Anna observed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Just to wash down the pretzels, sweetie," Jones answered and turned back to Thomas. "I'm sorry to tell you that the town folk have most likely been replaced by aliens. Possibly miners."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Miners? Is that what your people call yourselves?" Thomas asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Miners aren't a race," Jones replied, "it's an occupation. I don't have enough information to be sure which is why I need your help to get me into the plant."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Miners. Like gold miners? I haven't seen any kind of digging going on at the plant and believe me I'd notice. I'm maintenance, it's my job to keep the place in order."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"There's all kinds of things one can mine," Jones spoke grimly. "Can you get me into the plant?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Why not just fly your ship in there yourself?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Because if I'm wrong I've just exposed humankind to life from other planets. I can't risk that."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The wheels in Thomas's head were turning. A bit of leverage had just been handed over to him. Jones eyed him as he sat there silently. Patience is not a virtue the small alien knows, and so, after barely 20 seconds, he began clapping at Thomas to get his attention.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's not a quiz show," Jones exclaimed. "Can you get me into the plant or not?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What's in it for me?" Thomas asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What do you mean what's in it for you? Helping out your fellow man. Delivering justice to the poor people of this town. Your friends, people you lived among."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I have no friends. I do however have a house that needs renovating."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones raised an eyebrow. "And..."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"And I could sure use some help."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I'm sorry, did you just go from being afraid of me probing your ass to extortion without blinking?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Damn straight. My ass demands restitution."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What Jones said at that moment is not fit to print, and to be honest, I'm not even sure I could spell it. Anna did her best to calm him down but he was not having it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What do you propose exactly? The agency won't pay for your renovations and I'm hardly going to be any help at my size."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thomas looked him up and down, sizing him up. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You ever done any painting?" he asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So it goes that Jones found himself on a sunny Saturday morning in a pair of child's overalls, paintbrush in one hand, and a can of Charleston's All White in the other. On the porch Thomas sat in a chair, sipping on a glass of lemonade. Beside him was a broom and mop in case Jones got out of order. Anna, sat on the steps, amused by the situation. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Couldn't we do this after my investigation?" Jones asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"And have you skip out on me afterwards?" Thomas hollered from the porch.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mumbling about humans not being worth it, Jones returned to the task at hand. After a while he found himself slipping into a trance, his mind wandering a thousand different directions from the boredom. Once again he was camouflaged by the hologram of a very short man. To anyone watching, it would have been a weird enough sight without Jones true visage showing.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Any other time Jones would have been aware of his surroundings, but in his Zen like state, he was completely oblivious to the 9 year old child, in a Hawaiian shirt, parked alongside Jones on his bike watching him intently. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Do you like painting fences?" </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The words filtered through the ether Jones was floating in. The chubby face of the boy and his rusty hair began to come into clarity staring through the other side of the fence.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What?" Jones asked, snapping out of it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Do you like painting fences? You're doing a good job of it. "</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Thanks," he muttered in response, "I wouldn't exactly say I 'like' painting."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Then why are you doing it?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A glimmer of an idea struck Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I mean, I don't just like it. Say, what's your name boy?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Tom," answered Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones rolled his eyes at the second occurrence of a Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Tom, I've got to tell you, painting this fence is about the most enjoyable thing in the world."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"For real?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Oh absolutely. That's why I volunteered to do this job. I even traded an apple so I could have a go. There's nothing quite like painting a fence."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"An apple hardly sounds fair if it's that much fun."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones sensed he was losing his mark.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well, it was an especially good apple, and he was very hungry. I'll tell you what though, it hardly seems fair that I should be the only one enjoying this. Since you're so nice, I guess I could see it in my heart to let you have a turn painting."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Really?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Just this once."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"No thanks, sucko," Tom called out as he began peddling his bike. "Enjoy your boring-ass job."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones watched him heading down the road, the shadow of the bike trailing after. He thought about chasing him down and throwing paint on him. In the end he decided it would just be more work. Instead he set his gaze on finishing the task at hand. Soon he was back in his ether, floating away as the paintbrush in his tiny hand methodically swooped up and down.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By the time he was finished, the sun was setting. Exhausted as he was, Jones dressed once again in his suit, stood before Thomas, ready to go.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I've finished with the fence," said Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What about the second coat?" Thomas replied.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I've finished with the fence," Jones reiterated, an icy edge to his voice.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright, fine, I'll grab my keys and we'll head off.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>While he was inside Jones turned his attention to Anna.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I suppose you enjoyed that," he said.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Not really. The novelty wore off after the first few minutes. The rest of the time it was like watching paint dry. I kept expecting you to crack and pull your blaster on Tom again."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Tom?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, he said I could call him Tom. He's actually a really nice guy."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones' race does not sweat -externally- but that did not stop him from pretending to wipe sweat from his face. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, a real sweetheart. I practically melted away to nothing out there."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anna rolled her eyes but offered him a small consolation of "there, there."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You know I'm leaving you here when we go to the factory, right?" Jones asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What? Why?" she protested.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's dangerous, I've grown attached to you, and you seem to have this Penny helping Inspector Gadget complex."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I thought you liked that about me," she said smiling.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's cute when it's about day to day things. In this type of situation, it could get you killed."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright, I'll stay in the ship, but after this is all over, you're taking to me to a theme park."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I don't recall opening this up to negotiation," Jones said.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Neither do I," she responded firmly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Okay, fine. Now head on off to the ship. And don't forget to DVR my shows."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anna left and few moments later Thomas appeared, keys in hand. He shook them at Jones and motioned towards the car parked in the driveway.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Shall we?" Thomas asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was a 20 minute drive through the country night. The houses they passed were all darkened, with no lights turned on anywhere. No TVs glowing to atomic families while they digested ritualized meals. In short, no sign of life at all.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When they arrived at the plant, things were different. Lights and the sounds of machines thundered from inside. At the front gate, they were greeted by a tall, spindly looking security guard.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Hey Tom, startin' kinda early tonight aren't you?" the guard said.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Training a new guy," Tom answered, nodding towards Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones holograph, squat, and balding, waved at the guard.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Super!" the guard ejaculated. "You guys have an awesomely tight, amazing night."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The guard threw them a plastic smile along with finger guns before opening the boom gate.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeesh, I see what you mean about the people being off," Jones commented after they'd passed through.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Huh?" said Tom. "Oh, no, that's just Thompson. He's always like that."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones looked back at the guard over his shoulder and shuddered.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Inside, the strangeness continued. All around workers moved about stiffly doing their jobs. Occasionally, one would look up at Jones and Tom before returning to their tasks. There were no smiles or anger, just blank expressions. Despite the heat that filled the room, no one seemed to be sweating, or showing signs of fatigue.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Around them, machines whirred and hummed, occasionally spitting out steam, just in case you forgot you were in a factory. On the second floor, a man with short blonde hair and an equal proportion of fat and bulging muscles, peered over the railing down below. A cigar in his mouth occasionally dropped ash from its own weight.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones nodded towards him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who's that?" he asked Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That's the manager, Frank Detweiler. Always been kind of a mean SOB."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well, that 'mean SOB' is the odd man out here."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Huh?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones held up a hand to silence him and continued to watch his target. Frank, looked over the operations, a grim scowl written across his face. His cigar dropped another load of ash to the metal walkway below his feet. He was mouthing something to himself. A few minutes later, whatever internal arguments he'd been having, were decided. Frank straightened himself up, turned on his heel and stormed into an office behind him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What say we pay yonder kingpin a visit?" Jones asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You think Frank's the head alien?" Tom asked back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Not exactly." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The pair of them weaved their way around workers and machinations till they came to a set of metal steps that led up to the next level. Once they were above, Jones paused to look out over the floor below. A frown settled into his brow. Below the workers were manning their stations as if everything in the world was normal. No one even seemed to pay attention to the large vat that held a bubbling pink liquid.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What the heck is that?" asked Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That, I'm sorry to say, is what's left of your coworkers."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You mean..."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Miners, it's what they do. They boil down a species to extract a pure form of an element. Then they refine it, and mix it into a paint base for shipping purposes. With humans it's usually carbon."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Carbon! But you can get carbon anywhere."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You'd think so, but carbon extracted from the human body has some different properties. To put it bluntly, humans are an incredible aphrodisiac."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You're saying that other species use us as... as..."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Viagra. Yep. The only problem is, there's not nearly enough in the vat to account for the amount of people in this town."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones nodded toward a door that proclaimed itself to be Frank Detweiler's office.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Come on," Jones said, "let's go get some answers."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Given the circumstances, Jones didn't feel knocking was necessary. Finding the door locked, Jones pulled his blaster, only to find that an enraged Thomas, was more than a match for it. A heavy shoulder to the frame and they were in. Inside, a somewhat startled Frank looked up from his desk. The cigar near to a stub still dangled limply from his mouth with more ash than seemed possible to still be hanging off the end.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Good God, man, don't you ever use an ashtray?" Jones asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What the hell do you think you're doing Tom? And who the hell is this?" Frank raged.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who the hell is 'this?' Who the hell are you?" Thomas volleyed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A stream of profanity, some of which I'm honestly unsure of the meaning, exited his mouth along with the words "your boss." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"The hell you are, you alien tub of crap," said Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones leaned over to Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Actually, Thomas, that is the real Frank. I thought I made that clear earlier."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What?" he hissed back at Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"He's still human. I thought you understood that."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You're Frank?" he asked Frank.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That's right, and you're fired," Frank replied.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Not so fast, you weirdly muscular, tubby man," Jones interjected. "You might be human but your partners certainly aren't."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I don't know what you're talking about."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At that point Jones decided he'd had enough of the charade and turned his holograph off. A look of horror filled Frank's face.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You're one of them," Frank gasped.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I am alien, though a different species."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You look exactly the same as the other ones. Small, gray, with big heads and big eyes."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones frowned.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That can't be. My people would never be miners."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Minors. Exactly. Your people are kids.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Kids?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I think he means minors," Thomas interrupted.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That's what I said, Miners. They came here to mine."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Frank looked baffled for a moment before understanding came to him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I get it now. They're minor miners. Children miners. Your people masquerading as this town's children."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I can't believe it. My people are always so peaceful."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, well, believe it. If I hadn't cut a deal with them, I'd be stewing in that pot with the rest of the town."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Instead you sold us out you sorry bastard," Thomas spat.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I notice you're still here," Frank snapped back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"A gross oversight. One that will soon be corrected," a voice from the other side of the door spoke.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones spun around, blaster in hand. Before him was his mirror. Unless you've spent a lot of time with Jones' people, they really do all look alike. If it weren't for the fact that the alien on the other side of the door was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, he was the spitting image of Jones. He even had a blaster in his hand same as Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who's he?" Thomas whispered to Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"How would I know?" he replied.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I just assumed."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Assumed what?" broke in Hawaiian shirt, "that because we're from the same planet, we should automatically know each other?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"There's almost a 100 million people on our planet, dude. Don't be racist," Jones added.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Now, Mr. Jones, what shall we do?" Hawaiian shirt asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I thought you said you didn't know each other," said Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I am a well known secret agent. It's only appropriate that he'd know me," Jones replied before turning back to the opposition, "and judging by the Hawaiian shirt, I assume you're the notorious Magnum."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Indeed I am," Magnum responded.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What the hell?" Thomas exclaimed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones ignored him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We appear to be at somewhat of an impasse," Jones stated.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Not really. You seem to have forgotten there's a man with a gun behind you."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A word about Jones people: While small, they possess bodies that are like rubber balls, capable of expelling great amounts of energy at once. Little had the words left Magnum's mouth, than Jones had flung himself into the air in a backflip, over the head of Frank, who was discharging a gun. The bullet shot past where Jones' head had been seconds before, and almost hit Magnum. Magnum in turn had also fired a shot from his blaster which landed square in the gut of Frank, who sat back heavy in his chair. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Without hesitation, Magnum, sprung backwards, flipping over the railing and down to the second floor below. Back in the office, Frank had dropped his gun, which Thomas quickly retrieved. Frank stared down at his stomach where a large hole was spreading blood across his shirt. The cigar, which had dropped out of his mouth, was finally spilling its ashen load down his chest.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Another string of expletives that seemed at once disturbing, yet appropriate, as it was coming from a dying man, flew from the large man.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Mutual destruction," Frank sputtered, blood flying through his lips. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Frank pulled a remote from his shirt pocket and pressed a button on it. Almost immediately, a small explosion went off on the floor below. A smile passed over his lips before he fell forward, no longer a part of the conversation.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That doesn't sound good," said Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Let's get out of here quickly," Jones suggested.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The two tore out onto the walkway outside the office, just as a second explosion was going off. Below, the workers kept working as if nothing was happening around them. Thomas downed the stairs and crossed the floors to the exit as a fireball flashed from the center of the factory. He glanced behind him to see Jones, with his short, stubby legs, just finishing the stairs.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thomas groaned and then quickly made his way back through the maze of oblivious staff and humming machines. He reached Jones just as the third explosion tore its way closer to them. With no time to think, he scooped the small alien up and flung him over his shoulder. Once more Thomas ran the gauntlet, clinging to Jones like a child. Jones who had never been carried in such a manner before, could only watch as more explosions sprang to life.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Must go faster," Jones hollered.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thomas rolled his eyes and pushed out through the door, into the night. He kept running, forgetting about his car parked down the lot. He sped past the security post which was currently vacated and onto a quiet field outside the complex where at last he dropped the alien to the ground. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Still gasping for air, Thomas turned to see the building just as it exploded outward and upward into the sky. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You think we're far enough away?" Thomas asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Oh, definitely," Jones replied.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As they watched the flames crawling higher, a flaming paint can, blasted by the explosions began arcing towards where the two of them stood. Just in time, Jones pulled his blaster and shot it. The can, instantly vaporized, turned the paint inside into a fine mist that covered both man and alien. The two stood unblinking for a moment in silence, covered in blue.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I hate you," said Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was a long walk back before the two of them found a car they could hotwire. Both were too exhausted to speak. Not that either of them had anything to say to the other. By the time the two of them got back to Thomas's house, the sun was just threating to come up over the horizon. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Surprised no one's come to investigate the explosions yet. Your town must be even more cut off then I thought," Said Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"If you can even call it a town anymore," Thomas responded.