Still I wait for word. Tomorrow marks the last two weeks of the countdown to the new date for word on The Last Captain. Last week I nearly lost it an jumped off a career ledge, I am so done with waiting.
And it's probably not the years, it's the milage, but my left thumb has started to ache abominably when in use. Not even heavy use, but light, like making an OK sign with the opposable digit, makes me wince and wish I had a new hand. Luckily, I can still hit the space key with it. Shifting on the bike is also not a big deal, so I wonder what it is that I did to it to make it punish me so.
As with most things, it isn't just one or even two things that wear on the soul, making me want to tear up and move on. Things are not so good right now. Not world-ending, but they could definitely be better. Couple that with my inability to ride a few days a week (I do cold, I do wet, I just don't do both together), and I am missing some of my stress release activities.
But when I get down like this, I get together with my friends, hold the Coolness, or make my daughter laugh till she can't draw breath, and start to feel better.
It is so very good to be loved. It is so very good to have places to put this pain.
If Laughter is King, my daughter's laughter is an Empress holding sway over all the heart's affairs, making all tolerable, setting the world to rights.
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Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Because We Can
On occasion I get real down about humanity, and then I look up and see what amazing feats we are capable of.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Snarling
I seem to have run down my battery. I need to recharge. I need to let the will-well recover a bit before I start trying to slap the stupid out of people. Not that they don't completely deserve it, it just results in so much paperwork.
I am having the usual crew of miscreants over for Warhammer on Saturday, and the use of Skype to include friends who otherwise couldn't make it has turned out very well.
Other than the game and whatever my daughter wants to do, I hope to act like a recluse, and draw a shell over my head.
Sunday, some writing, I hope. Perhaps I will flash forward to a combat scene, write it, and get some of my mad out that way...Hmmm...
I am having the usual crew of miscreants over for Warhammer on Saturday, and the use of Skype to include friends who otherwise couldn't make it has turned out very well.
Other than the game and whatever my daughter wants to do, I hope to act like a recluse, and draw a shell over my head.
Sunday, some writing, I hope. Perhaps I will flash forward to a combat scene, write it, and get some of my mad out that way...Hmmm...
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Stupidity Is A Social Solvent
I rant. My inner gorilla stirs at the stupidity of others. I grow irritated with the bloodless shenanigans of asshats.
Why do I let my blood pressure climb over the colossal stupidity of others?
Because I give a fuck, that's why.
One might ask why I give two drips of ball-sweat?
Because if allowed to run rampant, asshattery will underwhelm all things. Stupidity acts on society like a solvent, eroding all reason.
Perhaps a personal example:
The other day I was riding in. As I rode along the on-ramp, a largish chunk of styrofoam blew in my way. I narrowly avoided it. There was no telling what it might do if I tried to ride over it.
A mile down the road, another piece, this one more easily avoided.
Three miles more, another, this one the size of my rather large cranium. Not so easy to avoid, coming as it did from behind a minivan.
Two more miles, a chunk or two more, this time added to by a stretch of cardboard. Ahead, I see a small red pickup truck. Shit is blowing around in the back, cardboard and the like.
I think, perhaps, this is the person who does not know they have a loose load in their bed. Perhaps, I reason, they are unaware that the cover must have slipped back from their load. I shall try and catch up, let them know dangerous and expensive things are falling from the back of his vehicle.
My reasoning that the individual is merely a hapless victim of circumstance begins to erode upon continued observation of their actions. The man, in his fully loaded tiny pickup, is driving well in excess of the speed limit, and I have a hard time catching up, as I have to dodge the shit flying from it. Indeed, it is not until we reach the tunnel and traffic backs up, twenty miles later, that I am able to catch up to the speeding litterer.
I pull up on his right, seeing the large quantity of loose styrene biker-killers barely held in place by two bungee cords crossing the bed. I advance to beside the cabin. I look inside. An Indian male driver with an i-Phone 4 in hand, glasses on, and earbuds jammed in both ears looks back.
I gesture for him to roll down his window. He does.
I yell to him that he has littered a string of styrene land mines along his path, that he needs to pull over and secure his load.
He rolls the window up. My Inner Gorilla body-checks the gates of his prison, nearly making my eyes explode from my head.
We are traveling at a walking pace, a difficult feat of clutch control for a moto rider without a raging Gorilla in his mind.
I bang on his window.
He starts to shuffle through his iPhone.
Had I my service weapon and cuffs, I would have shown him my star and ordered him to the side of the road. No, I was unequipped to take police action, and therefore couldn't safely take him on as anything more than a private citizen.
