Zombie Cowboy

In support of quality journalism

2012-01-19T02:18:00.000-08:00

For Miriam Mannak. I have nothing else to say about this image.

December Blog Challenge: Timmy Motivational Poster

2011-12-20T05:16:00.000-08:00

This is the motivational poster for the Treachery story. The central art is by my good friend and co-worker JC Phillips. Click for full-size.

Opinion: Cowboys and Douchebags

2011-12-20T02:42:00.000-08:00

This is a response to Stella's post here.
Go read it. It raises some fine points, is really well-written, and uses the word "fuck". All good stuff.

I know where the cowboys have gone.

Let's talk about douchebags and the disease of douchebaggery. Stella does a great job of describing douchebag behaviour and even a few handy tips for spotting douchebags, but she doesn't quite quantify what it means to be a douchebag. So I'll do that:
A 'douchebag' is a man who breaks the First Law. By doing so he trades in his cowboy hat for a dog-collar. He does this because on a very primal level, he is afraid. This fear is not entirely his fault, but we'll get to that.

There are unwritten laws of manliness, although varied attempts have been made to write them down. A good attempt can be found here, by personal development guru Steve Pavlina . A big part of my life has been devoted to trying to put into words the code that my father has imprinted onto me via his actions. Although my father follows the Laws unconsciously, part of my life journey is discovering and recording the signposts that have led the great men who have come before and thus simplifying the journey for the men who come after.

Although my concept of what it means to be a man is still changing, as I grow and experience, I believe I have settled on the First Law, the cure for douchebaggery in all its forms.

The First Law: A man takes responsibility.

The author: Vegetarian cowboy.

This is what separates douchebags from men. Douchebags refuse to be held accountable. When they cause pain, physical or emotional, pain that is clearly their fault, they refuse to be held responsible. They will remove themselves from the situation, wash their hands and walk away, dog-collar and dog-conscience clean. But taking responsibility goes beyond simply taking blame for when things go wrong.

Hold on, because we're about to take some sharp logical curves: It is possible to be responsible for events that are not under your control. Although this sounds counter-intuitive, this is what separates douchebags from men, and men from real cowboys. A simple example expands on situation raised in Stella's article: the emotional pain of a woman who has misread (or been misled by) a man's intentions. There are three levels of response to this:

A douchebag has intentionally misled the woman, and refuses to be held accountable. He simply says that she misread his intentions and walks away.
A man may have intentionally or unintentionally misled the woman. Either way, he comforts her and does what is in his power to make it right. Often this simply means being present to be screamed at. Sometimes it means dodging a plate.
A cowboy has unintentionally misled this woman (because cowboys are honest). Even though he is not to blame, the situation is honestly not his fault, he still takes responsibility. He still comforts her. Because real men add value to the lives of the people that they touch, even if this brush is accidental.

Taking responsibility for events that are outside of your control is what is necessary to craft a life. To be a man. Because by taking responsibility, by saying "Although I have been blown here by the winds of fate, now that I am here I will make this place mine. I will be responsible for how this resolves," you are taking ownership of who you are.

If the cause and cure for douchebaggery are both so simple, why is it so prevalent? Because men are afraid.

I will not recount here how we are raised in a society which manipulates us using fear. But I remember a sex-ed class in my high-school where the wild-eyed female speaker raged at us, labelling our group of boys as rapists who had simply not been caught yet. Pre-offenders who should already be feeling guilt simply for being male. I remember walking down the street last night and seeing a beautiful women walking on the sidewalk. My first thought: "I hope I don't look too frightening." How sad is that? I feel the need to apologize for my nature. We have been told we are dogs, that we have the impulses of dogs, and now we are berated for not acting like men.

The state of our society is not my fault. It is not my fault that I was taught to fear my masculinity as something that must be 'tamed' or 'controlled'. But although these things are not my fault, being a man remains my responsibility.

Pass my hat.

December Blog Challenge: Divine Hell, Day 5

2011-12-09T05:35:00.000-08:00

Lady Antimony's December Blog Challenge

Treachery
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“Treachery!” Timmy shouts as he hurls his tiny body over the staircase railing.

The impact rocks Dan back on his feet. He almost recovers, but Timmy is clawing at his face; cocktail-weiner fingers grabbing for eyes and nose. Dan crashes backwards into the crackling mess of wrapping, sending plastic pine needles swirling through the air like post-apocalyptic ash.