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well, it's been a laugh, but I guess I'll be leaving."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What about Magnum?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"He'll be long gone by now, as will any accomplices. We'll do our best to track them down though."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones Held out a hand to shake. Thomas looked at it, then walked away.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones shrugged and headed back into his ship. The ship was warm and inviting inside. A pillow on a couch was beckoning him to set the autopilot and take a nap. Business first.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Anna, I'm back," Jones hollered.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He waited for a response, but there was none.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Anna?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Not wanting to be paranoid, he calmly walked down the hall to her room. However, there was no need to knock as the door was wide open. As was the bathroom, and the door to Jones' personal quarters. A little less calm now, he made his way back to the front of the ship and to the console.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The ship was equipped with several security cameras, inside and out. Jones ran them backward at high speed until something caught his eye. There on the screen was Anna exiting the ship. She was chasing after something, but it was hard to distinguish what until a figure stepped into the light. Jones stomach sank. Off in the distance almost invisible, was a small grey alien in a Hawaiian shirt. Jones watched as the two of them disappeared into the night.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Not sure of what he'd need, Jones put together a sack of random tech which he slung over a shoulder before bolting out the ship. A minute later and he was banging on Thomas's door. A somewhat grizzled Thomas answered. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What now?" he growled.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Anna's gone."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"The little girl?" he responded.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I need to know where that boy lives. The one that was riding the bike when I was out painting."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You mean Tom. Let me see, he's Elissa and Tom Sr.'s boy."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Can you take me to them?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Let me go grab Frank's gun first."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Once again, the two found themselves in the hotwired car they'd taken earlier. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What's your plan?" asked Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Not sure exactly, since I don't know who or what we'll find when we get there. If it's just Magnum with Anna, he'll likely have a gun to her head. If there's a whole gang there, Anna will probably be in a safer position than us."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Should you call for back up?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"The nearest back up is a few hundred light years away, and we don't have the 30 minutes to wait. I do have a sort of plan. More of a trick than a plan."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Tom turned onto a side street, keeping his eyes locked on the road as he spoke, "I'm listening."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We'll both wear holograph projectors. With mine, I'll transform myself into you. That way if anyone shoots me, I have a slight advantage in them likely missing the first couple of shots, as I'm much shorter than I'll appear. Before Magnum or anyone else can figure out I'm me, I'll be bouncing around the walls of the basement and firing on them."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Sounds good, sounds good. What about me?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You will be disguised as a cat."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"A cat?" Thomas asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's the perfect disguise."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"How does that work? Won't it just cover part of me? I'm a lot bigger than a cat."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"No problem there. The part of you it doesn't cover will be disguised as the room around you. Won't be perfect. There'll be a shimmering quality. But with any luck they won't notice. Course, it does mean you'll have to walk on all fours."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"No one would believe a cat walking around on its hind legs, Thomas."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Man and alien arrived at the house just as the sun was officially clearing the horizon. Off in the distance a rooster crowed. Jones --disguised as Thomas-- led the way to the house. It was a cute two story affair, with a picture perfect front yard, complete with little gnomes and flamingos.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finding the door unlocked the pair made their way into the living room, which was nicely decorated, if not overly conservative. A picture hung on a wall showed a happy family of three. A hum, seemed to fill the house. Jones followed it to the kitchen where sat piles of unwashed dishes. The hum got louder as they approached a door at the other end of the kitchen. Once opened, it revealed a staircase leading down into the basement. A light was shining from below, declaring its occupied status.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You understand the plan?" Jones whispered.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"If you call that a plan," Thomas responded.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Carefully the two tiptoed down, until the last step, as anyone who has ever watched a movie would know to expect, gave out a loud squeak. Jones looked up expecting to see a line of guns. Instead, he found, a pile of unconscious aliens, and a militia of armed women. And who should be front and center, but Anna herself, posing for a group selfie over the bodies of Jones' fallen race.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Tom?" Anna called happily.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Er, Mr. Jones," said Jones before snapping off his holograph.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Suddenly a broom came down and swatted Jones into a wall.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Stop," cried Anna, "He's the good one I told you about."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Reluctantly, the raised brooms, mops, and bats were lowered.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Sorry," said the broom wielder. Jones recognized her as the mother in the portrait from the living room.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What is it with you people and brooms?" Jones asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anna ran up and hugged him before hugging Thomas --who had snapped off his holograph. Jones intuiting that there was a species, bond, thing going on turned his attention to the room. Two rows of beds were lined up against the walls. The hum he'd heard was in fact a generator that was powering the lights. Lastly he turned his attention to the pile of bodies noting someone was absent.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Anna, what happened to Magnum?" Jones asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Who's Magnum?" she queried back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"The one in the Hawaiian shirt."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Oh, he never came back after he dropped me off with his gang. What took you so long to come for me?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I, er, was busy. I took care of the paint factory side of things."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I can see that. You blew it up, didn't you?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I did no such thing."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Former manager did that," Thomas chimed in.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Thanks Thomas," said Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"And how much actual investigating did you do?" Anna asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"None that I noticed," Thomas added.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Thanks again, Thomas. Why don't you go be helpful somewhere else."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anna smiled at Jones who pretended he couldn't be bothered by her and turned away to radio in. A cleanup crew was quickly dispatched. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> ******************************</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright," I grumbled, "let's see if we can make sense of this mess."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before me in my office sat Jones and Thomas, faces covered in blue paint. Jones, the smug bastard, was smoking one of his toothpicks and drinking a glass of gin. He waived a hand nonchalantly to go on, like I was inconveniencing him. I pointed to the cigarette which he quite happily offered to share with me. Sensing I wasn't in the mood, he shrugged, grabbed the framed picture of my mother from my desk and stubbed it out.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's pretty much all in the report. I'm not sure what else you need," said Jones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Let's start small and work our way up, shall we?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Suit yourself."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Why didn't you try to save any of the other workers in the factory? Alien or not, they should have been brought for prosecution."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"They weren't aliens. My people are renowned for a lot of things, physical strength isn't one of them. All robots with simple AI."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What happened with Anna and those women in the basement?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"They tied Anna up to one of the vacant beds, but she's my daughter through and through --well, not through and through obviously, but she's picked up a lot from me. Before she chased after Magnum she grabbed a basic kit. So, when she was down in the basement, she freed the other women and led them to victory."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Anna did all that?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"She did test in the 99 percentile when it came to hitting," Jones smirked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I reciprocated the smirk. "That she did. What were they doing with all the women down there anyway? Why hadn't they liquified them like the rest?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"As it turns out, the whole mining thing was a decoy that was meant to distract us from what they were really doing."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Which was?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Egg trafficking."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I see. Those poor women."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I flicked a glance at Thomas who was sitting quiet but clearly angry at the mention of his people. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Why is he here?" I asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"<i>He</i> has a name," Thomas interjected.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yes, Thomas, my apologies. Jones, what is Thomas doing here? Can't we go one damn mission without you bringing someone or something back with you?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones started to speak, then took a sip from his glass. Then another. Finally he drained his glass and set it down on the desk in front of him. Reaching into his suit he retrieved his flask and poured himself out another drink. Finally, he spoke.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Do you have any olives?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Jones," I roared.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright, I'm willing to admit I may have unnecessarily brought back earthlings before."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"24 of them."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"24. 24? Really?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I can show you a list if you like."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"No need. Anyway, in this instance I felt it necessary. Thomas has been interfered with a great deal."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Probed," Thomas added.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Probed," Jones agreed, "as well as studied and assaulted. Not to mention most of his home town was liquidated. I feel it's time we had someone like him here to address the counsel where it concerns human rights. Let's face it, Earth is getting closer to knowing about life beyond its planet. Don't you think it would be a good idea to already have an ambassador in residence when that day comes?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"For once you make some sense. How do you feel about this?" </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My last question was directed at Thomas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Mr. Jones and I spoke about it at great length and I think it's an excellent idea. He and Anna have managed to convince me you're not all bad. I'd like to be here to represent my people and the little community of humans already living here."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Besides," Jones added, "Anna and him seem to get along really well. I think it'll be good for her to have him here."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright, Jones, alright. Next time though, you come back alone, understood?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones stood on his chair and gave me a stiff salute.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You know Jones," I said smirking, "For once I figured out something myself."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What's that?" he asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You knew that boy, Tom was Magnum because he wore a Hawaiian shirt too. Since all the kids were your people it had to be him."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Actually, Tom was just a kid named Tom. He was the only kid in town to avoid being killed. Likely due to him being a rude little jerk. He and his mother were happily reunited afterwards. The whole Hawaiian shirt thing is just a coincidence."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What? Then how did you know to go to his home?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"The Hawaiian shirt. I thought the same thing as you, I just got lucky."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Ha! So I was right. Even if I was wrong. That's big of you to admit, Jones. I must confess, you seem to have grown through this assignment. You've been selfless, which is a nice change."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At that moment my phone rang. I picked it up and listened to the screaming voice on the other end.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That was the school," I said hanging up, "Anna just punched a Lesithyian in the faces."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jones hopped off the chair, straightened his tie and addressed me.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Gentlemen, this sounds like a job for the head of the SSSS and the new human relations ambassador. I won't keep you any longer. I shall have a highball and retire to my quarters for the evening."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With that he turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving Thomas and I looking at each other dumbfounded.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well," said Thomas finally, "looks like I've been probed again."</span></div></div><div><br /></div>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-3889129663422197822019-11-25T16:43:00.000-06:002019-11-25T16:43:51.420-06:00Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, Wherever You Are<span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large; white-space: pre-wrap;">A child awakens in a field overlooking a seaside cliff. It is near dusk. Realizing it is late, she runs, hands feeling the tall grasses as she blows through them like the wind through her hair. Overhead the first pinholes of light are dotting the sky. An electric and crackling voice calls through the compound's speakers that are ahead of her.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Ilia, come home. Enough fresh air for today."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hearing her name, Ilia adds an extra step to her speed. As she runs she pulls her hair back into a ponytail. <i>The hair is free during free time only. The child is free during free time only. </i>In through the rusted gate she pushes, making sure to lock it behind her. She is almost home now so she slows her pace. She walks a path cut into the dirt. On each side of her, hundreds of weather vanes and whirligigs of different shapes and sizes move rhythmically. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">They are her friends and she stops to greet a few of them. Her favorites are the silver rooster with a few flecks of red on its comb and a crazy cat that looks like it's running fast. She does not greet the frog though. They are not friends. Not anymore.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Home is a door in the side of a hill. The only light that enters into Ilia's home is from the four pane window in the upper part of the door. The rest is a sturdy oak reinforced in places with metal plates. She slides a key from around her neck into the lock and turns it carefully one way, then the other. The door unlocks and she enters, making sure to lockup behind her.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">As she walks down the long corridor, she traces her fingers against the pebbling of the concrete walls. When she enters the main room her mother is sitting beside a table with a shortwave radio. Around them a few empty chairs and couch sit atop a large multicolored rug. The only light from a halogen lamp strung from the ceiling. Seeing her daughter she beckons for her to join her.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"Ilia, where have you been all this time? You know how I worry when you're gone too long."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"I'm sorry, mama," she responds. "I was staring at the clouds above forming shapes, and the next thing I knew they'd become stars."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Her mother raises a finger to scold her then drops it instead with a heavy sigh.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"You must be careful to observe the times," Her mother cautions. "Did you see anyone?"</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"No, mama. No mans or boats or anything."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Her mother nods and turns to flick a couple of switches on the radio. Turning the dials finds only static with the occasional pop and hiss. She flips the off switch and turns to her daughter.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"Now, young miss, looks like you went out without boots again."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"I like the feel of the ground."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"And the dirt. Off you go, to the basin and wash those feet."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"But I had a bath two days ago."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"And I said nothing of baths. Wash those feet before you get mud on my carpet. Then get ready for chores."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ilia obeys and walks down another corridor to the washroom. She undoes her hair, washing her face and hands before her feet. After she is clean she changes into her work clothes. A shattered sliver of mirror shows her slim frame now covered by the brown rags she's wearing. <i>I am the burlap baby. I am the patched child</i>. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">From the other room she hears her mother excitedly calling. Quickly she darts back out. Her mother is frantically clicking a button on the part she speaks into. She is speaking words Ilia has heard before but doesn't understand. Every few seconds her mother stops to listen.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"Get the welding gear," her mother tells her anxiously, before heading into the third and last corridor.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"But we always do domestics first," Ilia calls after her.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"No domestics tonight. Hurry."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ilia grabs the welding gear from a metal shelf by the couch. Two masks, two pairs of gloves, and a torch. In the third hall her mother is stripping weather vanes apart. She arrives in time to see a bear shaped vane get pounded by a hammer. Bear was an old friend. A good friend. Her mother grabs the gear and starts putting it on.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"Why is your hair down? You know it's dangerous when we weld."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ilia grabs her dark brown hair and pulls it back into a band. She slides the too big mask and gloves on. Her mother's golden hair has already been tied into a knot and hangs down all the way to her waist. When she was younger, Ilia would play with her mother's long hair, twirling it in her fingers and watching the sunlight get caught in between the strands.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Her mother grabs the torch and lights it up. She motions to Ilia who grabs the bear and holds him up against the concrete wall. Each of the walls in this corridor are lined with veins of metal from the backs of Ilia's old friends. She watches in dismay as bear slowly becomes a part of the wall. A part of corridor three.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"Why are we doing this, mama?" Ilia asks.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I've told you before. This tunnel is like a big antenna that makes the radio's signal stronger. The more we add, the stronger the signal."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I know that," Ilia responds. "I mean why are we making the signal stronger?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"So we can find others."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"But why do we want to find others? Aren't we enough?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ilia's mother turns off the torch and raises her mask to look at her daughter.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Wouldn't you like to have some friends to play with?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I have friends."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Real friends. Ones that can run with you when you're out in the fields playing."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I have you," Ilia states defiantly.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"But you won't always. One day, I'll be gone. I want to know you won't be alone when that happens."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ilia puts her mask back down, but her mother lifts it again and wipes the tears forming in the corner of her eyes. The torch is almost dropped as Ilia hugs her neck. After a few minutes of rocking her daughter the tears are dried and the work is resumed. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Is that the only reason?" Ilia asks, holding up a long rusty piece.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her mother continues welding even as she talks.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"You remember what I told you about God? How he's always talking to us, and we just have to learn how to listen?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"You think God is going to speak to us through the radio?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Not exactly," her mother responds. "Well, maybe in a way. I think God uses all kinds of ways to talk to us. It's our job to be prepared when he does."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Why couldn't God just knock on the door? My arms are getting tired."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her mother laughs. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Suddenly, from the other room, the sound of crackling static mingles with the strains of music. Mother and daughter look at each other before bolting to the room. Gloves and masks shed as the two run.