I bang harder on the window, my Inner Gorilla barely held in check.
He continues to act as if I am not there. Fucking pussy. My Inner Gorilla howls in impotent rage. I curse, swear, and then fall back, wishing I had a cigarette to drop in his bed. He would surely pay attention when his shit caught fire. My Inner Gorilla wishes for a molotov cocktail.
Instead of the contemplated mayhem, I get his plate.
I ride on. I look for some CHP. No dice. I even check their favored duck blind. No love.
Shit.
I go to work, run the plate. It's still registered to the tow yard where the asshat bought it.
So, nothing else I can do.
So. You might be tempted to ask what the above has to do with my point.
Well, here it is:
Never mind that the litter he left across twenty five miles of roadway will take decades to dissolve into the background of shit we are already wading through.
More important to me specifically is that had I been injured or killed by the debris left behind, my family would have lost their primary wage-earner, and because it would have been seen as a single-vehicle accident, most likely would not have seen a pay-out commensurate with what they were denied.
My wife would surely soldier on, but my child would grow up without her father.
The social fabric of my family would be dissolved. Those who like my company would be denied it.
And even thinking within the least extreme extrapolation on what this asshat did; that of what actually followed these events: I am left so impatient with the average asshat that I barely make it through the rest of my day without biting the head from those whose only crime is to be a moron, or late, or just blind.
All because of the stupid asshattery of one fucktard too cowardly to pull over and cover his shit, a process that might have taken five minutes.
Stupid is the solvent that will destroy us all.
Why do I let my blood pressure climb over the colossal stupidity of others?
Because I give a fuck, that's why.
One might ask why I give two drips of ball-sweat?
Because if allowed to run rampant, asshattery will underwhelm all things. Stupidity acts on society like a solvent, eroding all reason.
Perhaps a personal example:
The other day I was riding in. As I rode along the on-ramp, a largish chunk of styrofoam blew in my way. I narrowly avoided it. There was no telling what it might do if I tried to ride over it.
A mile down the road, another piece, this one more easily avoided.
Three miles more, another, this one the size of my rather large cranium. Not so easy to avoid, coming as it did from behind a minivan.
Two more miles, a chunk or two more, this time added to by a stretch of cardboard. Ahead, I see a small red pickup truck. Shit is blowing around in the back, cardboard and the like.
I think, perhaps, this is the person who does not know they have a loose load in their bed. Perhaps, I reason, they are unaware that the cover must have slipped back from their load. I shall try and catch up, let them know dangerous and expensive things are falling from the back of his vehicle.
My reasoning that the individual is merely a hapless victim of circumstance begins to erode upon continued observation of their actions. The man, in his fully loaded tiny pickup, is driving well in excess of the speed limit, and I have a hard time catching up, as I have to dodge the shit flying from it. Indeed, it is not until we reach the tunnel and traffic backs up, twenty miles later, that I am able to catch up to the speeding litterer.
I pull up on his right, seeing the large quantity of loose styrene biker-killers barely held in place by two bungee cords crossing the bed. I advance to beside the cabin. I look inside. An Indian male driver with an i-Phone 4 in hand, glasses on, and earbuds jammed in both ears looks back.
I gesture for him to roll down his window. He does.
I yell to him that he has littered a string of styrene land mines along his path, that he needs to pull over and secure his load.
He rolls the window up. My Inner Gorilla body-checks the gates of his prison, nearly making my eyes explode from my head.
We are traveling at a walking pace, a difficult feat of clutch control for a moto rider without a raging Gorilla in his mind.
I bang on his window.
He starts to shuffle through his iPhone.
Had I my service weapon and cuffs, I would have shown him my star and ordered him to the side of the road. No, I was unequipped to take police action, and therefore couldn't safely take him on as anything more than a private citizen.
I bang harder on the window, my Inner Gorilla barely held in check.
He continues to act as if I am not there. Fucking pussy. My Inner Gorilla howls in impotent rage. I curse, swear, and then fall back, wishing I had a cigarette to drop in his bed. He would surely pay attention when his shit caught fire. My Inner Gorilla wishes for a molotov cocktail.
Instead of the contemplated mayhem, I get his plate.
I ride on. I look for some CHP. No dice. I even check their favored duck blind. No love.
Shit.
I go to work, run the plate. It's still registered to the tow yard where the asshat bought it.
So, nothing else I can do.
So. You might be tempted to ask what the above has to do with my point.
Well, here it is:
Never mind that the litter he left across twenty five miles of roadway will take decades to dissolve into the background of shit we are already wading through.