Timmy stands over him, one foot on Dan's chest, and both hands on his own hips. His red teddy-bear onesie is the uniform of a soldier in search of the truth.

“You lied, Dad! I knew there was no Santa. I knew it!”

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EDIT: Timmy motivational poster here!

December Blog Challenge: Divine Hell, Day 4

2011-12-08T06:47:00.000-08:00

Lady Antimony's December Blog Challenge
The Collector was first featured here.

Violence
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“You should be begging,” said The Collector.

The old man did not start from his meditation, but simply opened his eyes. His gaze slid along the barrel of the gun to meet The Collector's glare.

“Why, nosferatu?”

The Collector sneered as he replied, his canines glistening, “Why? You spent your life fighting. Killing. After I pull this trigger, you will boil in the outer ring of the Seventh Circle till the End Times. You know this, old man.”

The wizened monk's voice was almost a whisper,

“It is possible to fight without violence. Pull your trigger, nosferatu. I am not afraid.”

After he settled the debt, The Collector stood silently over the corpse. His brow was furrowed when he turned away.

December Blog Challenge: Divine Hell, Day 3

2011-12-07T06:48:00.000-08:00

Lady Antimony's December Blog Challenge

Fraud
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I was choked to death by an angry white-guy. He had come clean to his wife about his cheating. I had predicted that she'd forgive him. She hadn't.

He'd trusted my advice because I had a reputation for being able to predict things. I'd carefully cultivated this reputation to exploit angry suit-wearing white guys.

As a fake psychic, I'd deliberately never thought about what happens after death, but I was surprised to simply wake up; world apparently unchanged.

Except now I can really see the future. All of it. Every act of violence, every act of love. The violence weighs heavier. I can't move, because every tiny shift sends ripples through the infinite mosaic that burns my mind. Every breath, more killers go free, more lovers are torn apart.

If I sit perfectly still, I can almost bear it.

I wish I could starve to death.

December Blog Challenge: Divine Hell, Day 2

2011-12-06T04:59:00.000-08:00

Lady Antimony's December Blog Challenge

Heresy
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There's a cold part of my mind that knows the fear and the panic should be dulled by repetition. But they're not.

I've been tied to this stake, in this God-forsaken place, too many times to count, but still my bowels void and my teeth chatter as the flames climb the pyre beneath me.

Each face in the crowd is grinning and each face in the crowd is familiar. Before all of this, when I was alive, I did this to each of them in turn. And now they do it to me.

A hunter for God should not be burned by heretics. I should not be damned to this place, wherever it is. I did everything that was asked of me. “Everything!” I scream, as the soles of my feet start to blacken.

December Blog Challenge: Divine Hell, Day 1

2011-12-05T03:12:00.000-08:00

Lady Antimony's December Blog Challenge

Limbo

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The priest was sprawled across the steps, as if the puppeteer had relaxed his strings. The young man eyed the priest's wrinkles; so deep they could be knife wounds.

“Limbo?” The priest asked.

The young man nodded.

“You know the best part about sex?”

The young man shook his head, blushing furiously.

“Not climax. After that, desire's gone 'fwhoosh', like life. No, the best part is when she arches her back, as you reach down to slide the last scrap of satin cloth down her thighs. That's her last act of compliance, that slight movement. Stage set. Can you imagine that moment?”

The young man nodded, his brow shining.

“Now imagine it never ends. You never get to feel her, touch her, or taste her. You're frozen there, at the brink, barred by a tiny piece of satin or silk. That's Limbo. And it's Hell.”

Rule of 3 Blogfest: Compilation

2011-11-04T05:45:00.000-07:00

All four parts of Rule of 3 Blogfest entry.
WARNING: Contains ghouls and guns.

Part 1
Prompt: There is an argument

493 Words

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"Frank, there's still space on the Horizon, you know. If you hurry a little, you could still go up to your cabin and get some things," Bill said, as he finished wiping down the bar.

"You've mentioned that, Bill. But I'm fine right here," Frank gave a wry smile and put down his empty whisky glass.

His hands on the bar, Bill dropped his head down and sighed, "You can't stay here, Frank. Lights are going out in a few minutes and then it's just a few short hours before the city's defences come online. After that, anything that moves in the city limits - BLAM! - nothing but red mist. Pretty sure your years in the Core didn't teach you how to dodge shrap-cannons."

"I'll be alright up in the cabin."
"Alright? You can't come into town to get supplies! And they say bad things are moving in those woods."