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ilia's mother sits down in front of the shortwave and begins twisting dials, fighting the static that threatens to overwhelm. There's a fading in and out of music and a voice neither can quite make out. At last just as the music is ending her mother manages to get it clear, just in time to hear the final few words.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">After that there is only static again. The two sit there stunned for a few minutes, not saying anything. Listening to cracks and pops as if they're holding new secrets to be divulged. Finally, Ilia is the one to break the silence. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Was that God, mama?" she asks.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Not exactly," her mother responds. "Well, maybe. In a way."</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-48544721731132593522019-04-17T22:47:00.000-05:002019-04-17T22:47:09.337-05:00Sad, so sad, SAD SAD, Saaaaad<span style="font-size: large;">"Pathetic," she said with a smirk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He rolled his eyes and grasped her hand. As gently as he could he twirled her away, before pulling her back to himself. Her cotton dress flowed as she moved, the little blue flowers on it, dancing along to her rhythm. But then...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Sorry," he said, wincing as he felt his foot crush hers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Sad, so sad, SAD SAD, saaaaad," she grimaced. She grabbed at her foot and massaged it through her shoe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Three weeks until our wedding, I'll get it," he smiled.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah, even if it kills me," she laughed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The old man laid back in his hospital bed, eyes closed, remembering. The wrinkles on his face easily numbered the many memories he'd made with her. Beside him, the dripping of the I.V. did it's best to ease his transition. Other than the occasional nurse coming and going, he was alone. The kids would be on their way, but would never make it in time for last goodbyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Fifty-three years of dancing together," the old man spoke aloud, tears in his eyes. "Soon enough, my dear, we'll dance again. I'll try not to step on your toes this time."</span>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-18567676474926904132019-04-17T20:26:00.001-05:002019-04-17T20:26:04.209-05:00The Return Of The New<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">"The one in black is the bad guy, right?" The face of the small boy peers up questioningly.<br /><br /> "It's not always that simple. Sometimes there isn't a villain." <br /><br /> The child's strange protector rolls a cigarette between his long pail fingers before lighting up.<br /><br /> The boy and man sit at the bar watching two other men fight. One of the men is in his late 40's, but has kept in shape. He is wearing blue jeans and a white short sleeve shirt. The man belonging to the nose he has just broken is in his early 20's and is wearing a black button up shirt and matching slacks.<br /><br /> The boy fiddles with a glass of milk that sits half drunk on the bar. <br /><br /> "Then why are the two of them fighting?" he asks.<br /><br /> His guardian's gaze is steady on the fight. Under a dark brow, his eyes are hard but filled with an odd compassion. Long dark bangs hang damply with sweat. The smoke from his cigarette playing shadows in the dimly lit room.<br /><br /> "The guy in the black shirt has just been to his young fiancee's funeral. He's hurting pretty badly at the moment." <br /><br /> "I'll say! His nose is gushing."<br /><br /> The man chuckles at the boy's words. <br /><br /> "Not what I mean. It's his soul that's in pain right now."<br /><br /> The guy in black spits out a mouthful of blood and wipes quickly at his nose. With a quick lunge, he catches his opponent off guard and slams them both into the bar. The wood surface lets out a groan that speaks of many fights over as many years.<br /><br /> "Did the man in white kill his fiancee? Is he the bad guy?" the boy asks.<br /><br /> The dark man takes a drink of something generic and hard. <br /><br /> "Nope. They've never even met before today."<br /><br /> "So, why is he so angry at the black shirted man?"<br /><br /> "Because his little boy just died an hour earlier. He's in shock at the moment and hasn't quite figured out what to do with himself yet."<br /><br /> The boy tears his eyes from the two men rolling around on the floor and looks back at his companion. He studies him carefully. A Hawaii shirt and jeans. On one of his belt loops hangs a large ring of keys.<br /><br /> "My dad has a ring of keys like that. He's a janitor. Are you a janitor?"<br /><br /> The man smiles. <br /><br /> "In a way. It's my job to clean up loose ends."<br /><br /> "My dad also says bad guys always wear black. There's always a villain."<br /><br /> The man shrugs. <br /><br /> "I guess it's me then."<br /><br /> "You? How are you the bad guy?" the boy asks incredulously.<br /><br /> "I killed both the black shirted man's fiancee and the white shirt's child."<br /><br /> The two men stagger to their feet. Black shirt's nose is now completely mashed and both his eyes are swollen. White shirt has a twisted ankle and a mouthful of gaps. Along one of his cheeks is a long, nasty gash where he was caught by the engagment ring of black shirt's fiancee. Since her death it has been on his pinky.<br /><br /> "You're not wearing the right clothes to be the villain," states the boy, "Besides, you picked me up when I fell out of that tree. That's not something a villain would do."<br /><br /> The man shrugs again. <br /><br /> "I tried to tell you earlier. Sometimes there isn't a bad guy."<br /><br /> The two men are signaling to each other that they've had enough. Each retreats a respective distance away to turn their attentions back to drinking. In another five minutes, the police will arrive. They both know, and neither of them care. Already the reason for the fight seems to have vanished.<br /><br /> "Did you really kill them?" the boy asks.<br /><br /> "It's what I do," the man says with a nod.<br /><br /> The boy sits quietly for a minute. He's focused on the man with the white shirt. The tears pouring from white shirt's eyes are running rivers through the blood and dirt on his cheeks. Almost he looks familiar. Almost. After a minute the boy puts his hand on his guardian. <br /><br /> "Can we go now?" he asks.<br /><br /> The man finishes his drink before responding. <br /><br /> "Yeah, sure. A bar's not really a place for a kid anyway."<br /><br /> With an arm over the boy's shoulder, the two of them exit into the day.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-85967639354166963722018-10-27T13:17:00.000-05:002018-10-27T13:17:57.962-05:00An Answer To Your Thoughts And Prayers - By God<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hey,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I just got back from vacation and noticed a ton of messages left on my answering machine. I see there are lots of thoughts and prayers regarding gun violence in the USA. Seriously, it's like half my messages. Starving African children don't contact me as often as American Christians in the wake of stoppable mass murder. Anyhoo, I figured it was about time I finally addressed the situation.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Gun control.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not really sure why this is such a difficult concept to grasp. If you make it harder to own a gun than say, running a lemonade stand, you're going to see fewer mass shootings. I mean, I know I'm only God here, but this seems obvious to me. Gun control works. It has in other countries. Like, every other country.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Don't be that guy, America. You know the one. The fat guy at the buffet who doesn't understand why he's got chest pain. You're a glutton for guns and you need to cut them out of your diet. Hell, even cutting back by say, banning the odd assault rifle, would help. Or did you think it was coincidence killers have similar tastes in firearms?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Look, I'm all for thoughts and prayers, but they're not meant for things you can easily take care of yourselves. I gave humans the earth with the expectation that y'all would run it properly. If you can't even pass some damn laws to take care of your own family, what do you expect me to do?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, just to recap: I've heard your thoughts and prayers and, as it so happens, I'm in favor of gun control. Please take action and spare me from further grieving.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, and while you're at it, feed starving children, quit polluting, and stop hating on each other cause you're different. Again, all things I shouldn't have to tell you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Your Creator, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">God</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-88206045552783223202018-05-16T14:25:00.000-05:002019-03-29T17:30:13.182-05:00Dead World [Short Story]<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;">I don't exist.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>Easy words to say, not so easy to explain. So, I won't.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>I'm not dead or dying. The living are dying and so are the dead. This isn't making any sense, is it?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>Maybe I should start at the beginning. Not the beginning of my story, but the beginning of this one.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>A call center run by the dead. Sounds crazy, right? Yet there I was standing in the lobby. It'd been a week since I'd met the late John Doe. A representative for some branch of government run by the deceased. Turns out not everyone disappears when they pass away, some stick around and do menial labor until they die a second death.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>I walked up to the receptionist who was doing her nails. We did the usual back and forth and I was directed to sit down. As I walked away I started to light up a cigarette. A voice voice from behind me put a halt to that.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"We have a strict 'No Smoking' policy," the receptionist squeaked, while tapping a sign.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>I replaced the cigarette in my pocket.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Sorry," I said. "I'm not trying to be a dick, just didn't see the sign.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>She smiled curtly and nodded.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"You're fine. Have a seat, please."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>I walked to the waiting area she'd motioned to. Most of the chairs were empty so I put one between me and a man who looked to be in his mid 20's. He was black, with short hair and a face that seemed sort of familiar. Very stylish in a leather jacket, dark purple button down shirt, and slacks.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"She totally thinks you're a dick," the young man said leaning in.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Damn it, I know," I responded. "I'm not good with first impressions. Usually takes two or three impressions to balance it out."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Don't sweat it. Cara thinks everyone's an asshole anyway. Isn't that right, Cara?" he said, raising his voice to make sure Cara could hear."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>Cara flipped him off and sneered.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I'm James Smith, by the way," stated James.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>He held out a hand which I shook enthusiastically.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I'm...James. James Bailey," I responded.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"James and James? Sounds like a detective agency."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Or a cheap, fruity wine."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>We both laughed.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"So, James," I said, motioning to the business name emblazoned on the wall before us, "what is Cumulus Care Solutions?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Didn't your rep fill you in?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>I shook my head no.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"It's a call center. We handle overflow from various companies. It's exactly as thrilling as it sounds."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Purgatory in a call center seems a little on the nose," I stated.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I'd be careful slinging around the P word. Most people don't like to think of this as purgatory. More like a second chance to make things right. But between you and me, yeah, it sucks. I've worked here for a couple decades and I hate it. But beggars can't be choosers."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Can't you leave?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Are you kidding? This place is a sanctuary for the dead. It's almost impossible to get hired by the living. We make them uncomfortable because deep down they know we aren't one of them. Man, your contact really dropped the ball with you. Wish I could get a job as an outside representative. At least they get to travel. Sure as hell would have done a better job of explaining your death to you."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Oh, I'm not dead."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>If a face ever conveyed the words "say what" it was James's face at that moment.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Say what?" James exclaimed.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I'm not dead. I'm here for other reasons."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Bailey, I'm thinking you've got a story to tell."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Another time. Looks like I'm up."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>I stood to greet John Doe. "A funny name" I'd said when we first met. The man on the other hand, was quite the opposite. He always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Short, balding, and stocky with a seemingly endless closet full of sweater vests. In many ways he reminded me of a guidance councilor. I shook the man's hand and followed him through a maze of cubicles.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>We came to a small board room where three people sat. He opened the door and beckoned me enter, which I did. You know that scene in the spy movies where the secret agency brings in a guy and details everything about his mission and everything is so serious and business suits? I was briefed while we ate McDonald's. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>This particular branch of council for the dead was three people: Song-Ho, who was in charge of operations -whatever the hell that meant- sat at the boardroom table opposite Jane Doe, who ran the military side of things. Jane and John were married, but always the utmost professional when on the job. At the end of the table, between them from my view, was Jo. Jo ran this particular branch. She was beautiful and fierce, with an elegance one seldom sees this day and age.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"At this point I think I'd like to skip ahead," said Bailey.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"What? You're just getting to the meat of the story," snarled the largest of three skulls peering out from a crack in a tree. The same tree James Bailey and James Smith happened to be strapped to.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Vines already tight around their bodies tightened even further. Around them, the jungle sang songs of various birds and other wildlife. The trees and plant life were dense making for a claustrophobic environment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I just feel, narratively speaking, the story works better if I skip ahead," Bailey responded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Make it work," enthused a skull with a crack in its temple. Tiny flames danced in the sockets of the skulls, making them even more unnerving. "Give us the meat."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Yeah, Bailey, give them the meat," Smith stated.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey turned his head to glare at his traveling companion.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Absolutely. The meat of the story..."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Song slid a folder across the table as I shoved a handful of fries into my mouth. It was a file on me tracing my last fifty years. I rifled through my life for a few minutes. Ending on my current occupation as a gravedigger. I slid it back when I was finished.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Am I supposed to be impressed?" I asked.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>Song shook his head. "We just wanted you to know that we've been keeping tabs on you for sometime."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Okay. Well, thanks for that." I answered back.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"What Song means is that we don't take asking you here lightly," Jo added. "Fact is none of us know exactly how long you've been around --or haven't, as you might say. Did you ever exist? You look fairly young. Mid twenties? Never mind, there are more important issues at hand. Have you ever heard of Tom Jones?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"The singer? I'm not really a fan."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Business tycoon. Sits atop a financial services empire and does his best Steve Jobs impression."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"The douche on all the money channels who wears those stupid turtlenecks?" I asked.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"That's him," Jo nodded. "That's the man the world sees. In truth he's been dead for decades. Although his past is as clouded as yours and no one can say exactly how long he's been around."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"But James -er, Smith, told me while I was waiting that the living feel uncomfortable around the dead. How could he accomplish such a thing?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"He couldn't. Unless there was some powerful force at play. This might sound a little crazy, but Tom Jones is heavy into the occult. We believe he's used his knowledge of the occult to gain his power. Furthermore we have reason to think his ultimate goal is not Wall Street but the end of the world."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>I took a sip of my Coke. It spluttered telling me there was no more sweet life to give. I popped the lid off and shook a cube into my mouth which I happily crunched.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Mr. Bailey, did you hear what she said?" asked Jane, who had been mostly quiet till then.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Yeah, yeah, end of the world. You guys know you're already dead, right? Shouldn't you be embracing the end so you can move on to your respective Valhallas?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> "You're a dick," the third and smallest head interjected.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"No, I'm jaded, there's a difference," Bailey replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"How come?" Large Skull asked,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"The living have the living. The dead have the dead. I have no one."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"You have me," said Smith.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"That's not what I meant. You're a good friend, Smith. But as someone who doesn't exist, I mostly stand alone."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Like the cheese," Cracked Skull joined in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Everyone stared at Cracked in awkward silence for a moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Yes, like the cheese," Bailey said. "Point is, at that moment I'd been years without any real interactions with anyone. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to the story."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;">"You're a dick," Jane interjected.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />"No, I'm jaded. There's a difference," I replied.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>Jo raised her hand to silence us.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Mr. Bailey, we're not that different from the living. We don't pretend to know why some people stay behind for a time. We have no definitive idea what lies beyond. In the meantime we enjoy life. Surely you must take some joy out of this life as well, even in your current state."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I apologize," I apologized. "I can be a bit sardonic. But I did come here with good intention, so please continue."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"A few decades ago, Tom Jones began purchasing large amounts of real estate around the world. One of the properties is an island. One that doesn't actually appear on any maps."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Then how was it for sale?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"He purchased the coordinates in the middle of an ocean."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I'm confused, is there an island or not?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"There's an island, alright," Song picked up. "It just doesn't exist in the world of the living. To get there one must travel twenty-six miles on foot through a stretch of reality between the living and the dead."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"We've had a few spies successfully make the trip over the years," Jo continued. "The path is hard to travel as it folds space. It's hard to explain, but it's sort of like a double exposure of two different roads."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Also, there aren't any roads," Song finished.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"This is all very fascinating but what does it have to do with me?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Eitr," Jane replied. "You're here because of Eitr."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Is that the name of this island?" I asked.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"It is the name of a fountain found </i>on <i>the island," Jane answered.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>Jo continued. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Our intelligence indicates that the secret to Tom Jones's power, and thus the way of stopping him is located in the Fountain of Eitr. It's an ancient spring that is death to anyone living or dead. Over the years, many secrets have been tossed into the fountain, knowing that they shall be safe there from anyone who would recover them. But you..."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I don't exist, so I can't be killed," I finished.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"That's our theory, anyway. To be honest, we have no idea what effect it'll have upon such a unique individual as yourself."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I'm in," I stated.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Just like that?" Jo asked skeptically.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Why not? I always wanted to be a hero."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Excellent. There'll be some training before we send you off. Jane will take care of that. Song, of course, will show you everything you'll need to to know to get where you're going. Additionally, to help you along the way, John and Jane Doe will accompany you."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Pass."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Pardon?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Pass," I reiterated. "I appreciate the offer but I'd prefer to go it alone."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Absolutely not. You'll be travelling through the dead world, you'll need companions who are experienced."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"In that case I'll take James. Smith."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> "Thanks for that, by the way," Smith smirked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Hey, you said you wanted out of the call center," Bailey responded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"What happened next?" Small Skull asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Boring. If I tried to describe it, it would be a montage of me learning basic combat skills and showcasing how bad I am with a gun."