More important to me specifically is that had I been injured or killed by the debris left behind, my family would have lost their primary wage-earner, and because it would have been seen as a single-vehicle accident, most likely would not have seen a pay-out commensurate with what they were denied.
My wife would surely soldier on, but my child would grow up without her father.
The social fabric of my family would be dissolved. Those who like my company would be denied it.
And even thinking within the least extreme extrapolation on what this asshat did; that of what actually followed these events: I am left so impatient with the average asshat that I barely make it through the rest of my day without biting the head from those whose only crime is to be a moron, or late, or just blind.
All because of the stupid asshattery of one fucktard too cowardly to pull over and cover his shit, a process that might have taken five minutes.
Stupid is the solvent that will destroy us all.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Lackaposting
I have little energy for anything but whining, and would save you from any unoriginal posts that might come from such a place. I'll be back. Hopefully tomorrow. If not, ah well.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Another Wait
So, the agent made contact yesterday, only to be told Mid-March for further word.
This is the gnawing-knuckle time.
I crave good news.
This is the gnawing-knuckle time.
I crave good news.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Still More Bridge of The Broken
Someone (Yes, I'm looking at you, K) asked that I stop the violence. Here is another piece, this one with more than a little dialogue. There's some anger, too. But no overt violence.
“He did what?” Baptiste asked with a yawn. The cortex had eaten more than half of Caron’s report last night, with the result he hadn’t got home before midnight. Myrna hadn’t yet come home when he’d gone to bed, something he had yet to talk to her about.
“Made a mess in my store, le con,” Gerard answered, looking Caron up and down with an appreciative eye.
“No,” Baptiste shook his head, “before that.”
“What?” Baptiste wasn’t sure if it was his words or his movement that dragged the man’s attention from Caron’s chest back to his face, but was certainly bone weary of Gerard. “Oh, He fell. I thought he was just trying to blackmail me, you know, trying to get a free drink, but then he broke the bottle too,” the clerk said, again looking sidelong at Caron’s chest.
“Then what?”
“He took off, like I told him to.”
“So, he didn’t steal anything?” Caron asked.
“No, but he was about to when I caught him.”
“Are you serious?” Baptiste grunted.
“What?” the clerk said.
“You want the guy we’ve both known for years arrested because he fell and broke a bottle in your store?”
Gerard’s face closed up like a stubborn fist, “Yes. He broke what he’d planned to steal.”
“Sorry, we aren’t the mind police,” Baptiste said.
“Don’t you go blowing me off, Jean-HervĆ©. I know your brother, and he s-“
Baptiste had enough, pushed his face into the clerk’s “He says what?”
Gerard blinked, stood up straight, trying to increase the distance between himself and Baptiste without retreating, “He listened to me, thought that arresting Mad Morgan might get him some help.”
“Oh, so now we can heal the Broken?” Baptiste snarled.
“Well, no.”
“That’s right. No, he can’t. Even he can’t, though that clearly isn’t enough to stop him meddling in police business.”
“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it, just wan-“
Baptiste thumped the counter with his fist, “If you’re so bent on saving Morgan, perhaps you should stop serving him and all the other drunks come through here looking to get liquored up!” he said, motioning at the ranks of bottles behind the counter as he turned to leave.
“So you aren’t going to take my report just because I mention your brother?” Gerard asked, his tone clear evidence of his inability to sense ground he shouldn’t tread.
Caron stepped forward into the space Baptiste had vacated.
Baptiste bit down on the desire to shoot his mouth off as Caron replied in his stead, “No sir, I will not take your report because you are not reporting a crime. What you have reported is not a crime, it is a civil dispute, with one party absent. We will now leave. Good day.”
“Who the fu-“
Baptiste whirled on the clerk, pointing a finger at him, “Don’t you fucking say it, G. She’s right, she said it more civilly than you deserve, and we are out of here.”
Baptiste turned and led the way out of the store.
Outside, he slowed to let Caron walk beside him to the squad car, “Well, done Caron. I blew my stack a bit and you covered nicely for me. I appreciate it. More to the point, it’s what partners do for one another.”
Caron hitched a thumb back in the direction of the store, “You aren’t worried he’ll complain?”
“Gerard can complain all he likes. I was civil ‘till he brought up my brother, and I didn’t get out of hand even when I did bark at him. Besides, my brother shouldn’t have been involved at all, and knows it.”
She popped the doors on the squad, “Can I ask who your brother is?”
‘A sanctimonious sack of shit,’ Baptiste thought but did not say. She might be religious, and he wasn’t about to open that can of worms, not while he was training the young woman.
He sat in the passenger seat, looking at her before answering aloud, “He’s a priest in the Church. Some call him The Penitent.”