Frank tore his gaze away from his empty glass and looked right at Bill. Even after all this time, those eyes still made Bill shiver. "This is where he died. This is where they killed him. So this is where I'm staying."
Bill straightened up, "Frank, no one killed your father. The mine collapse was an accident. I've let it slide while you were grieving, but you can't go on blaming the Veridian corporation for his death."

"Fucking Veridian. You know how shit their safety standards were. And now that they've mined out all the turonium, now the whole damn town has to shut down?"
"Without the mine, there's nothing to keep anyone here. You know that, Frank."
"Nothing? This is my home, goddammit. My Da is buried here. Now you want me to go off-world again? Back to the Core? Back to the war?"
"War's over, Frank."
"Not for everyone."
"Goddamit, Frank! You know I consider you a friend. Come with us. Universe is a big place."

Frank turned around in his barstool to consider the empty tables. Street-light filtered in through the stained glass windows. The streets were empty too. He paused for a moment, then turned back to the bar.

"Last call, Bill?"
Bill heaved a large sigh and reached for the last whiskey on the shelf. Now the bar was finally packed up.
"Just keep the bottle."
"Want me to lock-up when I'm done?"
"There's really no ne- yeah, alright I guess. Just like old times."

Bill hefted the stuffed duffel bag he had tucked away behind the bar.
"Alright Frank, I'm heading out. Really hope we meet again."
"Me too, Bill."
Bill left through the back door, so Frank was alone when the lights went out. He slowly got up from his bar stool and walked around the bar. He lifted the loose floorboard, the one not even Bill knew about, and retrieved his dad's battered old two-barrelled scatter-gun. He had some business at the Veridian building, and only a few short hours to do it in.

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Part 2:

Prompt: One of the characters is revealed to be not who or she is

Prompt: Someone is killed or almost killed

Prompt: A relationship becomes complicated

516 Words

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My name was Robert Paulsen.

I know this because if I scratch away some of the blood and dirt on the pocket of the blue jumpsuit that I'm wearing, there's a faded cloth name-tag that reads "Robert Paulsen, Veridian Technical Engineer".

The others are moving in the darkness around me. Even though the woods are thick and the blue moonlight dim, they make very little noise. To my left one of them (us) is busy gnawing on the belly of a rabbit. It's taking a while to die. I can hear it's heartbeat. Erratic. The one doing the chewing is also wearing a blue jumpsuit. Despite the gloom, I can read his name-tag: "Frank Senior, Veridian Mechanic". His eyes are white and unfocused. It is clear that his mind is entirely gone.

My name was Robert Paulsen.

It will happen to me too, I know. Of all of us, only a few still know who we were and how we came to be. The rest? Besides the general shape, nothing human left at all. Damn turonium. Fucking Veridian! I can't remember my wife's face, but I can still remember what happened to Robert Paulsen.

My name was Robert Paulsen.

Robert had been assigned to Veridian Shaft 19, the oldest shaft with the richest turonium vein, when he started getting ill. First it was his hair, which he could blame on old age, but then his fingernails started rotting and flaking off. Veridian forced him to take sick-leave, so he was unaware that it had started affecting some of his colleagues. After a particularly bad blackout, when he woke in his bed, the light hurt his eyes so much that he crawled out of his home and down the dark alley behind his house. This is why Robert Paulsen wasn't there when the Veridian wet squad killed his family, looking for him. Sick and almost senseless, he stumbled his way into the woods, where he blacked out again.

When I woke up, I felt better. Much, much better. Others had found me. They too had undergone the transformation that is somehow linked to prolonged turonium exposure. We moved deep into the forest, living off the animals we could now easily capture. Veridian sent more wet squads after us, but we hunt in packs and the night loves us. It just seemed natural to eat the men sent to kill us. Somehow just.

My name was Robert Paulsen.

I think I've kept my mind longer than most because my hate burns brighter. Here on the hill, I can see the lights of the city almost on the horizon. Even at this distance, the lights hurt my eyes. Those lights are the only reason that Eric Nordenstram, Veridian CEO, still lives. The burning white is all that saves him from having me (my name was Robert Paulsen!) eat his eyes. And yet, as I watch, the lights wink out. Not quite believing, I slowly start moving down the hill towards the dark city. The other who was Frank Senior, is the first to follow. But the pack comes behind.

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Part 3:

Prompt: Betrayal is in the air.
Prompt: A long-kept secret is revealed.