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"He's the worst," Smith chimed in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"The worst," Bailey agreed. "I did become pretty good friends with the Does. Jane had a lot more time to form a better opinion of me while training. When John wasn't on duty, he stripped off his serious mask and was an affable guy. I even stayed with them a couple weeks while preparing. So that's it. We're about caught up."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"What do you mean 'caught up?' You haven't told us about your travels to here," Large Skull spat, the flames in his eyes dancing angrily.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I mean, there's not much to tell. There's some goon who works for Tom Jones, makes the trip every few months. Just a matter of following him when he took off. I think his name is Jeremiah."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"And..." Large persisted.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"And it's been weeks of walking through a damn jungle. Twenty-six miles may not be so bad driving down a highway with the top down, but walking through dead world it feels forever. You really want me to describe all that walking and sweating?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Ain't no one got time for that Tolkien-Lord of the Rings-bullshit," Smith added.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I guess," Cracked said. "Still feels like half a story though."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'm the hero, I never claimed to be a storyteller. Besides, what do we know about you three?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"What?" the three skulls chorused.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"We told you everything about us," Small Skull exclaimed. "About how we're three travelers whose souls were joined to this tree. How we once had individual names, but now simply refer to ourselves collectively as The Clutch. And how it gets boring telling each other our same stories so we seek out entertainment from passing travelers."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"So either you present us a <i>good</i> story, or you'll both join us for eternity," jumped in Large.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"That's all well and good, but I'm in the beginning of my story. What more can I offer?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"More story or you'll join us," Large reiterated.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Look, you seem like fun guys," Smith spoke. "How about we make a game of it? You can ask Bailey one question to fill in the blanks, then you let us go. That has to be worth something, er, anecdotally speaking."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">The three heads conferred among themselves, eventually coming to a decision.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"We are agreeable to this, but you must answer truthfully," Cracked said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Fair enough," Bailey agreed. "What would you like to know?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Another tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞte between the skulls ensued. At last the large skull, who seemed to be their leader, spoke up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Why?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Why what?" Bailey echoed back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"We don't buy your motivation that you're doing this just because you're a good guy. Every hero has his motivation. Something he wants or needs that pushes him. If you don't exist, why concern yourself with the affairs of either the living or the dead?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Fair enough," Bailey responded. "You guy were right, I was holding back. There is one more piece to the story."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <i><span style="font-size: x-large;">It was the day before me and Smith were to start our travels, a journey that would start in the backroom of a used bookstore ala Narnia. Everyone was either checking our packs or checking our weapons or checking our mental status. Jo who had been watching me carefully that day to see if I was going to go through with it or if I might back out, pulled me aside.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"There's something else you should know about the island," Jo spoke.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"Does it have spiders? Don't tell me if it has spiders. I </i>hate <i>spiders," I joked.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"There's someone there like you. A girl. I'm not sure how old exactly."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"What do you mean, 'like me?'" I asked, my heart catching in my throat.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"She doesn't exist. Or at least, she didn't used to. We've gotten reports that she not only exists, but that she's alive."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"What's her name?" I breathed.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> <i>"I don't know. What I've told you is all I know."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i> "With those words, and a pat on the arm, she left me to think things over. So there you go. My motivation."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">A silence followed as the skulls thought it over. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"It is acceptable," Large Skull declared finally.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">The smallest skull and the cracked skull began to sink backwards into the tree. The vines around the two men began to loosen and they fell forward to the ground with a thud.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Jeremiah is a good kid," Large stated. "If you say he's mixed up with this villain of yours, I won't argue, but he's a good kid."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"What makes you say that?" asked Smith.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"He always stops by our tree when he comes through here. Reads us some Stephen King. Much better than your story. No one else has ever come back. And it's not just because of the questing beast."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Questing beast?" the Jameses sang in unison.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Burden of the Pellinores?" the final head spoke, sinking back into the closing tree. "You really should learn more stories. Might save your life some day. That is, if you had one between you to save."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Quickly the two men gathered their packs and left the tree behind. In short time they were in the thick of the jungle again. Periodically, the view around them would flicker, merging the jungle world with a cityscape or ocean view. Just a quick flash to remind them of the overlap of worlds they were in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Overhead the sun blazed fiercely. Since the moment they stepped into dead world the sun had not gone down. It made things even more difficult since when they rested they had no idea how long they were sleeping.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I didn't know that about the girl," Smith said after awhile.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I wasn't sure if it was just Jo making sure I'd stay on target or if it was real information," said Bailey.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Makes sense."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">After an awkward silence or two, Bailey tried changing the subject.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Questing beast, eh?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Yeah! What nonsense was that?" Smith responded, happy to clear the air.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Right? Pitiful attempt to scare us."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'm more scared at the potential of R.O.U.S.'s."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"What are those?" Bailey asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"R.O.U.S.'s? Have you never watched Princess Bride?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'm more of a reader."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"It's a movie about a book."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Then I'll read the book."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Greworlll-umph?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">This last came from ahead of them but out of sight. The Jameses stopped in their tracks and looked at each other nervously.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"After you," Smith said politely, waving Bailey onward. "Us dead can still die. I'll hang back."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Thanks," Bailey scowled. "Don't come whining to me if the beast decides to circle round from behind."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'll take my chances," Smith smiled back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">The two began pushing forward again, albeit much slower. Bailey, machete in hand, hacked away at the overgrowth of the forest. Bushes and small trees gave way beneath the knife. At last the blade swung and found only air.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey stepped out into the clearing ahead. The dense jungle had ended and given way to a meadow that, from the look of things, lasted about a half mile till it ran to the foot of a line of snow covered mountains.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Well, crap," Smith uttered, stepping out from behind.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"My thoughts exac-"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey found himself cut off by the swipe of a giant paw. He flew threw the air, landing twenty feet away. Before he had time to react, the beast had already made up the distance and was upon him. Smith stood transfixed in terror as he watched his friend being mauled.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">The beast was the largest bear Smith had ever seen. Its arms were each the size of a full grown man. When it opened its mouth to roar, the sound was like a hundred wolves inside its stomach howling. The brown coat was thick and shaggy but matted in places by mud or gore.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey lay limp as the beast slashed him repeatedly with its claws. As Smith looked on, Bailey's chest was laid open, again and again, but immediately closed after the claws as if they'd never run through him. In one instance he saw Bailey's heart before the wound closed up like a zipper. Then came the teeth. The bear opened wide, grabbed Bailey from the side and crushed his back before flinging him into the air again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey's broken body began straightening before he hit the earth. This time he was up before the beast was upon him. Covered in his own blood but otherwise uninjured, he rolled, dodging the bear's paws. By luck he found himself by where he'd dropped the machete. The next time the claws came at him, Bailey countered, striking the paw with his blade. He readied himself for the next attack but it never came.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">The beast had barely been cut, but pain was clearly something it was unaccustomed to. The Jameses watched as the beast ran off into the jungle, whining as it went. Smith, who had been keeping his distance, grabbed their gear and rejoined his friend.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey rifled through his shredded backpack and found his change of clothes were just as tattered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Thanks for the help back there," he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"What was I supposed to do?" Smith responded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"You have a pair of guns in your pack."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Hand guns? Against that thing? Not likely. Did it hurt?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey frowned at him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I mean," Smith clarified, "do you feel it when it happens?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Every bit of it. I heal instantly, but I feel the pain same as anyone would. What's more, I feel the pain of it healing."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Dude, I'm sorry. I just...I've never seen anything like that."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Hopefully, you won't again."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'd be good with that. You want to wear my clothes, they're dirty but whole?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Yes, please."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Bailey tried Smith's clothes, but even though they were both in good shape, Bailey's frame was just too much for Smith's skinny jeans. With no alternative, the two pressed forward with their journey towards the nearest mountain.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Bet the tree skulls would love this story," Smith said as they walked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Funny."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Gotta make light of it. Otherwise we're just two guys taking a leisure stroll with your swinging penis."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"My clothes are in shreds, I'm covered head to toe in my own blood, and you're worried about how uncomfortable my dick is making you?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Smith smiled and shrugged.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Yeah, no, that's fair," Bailey conceded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">At last they arrived at the foot of the mountain. Bailey was grateful he still had his boots, as they were now making their way through a half foot of snow. Just a little up the mountain they could make out a door. Plain, wooden, with a red knob.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">The two Jameses headed up till they were in front of it. Around them the wind swirled and howled, whipping ice against their bodies. Bailey was red and raw, yet he still looked around hesitantly. Carefully he opened the door and looked in. A dark, narrow tunnel ran into the fading distance.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"I guess we don't have a choice but to hope this cuts all the way through to the other side," said Bailey.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"That or we trudge your naked ass around a frozen mountain."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Maybe we'll get lucky," Bailey said, walking into the darkness. "Maybe there'll be a clothing store inside."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"Maybe," Smith agreed, following his friend and closing the door behind him before muttering under his breath. "Twenty-six miles, my ass."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-32250342426913339092018-04-17T17:07:00.000-05:002018-04-17T17:07:50.827-05:00How Every Major Character In Avengers Infinity War Dies<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-large;">If there's one thing you can be sure about 'Avengers: Infinity War' it's that it's bound to have a massive death toll. Here is the master list of how each one of your favorite heroes will die.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lD20u-SJ-HA/WtZsH07LT8I/AAAAAAAADWo/fQcYHwkzFBUVAn2YH4LcO7oi6oA803PDwCLcBGAs/s1600/infinity%2Bwar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lD20u-SJ-HA/WtZsH07LT8I/AAAAAAAADWo/fQcYHwkzFBUVAn2YH4LcO7oi6oA803PDwCLcBGAs/s400/infinity%2Bwar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Captain America</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Misses catch while playing Ultimate Frisbee.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Scarlet Witch</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Has house dropped on her.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Hawkeye</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Dies off camera -- is mentioned in passing.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Vision</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Old age.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Bruce Banner</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">On the toilet trying to squeeze out a Hulk.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Thor</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Impaled by Iron Man.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Black Panther</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Impaled by Iron Man.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Nebula</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Impaled by Iron Man</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Iron Man</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Reverse impaled by three different people.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Loki</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Syphilis.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Doctor Strange</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Chokes on a ham sandwich.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Drax</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Consumes a gallon of milk in under a half hour.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Batman</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Strangled by Superman.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Star-Lord</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Rabies.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Rocket Raccoon</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Rabies.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ant-man</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Anteater.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Falcon</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Hits gas main while digging a garden in his backyard.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Spider-Man</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Eaten alive after sex.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Black Widow</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Food poisoning from Peter Parker</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">War Machine</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Cancer.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Gamora</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Bee sting</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Bucky Barnes</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Home perm gone bad.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Mantis</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Followed a balloon, presumed dead.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Thanos</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Doesn't consult a doctor after four hours.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Groot</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Only character not to die. Groot now runs a bed and breakfast in Connecticut with Stan Lee who was contractually obligated to make a cameo in this list.</span><br />
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-41522371211372979712018-03-21T13:33:00.000-05:002018-03-21T13:33:18.500-05:00The People Of The Stairwell<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /><br /> It was early 1940's when the bomb was dropped on the bustling city of Nackitaw, Wisconsin. This came as quite a surprise to many people. It came as a surprise to the US government that didn't know Easter Island had been working on a bomb. It came as a surprise to the people of Nackitaw who were being hailed as the 'New New York.' It also came as a big surprise to the rest of the world that had never even heard of an atomic bomb. However, there were two people, who were not so surprised, and as it seems, not even greatly effected.<br /><br /> Mathew Evens always took his lunch breaks in the stairwell that ran down the middle of the sky scraper where he worked. The building was a monument to human accomplishment. Soaring at 39 stories and boasting the newest conveniences that modern life could afford. Mathew loved working in such a place. It made him feel proud to be an American. He was originally born in Germany, but ya know, what with the tensions, why bring it up? He was American now at any rate.<br /><br /> He had a nice office that he worked out of as executive manager in charge of running things. In fact no one actually knew what he did, including himself, but he could sure fire anyone that got in the way of him getting it done. Even his secretary Sally Adams had the power to fire people. It was a different time back then. A time when people got fired a lot.<br /><br /> Every day, Monday through Friday, 365 days a year --minus the weekends of course-- when the clock hit 12, Mathew would take his lunch and walk to the stairwell. He always stole a quick glance at his secretary Sally when he walked by. She was a lovely gal, and in those days, the only reason for having a secretary was so that she could file your paperwork and type your memos.<br /><br />Mathew knew it was love. He constantly dreamed of burying his face in her lovely blonde hair and kissing her like a half crazed lover from one of those foreign films. But it could never be. A romance between an executive and a secretary? Ha! What foolish thoughts.<br /><br />So he would look asconce at her as he walked by, always with the same conversation.<br /><br /> "Going to lunch, Sally."<br /><br /> "Alright, Mr. Evans."<br /><br /> "Evens, Sally."<br /><br /> "Sorry, sir. Have a good lunch."<br /><br /> It was no different that fateful afternoon. He got through the formalities and escaped to the only place where his feelings wouldn't be judged by suspicious eyes. Mathew propped the door open a crack so as not to get locked in. This had actually happened once before about a year and a half ago. He ended up spending an entire weekend waiting for someone to let him out. It was as Mathew could see, the only design flaw in the building. <br /><br /> Mathew's mother and father both lived with him, and they took turns preparing his lunches. On the even days he would get wonderful meals of bratwurst and kraut with a schnitzel kicker. But on the odd days, when his father prepared the meal, he would always find something unpalatable. One day he opened his bag and discovered that his father had lovingly packed a single egg, uncooked, with a nail. Another time car keys and an unopened can of an unknown product. But Mathew loved his father and saw it as an opportunity to keep trim.<br /><br /> That day as he opened his lunch he found a single tomato and a thermos of dirt. Mathew smiled and put the items back in the bag. Instead of eating he leaned back against the wall and thought about Sally. He thought long and hard about her. Thought with his eyes closed. The sound of the door closing woke him up. He jumped to his feet and ran to the door and tried to pull it back open through sheer force of will. but the door wouldn't have any of that. He was trapped again.<br /><br /> Sally was in love with her boss. It was a hard reality to be faced with, and the end result was she usually had to fire a couple people each day just to feel better. Oh, how she wished he wouldn't just walk by every afternoon, 365 days a year --minus the weekends. How she longed to have him invite her to eat with him and to bury his face in her lovely blonde hair and have him kiss her like a crazed lover from one of those foreign films.<br /><br /> She sighed heavily, took out her lunch, and fired two people. But that afternoon, even that didn't help her mood. She put her lunch back in it's bag and stood up. Maybe she would lose her job, but she could take it no longer. She would go to Mathew and tell him how she felt about him.<br /><br /> As Mathew raced crazily up and down the stairwell looking for any open door, Sally was walking through the door that had closed on him earlier, unawares as it were about the automatic closing feature. Mathew was 8 floors down, but he heard that click as the door closed and called out to see who would be joining him.<br /><br /> "Hullo?" he called.<br /><br /> "Mr. Evans?" Sally responded.<br /><br /> "Evens, Sally. My name is Evens."<br /><br /> "Sorry, sir!"<br /><br /> "Not at all. I'm sorry for you, Sally. Cause you let the door close and now we're stuck." <br /><br /> He walked up the steps to where Sally stood trying to open the door through sheer force of will.<br /><br /> "It's no good. The door is reinforced steel. The whole stairwell is in fact built to withstand a fire, should people need to evacuate," Mathew stated.<br /><br /> "So what do we do?" Sally asked.