She blinked, opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, “He’s your brother? I knew you came from old stock, and have a lot of family in the Department, but he’s not the kind of guy I would think was related to- well, anyone.”
Baptiste grunted as a placeholder while he moderated the first comment that came to mind, “He hasn’t been at the family table in years, but yes, he is my older brother.”
She looked away. Her adam’s apple bobbed as she swallowed something hard.
“What?” he asked.
“My brother… He’s not someone the family lays claim to easily either.”
“Oh?” Baptiste asked.
“Yes, he was sent up the well some time ago. Financial crimes.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard some trite shit like this before, but having been there, I can really say you can only choose your friends, not your family.”
She shrugged, started the car and put it in gear.
The rest of the day passed pretty quietly. Baptiste didn’t mind, and Caron’s daily progress report would reflect how well she’d handled him going off on the store owner.
“He did what?” Baptiste asked with a yawn. The cortex had eaten more than half of Caron’s report last night, with the result he hadn’t got home before midnight. Myrna hadn’t yet come home when he’d gone to bed, something he had yet to talk to her about.
“Made a mess in my store, le con,” Gerard answered, looking Caron up and down with an appreciative eye.
“No,” Baptiste shook his head, “before that.”
“What?” Baptiste wasn’t sure if it was his words or his movement that dragged the man’s attention from Caron’s chest back to his face, but was certainly bone weary of Gerard. “Oh, He fell. I thought he was just trying to blackmail me, you know, trying to get a free drink, but then he broke the bottle too,” the clerk said, again looking sidelong at Caron’s chest.
“Then what?”
“He took off, like I told him to.”
“So, he didn’t steal anything?” Caron asked.
“No, but he was about to when I caught him.”
“Are you serious?” Baptiste grunted.
“What?” the clerk said.
“You want the guy we’ve both known for years arrested because he fell and broke a bottle in your store?”
Gerard’s face closed up like a stubborn fist, “Yes. He broke what he’d planned to steal.”
“Sorry, we aren’t the mind police,” Baptiste said.
“Don’t you go blowing me off, Jean-HervĆ©. I know your brother, and he s-“
Baptiste had enough, pushed his face into the clerk’s “He says what?”
Gerard blinked, stood up straight, trying to increase the distance between himself and Baptiste without retreating, “He listened to me, thought that arresting Mad Morgan might get him some help.”
“Oh, so now we can heal the Broken?” Baptiste snarled.
“Well, no.”
“That’s right. No, he can’t. Even he can’t, though that clearly isn’t enough to stop him meddling in police business.”
“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it, just wan-“
Baptiste thumped the counter with his fist, “If you’re so bent on saving Morgan, perhaps you should stop serving him and all the other drunks come through here looking to get liquored up!” he said, motioning at the ranks of bottles behind the counter as he turned to leave.
“So you aren’t going to take my report just because I mention your brother?” Gerard asked, his tone clear evidence of his inability to sense ground he shouldn’t tread.
Caron stepped forward into the space Baptiste had vacated.
Baptiste bit down on the desire to shoot his mouth off as Caron replied in his stead, “No sir, I will not take your report because you are not reporting a crime. What you have reported is not a crime, it is a civil dispute, with one party absent. We will now leave. Good day.”
“Who the fu-“
Baptiste whirled on the clerk, pointing a finger at him, “Don’t you fucking say it, G. She’s right, she said it more civilly than you deserve, and we are out of here.”
Baptiste turned and led the way out of the store.
Outside, he slowed to let Caron walk beside him to the squad car, “Well, done Caron. I blew my stack a bit and you covered nicely for me. I appreciate it. More to the point, it’s what partners do for one another.”
Caron hitched a thumb back in the direction of the store, “You aren’t worried he’ll complain?”
“Gerard can complain all he likes. I was civil ‘till he brought up my brother, and I didn’t get out of hand even when I did bark at him. Besides, my brother shouldn’t have been involved at all, and knows it.”
She popped the doors on the squad, “Can I ask who your brother is?”
‘A sanctimonious sack of shit,’ Baptiste thought but did not say. She might be religious, and he wasn’t about to open that can of worms, not while he was training the young woman.
He sat in the passenger seat, looking at her before answering aloud, “He’s a priest in the Church. Some call him The Penitent.”
She blinked, opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, “He’s your brother? I knew you came from old stock, and have a lot of family in the Department, but he’s not the kind of guy I would think was related to- well, anyone.”
Baptiste grunted as a placeholder while he moderated the first comment that came to mind, “He hasn’t been at the family table in years, but yes, he is my older brother.”