493 Words

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"I know what we did."

The voice came in over his private MemSet frequency. His aide had already departed, no one left on the planet surface should have access to it. He typed a few commands into his terminal: the transmission was coming from inside the building, 14th floor, Security Center.

Eric Nordenstam grimaced slightly. By this time, he should have been the last person in the Veridian building. Right now, the only way off-planet was his private shuttle on the roof. That meant the intruder on the 14th floor must have some plan to reach it and leave him stranded.

He stood up from his desk, and moved to the panoramic windows that overlooked the nearly-empty city of Renaissance. The main generator had been shutdown, his urban metropolis was dark now. It had had such potential. He had no choice but to engage the intruder. Sigh.
"What are your intentions, Mr... "? Eric subvocalised, transmitting on the same frequency.
"Mr Katanagi. Do you know who I am, Eric?"
"Of course; you were the lead researcher for turonium processing here on Renaissance. I can only assume that you have somehow managed to bypass the Cages that protected my personal files. Which is no surprise, considering the frequency on which we are communicating. I ask again, what are your intentions Mr Katanagi?"
"I intend for the both of us to make amends for what happened here."
"And how do you propose we do that? What's done is done, Mr Katanagi."

"How can you say that? We poisoned those people! We... mutated them! Then the cover-up, pretending that the mine had collapsed... And all along, you knew that this could happen!" The voice was hoarse with emotion. Eric's reflection in the window held no expression as he replied, "It was an acceptable risk. If we had managed to safely extract the turonium here, we could've solved the energy crisis for the next three millenia."

"But we didn't. Instead we created... monsters. And they are coming."

In the twilight, Eric could see that Mr Katanagi was right. Shadowy forms were streaming out of the forests at the edge of the city. They would however not get to the Veridian building before the defences activated.

"I have disabled the defences," came the cracked voice over the MemSet. Eric did not reply.

A gunshot broke the silence. Eric glanced down. A madman was at the entrance to the Veridian building, firing a gun wildly at the doors. The bulletproof glass held. As Eric watched, the man paused and then walked towards the glass. The doors opened and the man disappeared into the entrance.

"And I have unlocked the doors."

"I can see that, Mr Katanagi. That was very foolish," Eric replied as he reached for his briefcase. He turned towards the door of the lift that would take him to the roof and his shuttle.

"All the doors except one." The voice cut off, leaving nothing but static.

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Part 4:

Prompt: Relationships mend/ are torn asunder.

600 Words

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Frank stumbles out of the gore of the elevator and into the giant office. He can hear the creatures crawling up the walls of the shaft behind him. Gotta find an exit... There!

He scrambles to the far side of the room, where he glimpsed another set of elevator lights. He pulls up when he passes the edge of the last desk.

“Who the fuck are you?” Frank demands, gesturing with his gun.

The man is crouched next to the elevator, manipulating the wires behind an exposed panel. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up and there's a jacket lying on the floor next to him. He doesn't glance back as he replies, “I'm Eric Nordenstram. And as I own this building, I believe it's your identity that's in question.” He snaps his one hand back as the panel sparks. Frank shoulders his scattergun and crouches next to the Veridian CEO.

“I'm Frank. You know that all fucking hell is breaking loose here right? We've got about thirty seconds till those things come through that wall,” Frank says, thumbing back across the desks.

“Ah yes. My former employees do seem rather eager for an audience,” Eric replies as more sparks fly from the panel.

“What? Those things used to work for you?”

“They were human then, of course. Turonium exposure has proven... detrimental.”

Frank's face blanks as he staggers backward.

“You fucking... monster! My father worked for you!”

At this, Eric finally turns to look at him.

“Ah yes, Frank Senior. Capable engineer. One of the first to turn.”

“Wait... what? My father's one of these... things?”

“If he's survived this long.”

“So the mine collapse, it was a cover-up?” Frank lowers his scattergun, pointing the barrel straight at the hunched figure. Eric turns back to the panel as he replies, “Unless you know how to manually override Veridian security protocols to access this elevator, I suggest you lower your weapon. Or at least face it the other way.”

The loud sound of metal tearing causes Frank to swing the gun back over the desks. Wiry forms of stretched skin and sharp teeth are pouring out of the distant shaft. Two creatures pull ahead of the pack headed for the two men.

Oh God no, please don't let it be my dad. Please God.

The leading creature springboards off the last desk to hurl itself at Frank. He fires. The spread tears the monster apart mid-air. Frank glimpses a white name-tag. His name was Robert Paulsen.