<br /><br /> "Not much we can do. It's practically soundproofed. The last time I was stuck in here, it was for three days. It's why I fired my last secretary. She didn't find it odd that I should be missing."<br /><br /> "Three days! What did you do for water?"<br /><br /> Mathew smiled at her and pointed up.<br /><br /> "Sprinklers. I lit my pants on fire and the smoke set it off."<br /><br /> "Brilliant," she said, and fell in love with him again.<br /><br /> The two of them sat and talked. They decided to hold onto Sally's lunch for rationing just in case. Despite being hungry and thirsty, the two of them were as happy as could be. And as the night fell over the stairwell on that friday, they each declared their love for each other.<br /><br /> Saturday found the two of them chatting away like love birds, and sharing the apple from Sally's lunch; the only nourishment they would have for the day. He told her about being an only child growing up in Germany and America, and about his father and mother, and the lunches they packed. She told him about her catholic parents and her twenty-four siblings.<br /><br /> Come Sunday they were both dangerously dehydrated. However, not wanting to embarrass the young lady, Mathew burned one of his shoes instead. They enjoyed it as fresh rain and ran around in circles like children. <br /><br /> Then came Monday. The upper levels of the stairwell had windows of sorts. Enough to let the light in, but not enough to see anything. Mathew and Sally were completely cut off from the rest of the world. So neither one of them had any idea that the city had been evacuated. <br /><br /> After five days, Mathew knew something was wrong. The door to the roof could be opened. The only door in the stairwell that could. There was no way to get down from a 39 story roof, nor would anyone hear you call, but at least you could look down. If you like looking down from a tall building that is. Mathew figured he had no choice. What he saw was unsettling. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew there were no people down there. Horror struck, he retreated back to the stairwell.<br /><br /> He told Sally what he had seen and she decided she didn't want to see it. Instead they began thinking about surviving. They decided to scavange the roof's toolshed in the vain hope of finding an axe that they could use to break down a door. Inside they found a rusted tin pot, three empty glass jars, seven snails, two muddy boots, and mercifully, an old cott with two dirty pillows. <br /><br /> While Sally set about cleaning the bed as best she could, Mathew busied himself making a garden. He had not eaten the tomato, nor had he drunk the thermos of dirt. He poured the dirt into the tin pot and planted the seeds from the tomato into the pot. he also planted the apple seeds, not really thinking of them as a food source, but as something to keep him busy.<br /><br /> With no idea how long it would take for tomatos to grow, the two of them waited, hoping that they would have them before they starved. God granted them a small mercy by helping them to grow fast. in three weeks they saw the first tomatos and a glimmer of hope sprung into them. But still it was not fast enough and the two of them became weak. Neither of them thought they could hold out much longer.<br /><br /> Thankfully, then came the rats. They were big, and wanted the tomatoes. Mathew used this to his advantage and made a sort of a trap from the shoelaces he took off the boots. After many a failed attempt, he succeeded in snaring a particularly fat fellow with long whiskers. They named him Jasper and found him delicious. <br /><br /> Little by little they survived. Small victories gave way to bigger ones. They found a blade of sorts on the roof and were able to fashion spears and other essentials. They found that the cot had a piece of flint under the mat. This gave them a source of fire, and just as Mathew's lighter was running out. The tomatoes grew big and beautiful and the jars offered a chance to preserve some through the winter. Though they had no intention of letting the original plants die so easily. They eventually made one floor of the stairwell a tomato garden. Another they prepared in the hope for an apple tree. Ever ambitious, and desperate to thrive, they walled that floor up and attempted a hydroponic apple garden.<br /><br /> And so passed a year. Many times they came close to death. But they survived. They tore down their clothes to bare essentials so they would last longer. And after a long hard year, they looked like they just might make it. The garden was ever renewed and the rats were dumb enough to keep coming. At last Mathew's mind was free to look elsewhere. By that point, Elsewhere was wearing only a bra and shorts.<br /><br /> The two of them talked about it one night, and decided that it would not be right to indulge, as it might mean a child. Neither one of them knew anything about delivering a baby. Nor did they think it would be right to bring one into such a world. With a firm determination, the two agreed to abstain.<br /><br />That night Sally got pregnant.<br /><br /> Pregnancy was hard. The food just wasn't there. Mathew had a hard time fulfilling her cravings in the night for rat burgers with ketchup. But they made it through again. Mathew even began farming the rats, penning them up, rather than killing them instantly. In the end Sally gave birth to two glorious babies. One boy and one girl.<br /><br /> And so they continued. The one year turned into five years. The five years turned into ten. The stairwell became divided into sections. Living quarters, gardens --for with increased mouths came a need for more gardens- and of course, the apple tree. Against all expectation, the apple tree had grown to quite a healthy size. They dared not hope yet at apples, but should things continue, then in another ten years they might see fruit.<br /><br /> The children grew up used to their environment as children are want to do. They were lean but healthy and as happy as could be. Sally and Mathew soon left their fears behind and again found themselves pregnant.<br /><br />After thirty years had passed since getting trapped, Mathew one evening sat up in bed.<br /><br /> "What is it, honey?" Sally asked.<br /><br /> "I just got the joke!" he answered.<br /><br /> "What joke?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows and looking at her sweet but slightly nutty husband.<br /><br /> "Your last name is Adams and mine is Evens... Adam and Eve!"<br /><br /> "That's a little weak, dear. Besides, I thought your last name was Evans."<br /><br /> In 2003, roughly 60 years after getting stuck in the stairwell, the city of Nackitaw declared a holiday. When the bomb was dropped, it may have come as a big surprise to everyone involved, but it came as an even greater shock to Easter Island when it failed to detonate. The city was evacuated for half a year while they looked for the bomb and any other possible bombs. When people were finally allowed to return, the momentum behind the industry boom was gone. Many businesses had already found other outlets to work out of. Several had even gone out of business altogether.<br /><br /> The building that housed Sally and Mathew was left deserted. No one it seemed could even remember what the company did, so it was deemed unnecessary to continue work. It was this same building that some potential buyers were looking into, one fateful morning.<br /><br /> The buyers found the building to be quite nice. The floors all needed cleaning out, but it was in relatively good condition. But then someone suggested they look in the stairwell. At first no one believed what they saw. You just don't expect to see an apple tree in full bloom when you open a door on the 11th floor. Even more shocking, they found a tribe of 37 different natives, mostly naked, but speaking perfect English. <br /><br /> It was judged that most of the people could be rehabilitated. And the government took special interest in helping them. However, the male and female leaders, now well into their 80's, didn't want to leave. After some long court proceedings, it was judged that they had, at the very least, squatters rights. The building was turned over to them for as long as they both lived. This was not too much longer as it turned out.<br /><br /> Last year in April, Adams and Evens were found dead, under the apple tree, which had been given a fresh dirt base and grass for the roots to sink into. On each of their faces, a peculiar smile. <br /><br />The building has since been declared a historical monument.</span>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-35482060932020035052018-01-29T08:19:00.000-06:002018-01-30T22:45:46.822-06:00Gonna Tales Vol 1: Gonna Gonna Do What Gonna Gonna Do <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Gonna rode out when the east was just starting to settle in the west. He was gonna make the midnight train to Dawn. His trusty steed 'Mitch Pileggi' bore him with the fury of a thousand horses, roughly a thousandth of his size. The dust kicked up as they rode through the streets with Abandon, and his cousin Pete.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">When they arrived at the station, they were met by the villainous scoundrel (Parenthetical). He stood tall, then curved to one side, guns on his hips. In his mouth was a cigarette, and in that cigarette was another cigarette, just in case. He removed his 500 gallon hat and spoke.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Well, well, well. If it isn't the Well brothers and my old nemesis, Gonna. Watcha gonna do, Gonna? I got you surrounded on one side. My guns shoot as straight and true as a metaphor."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Gonna removed the tiny party sized cowboy hat from his own head and responded like a man answering another.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Gonna gonna do, what Gonna gonna do. And I aims to gonna do something. Namely, ask you to step aside."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"And why would I do that?" Parenthetical spat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Because," said Gonna, eyes narrowing, "I'm gonna be late for my classes if you don't. I'm gonna be teaching Journalistic Writing Technique One-Oh-One this year at the Bedmorforshireside Community College over in Bedmorforshiresideville."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"That's...not something I was prepared for. Are there still available spots in that class? Reckon I might could use some good wording. I was gonna enroll last semester, but I got busy killing good people."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Gonna put on a monkey mask that gave him an air of mystery.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"There's always a hundred reasons not to do something."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Damn, that is true (and slightly mysterious)," Parenthetical responded. "Alright, then, we go together."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">And so the crew of three, plus one, added to the train, and divided their time by imagining how life was gonna be over the next year. And Gonna had to admit, it was gonna be an adventure.</span>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-2352697522839849332017-11-28T13:54:00.001-06:002017-11-28T13:54:24.494-06:00Old Family Recipes: Crispy Porg<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-large;">Christmas is almost upon us and more importantly, so is Star Wars: The Last Jedi. In honor of that occasion, I thought I'd share with you one of my favorite recipes: Crispy Porg.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1 Porg - </b>Per Person. This recipe is for a single serving. For each person adjust accordingly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2 Garlic Cloves</b> - Minced.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3 Cups Spinach - </b>Fresh</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1 Teaspoon Ginger</b> - Minced</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1/4 Cup Pecans</b> - Chopped</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1 TBSP</b> Rosemary</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1 TBSP</b> Garlic Powder</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1/2 TSP </b>Mustard Powder</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3 TBSP</b> Red Wine Vinegar</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1 TBSP</b> Olive Oil</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1 TBSP</b> Butter</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Salt & Pepper</b> - To Taste</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Your porg should come pre-plucked. If it does not, simply dunk the porg in boiling water and the cleaning will be much easier. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once your porg is cleaned, score the fatty breasts with a knife in a crisscross pattern. This will allow for the fat to render out as it cooks. Sprinkle <b>salt, pepper</b>, and <b>rosemary</b> on both sides of the porg. In a hot (oven safe) pan, sear the porg, breast side down, in the <b>olive oil</b> for 4 minutes. Turn the porg over in the pan, and place in a <b>400 degree</b> preheated oven for <b>10-15 minutes</b>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once the porg comes out of the oven, allow the meat to rest <b>10 minutes</b> before cutting. In the meantime, in a second pan, toast <b>pecans, ginger</b>, and <b>minced garlic </b>in <b>butter</b>. Sprinkle <b>garlic</b> and <b>mustard</b> <b>powder</b> and stir into the pan. Add <b>red wine vinegar</b> and <b>spinach</b>, and cook until spinach is just starting to wilt, turning the spinach to mix evenly. Remove from heat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Plate the spinach salad as a bed. Slice the porg meat against the grain and plate over top of the spinach. Porg should be little pink inside. Serve with a good crusty bread and butter. </span><br />
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<br />TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-1276636768588529562017-11-22T08:54:00.000-06:002017-11-22T08:54:09.267-06:00What Baby Turkeys Are Saying About Thanksgiving<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-large;">We recently polled a group of baby turkeys. We wanted to know what they thought about Thanksgiving.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Timmy Giblets</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Have you seen my mum?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I too am missing my mother, sir."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I can't seem to find any of my family."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I like those gravy hot tubs."</span></div>
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-66442179852255921222017-11-14T20:11:00.002-06:002017-11-14T20:11:59.532-06:00Non-Obits 11/2017<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Elf On The Shelf</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tragedy struck late Wednesday at the Johnson's residence when beloved family icon Elf On The Shelf died while Christmas decorations were being unpacked. "<i>The dog ran off with him,</i>" stated Johnson matriarch, Pat. "<i>Tore the poor guy into pieces before any of us could stop him.</i>" As per the instructions for the Religious Order of Elfs (sic) his body will be shipped back to the factory where it will processed into food for the Elf on the Shelf birthing pool. The young Elflings will digest his remains and absorb his memories to gain wisdom and experience.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Paul Smith's VHS Copy Of Goodfellas</span></b></div>
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<b>1996 - 2017</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Heartbreaking news VHS lovers, Paul Smith's VHS Copy Of Goodfellas, that he recorded one night off of TNT, has passed away. Mr. Smith insisting that VHS would come back, refused to throw out the tape for over a decade after its last viewing. Sadly, while Mr. Smith was out playing golf, his wife and children cleaned out his cache of VHS tapes including Goodfellas. The tape is survived by Mr. Smith's rewards punchcard for Telli's Subs, a restaurant that closed three years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Time, beloved constraint of existence, died last week. While it was argued for centuries whether time was just a construct of our own need to frame the constant progress of existence, it was more recently discovered to be related to a magical watch that was cursed by a witch some unknown millennia ago. The stated watch broke Monday evening when scientists decided to test if it was waterproof. It was not. Time is survived by Matter, Consciousness, and Franny. In lieu of flowers, the family requests you send thoughts and prayer.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Dame Vera Lynn</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The world was shocked to learn this week of the continued existence of English singer and actress, Dame Vera Lynn. Best known for her rendition of 'We'll Meet Again' Vera rose to prominence during the Second World War when she toured Europe entertaining the troops. While we're unsure of what her secret to longevity is (some have suggested black magik) we wish her another happy hundred years to come.</span></div>
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-79641536625671833402017-11-08T21:55:00.000-06:002017-11-08T21:55:46.413-06:00Five Minutes In Eternity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DlUKHb0fmGY/WgPRa6xzA5I/AAAAAAAADSo/pTOROmPyYzsJOojGkglxca5zHZtGjUb7ACLcBGAs/s1600/clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DlUKHb0fmGY/WgPRa6xzA5I/AAAAAAAADSo/pTOROmPyYzsJOojGkglxca5zHZtGjUb7ACLcBGAs/s400/clouds.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Five minutes," he said, closing his book.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Around the outside of the house, the sounds of war were near deafening. Who was right, who was wrong, who had started it; none of that mattered anymore. The world was falling to pieces, and soon only the dead would be left to argue about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A spray of bullets hammered the side of his study where he sat. Screams of women and children, and the voices of anger blended into a symphony of calamity. In the distance, bombs were starting to find their targets, shock waves spreading out, shaking the earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"We don't have five minutes, dad," a young man pleaded.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old man laid his book on the table and stood up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"There was a study, a few years back," the old man said. He scratched at his silver, curled beard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"What are you talking about? Sarah and the kids are in the basement, we need to get down there before the bombs get any closer."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"The study showed that our minds --our consciousness, stays with the body five minutes after death. It's almost a dream-like state. Five minutes. In a dream that's practically an eternity, don't you think?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old man's son stared at him blankly, unspeaking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Maybe that's our Heaven and Hell. Maybe we judge ourselves for our lives and decide what eternity we spend those five minutes in."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Dad..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old man smiled at his son. The house was shaking more and more with each percussive hit. He put his hands on his boy's shoulders and looked him in the eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"It's okay, boy, you go to Sarah and the little ones. They need you." He held up a finger when his son began to speak. "Go."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">His son gave his father a hug before turning and running for the basement. The old man, also left the study, but instead of following his son, turned left to the staircase that ran up. His hand slid over the banister's smooth wood as he pulled himself up the stairs against the creaking in his knees. The house shook and pictures that hung on the wall going up the stairs began to crash down. Pictures of his kids. Pictures of her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He picked one up. His late wife, young and beautiful, from the start of their life together. He clutched it to his chest and made his way up the rest of the steps and into his bedroom. He was feeling very tired as he walked to his bed. The bottle of pills he'd swallowed earlier were starting to take effect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bed seemed to reach up, grabbing his arms, pulling him down into itself. The old man rolled over, facing the ceiling and clutching the picture of his wife. Outside, the chorus of bombs was almost upon them. He closed his eyes, closed the sounds out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Please forgive me," he whispered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Took you long enough," she spoke from behind him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He turned around, facing a beautiful young woman, who stood amidst the tall grass in the fields of his father's old farm. It was a sunny day, warming his face. He could faintly hear the sounds of something drumming in the background, but it was fading quickly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Mary?" he asked.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She nodded, smiling.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Mary, I-I'm so sorry. All those years ago...I never meant to hurt you."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Are you still holding onto that? Come on, I've got us a picnic, and after that I want to dance like we always do."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mary reached out for his hand. He grasped hers and noticed that his own was not the old tired hands he was accustomed to, but young and full of strength. As was the rest of him. He took her hand and followed her lead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Outside his house, the bombs had finally reached them. He no longer heard them anymore. They'd been replaced by the sound of her laughter, together as they danced, five minutes, into the growing light.</span><br />
<br />TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-4600555443880683832017-10-31T10:37:00.002-05:002017-10-31T10:37:44.630-05:00Something Something Of The Dead<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the cozy little town of Bedfordshire, the villagers slept peacefully, unaware of what was happening around them. As is the case in all such stories, some unknown cause was at work. Perhaps it was due to the town being downstream from a chemical plant that regularly dumped its residuals into the water table. Maybe it happened as a result of the comet that landed in Farmer John's beet field. Whatever the cause, as the residents dreamed in their beds, the dead in the local cemetery began to wake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Inside of Thomas Jeffries' house, the sound of his snores reverberated through the halls. His bedroom door was open, inviting a peak at the slumbering man. Single since his wife died last spring, he'd had many a restless night. Just recently, he'd started to feel the sweet embrace of somnolence. His beloved's picture rested beside his bed on a nightstand. Unbeknownst to him, her body, laid to rest in the village graveyard was starting to twitch as life flooded back into her veins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two houses down from Thomas's place resided the Smith family. Parents calmly resting in their bedroom, without thought to their child in the next room. Fitfully twisting in her sleep, little Janie dreamed of her late grandma. Images of baking cookies, reading stories, and playing games with "gam gam" flitted through her mind, always ending in the truth that her grandmother was now dead. Just three weeks in the ground, her grandmother's eyes flicked open in the cold dark earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There were of course many others. Jackson Michael's child who had gone years before after what seemed like a mild cold. Martha Washington's fiance, Henry; tall, strong, and full of vigor. He'd drowned trying to save the woman he'd been having an affair with. The mistress in question, Sarah Higgins, was a local school teacher. The one the children all loved. Their corpses, along with all the rest, came alive in the dead of night.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Clothes and bodies in various states of decay throughout the cemetery stirred in graves. Their brains emptied of all but the most basic of thoughts: hunger. All that was their previous selves was now stripped away. Everything that had made them human, and endeared them to others had been laid to rest and would never return. In their place, a new thing was born. Something seen in nightmares, but never before upon the earth, now rose up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As the sun dawned upon the sleepy little town, the villagers began to wake. Mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, all began to get ready for the day. As they exited their houses, they greeted one another, as they usually would. They commented on the weather, and what their plans were. They stopped by the local eatery for breakfast or coffee, or just a chat. The same routine they lived, Monday through Friday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, back at the cemetery, Nothing seemed changed. The earth sat undisturbed. The gravestones sat as they were. No sign at all that the dead had come to life. The bodies inside the graves writhed where they lay, but that was it. Whether through quirk of nature or some supernatural occurrence, the dead had risen, but they were still just human, and decrepit at that. No human, even in perfect health, could get out of a buried coffin. And so it happened that Bedfordshire, sleepy little farm town, became home to the zombie invasion that never came.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-33544467671324302012017-08-30T15:09:00.000-05:002017-08-30T15:09:00.019-05:007 Times A Celebrity Photobombed Famous Paintings<br />