She looked away. Her adam’s apple bobbed as she swallowed something hard.
“What?” he asked.
“My brother… He’s not someone the family lays claim to easily either.”
“Oh?” Baptiste asked.
“Yes, he was sent up the well some time ago. Financial crimes.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard some trite shit like this before, but having been there, I can really say you can only choose your friends, not your family.”
She shrugged, started the car and put it in gear.
The rest of the day passed pretty quietly. Baptiste didn’t mind, and Caron’s daily progress report would reflect how well she’d handled him going off on the store owner.
Monday, February 14, 2011
More Bridge of The Broken
Wrote this today. There is a preceding section that is all pursuit. I am taking on officer involved shootings with this, or I plan to.
Hope you enjoy:
“Fuck it. Go. I’ll be-” Baptiste started. Caron didn’t hear the rest, already out the car and running for the ramp.
The officer from the Eastern Station unit was putting on distance, sprinting. She was alright with that. Some were built for speed, some were built to run all day.
She grinned, breath coming in easy drafts, ’And this is for real, girl.’
“Going to force a dismount,” Trudeau broadcast as the officers negotiated packed vehicles at the corner.
A car door opened right in front of the other officer, some lookie-loo thinking to see what the hold up was. The officer hit the man in the back, crushing him into his own door, the rebound sending both to the pavement, hard.
Caron turned between cars, put one foot down on a bumper and vaulted the narrow space. Her hip bumped the barricade as she turned back on course, helping to restore her balance.
She couldn’t see the rider ahead, could see the light bar on the sergeant’s unit about twenty-five meters ahead. She put on more speed.
The distinct whip-crack of a stick discharging reached her ears. A second later and the sound was followed by the shriek of metal on pavement.
“Got him off the bike, but he’s still running,” Sergeant Trudeau’s voice, sounding a bit odd.
Caron was sprinting at her best speed. Uphill, armored and carrying all her gear, it was nothing like the speeds she posted for her daily runs.
The bike was down, smoking. Trudeau was limping to her unit. Beyond, the man was running along the barricade bordering the elevated freeway, glancing over his shoulder at the continuing traffic and his pursuer. Caron continued to run, quickly closing the distance on the sergeant.
Trudeau, uniform torn and bleeding at the knee, waved her on, “Fucker caught me with the bike. Keep him in sight, I’ll bring the car up.”
Hacking at Pierpont’s lead one step at a time, Caron managed to close the distance considerably in the next few seconds. At about twenty-five meters, the suspect ran into the roadway proper.
A motorist slammed on his brakes, sliding to a stop. Other cars did the same, with varying degrees of success. There were several crunches and at least one explosive hiss as liquid hit something very hot.
Caron continued to close on the suspect, who was approaching the motorist that had just prevented his vehicle from making a hood ornament of him. The suspect’s hand went into his jacket.
Hardly slowing, Caron broke leather, weapon coming free in her hand.
‘Don’t run with a gun,’ the words of her instructors ran through her mind. She held the pistol down and to the side, trying to comply with that sensible order and still get close enough to safely engage the target.
Pierpont reached in the open driver’s side window, pulling at the man behind the wheel. His other hand held a metal object.
Not sure it was a gun, Caron stopped as fast as she could and raised her service weapon, “Drop it or I’ll shoot!”
Pierpont turned his head, face a mask of rage and fear. He'd skinned his head in the wreck of his bike.
The motorist used the distraction to pull from the man’s grip and scramble for the far door.
“Drop it,” she said, lining up her sights between brown eyes.
He looked down at the gun in his left hand, back at her.
“Drop it!” she yelled.
She saw it coming; watched his eyes go hard with resolve.
“Don’t!” she screamed, even as he raised the gun in her direction.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun hand kept rising.
She fired again.
Pierpont’s weapon discharged. Something stung her cheek.
She fired again.
He dropped.
Hope you enjoy:
“Fuck it. Go. I’ll be-” Baptiste started. Caron didn’t hear the rest, already out the car and running for the ramp.
The officer from the Eastern Station unit was putting on distance, sprinting. She was alright with that. Some were built for speed, some were built to run all day.
She grinned, breath coming in easy drafts, ’And this is for real, girl.’
“Going to force a dismount,” Trudeau broadcast as the officers negotiated packed vehicles at the corner.
A car door opened right in front of the other officer, some lookie-loo thinking to see what the hold up was. The officer hit the man in the back, crushing him into his own door, the rebound sending both to the pavement, hard.
Caron turned between cars, put one foot down on a bumper and vaulted the narrow space. Her hip bumped the barricade as she turned back on course, helping to restore her balance.