Before he can bring his weapon to bear again, the second creature is on him. Time slows. Even through the blood and grime and mutation, Franks knows his father. Tears well up as he opens his hands. His scattergun starts to fall.

Suddenly, bullets tear through the monster's chest. Eric is on his feet, straight-backed, pistol in hand. The creature shoves Frank aside and scrambles towards Eric. Round after round slam into it.

It leaps.

Eric throws his hands up, but Frank Senior claws them away and bites into his neck. Arterial spray arcs across the sealed elevator door. The creature turns to glare at Frank. Frank is staring, empty-handed, as tears pour down his face. It snarls once, then collapses, dark blood emptying from it's wounds. Frank steps towards it, face still white.

PING.

The elevator door opens. Inside stands a diminutive asian man wearing a lab-coat, hands folded behind his back. “Sir? I'm Mr Katanagi. It's best you come with me. There's a shuttle on the roof.”

Rule of 3 Blogfest: Conclusion

2011-10-25T23:59:00.000-07:00

This is not a standalone piece:
Part I can be read here
Part II can be read here
Part III can be read here

Prompt: Relationships mend/ are torn asunder.

600 Words

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Frank stumbles out of the gore of the elevator and into the giant office. He can hear the creatures crawling up the walls of the shaft behind him. Gotta find an exit... There!

He scrambles to the far side of the room, where he glimpsed another set of elevator lights. He pulls up when he passes the edge of the last desk.

“Who the fuck are you?” Frank demands, gesturing with his gun.

“I'm Frank. You know that all fucking hell is breaking loose here right? We've got about thirty seconds till those things come through that wall,” Frank says, thumbing back across the desks.

“Ah yes. My former employees do seem rather eager for an audience,” Eric replies as more sparks fly from the panel.

“What? Those things used to work for you?”

“They were human then, of course. Turonium exposure has proven... detrimental.”

Frank's face blanks as he staggers backward.

“You fucking... monster! My father worked for you!”

At this, Eric finally turns to look at him.

“Ah yes, Frank Senior. Capable engineer. One of the first to turn.”

“Wait... what? My father's one of these... things?”

“If he's survived this long.”

Oh God no, please don't let it be my dad. Please God.

The leading creature springboards off the last desk to hurl itself at Frank. He fires. The spread tears the monster apart mid-air. Frank glimpses a white name-tag. His name was Robert Paulsen.

Suddenly, bullets tear through the monster's chest. Eric is on his feet, straight-backed, pistol in hand. The creature shoves Frank aside and scrambles towards Eric. Round after round slam into it.

It leaps.

PING.

The elevator door opens. Inside stands a diminutive asian man wearing a lab-coat, hands folded behind his back. “Sir? I'm Mr Katanagi. It's best you come with me. There's a shuttle on the roof.”

NaNoWriMo: Challenge Accepted

2011-10-24T01:55:00.000-07:00

NaNoWriMo!

It truly deserves the exclamation.

Flash Fiction Challenge: "Bullies And The Bullied"

2011-10-23T23:34:00.000-07:00

TERRIBLEMINDS: Chuck Wendig, Freelance Penmonkey

Last time.

Choking bubbles and piss and shit. Anger rising.

He pulls my head out of the toilet. He's laughing. I'm not angry enough. I let him drown me again. In the foul-wet dark, I open my eyes.

Angry enough.

I pull it in, rip apart the Veil that separates worlds, and open my Eyes. When I surface I See him: A hyena, laughing madly. I laugh too. Then I rip out his eyes and let the Veil fall back. In the “real” world, his eyes are bleeding, but I never touched him. He crumples. I smile: last time.

Rule of 3 Blogfest: Part III

2011-10-19T00:31:00.000-07:00

This is not a standalone piece:
Part I can be read here
Part II can be read here

Prompt: Betrayal is in the air.
Prompt: A long-kept secret is revealed.