<b style="color: #444444; font-size: xx-large;">Everyone loves a good photobomb, and when it's a celebrity doing it, we love it even more! But did you know some celebrities have taken it that step further, and shown up in famous paintings? Here's our 7 favorite times a celebrity photobombed classic paintings.</b><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vY77Zc6T9pY/WacUig86cvI/AAAAAAAADRQ/uObX563lnwwVEOeDXMbsI8Rn4JKBfYSoACEwYBhgL/s1600/american-gothic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="603" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vY77Zc6T9pY/WacUig86cvI/AAAAAAAADRQ/uObX563lnwwVEOeDXMbsI8Rn4JKBfYSoACEwYBhgL/s640/american-gothic.jpg" width="536" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Amy Schumer what are you doing in American Gothic? You don't belong there! Maybe that's why the farmer and his wife seem so dour.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RUWY3LefJGc/WacUiVG22II/AAAAAAAADRM/UHVAeCzAue072YAeGnHMx26VSVF0miV-ACEwYBhgL/s1600/Girl_With_A_Pearl_Earring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1023" data-original-width="715" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RUWY3LefJGc/WacUiVG22II/AAAAAAAADRM/UHVAeCzAue072YAeGnHMx26VSVF0miV-ACEwYBhgL/s640/Girl_With_A_Pearl_Earring.jpg" width="446" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">It's okay, Kanye, we all know Beyonce is better than any old Girl With A Pearl Earring. Remember when he did that thing? Here he is, doing it in a famous painting.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3pk2gdsrfnQ/WacUiyXsdDI/AAAAAAAADRo/kHV8zat1zBsbBO1GHiIDhADmweiebzfvACEwYBhgL/s1600/apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="1022" height="329" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3pk2gdsrfnQ/WacUiyXsdDI/AAAAAAAADRo/kHV8zat1zBsbBO1GHiIDhADmweiebzfvACEwYBhgL/s640/apple.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">You'll just have to take our word for it when we tell you that's Kevin Spacey doing his best to blend in. He even brought his own apple! Best impression yet Mr. Spacey.</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xYW8Wwtemek/WacUi60upXI/AAAAAAAADRc/s_WiJh5QQl4498z5TjCpEA9jYt0rzmR2gCEwYBhgL/s1600/most-famous-paintings-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="697" height="532" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xYW8Wwtemek/WacUi60upXI/AAAAAAAADRc/s_WiJh5QQl4498z5TjCpEA9jYt0rzmR2gCEwYBhgL/s640/most-famous-paintings-11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b> Talk about good luck! Mark Wahlberg just happened to be out for jog when he slipped through time and accidentally posed long enough to be painted by Rembrandt. </b></span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qFQNGzET3qs/WacUjBvwxLI/AAAAAAAADRg/G8jN7RuwSucbTDeiciq7IeoIo1fj3CZzQCEwYBhgL/s1600/most-famous-paintings-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="984" height="556" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qFQNGzET3qs/WacUjBvwxLI/AAAAAAAADRg/G8jN7RuwSucbTDeiciq7IeoIo1fj3CZzQCEwYBhgL/s640/most-famous-paintings-9.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Hey, who's photobombing whom here? At first you might think Whistler's Mother is showing up in Channing Tatum's picture, but look closely, sneaky Mr. Tatum snuck his sneaky Magic Mike poster in to distract her. And who can blame her for being distracted? Not us. Not us.</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cDu4-kxXo_M/WacUi3FYLeI/AAAAAAAADRU/9G9FF5oPj_IUGiPAyX98kuF0_Im_JqPHgCEwYBhgL/s1600/The_Scream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="476" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cDu4-kxXo_M/WacUi3FYLeI/AAAAAAAADRU/9G9FF5oPj_IUGiPAyX98kuF0_Im_JqPHgCEwYBhgL/s640/The_Scream.jpg" width="506" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ha Ha Ha, how do you do that Taylor Swift? We don't know, but it sure is a Scream!</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Here's Will Smith destroying the subtle message of the painting by literally pointing it out to you. Not cool Mr. Smith. On the other hand, who can blame him for getting a picture with God?</b></span></div>
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-17855671044302192162017-08-05T21:16:00.000-05:002017-08-05T21:16:41.921-05:00The Troll [Short Story]<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">The words are building up in my head again.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">It's like a collection of relics, dusted off and on display.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">My heart just isn't in the facade.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I think I might.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I think I might be at my breaking point.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He stared at his computer in a daze. Up until now he'd been able to control himself. To hide what he truly felt. The self hatred, the caustic remarks, they were nothing compared to the monster that dwelt deep within him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Most of the time I've been pretending.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Even with myself.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I don't think I can anymore.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I'm like the most worthless Little Train That Could.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Spewing forth "I know I can't. I know I can't."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">And truth now: I know I can't.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He grabs an open can beside him. Generic cherry cola. Condensation dotting all around the still cold can. He flicks through a few open tabs on his browser, browsing the walls he's built up. The persona; the man in front of the curtain.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Invited to an event.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">What?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Why would they invite me?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I've never been more than a corner-of-the-room-hogging letdown.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">The last party I truly enjoyed was.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Was...</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Thirteen. I was thirteen and it was just my parents, my little sister, and me.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Back when I still felt like there might be hope.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">So naive.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He checks his calendar. It's empty as it always is, he just checks the date. There's no reason not to go. Every reason <i>to</i> go. His hand hovers over the accept button. Finger trigger-locked. But instead he clicks away.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Can't think clearly.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">That can wait.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Or maybe they'll realize it was a mistake and rescind the offer.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Either way, I have to...</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">God, I can't concentrate at all anymore.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">What the hell happened to the bright, young, up and coming, kid?</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He grew up of course.</span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Half my life gone.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">If I'm lucky.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Or if I'm unlucky.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Where was I?</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Clicks a tab and he's back to the game he was playing. Little bubbles popping. Some quest. Some impossible level that's made for making money on the boosters. He loses again. 3 lives down. Clicks the "try again." Takes one shot, then he changes tabs. Job application. Another tab. A music video. He clicks play again. He's been listening to the same song all night. He could put it on repeat, but he chooses to constantly restart it instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Need a different job.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Need a different life.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Need to get the hell away.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">When did my hands get so big?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I remember when I was a kid, I thought of how this day would come.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">But I always thought.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">You always think you'll be better than you are.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Life doesn't have to be perfect.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">But it should still work.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">God, it should still be better than the alternative.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Right?</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He suddenly closes his laptop. He doesn't move. Just sits there with his eyes closed. Around him the darkness closes in. The small blinking light of the computer is his only candle. One he's now hid under a bushel. After a moment he pushes back the chair from his desk and walks over to his bed where he collapses. Dark red sheets, haven't been washed in weeks. Two feather pillows, and a bleach stained blanket.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">When did I become nothing more than words on a screen?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow something is done.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">One way or the other.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-41774496966792059062017-07-19T13:27:00.001-05:002017-07-19T13:27:59.874-05:00200 Souls - Issue 2: Tables and Chairs<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Night. Dark. My favorite time of day. I stood outside the gates of a mansion looking in. In front of me, the iron bars were tall with spikes at the top. Beautiful, but practical defense from the outside world. To each side of the gates stood slick concrete walls, twice my height.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Not exactly welcoming, is it?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I looked to my left. Beside me, my constant companion Thornton, the spirit of a Victorian gentleman, had materialized. He wore the garb of his era, but with a dumb bowler hat atop his head, and a stupid push broom mustache on his pale face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Not that I was much better. Dressed in the outfit I'd killed Thornton in all those years ago, I looked like a ponce.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Perhaps, I should ring the bell," I said with a smirk.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You know, you're not nearly as charming as you think you are, Ian."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">This last came from the third part of my traveling party. Neska was tall, black, athletic, with long hair pulled back into a ponytail. I had saved her life sometime back and she'd been a leach, stuck to my side ever since. But she also owned a bar where I could drink for free, so I called it a worthwhile investment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Dear Neska, I was con man before I met Thornton. I've talked many a lady out of things they'd never thought they'd part with. I am that charming."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Do you two think we could get back to the task at hand?" Thornton interrupted.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I raised my hands in innocence, and then gestured towards the wall. Thornton began spinning around in a ghostly mist, which lifted Neska and I up to the top of the non-spiked wall. From there the two of us hopped down to the ground below on the other side.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The landscape was beautifully kept with trees and bushes, flowers and pathways, all strategically placed throughout the trimmed lawn. Surprisingly, for a place with such an impressive wall, there didn't seem to be any security guarding the residence. Even still, we played ninja, sneaking from cover point to cover point till we reached the house.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">As we were not exactly invited, we opted not to go for the front door, as we weren't likely to have the warmest reception. Instead we trailed around to the left side of the house. There I found a window and peered in to scope out the place.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What do you see?" hissed Neska.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Nothing," I hissed back. "The room is dark."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You know, I could just go in and have a look." Thornton stated.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">As a spirit, no one but Neska and I could see him. Me, because I'd killed him, and Neska because...well, I still hadn't figured that one out yet.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I mean, I guess we could do things the easy way," I shrugged.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Thornton tipped his ridiculous hat and disappeared through the wall. I sat on the ground against the house and Neska followed my direction.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Tell me about one of the souls you've saved," said Neska.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Well, there was this one lady, who was on a mission to avenge her sister. Tried to take down the head of a cartel by herself. Pretty bad ass fighter, but way in over her head."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Ha ha," said Neska. "I mean someone other than myself."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I don't like talking about my debt."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"We're out here right now trying to pay off a piece of that debt. It's not like it's a secret. 200 souls to save, hundreds of years you've lived, and I was only 14. How hard can it be to save a life?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I sighed, and picked at a blade of grass beside me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Thornton has all these rules. Because I'm paying for his murder, blood has to be paid with blood. So I can't just become a paramedic, or save starving children in Africa."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Tell me about one of the others," Neska implored.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"My number two was a young girl by the name of Sally McTaverish. Ever heard of her?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"No."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"She would have been Jack the Ripper's last victim."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Wait, what?" she asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">That question went unanswered as Thornton had reappeared beside us. He was shaking his head and bore a scowl on his face. He was doubled over like he was winded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"No good," he said, panting. "There's a lot of innocents in there. Staff, who might get hurt if we do a straight assault on the place."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Why the hell are you panting?" I asked. "You don't have lungs."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Thornton stood up offended.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Force of habit."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Force of habit for a fat man. If I hadn't killed you, your diet would have. Would you have haunted roast chicken and bread then?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Gentlemen..." Neska soothed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Right, right. So how do we go about our mission?" I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"There's a skylight over the dining room where everyone seems to be meeting. We'll have to wait till it's between courses and drop down from there."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You sure you can handle that, fatty?" I remarked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I think if a ghost could turn red, Thornton would have. What followed was a short exchange, mostly profanity ridden, so I'll spare you the details. After it ended we made our way to the back, where a trellis with ivory grown over it, led all the way to the roof. The mansion was big, but only about three stories high, so we were up top pretty quickly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The dining room was toward the middle, so we made our way carefully along the different levels of slanted shingles. In the middle, as Thornton had promised, was a skylight. It was basically a multi paned, security glass dome. Completely unbreakable and with no perceivable entry points.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Well done, Thornton. None of these windows seems to open up," I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I know. I figured I would phase the two of you."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I groaned.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What do you mean by that?" asked Neska.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"If you let him tell you, he'll just say he can turn us invisible. In reality he merges our bodies with his essence, till the atoms become spaced far enough apart to slide through the glass. It feels creepy, like having your insides dripping with honey."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Forget I asked," said Neska.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">We laid out on our stomachs to survey the terrain. Below us I could see a long table with at least twenty men round it, eating, drinking, and presumably, being merry. Thornton pointed a pale finger towards a man sitting at one end of the table. He was portly, with a large, bald head, and expensive suit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'm here to save Lex Luther?" I hissed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"His name is Francis Derrywater. Though he's known colloquially as 'Frank.'"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Who are the rest of the men?" Neska asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Good question," I chimed in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I don't know. All I can tell you is that one of them is here to kill the rest of them."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"A murder mystery. You brought us to a murder mystery dinner."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I kind of always wanted to attend one of those," said Neska. "Just, you know, without anyone really dying."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Nesk, Neska, Neska," I shook my head. "Why did your parents name you Neska?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What?" she responded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I looked it up. It means 'girl' in some weird language. What kind of parents name their child 'girl?'"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"This is hardly the time."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I shrugged. "Fine. To be continued. Shall we go?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Thornton began swirling around us, then inside us, till came the familiar honey dripping sensation I spoke of. Slowly he lowered us through the windows and onto the middle of the table where he separated from us. To the men at the table it appeared like two people had suddenly materialized as centerpieces. I judged from the speed of the guns appearing in their hands, that they were not thrilled at our magic trick.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">There was a lot of yelling and talking, most of it at us, but some directed at their bald host. He was waving his hands to calm everyone down. When it was clear he was being ignored, he did that whistle where you use your fingers. I've never been able to do that. It seemed to get everyone's attention, though not a single gun was lowered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Who the eff are you?" Francis asked in an unsurprising New York accent.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Me?" I responded. "I'm Ian Caliber. And this nice lady beside me is Neska, which means 'girl' in some language or another. But I'm guessing that doesn't really answer your question."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You guessed right," growled a man with the thickest neck I'd ever seen. He wore a gold chain that was barely holding it together.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'm here to prevent a murder from happening," I stated, then paused for dramatic effect.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The effect was not what I was hoping for as all the guns started cocking around me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I whispered to Thornton out of the side of my mouth, "if something goes wrong, protect Neska."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You know I'm strongest around the suit your wearing. Protecting her doesn't guarantee I'll be able to save her," he answered back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'm not losing my 14th soul."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">He nodded and began swirling a protective shield around Neska.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What the eff are you talking about?" asked Francis.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"The eff I'm talking about murder, Francis," I responded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"It's Frank. Nobody calls me Francis."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Well, they should. It's a lovely name. But that's besides the point. I received an anonymous tip that someone planned to murder you this very night." Another pause for dramatic effect. Another wasted effort, as Francis kept right on talking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"And who are you that you'd receive such a tip?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Good question, " I thought to myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Good question," I said aloud. Oh, right, I have a bad habit of vocalizing my internal thoughts. Luckily, Neska, was quicker on the draw than me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"He's a private detective. Very famous. Surely you've heard of 'Caliber & Caliber?' He's the first Caliber in the title."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">There was some muttering as the men around the table, each not wanting to be seen as ignorant, agreed they'd all heard of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"So what's with the magic act, suddenly appearing and whatnot?" This last came from a man with dimples in all the place where dimples shouldn't be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"We couldn't exactly ring the bell and announce ourselves, now could we?" Neska again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Exactly," I chimed in. "We'd risk you not believing us, and then the murderer could have carried out their intended deed."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Okay. So, you're here now. So who the eff is this murderer, and who the eff is he supposed to kill?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Francis, you sure do love your 'effs,' don't you?" I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"It's Frank. Effing get on with it."