She couldn’t see the rider ahead, could see the light bar on the sergeant’s unit about twenty-five meters ahead. She put on more speed.
The distinct whip-crack of a stick discharging reached her ears. A second later and the sound was followed by the shriek of metal on pavement.
“Got him off the bike, but he’s still running,” Sergeant Trudeau’s voice, sounding a bit odd.
Caron was sprinting at her best speed. Uphill, armored and carrying all her gear, it was nothing like the speeds she posted for her daily runs.
The bike was down, smoking. Trudeau was limping to her unit. Beyond, the man was running along the barricade bordering the elevated freeway, glancing over his shoulder at the continuing traffic and his pursuer. Caron continued to run, quickly closing the distance on the sergeant.
Trudeau, uniform torn and bleeding at the knee, waved her on, “Fucker caught me with the bike. Keep him in sight, I’ll bring the car up.”
Hacking at Pierpont’s lead one step at a time, Caron managed to close the distance considerably in the next few seconds. At about twenty-five meters, the suspect ran into the roadway proper.
A motorist slammed on his brakes, sliding to a stop. Other cars did the same, with varying degrees of success. There were several crunches and at least one explosive hiss as liquid hit something very hot.
Caron continued to close on the suspect, who was approaching the motorist that had just prevented his vehicle from making a hood ornament of him. The suspect’s hand went into his jacket.
Hardly slowing, Caron broke leather, weapon coming free in her hand.
‘Don’t run with a gun,’ the words of her instructors ran through her mind. She held the pistol down and to the side, trying to comply with that sensible order and still get close enough to safely engage the target.
Pierpont reached in the open driver’s side window, pulling at the man behind the wheel. His other hand held a metal object.
Not sure it was a gun, Caron stopped as fast as she could and raised her service weapon, “Drop it or I’ll shoot!”
Pierpont turned his head, face a mask of rage and fear. He'd skinned his head in the wreck of his bike.
The motorist used the distraction to pull from the man’s grip and scramble for the far door.
“Drop it,” she said, lining up her sights between brown eyes.
He looked down at the gun in his left hand, back at her.
“Drop it!” she yelled.
She saw it coming; watched his eyes go hard with resolve.
“Don’t!” she screamed, even as he raised the gun in her direction.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun hand kept rising.
She fired again.
Pierpont’s weapon discharged. Something stung her cheek.
She fired again.
He dropped.
Looking Forward To Something
This movie looks interesting, not least because of the attractive actresses.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Man the FUCK UP
A teeth-sucking asshat this morning brings this rant to boil over onto the page. It seems a bit like I have already said much of it before, but my life is nothing if not repetitive, so you can bear with me:
Males, you need to take a moment, grab your fucking sacks, and take ownership of what you do. If you make a mistake (and I have made and will continue to make, my share) or fuck up, you need to own and learn from it, not try and find someone to lay your shit off on. You are not entitled to any sympathy, but if I see you struggling to own, rather than throw off, responsibility, I might throw you a bone. Others who think like I do might do the same. They are under no obligation to, but they might. Now, a litany of FUCK UP:
If you are a drinker, and you like to drive after a few pops, then when the universe comes knocking to collect that karmic debt you've managed to avoid until that moment, don't think you are entitled to get around it. No one, not one person, can say they didn't know it was illegal and just plain stupid to drive drunk. If you get busted, man the FUCK UP.
If you're the type of bastard likes to sock his lady friends about, when the cops come, break your door down and take their sweet time fighting your resisting ass into custody, don't think it is anything other than your actions that led to that moment and man the FUCK UP.
If you deal dope and one day you sell to the wrong motherfucker, winding up arrested and getting strip searched, quit your whining. You knew the risks when you decided to work the far side of what's legal. Man the FUCK UP.
If you happen to like to drive faster than the posted speed limit, you know you might get caught. When you do, don't try and lay it off on others, try and whine your way out. Man the FUCK UP.
If you make a mistake at work, don't try and cover that shit, man the FUCK UP.
If you cheat on your wife, your taxes, or anything else, you know you might get caught. When you do, man the FUCK UP and take what's coming to you.
Here endeth todays rant.
Males, you need to take a moment, grab your fucking sacks, and take ownership of what you do. If you make a mistake (and I have made and will continue to make, my share) or fuck up, you need to own and learn from it, not try and find someone to lay your shit off on. You are not entitled to any sympathy, but if I see you struggling to own, rather than throw off, responsibility, I might throw you a bone. Others who think like I do might do the same. They are under no obligation to, but they might. Now, a litany of FUCK UP:
If you are a drinker, and you like to drive after a few pops, then when the universe comes knocking to collect that karmic debt you've managed to avoid until that moment, don't think you are entitled to get around it. No one, not one person, can say they didn't know it was illegal and just plain stupid to drive drunk. If you get busted, man the FUCK UP.