493 Words

Flash Fiction Challenge: "Five Words, Plus One Vampire"

2011-10-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

TERRIBLEMINDS: Chuck Wendig, Freelance Penmonkey

"You know that only men do this?"
"Do what?"
"The whole 'Mexican-standoff'. It's essentially a pissing contest, but with guns."
"That's true. You ready?"
"Not even a little bit. So why do they call you 'The Collector'? I assume you don't collect tax?"
"In a way, I do. I collect what's owed."
"And I owe my life?"
"That's what it says in the book."
"And the book's never wrong?"
"Hasn't been yet. You ready?"
"Yeah, I'm -" In one movement, Splint hurled himself to the side, drew his gun and fired.
He fell hard on his shoulder in a pile of garbage. "-ready," he finished, as he grinned to himself: The Collector hadn't moved. He was still standing in the middle of the alley, only now he was sporting two smoking holes right over his heart. Splint sat up, feeling a cockroach squish under his butt. Ugh... Wait, he really should've fallen over by now. What the fuck?
Splint's eyes widened as The Collector started moving towards him, chest still smoking.
Splint scrambled backwards through the garbage, knocking a bottle loose from the pile.
His back slammed into the dumpster. Splint watched the bottle slowly roll toward the advancing figure. The Collector stopped the bottle with his boot. He grinned wide; his fangs gleaming wet in the faint light from the windows high above.
Splint used the dumpster to pull himself to his feet.
"You fucker! What was the point of the duel then?"
The Collector shrugged, "Pissing contest." He casually raised his weapon and settled the debt.

Flash Fiction Challenge: "Brand New Monster"

2011-10-14T01:00:00.000-07:00

TERRIBLEMINDS: Chuck Wendig, Freelance Penmonkey
WARNING: Old-school horror, contains adult content
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"So, Cheap-Whiskey. This is your third week out here. Time for me to learn your actual name."

When the fat man leaned forward in his barstool, he hugged his glass close, as if afraid someone would take it. Bits of dandruff flaked off his bald head to land on the bar, forming little white halos around his folded arms. "What do you mean?" he said, eyes narrow.

"Well, my name is Clive Eckart. I own this bar," the barkeep replied.
"And this is a cross-roads bar; so many people come and many people go. Few people stop by here more than twice: once on their way out looking for something, and once on their way back, sated or disappointed. So I decided I would call everyone by whatever they're drinking... unless they come back for a third time. This is your third time. What's your name, Cheap-Whiskey?"

"Ron. My name's Ron," the fat man replied. The dark pools of sweat on his wrinkled suit started to spread. He cast quick glances around the room before he asked, "Has anyone else noticed that I keep coming back?"

"Shouldn't think so," Clive replied, "I don't really have any regulars."
Clive smiled, "In more ways than one."

Ron relaxed a bit, letting his shoulders sag. It seemed he would fold into himself, if not for his suit holding him up.

"Ron, I'm going to be honest with you. You look even more anxious than usual. Do you want to talk about it? The bond between a barkeep and his regular, which you now are, is ancient and sacred."

Ron looked up from his drink, eyes red and empty, "You wouldn't believe me."
Clive's face lit up as he eagerly replied, "I accept!"
"I'm sorry?"

"I accept your challenge."

"I didn't challenge you to anything."

"Yes you did Ron, you said that I wouldn't believe your story. This is a cross-roads bar. That means that I've heard every story under the sun and a few more that have never seen the light. There is nothing I cannot believe, no leap of the imagination that I cannot take. If I don't believe your story, and you continue to provide proof, you drink for free."

"A night of free drinks? I'm not that much of drinker."

"Not a night. If you tell me something that defies even my incredible barkeep gullibility, and you prove it, you drink for free. For as long as I live and run this bar."

For the first time, a gleam came into Ron's eyes: the green-tinged gleam of greed.
"Alright then, Clive," Ron said, as he straightened up in his chair. One more quick glance around the room to check that no one could hear him and Ron dove into his tale, sweat dripping from his brow.

"First things first, about a month ago I turned 44 and I... I was still a virgin, can you believe that?"
Clive looked the sweating fat man up and down and said, "Yup, I can believe that."
Ron's frowned, "Fuck you, Clive."
"Anyway, so I go out drinking with my co-workers. Not friends really, more just people who feel obligated to do this sort of thing whenever someone has a birthday. We find this no-name bar in the backwater of fucking nowhere, and we start drinking. Serious drinking. The type of drinking you do when you want to forget who you are and the shit life you lead."

"Of course, I pass out, skull-drunk and when I wake up... they've left me there. Bar is empty, almost pitch black and I'm lying in a pool of my own slobber, head on the counter. What kind of barkeep locks up and leaves a patron right there?"

"No self-respecting barkeep. Go on," Clive said.

"So the bar's empty. That's what I think. But when I get up and wipe my mouth, I see her there. Sitting against the window, lit by the moon, her one beautiful foot resting on the windowsill. I had never seen any woman so... so captivating."