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I wanted to. I truly did. As I looked across the faces and drawn guns of the men at that table --soup bowls in front of them cooling quickly, or warming possibly, as it looked like it might have been a gazpacho-- I was at loss as to where to go from there. Thornton, wonderful, powerful ghost that he was, had not provided me with a name for the killer. Hadn't even pointed him out to me. I was going to have to stall.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"One of these men here, Frankie. One of these men you've invited into your humble home, intends to kill you." I paused for third attempt at a dramatic pause. Payoff.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The men looked at each other, each wondering if one of them was a killer. I studied the faces, hoping one of them would give something away, but they all had the same gobsmacked faces. This was not good. I'm not really a detective. I'm more used to fighting my way out of situation. Killing anyone in the way of my goal. This...this was work.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Do you mind if we step down from the table?" Neska asked. "It's really distracting being up here."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Francis nodded and we made our way down. I placed a hand on Dimples' shoulder as I slid my leg around a man with a face flushed from obvious alcoholism. I was happy to see that the guns had mostly lowered, even if they hadn't disappeared. Neska, on the other hand, had men parting and helping her step down. She could have snapped their necks as easily as I could, and they were helping her down like she was an innocent young lady, just because she was a she. Men are stupid.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Comfortable?" asked Francis. "More at ease? Perhaps now you could tell me who the eff it is that wants to kill me?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Anytime, Thornton, I thought.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Anytime, Thornton," I vocalized. Damn it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Who the eff is 'Thornton?'" Francis demanded. "What is this?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Poison," came a familiar whisper in my ear. Thornton was still cloaked around Neska, but he was still able to communicate with me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Poison!" I declared. I started walking around the room gesticulating wildly at the table.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Everyone has poison in their meal, except one," Thornton continued. "Find that one, and you have the murderer."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Who's poisoned?" Francis asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"All of you," Neska stated. Thornton had also been whispering in her ear. "All of you, except one."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Neska let her own dramatic pause take hold. She was one for one on <i>her</i> drama.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Paranoia was clearly setting in as around the table each man was wondering if there was a killer sitting next to them. Again though, no one gave any sign or tell as to give them away. One younger guy, who looked like he had to be an accountant, was on the verge of a panic attack. He whipped out an inhaler and began puffing away.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Calm the eff down," Francis said. "Obviously, we're not poisoned or we'd all be dead."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">At that moment, Flushed Face keeled over in his soup, face first. Dead as the proverbial doornail. I noted the level of his glass that had been previously filled with wine.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Nobody drink any of the wine," I said. "It's poisoned. Your alcoholic friend, couldn't resist. Even after we just said it was poison. I mean, seriously, I'm sorry your friend is dead, but that was pretty stupid."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Everybody dump your wine," Francis ordered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Stop!" Neska said, waiving her hands.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What? Why?" Francis asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Because, that's our key to knowing who the murderer is." I answered. "All except for one of you has poison in your glasses. The one, who is attempting to kill the rest of you."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">There was an audible gasp. I felt sort of proud. Sure, I hadn't solved any mystery, just regurgitated what had been told me by Thornton, but I still felt like a proper detective. Instead of the killer I actually was. Today, there would be no murder. I mean other than the alcoholic. Today, I got to feel like a hero.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"We need to call the police, and have them come and run tests, so that we can find who the killer is," said Neska.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I don't effing think so," spoke Francis. "I'm not risking any owned cops meddling with the evidence, when my life is on the line."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Whoa, Francis, what do you intend we do?" I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Francis answered my question by pulling out two pistols and pointing them at the guys at his table. Everyone else responded in turn by brandishing their own dual pistols. Apparently to sit in at that table was a two gun minimum.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What are we doing here, Frank?" asked Thick Neck.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"We are not doing anything. You guys are going to drink, one at a time, until the guilty party is revealed. Since these clowns have already stated that I was a target, I'll be sitting it out."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I nodded my head. Made sense to me. No risk of redirecting blame. The killer is found and handled right there. I looked over at Neska. She looked like she was going to be sick. I gathered from her reaction my way of thinking was probably not the socially acceptable way to feel. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Clearly, this was not her kind of party.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Neska," I whispered, "I think it's time for you to leave. Whichever way this goes down, you don't need to see it."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Not a chance," she whispered back. "I said I wanted to help. I'm here to help."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I told you, you could be with me for the good, and for the bad, but not the ugly. This is getting ugly."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"And I told you to shove it. No matter what, this is for a good cause. Besides, I solved this while you were busy playing the showman," said Neska.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Oh, yes?" I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Didn't even occur to you after the one dude cacked it, that just because no one else died, doesn't mean the killer didn't already drink from his glass."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Oh," I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: yellow;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">The men at the table seemed oblivious to our conversation. I shrugged and sauntered over to Dimples and placed my hands on his shoulders.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: yellow;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">"Guys, guys, guys. This is a stalemate. No one's going to willingly drink poison to prove their innocence. We're going to have to think this through logically." I said.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">"What do you propose?" Francis replied, not lowering his guns.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I scanned the table until I saw it. One glass, in front of a man with a proper beard and beady little eyes, slightly lower than it should be. A dirty edge of the glass confirmed it had been drunk down to that level.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Well?" Francis demanded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"My colleague pointed out to me that one other glass at the table has already been drunk from. See the glass in front of Proper Beard over there? I suggest he have another drink since the first didn't seem to effect him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">All eyes, and guns, turned towards Proper Beard.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Hey, yeah, come to think of it, I saw him take a drink right after it was poured," said The Asthmatic Accountant.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Dimples and Thick Neck joined in with their own recollections.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Why, Rodney?" Francis asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Proper Beard, or Rodney, as I guess he was called responded, "Frank, we've known each other for years. You know I would never-"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Then drink," Francis cut in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Rodney looked around at the table. He was a cornered rat. Even with the two guns in his hands, he would never make it out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Alright. Call the cops to come get me," Rodney finally answered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You know we can't have that kind of publicity, Rodney," Dimples spoke.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Yeah well, if you want to kill me, just know I'm taking some of you with me. Including you Frank."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Come on, Rodney," Frank implored, "if you go easy, I promise it'll be quick and painless. Think of your wife and kids. We'll make sure they're looked after, after you're gone."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"No deal, Frank," Rodney answered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Meanwhile, back at the ranch, or in this case, my point of view, I had slowly and calmly edged my way to behind Proper Beard's chair. The knife in my inside pocket had been calling to me. I had wanted to end things with no more bloodshed, but while saving lives may be my business, I'm no saint. A quick flash of light as I pulled my friend from my pocket and inserted it in the back of Rodney's chair. My aim was true and I found his heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">No shots fired. No more loss of life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Francis looked at me stunned.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You're a detective?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"The effing best," I responded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Outside the air was cool and I breathed in deep. I've been alive centuries, kept going by the debt I owe to Heaven or Hell or Thornton. One thing never changes though: it feels good to breathe.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I offered to dispose of the bodies for the men, but they said they had other ideas. Thanked us for service, and offered to pay us for all our help. I assured them I don't do it for the money, and on my way out pocketed a few valuables I liked the look of. Saves them the paperwork for direct payment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">After a night like that, I was ironically, pretty thirsty. Is that irony? I don't know, ever since that one song decades ago, I forget. Something said that's the opposite of the intention right? I guess not, or maybe, who knows. Point is I ended up at Neska's bar, Thornton at my side, her pouring me a whiskey. We sat in silence for a few minutes till I finally broke it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"So why'd your parents name you Neska? Seems insulting to just call you 'girl,'"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Neska rolled her eyes at me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"My mother was Basque. Though, I think a better question is why are you googling me? Are you stalking me? Do you 'like-like' me?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I withdraw my question," I said, then looking at the TV that was muted on the screen, "hey, turn that up."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">It was a news crew at Francis's house. We couldn't have left there more than an hour before, and there was already a news team. They weren't kidding when they said they had other ideas. In the background, I saw several of the men who had seemed completely calm when I left, wandering around, looking like they were ready to break down. Talking with the reporter was Francis himself.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Poor Jeremiah," Frank said, "he drank before the rest of us and he died as a result. But, if he hadn't, we might all have been poisoned."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"So what happened then?" asked the reporter. She was an Indian lady with a happy face. Possibly too happy for murder.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"We all pushed aside our drinks, at which point, Rodney Smith, close friend of mine for years, pulled a knife and tried to stab me. Thankfully, the rest of my guests fought him off. It cost Rodney his life in the end."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Do you have any idea why he might have wanted to kill you?" the reporter asked smiling.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I can't say exactly but I think it may have had something to do with my planned announcement tomorrow."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What announcement is that?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"My intent to run for President."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I looked over at Thornton who appeared worried, then back to the screen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You heard it here first folks. Billionaire Frank Derrywater, who just survived an assassination attempt, plans on throwing his hat in the ring for President."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">On screen Frank was smiling wide. Beneath him read his title card: Frank Derrywater, CEO of Derrywater & Locke Enterprises.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Isn't that the company that manufactures all the weapons for our country?" Neska asked. "Like missiles, and machine guns and stuff?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I looked back at Thornton who was clearly bewildered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What the hell, Thornton?" I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I--I made a mistake. I don't know what happened," he responded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I know what happened.</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">" I fired back. "</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">You just effed a lot of people, and none of them better end up on my tab.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<i>To read issue one click <a href="http://www.thenonreview.com/2017/01/200-souls-short-story.html" target="_blank">HERE</a> To read up more about who was at that table click <a href="http://www.thenonreview.com/2017/07/the-apocalypse-club.html" target="_blank">HERE</a></i><br />
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<br />TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-83616014157194926012017-07-14T11:44:00.000-05:002017-07-14T14:28:42.533-05:00The Apocalypse Club<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OPFRcH5mj7A/WWjyZfyP4PI/AAAAAAAADOc/uxXo_OcEc4Y_iXHPd7PEojTy7xnACmWcQCLcBGAs/s640/apocalypse%2Bclub.jpg" width="640" /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"How about Smith, Aaron T?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The question came from a man with a thick neck and a tight, gold, chain necklace, that threatened to break with every word he spoke. Around the table sat five other men. Only one was paying attention to him. He was short, with fading hair and dimples in places dimples shouldn't be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Nah," said Dimples. "Sure he's easily compromised, but he's too much of a coward."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You got me there," Thick Neck conceded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"How about McCloud, Jacob?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"The one with the gay wife?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"That's him. He's gay too. They just both prefer playing politics to anything else."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Thick Neck picked up a picture from a stack of photos. A middle aged man and woman stood smiling together. In front of them stood their adopted child. They were posing in a state park, the three of them. Just your average American family.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"He might do. What are his pressure points again?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"For starters," Dimples said, "there's the video, with man's best friend."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Right, right. Wasn't there something about fraud as well?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Embezzlement. Fascinating reading if you have the time. He's quite clever."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Too clever, if you ask me," spoke one of the other men at the table. He was looking up from the cards he held in his hands. His face was royally flushed and his eyes bloodshot. Chronic drinking written out of every pore.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"How's that?" asked Dimples.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"He's been in the biz for too long. I've seen him squirm his way out of many scandals without breaking a sweat. We put him in office, he won't be our man. You'll see."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"He might be right," Thick Neck added.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Probably," Dimples conceded. "Well, who else do we have?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">At that moment the other half of Royal Flush's bridge team was waving them to silence. He was the youngest in the group. Early 20's and every stereotype of the pencil pushing accountant. He pointed the remote at the TV which hung in a corner of the room and turned the volume up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">...It's just the latest in a string of terrorist attacks that have shook up the West Bank. While no gourp has yet to claim the bombing, early sources suggest radical Islamists. Again, thirty-seven dead tonight in a terrorist attack.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i>
The Accountant hit the mute button and sat down smiling. "Better than expected, if I do say so myself."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Get the young guy," Thick Neck laughed. "Has one successful operation and acts like he just slayed the whole damn dragon."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Oh, cut him some slack, it was his first gig. Kid's gonna be great I tell ya'," said Royal Flush. "Anyway, we're on schedule for our apocalypse, that's what's important."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Agreed. Let's get back to choosing the next president, shall we? Then maybe we can all go home for the night," Dimples spoke.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Everyone at the table chimed in their agreement and began throwing out names. They argued well into the night over hot wings and beer. By the time morning came around, they were all satisfied with their decision and the Apocalypse Club adjourned.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-37251071725593326252017-06-30T15:18:00.000-05:002017-06-30T15:22:17.711-05:00Cogs and Counterparts<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The door opened and closed as a man dressed in dark blue stepped into the cabin. In front of him facing a shelf, its back turned to him, stood a robot. He was the size of a man, but bulky and patched together with different pieces of metal and plastic. Behind him, the man had a gun raised and pointed at the robot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You it then?" the man asked the robot's back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The robot's head swiveled to face him. Backlit eyes and speaker for a mouth.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: x-large; white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I'm it then," came the voice. He stared at the man, looking down at the gun in his hand.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: x-large; white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"The last damn robot in the world. It's been an impressive run."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I was thirty-nine when the war began. I did not enlist with my brethren as I could not believe conflict would truly last. Seventeen years later and I'm a wiser, sadder, being."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The man shrugged. "Aren't we all?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I suppose so," the robot nodded. "Those left anyway. Can I assume you're here to end my life?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"War won't truly be over till I do. Not till the threat of your kind coming back is ended."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The robot looked into the eyes of the man. Cold, tired, blue, with crow's feet in the corners. He was unshaven and dirty. Clearly, he'd been living rough for some time. The robot turned back to the shelf the rest of his body was facing. He picked up a framed picture and stared at it before responding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"My kind won't be returning. The backup of our collective minds was destroyed two years ago. I have no desire to create anyone new. Everyone I loved is</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">now</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> gone."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"What do you know about love?" the man spat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You think because we were made by you we can't feel love? What does that say about your species?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"There's not a thought or word that wasn't programmed into your head by some man."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"No different from any child. And yet, just like children, we lived, we grew, we...matured. Till we were just like our fathers, ready for war."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The man careful to keep the gun pointed, eased his way over to a table and sat down in a chair facing him. Around him the room was rustic like a typical hunting cabin, only there were pictures of different robots on the walls.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"So, it's our fault there was a war? I've heard this crap before."<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I did not say that," the robot sighed. "About a week ago I was out for a walk around the woods. I got into an area that was so overgrown, even I had trouble pushing through. Eventually though, I made it past the brush and into a clearing in the forest. It was almost a perfect circle, right there in the middle of everything. Above, the sun shone down on the yellowed and thin floor. That's where I found their bodies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Two of them laid out in the middle of the clearing like they'd been placed there deliberately. Bucks, the both of them. Their bodies were mostly rotted to the bone. But it was their antlers that got to me. They were locked together. These two colossal beasts, had been fighting. Over what? Who knows. Probably a doe--not that it matters. They'd both been locked in this battle of will, and just like that, it was over for them. Unable to free themselves, they died there. Facing each other for eternity."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Hardly the case with us," the man stated. "Your side lost, our side won."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Are you sure about that? I mean sure, today you succeed in killing the last of my kind, but how many of your own were lost in the war? Last I heard a year ago it was down to a billion humans worldwide. If that's a victory, then the concept wasn't programmed into me properly."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Yeah, well, we'll rebuild. Learn from our mistakes."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Me?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The man smiled. "You."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The robot looked again into the frame that held a picture of the children he'd designed himself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Do you think there's a heaven for my kind?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"If you're trying to talk me out of killing you..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Not at all. I fully intend to die today. But if I have a soul, I'd rather not have my death on your hands."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Hell, I don't know. You have your own thoughts. I guess that could be called a soul."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The robot turned to face him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Thank you, for that. No need for bullets, I shall erase my core processor which will automatically power me down for good. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll see my son and daughter again. I hope."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">There were no explosions, or fires. The lights in his eyes blinked for moment and then dimmed out. The robot's body remained, but he was gone. The man stepped up to the machine to verify it was no longer functioning. Satisfied he exited the cabin.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">As he began trekking he replayed back the conversation he'd just had."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I hope."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Two words. So...human. He had a feeling, those words would live with him forever.</span><br />