If you're the type of bastard likes to sock his lady friends about, when the cops come, break your door down and take their sweet time fighting your resisting ass into custody, don't think it is anything other than your actions that led to that moment and man the FUCK UP.
If you deal dope and one day you sell to the wrong motherfucker, winding up arrested and getting strip searched, quit your whining. You knew the risks when you decided to work the far side of what's legal. Man the FUCK UP.
If you happen to like to drive faster than the posted speed limit, you know you might get caught. When you do, don't try and lay it off on others, try and whine your way out. Man the FUCK UP.
If you make a mistake at work, don't try and cover that shit, man the FUCK UP.
If you cheat on your wife, your taxes, or anything else, you know you might get caught. When you do, man the FUCK UP and take what's coming to you.
Here endeth todays rant.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Watch What You Are Doing, Drivers...
This is some seriously bad news. The rider was very lucky, and managed not to say what I am sure was on his mind.
Thanks to Robert Jackson Bennett for throwing the clip my way via twitter.
Thanks to Robert Jackson Bennett for throwing the clip my way via twitter.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Updatery
Not much to rant about today.
I had a good weekend, watched UFC 126 at a friend's place with a bunch of his other friends, whom I did not know. 'Twas a very pleasant time, even if the fights held almost no surprises in their outcomes.
I wrote 2,ooo words this morning on Bridge of The Broken, a pretty mean feat for my slow typing ass. This is good as, due the stress of waiting and some financial difficulties, I haven't sat down to write with anything like my post-WFC zeal. I finished the first three chapters today and, for a miracle, I know where things are headed.
When tempted to whine and ask for some cheese to go with it, I consider those of my friends facing real hardship of late: Several are looking down the barrel at the break-up of their marriages, and two have their mothers in hospital.
Here's hoping that whatever happens, it isn't too much to survive, hearts intact.
I had a good weekend, watched UFC 126 at a friend's place with a bunch of his other friends, whom I did not know. 'Twas a very pleasant time, even if the fights held almost no surprises in their outcomes.
I wrote 2,ooo words this morning on Bridge of The Broken, a pretty mean feat for my slow typing ass. This is good as, due the stress of waiting and some financial difficulties, I haven't sat down to write with anything like my post-WFC zeal. I finished the first three chapters today and, for a miracle, I know where things are headed.
When tempted to whine and ask for some cheese to go with it, I consider those of my friends facing real hardship of late: Several are looking down the barrel at the break-up of their marriages, and two have their mothers in hospital.
Here's hoping that whatever happens, it isn't too much to survive, hearts intact.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Moronometer
GRIFFIN INDUSTRIES is once again ready to unveil another stupendous invention, this one for the workplace:
The MORONOMETER measures the atmospheric changes in the amount of moronions in the immediate vicinity, rising as the stupid increases. Several alerts are available, ranging from the English as second language MacDonalds employee calling out that dinner is served to the shrieking of a porn star having their orifices delved into quite deeply.
The alert will sound when pre-set limits are exceeded in the hope of attracting the moron to the device and away from those who have work to do. It is therefore suggested that the Moronometer be placed away from the actual location where work is being done. Perhaps the hall, or even the middle of traffic.
Now, a word about tolerance levels: Each Moronometer has five independent levels that may be arbitrarily set by day, or if the owner prefers, even the hour, but only by such individuals previously cleared of moronitude. Each of these independent levels is fully adjustable and has up to ten settings, so each approved user can label and set their own tolerance level for moronic and sub-moronic behavior. These levels are clearly visible to those who deign to look at the device, in order that those intelligent enough to actually read the current atmospheric levels and related tolerance levels will have a chance to avoid pushing beyond into the realm of the drooling moron, and destroying everyone's chance at a moron-free day.
The deluxe version also comes equipped with a cattle-prod-grade shocking device to prevent tampering by morons who believe they can change things.
The Super-Deluxe Moronometer will taze anyone who, by their mere presence, increases the moronion level beyond the factory-set maximum level considered survivable by sensible people.
The Basic Moronometer will be offered free of charge, as a public service, to the first 1,ooo non-morons who order it. The Deluxe version will require photos an additional one hundred dollars, while the Super Deluxe Moronometer will require one hundred dollars and photos of the first ten morons tazed by our fine device.