"Right, so you were dreaming?"

"Clive, right then I would've sworn I was. I'm frozen, looking at this broad. Dark skin, straight black hair, green eyes like fucking emerald fire. She's suddenly right next me, breathing on my chest, her eyes burning mine right out," Ron said, as a shudder passed through him.

"You need another drink?" Clive asked.

"No, let me get through this first," Ron replied, wiping his brow.
"So this broad, this dark goddess, she takes me by the hand and she lays me down flat on the floor of the bar and then goes on to... to do things to me. Things I could never have imagined." This time the shudder shakes Ron so hard, he has to gasp for breath.

"Seriously, Ron? All this sound and fury just to tell me the story of your first time?"
"SHUT UP!" Ron shouts, then leans forward across the bar, pleading, "Fuck Clive, just let me get this out please..."
"Alright mate, alright. Just take it easy."
"But as I'm about to... you know, 'come forth in my triumph'? I open my eyes and what I see makes my blood run backward. Sitting on top of me, with my, my thing inside it, is a giant fucking spider. Twice as a big as man, hairy fucking tarantula, green faceted eyes glaring down on me as it rides me and it sees that my eyes are open... And I'm fucking screaming and crying and I swear I shit myself and this thing is leaning in with it's mandibles close to my ear and it whispers in a spider voice that I somehow understand, with some ancient part of my brain, I know that it's saying that it's going to kill me! And I fucking beg and I plead and I swear on my mother's life that if this thing will just let me live, just fucking let me keep breathing I'll do anything, anything it asks me to!" Ron was standing then, gesticulating wildly and his voice was hoarse with the frantic whispering. Clive leaned in, his whole body eager to hear the end of this fabulous lie, and he asks, "And? What happened then?"
Ron composed himself as best he could, his cheap suit ruined by sweat and sat back down in his stool. "Then I made a deal, " he replied.
"Once a week, I would bring her a fresh corpse to feed on. And in return, this," Ron gestured down over his body, "my life. That's why I've been passing through here once a week since then. Can't face her without a few drinks. Could you?"

"Ron, you are an absolute fucking mad man! But that was fantastic! Are you writer?"
Ron's car keys hit Clive in the chest.
"Red station-wagon. There's a body in the trunk. And when you come back I'll start working on those free drinks."
"Bullshit, Ron, " Clive shook his head, but couldn't help but smile.
"Go look. I want my free drinks."
Clive looked around the bar. Place was almost empty, he could pop out for the few minutes it would take to disprove Ron's story.
"Alright, be right back, you lying fucker," Clive winked at Ron as he exited through the back door. And there it was, red station-wagon all alone in the back parking. As he went to open the trunk, he realized his heart was racing, What if... No. Late nights are getting to you mate.
His heart skipped a beat anyway as he swung open the trunk...
It was empty.
"Ha! It's empty, you mischievous bastard!" Clive grinned anyway, it had been a good story.
"I know," said Ron, right behind him, as he swung the shovel. Clive barely felt it cave in his skull.
"That's why I've been more anxious than usual."

Rule of 3 Blogfest: Artwork

2011-10-12T01:18:00.000-07:00

Original Artwork for Rule of 3 Blogfest: Part II,

by William Harley.

William Harley is an incredible artist, fellow FX TD and good friend.

Go see more of his work right now! http://williamharley.tumblr.com/

Rule of 3 Blogfest: Part II

2011-10-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

Part I can be read here.

Illustration by illustrious co-worker JC Phillips.

Prompt: One of the characters is revealed to be not who or she is

Prompt: Someone is killed or almost killed

Prompt: A relationship becomes complicated

516 Words

------------------------------------------------------------------

My name was Robert Paulsen.

Rule of 3 Blogfest: Part I

2011-10-06T03:24:00.000-07:00

Prompt: There is an argument

493 Words

New Challenge: The Rule of 3 Blogfest

2011-10-03T06:56:00.000-07:00

Challenge Rules: Rule of 3 Blogfest

Flash Fiction Challenge: "Another Three Sentences"

2011-09-25T08:47:00.000-07:00

TERRIBLEMINDS: Chuck Wendig, Freelance Penmonkey
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear, but Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
So Fuzzy crept into the commune, cunningly kidnapped all the kittens and carefully crafted a bear-suit from cat-fur.
Now you almost can’t tell.