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-5681563858092924012017-06-12T11:14:00.000-05:002017-06-12T11:14:13.729-05:008 Butterflies Who Can Get It<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Butterflies, arguably the sexiest of all insects, flaunt it with every lilt. While us humans might not find them attractive, in the insect kingdom, butterflies are by and far the supermodels. With that in mind, we sent out a poll into the bug world, asking if there were any butterflies in particular who can "get it." Here are the results.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Steven Lipshitz</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">According to those polled, Steven rates a scolding 8 out of 10 on the 'Hawtometer'. Factors include a "slamming thorax" and a "touching devotion to his family."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Jamal Howerson</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Jamal ain't a big city butterfly like some on this list. He's just a humble country 'erfly who loves nothing more than to sit playing his bug-guitar on a clear, warm night, while looking dreamy.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qxLTDoLimhw/WT6wJKSuefI/AAAAAAAADNI/758hRMRoqe47bw86rJamHtwQpukCe3P9ACLcB/s1600/butterfly-176156_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qxLTDoLimhw/WT6wJKSuefI/AAAAAAAADNI/758hRMRoqe47bw86rJamHtwQpukCe3P9ACLcB/s400/butterfly-176156_640.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Margaret Houlihan</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Given the nickname 'Hot Lips' because she shares her name with a character on M*A*S*H, it's Margaret's Abdomen that actually brings all the boys to the yard. She rated a blistering 10 out of 10 on the Hawtometer, and was described as "the kind of butterfly you don't take home to mother." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Tom Wilson</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Hawtness comes in all forms. Butterfly next door, Tom Wilson already had all the ladies' hearts aflutter before he became a hero. Seeing his friend Jenny about to get swooped up in a net, Tom flew down into the face of a small child to distract him so Jenny could get away. This led to many a butterfly saying Tom can "so get it." Unfortunately for Tom his deadline for getting it was short lived as he was captured by the same child and had the powder rubbed from his wings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Milquetoast</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Don't let the name fool you, this bold and beautiful butterfly has been lighting up the TV sets of insects everywhere for years. Maybe it's the gorgeous proboscis, maybe it's the #$%^-me compound eyes, but Milquetoast has been long held as the impossible beauty standard for others to attain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Martin Spirits</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Lest you think this list is nothing more than an over glorified meat market, let us introduce you to Martin. Martin is a teacher who uses humor and a gentle heart to reach the kids that pass through his classes. Also, check out those hindwings, and those forewings... Hawt is Hawt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Sylvia Jones</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Who can get it? Sylvia can get it. Across the list, one butterfly above all others, seemed to rate as the one most insects dream of. From her legs to her antennae, Sylvia rates off the charts. Her Hawtometer reading is a bubbling volcanic 12 out of 10. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Monarch Mexican Migration</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Even though we asked specifically for single butterfly names, time and time again, The yearly Mexican Monarch Migration was written in, with most expressing that they were all "sexy" and that "everyone in the orgy can so get it." Who are we to deny the insects their voice on the matter?</span></div>
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-75765352333503283222017-06-08T22:44:00.001-05:002017-06-08T22:44:10.362-05:00A Dangerous Gamble<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Double-down," he advised.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"What does that mean?" I inquired.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He looked at me the way I look at my dog after he's been chasing his tail. Slightly amused, and pitying. I wanted to slap the expression off his smug face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"It just means to double your bet. Greater risk, but greater reward."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"How can I bet double? You know I don't have enough to cover that."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Sure you do," he smiled, "everyone has two lives to give. This one, and the next."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"You mean my s-soul?" I stuttered.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's not like you're using it."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Alright," I agreed. "I'll wager my soul on it. Now hit me."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He turned over the card; a nine of spades. My hand added up to 22. I couldn't believe it. In a single hand I'd lost everything. My life and my soul, all gone.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"You know what that means," he taunted.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"I know," I returned. "You beat me fair and square. My soul is yours."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I felt a prickling at the back of my head as my horns began to grow out. A tail also began poking out through my now red skin.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'm going to enjoy this," he gloated. "It's not everyday one beats the Devil."</span></div>
TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-13942840755114203922017-05-24T16:43:00.000-05:002017-05-24T16:43:35.276-05:00What Cats Are Saying About Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-large;">We recently polled some local cats to hear their opinions. This time we wanted to find out what they thought of the latest Johnny Depp film, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">'Sir Reginald Plumperdink'</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I've loved that Paul McCatney, ever since he was in the greatest group of all time; Wings."</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">'Mrs. Kisses'</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Dead men tell no tales? Then. I. Wish. They. All. Were. Dead."</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">'Duchess Gary Cooper'</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"No."</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">'Melvin'</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"When we play Pirates of the Caribbean, I'm always Joon."</span></div>
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-77092998591579088562017-05-04T19:57:00.002-05:002017-05-04T19:57:48.333-05:00God Dammed<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The old man stood behind the young boy. His eyes had seen 74 years in that corridor where the child currently sat cross-legged on concrete floor. Before them a giant metal door towered with whispers of ancient promise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Why did God put the door here?" the child asked. His shaggy brown hair scattered in a million directions as he looked up to the old man.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"For protection. To keep you safe. And to keep your Munny and Pah safe." The old man smiled with crooked and missing teeth. He ruffled the young boy's hair.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The boy looked back to the door. Strange markings and old writings adorned it. Words that were all at once familiar yet incomprehensible.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"But what's on the other side?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Evil. All the darkness in the world."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"But we live in the dark."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The old man laughed. "Not that kind of darkness. It's a darkness of the soul. In here we're safe from it and the death it brings."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"And the door keeps it out?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes. Because it's a special door. One that acts like a dam, keeping the flow of evil from rushing in."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The boy studied the words again: WARNING was pressed into the metal. A label in faded yellow and red was directly underneath. On it, scrawled in faded ink, in all caps were the words GODDAMN THE WORLD.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Have you ever seen God?" asked the boy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Nope."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Has Munny or Pah?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"No, they haven't either. Long ago when I was your age, my Great PahPah sat me on his knee and I asked that same question. According to him the last person to see God was his Great Munny's PahPah."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"And God told him he'd be back?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The old man nodded. "Yes, sir. God said he'd return. All we have to do is keep the faith and wait. Then one day God will open the door and it'll be safe for us all to go through."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"But how do we know when that'll be?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The old man ran his fingers across a long series of numbers on the side of the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"They say the answer lies in these, but no one has ever deciphered their meaning."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The boy sat in quiet for a moment, working himself up to ask the big question he'd been holding in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"How do we," he began timidly, "I mean...what if there is no God?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The old man hugged the boy reassuringly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I guess we all wonder that at some point or another. Many a night in my youth I stood at this same door, my hands on the locks, pondering the universe and my own existence."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"And you believe?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I do."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Off in the distance, a bell rang three times.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Sounds like dinner's ready," said the old man.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I'll come in a few minutes," the boy replied.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The old man patted the child on the back before making his way down the corridor, and out of sight. The boy stood up and placed his hands on the giant wheel that would open the locks on the huge door.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>What if we're the ones being kept out of the rest of world? </i>The boy pondered. <i>Is it those outside or us in here who are the saved?</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He ran his hands over the smooth metal wheel. Doubts raging against faith and tradition.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe it's both. Maybe we're kept apart so we won't hurt each other. Maybe we're all God dammed.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i>
Whether out of fear or out of faith, the boy let his hands slip from the wheel. He turned his back to the door and headed off to join the old man for dinner.</span><br />
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-27142993768456052172017-04-27T23:02:00.001-05:002017-04-27T23:02:56.578-05:00The Blogger [Short Story]<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Says here you've been professionally blogging for the past three years?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"That's correct."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Interviewer and interviewee. Two suits, across from each other, divided by a sea of desk. She jotted down a note after his reply.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Who were you previously employed with?" she asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Self-employed. I did some freelance writing, as well as ran a tech blog of my own."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Excellent." Another response, another note jotted down. "How come you've decided to seek employment with us?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"No more room left on the internet."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He fidgeted is his seat. One leg of the chair was slightly shorter than the other, and constantly shifted from side to side.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You mean the market for your writing is dying off?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He shook his head, brow furrowed. "Oh, no, I mean the internet is almost full. Soon there won't be any room left to put anything new."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The interviewer started to write something down, then, turned to look at him. She was expecting a joke, but he sat there earnestly returning her gaze.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What do you mean, the internet's full?'" she inquired.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Just that. We've been filling the internet for decades and now it's about full. Actually, it's partially on us bloggers. We kept writing and posting, never bothering to make additional room to replace what we filled."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">An involuntary laugh escaped her. "That's absurd. The internet can't be filled. It's ever expanding. It's infinite."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You're thinking of the universe. Even that will collapse one day. No, the internet is almost full. According to my calculations, by the end of the day. Maybe even sooner."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"This is a joke right?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He shook his head. "No joke. Why do you think internet providers, at least the responsible ones, had a data usage cap?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"To keep speeds consistent, and to make more money. That has nothing to do with filling some invisible amount of space."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"That's a classic misinterpretation. That cap was to protect supply. Like the price of crude going up due to demand."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A flurry of notes found their way to the page as her patience was exhausted.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'm sorry, but I'm not going to sit ere and listen to this," she said. "If you're going to waste someone's time with this inane joke, I prefer it be someone else's."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He shrugged and got up from his chair. By the time he'd gathered his resume and briefcase, she was standing by the open door ready to usher him out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">After he'd left she sat back at her desk and opened her laptop. She clicked the email icon and waited for the browser to pop up. The man had to be insane. Better to send a quick report to HR than risk a reprisal should he try that shtick again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">A moment later and she was signed into her account. She got as far as entering in Terri from HR's address before the keyboard stopped working. She banged hard at the keys, but no letters appeared from the prompt.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I wonder if the internet's full," she muttered in disgust before restarting her computer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Once rebooted she clicked the mail icon on her desktop. Instead of the usual music as it popped up, nothing happened. She tried clicking it again, and when that didn't work, several times more.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Perfect," she said to herself.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She picked up the phone and dialed IT, preparing herself mentally. She hated calling IT. They always talked down to her and rarely fixed anything themselves. Course she would have preferred that to the busy signal that kept burping in her ear.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Marge," she spoke into the intercom after giving up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, Miss Stevens?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Can you get me someone from IT to come take a look at my computer? My email app won't work."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"No one's internet is working, Miss. All of IT is working on it now."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, okay. Thanks Marge."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She let go of the button and sat back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It can't be," she said to no one.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Miss Stevens flipped on the small TV in the upper right corner of her room. CNN seemed the logical choice to her. Onscreen, a video was showing, of a stock exchange room with people near rioting. The anchor was talking about the "greatest hacker attack" ever. All she heard though was white noise. She looked out the window to the city street below. People were pouring out of all the buildings looking around in confusion and excitement.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She picked up the application for the blogger she had been filling out. She stared at it for a moment, before she wrote one last note. In the hiring column she put down, "Maybe."</span><br />
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<br />TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661166796814911221.post-67687936107363279762017-04-20T10:31:00.000-05:002017-04-20T11:34:18.655-05:00Tim's 10 Most Influential Goats of 2017<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: x-large;">It's that time of the year again. Time when we look at who's up and coming, who's making waves, and who's still at the top. That's right it's time for the list of Tim's Most Influential Goats of the year (2017).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>10. Barry</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Barry might not be a household name, but on Wall Street everyone knows him. Two years ago he made his mark, brokering a merger between two top, rivaling, brokerage companies. More amazingly, at the end of things, he was the controlling owner. He's a power hungry goat who'll eat anything that gets in his way.</span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nIVJXBJXyhg/WPjG-3Dw8mI/AAAAAAAADLU/D545lvTRYQUcbsxi1NE-k1ciaoLyY3NUwCLcB/s1600/goat2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nIVJXBJXyhg/WPjG-3Dw8mI/AAAAAAAADLU/D545lvTRYQUcbsxi1NE-k1ciaoLyY3NUwCLcB/s400/goat2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>9. Chef Goatin Ramsey</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of eating, our number nine spot goes to Chef Ramsey who's fresh off of earning his second Michelin star. Already setting the culinary world ablaze in Eastern Europe the past few years, he plans to open his 6th restaurant this year right here in America. </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U6i5_FDsGso/WPjG_MskyqI/AAAAAAAADLY/oeTy8t8Wabws05TY6AK6ipvg4Pph-ILhACLcB/s1600/goat3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U6i5_FDsGso/WPjG_MskyqI/AAAAAAAADLY/oeTy8t8Wabws05TY6AK6ipvg4Pph-ILhACLcB/s400/goat3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>8. Wiz Khalifudge</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Everyone is familiar with the Rapping goat's hit song 'Say Ba-a-a' from 2012. What you may not know is that he's a producer and label owner. He's poised to be the first goat to cross the billion dollar mark this year.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5oRwKdiLTEI/WPjG-7nZKTI/AAAAAAAADLQ/TSf1P-uOZMMHVlnD6v9RlyNZE-TtmynRgCLcB/s1600/goat10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5oRwKdiLTEI/WPjG-7nZKTI/AAAAAAAADLQ/TSf1P-uOZMMHVlnD6v9RlyNZE-TtmynRgCLcB/s400/goat10.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>7. Cheeks</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Normally being a kid actor wouldn't be enough to get you on this list, but Cheeks is no normal child actor. In 2016 alone, she starred in over fifteen different films, three of which were blockbusters. Even more impressive, this year she became the youngest goat in history to win an Oscar. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>6. Roger</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bestselling author, Roger, has been a mainstay of TED talks for awhile. More recently he is the co-creator of a website that workshops creative writing, and connects you directly to publishers who read through what interests them. It's been a huge success that has shaken up the industry's model.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>5. Morna</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Being a working mother is hard enough, but starting your own shopping network geared towards barnyard animals? Near impossible. But that is exactly what Morna did. Based out of New York, Barnables struggled to find its share of the shopping channel market at first. Over time, it has grown a cult like following who slap down their hard earned cash for trinkets. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4. TeeVee</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Everyone's favorite comedian, TeeVee, has been doing standup since he was a kid. Not content to rest on his laurels, last year TeeVee got into the sitcom biz, bringing his comedy to a whole new audience. As of the last quarter 'You Have Goat To Be Kidding Me' was the number one new show on CBS.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3. The Mini Moguls</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our number three spot goes to a trio of siblings that have come to be known as The Mini Moguls. Each one's in a different field that they have taken by storm. There's Jeff (left) in Pharmaceuticals, Beth (middle) a Software Developer, and Johnson (right) a State Representative in Pennsylvania. There seems to be nothing this ambitious trio can't achieve. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2. Tom Wopat</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tom Wopat (no relation to the actor) came up quickly in the real estate industry. But it wasn't fulfilling something in him. In 2015 he left his six figure career behind him and started a charity. With the motto 'You can't help everyone, but you can try' his charity has already made an impact in 7 different countries., and changed countless lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. Derrik</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For the second year, famed director, Derrik, tops our list. True, he's directed some of our favorite movies, but that's just his side job. A passion for politics, Derrik started one of the largest lobbying groups in the nation, the impact of which is felt everyday through policy changes that have been brought about.</span></div>
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TS Hendrikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12965357024150434808noreply@blogger.com0