Please Note: One might wonder why asshatery was not the benchmark rather than moronions. Griffin Industries is trying mightily to isolate asshattery from ordinary anal leakage, and while we hope to bring such a device to market someday, but as far as current technology allows, there is no telling asshattery from farts without actually interacting with asshats, something Griffin Industries, perforce, wishes to avoid.
The MORONOMETER measures the atmospheric changes in the amount of moronions in the immediate vicinity, rising as the stupid increases. Several alerts are available, ranging from the English as second language MacDonalds employee calling out that dinner is served to the shrieking of a porn star having their orifices delved into quite deeply.
The alert will sound when pre-set limits are exceeded in the hope of attracting the moron to the device and away from those who have work to do. It is therefore suggested that the Moronometer be placed away from the actual location where work is being done. Perhaps the hall, or even the middle of traffic.
Now, a word about tolerance levels: Each Moronometer has five independent levels that may be arbitrarily set by day, or if the owner prefers, even the hour, but only by such individuals previously cleared of moronitude. Each of these independent levels is fully adjustable and has up to ten settings, so each approved user can label and set their own tolerance level for moronic and sub-moronic behavior. These levels are clearly visible to those who deign to look at the device, in order that those intelligent enough to actually read the current atmospheric levels and related tolerance levels will have a chance to avoid pushing beyond into the realm of the drooling moron, and destroying everyone's chance at a moron-free day.
The deluxe version also comes equipped with a cattle-prod-grade shocking device to prevent tampering by morons who believe they can change things.
The Super-Deluxe Moronometer will taze anyone who, by their mere presence, increases the moronion level beyond the factory-set maximum level considered survivable by sensible people.
The Basic Moronometer will be offered free of charge, as a public service, to the first 1,ooo non-morons who order it. The Deluxe version will require photos an additional one hundred dollars, while the Super Deluxe Moronometer will require one hundred dollars and photos of the first ten morons tazed by our fine device.
Please Note: One might wonder why asshatery was not the benchmark rather than moronions. Griffin Industries is trying mightily to isolate asshattery from ordinary anal leakage, and while we hope to bring such a device to market someday, but as far as current technology allows, there is no telling asshattery from farts without actually interacting with asshats, something Griffin Industries, perforce, wishes to avoid.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Everyone Is Sick
Well, I now know why I haven't had word about the Last Captain. He who was to give feedback is ill and at home. This news is good, actually, at least for me. Don't get me wrong, I wish him a speedy recovery, I just didn't like the thought I was being dodged or had been forgotten. Much better to know the man is ill (Though I'm sure I just shot myself Karmically by admitting that. Here's to coming back as a slime mold.)
Yesterday, when I returned to work, everyone has a cold. One of the clerks even had to go home early, he was so ill. When I got home, the daughter was having snot-locker dribble issues.
I do hope I do not get it. I am a puss when I'm ill, a whiney little boy who needs his woobie and wants his hand held. I don't know why that is, really. Physical injury I can shrug off, for the most part. The ick, not so much. I suppose my man-card gets all soggy with snot.
Ah well, I'm off to Purell the shit from my hands and every work surface touched by the plague-bearers.
Yesterday, when I returned to work, everyone has a cold. One of the clerks even had to go home early, he was so ill. When I got home, the daughter was having snot-locker dribble issues.
I do hope I do not get it. I am a puss when I'm ill, a whiney little boy who needs his woobie and wants his hand held. I don't know why that is, really. Physical injury I can shrug off, for the most part. The ick, not so much. I suppose my man-card gets all soggy with snot.
Ah well, I'm off to Purell the shit from my hands and every work surface touched by the plague-bearers.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Little To Say, More To Write
This, the last day I took off, will be filled with writing a great deal, and waiting on The Agent to call out and then get back to me.
I have been distracting myself with Sam Sykes' most excellent Tome of The Undergates, Peter V Brett's Brayan's Gold, and setting up an Eclipse Phase game on RPOL.
Jealousy remains my dark god, as the authors of both books have captured great things on the page, and the group behind the game have managed to gather a huge number of threads into a coherent and very cool package I find diverting and thought-provoking.
So, to the writing and the waiting, and capturing my own good stuff.
I have been distracting myself with Sam Sykes' most excellent Tome of The Undergates, Peter V Brett's Brayan's Gold, and setting up an Eclipse Phase game on RPOL.
Jealousy remains my dark god, as the authors of both books have captured great things on the page, and the group behind the game have managed to gather a huge number of threads into a coherent and very cool package I find diverting and thought-provoking.
So, to the writing and the waiting, and capturing my own good stuff.
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