Flash Fiction Challenge: "The Numbers Game"

2011-09-19T08:19:00.000-07:00

TERRIBLEMINDS: Chuck Wendig, Freelance Penmonkey

The night-sounds of the jungle filtered through the broken windows of the unfinished church.

“You should not have come here, priest. Your God has not followed you.”

The witch sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, gazing up into the eyes of the old man. He struggled against the vines of ivy which bound him to his chair. The first blister started to form on his throat.

“And Saint Ignatius spoke unto the Ephesians, 'Plainly therefore we ought to regard the bishop as the Lord Himself,'” he replied.

“Then tonight, a God dies.” The vines tightened further.

Flash Fiction Challenge: "The Torch"

2011-09-14T12:22:00.000-07:00

TERRIBLEMINDS: Chuck Wendig, Freelance Penmonkey

This is going to rock.

Comfy jeans, comfy lawn chair, beer in hand. Every villain needs a day off. It's night time, my time, and Bleeding Mascara is scheduled to start playing in less than 10 minutes. I like my death metal straight from people who've been there. The lead singer in Mascara is a vamp from way back. When he sings about death and carnage even the norms can feel that he's seen it and dealt it. They don't know it, but what they're feeling is authenticity.

I glance at the norms seated all around me. I'm a predator in a field of prey. At least here no one is staring at my tattoos. Just another metal-head out for a good time. The evening is crisp and being in an open field reminds me of days when villages outnumbered cities.

My tattoos start tingling a second before the burst. So when the fire-focus lights up the revellers on my right, I'm already on my feet. Clancy is wielding his focus like a torch, lighting the air around him. The people nearby shy away, unafraid. They think he's part of the evening's entertainment and they're just giving him space. He's careful not to hurt anyone with it, as he peers into the night, looking for me. Clancy, the crazy fucking leprechaun looks like Frodo. Still, the focus is going to be a problem.

He spots me as I'm weaving my way through the crowd. I want to keep the fight near to the edge of the field, because I am not letting this fucker ruin my night off. Surprised that I'm already so close, he lets off a burst of pure Art. The telekinetic wave roils through the air between us, sending two metal-heads rag-dolling aside. When it reaches me, it's like a brush of warm air. He wasn't thinking; he knows the high Art cannot harm me. This mistake lets me get within two feet of him before he brings his focus to bear.

This is going to suck.

Flames burst out of the end of the wand, a directed stream of fire. Time slows as the flames flow over me. I can hear the crackling of my clothes, or maybe that's my skin? I breath fire, and my tongue blackens. My hair, which had just started growing back, shrivels away. I'm on my side on the charred grass, foetalled in pain, when the flames finally stop. Clancy is smiling just a few feet away. I can feel him gather his will for a second strike, the killing blow. Lucky for me, he's one of the good guys.

Servitus, I whisper through blistered lips. The minds of the nearest revellers, frozen in shock, are easy to dominate. They realize that that their childhood friend is lying on the ground in pain. They rush in to help me, blocking Clancy from view. He won't fire again while they're in the way. They lift me to my feet. I whisper into their minds for them to stay close. They surround me, pressing in. Clancy is circling outside the crush of bodies, looking for an opening through which to fire.

On my feet again, my strength is slowly returning. The tattoos are doing their work. Through their minds, I keep the metal-heads moving around me, a shield of meat and limbs. Clancy is cursing, no doubt frustrated by his own morality. I wait for my moment, then I part the sea of norms and lunge.

I grasp the bastard behind the back of his head in the muay-thai fighting grip and crush him against me. He muffles curses into my chest. His wand is trapped between our bodies; charging the focus now would kill us both. The intimacy of the moment is heightened by the shared knowledge that he is about to die.

"Was she really worth dying for?" I whisper, my mouth inches from his ear.

"Mmmf fghm."

"Yeah, fuck you too."

Without allowing an inch of space between us, I raise my left hand up to his face, feeling my way. His struggles cease when I drive my left thumb through his eye-socket.

I use my new minions to shield us from sight as I carry the corpse to the edge of the woods. I toss his body into the undergrowth, but I make sure to take the focus. Handy thing that. Once we are walking back to the rest of the crowd, I release the minds of my new-found friends. They will remember nothing. My skin is mostly healed up by the time we rejoin the mass of the audience. Even mostly naked, in this crowd I draw few second glances. Bleeding Mascara steps onto the raised, open-air stage. They start warming up.
This is going to rock.