tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43615066463290164622023-06-20T08:46:00.090-05:00The Canterbury Tales: Part DeuxA narrative blog following the adventures of a group of six people with suspiciously similar characteristics. Updates... well, it used to be three times a week, now it's sporadic.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.comBlogger154125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-16632774290513370562012-05-30T09:54:00.000-05:002012-05-30T09:54:22.022-05:00Prelude to Journalism<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fiddler on the Roof rehearsals were going well. They were a
lot of fun – as I believe you’ve got the impression – and, even though there
was a lot of odd emotional and… er, well, drama stuff that went on within the
cast, it kept being fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve been told that I should not have been surprised by the
severe shifts in mood that I saw during that time from the cast members, but I
still was. I’d like to believe that I’m a pretty stable guy when it comes to
emotions. They confuse me, by and large, and I try very hard to remain
Dude-like, to abide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Of course, I don’t succeed all the time. Not even El
Duderino remains Dude-like all the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Anyway, it occurred to me about halfway through one karaoke
night at Rutherford that I needed a break from the outings with the drama
students. I knew that because, when “Don’t Stop Believing,” the <i>Glee </i>version of course, came on and I thought,
“I’d kill for some fucking Slayer right now.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The drunken squeals of delight
that followed the entire Musical Theater Society as they rushed up to three
microphones and performed the song surely didn’t help. Nor did the palpable
wave of hatred that came from everyone in the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And so, to find the polar opposite of MTS, I went to The
Drunkard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It occurred to me that I had never seen a single journalism
student at Kent aside from The Drunkard. It didn’t bother me so much as confuse
me. Surely the University would not allow a single-student discipline. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In my confusion, I called up The
Drunkard. “Drunkard,” I said.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Narrator,” he slurred.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I need to speak with you.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Of course you do,” he said,
punctuating the sentence with a gigantic belch. “Find me at Mungo’s. There’s a
group of freshers here, and I’m analyzing them. Seeing which ones will give
into nihilism first.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Right.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I made my way to Mungo’s, ignoring
The Drunkard’s new-found past-time. What a man did in his free time was his own business, and as
long as The Drunkard wasn’t overtly bringing these freshers to some depraved
depth, then I wasn’t going to interfere.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mungo’s, now that the term was in
full swing, was back to normal. Pints of Carlsberg and Strongbow flowed forth
from taps like waterfalls of sub-par alcohol. The tables were filled with loud
drama students in equally loud garb, and off in the side rooms, meaty
individuals were playing FIFA on X-Box.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Drunkard sat at one of the
barstools on the raised portion of the bar’s dining area. He wore a hoodie, not
dissimilar to The Stalker’s, and had in his right hand his customary double
Jack Daniel’s on ice. I weaved through the tables, ignoring the screeching
sounds of Katy Perry bursting over the speakers, and the smells of Mungo’s
burgers.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He spotted me as I mounted the
stairs and nodded. “No drink?” he asked, nodding at my empty hands.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I shrugged. “Still a bit hung over
from last night.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He shook his head. “You’ll never get
anywhere with that attitude. Luckily for you, I managed to have some foresight
and ordered another whiskey.” He pushed a tall glass filled with amber whiskey
- no ice - to me.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“This is pretty big.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Quad Scotch, yeah. It’ll do ya.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I pulled up a stool beside him,
facing the dining students, and took a sip. It was rancid, but I felt my
headache subside just a bit.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What do you need to talk about?”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Your degree.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Drunkard arched an eyebrow at
me. “Checking up on my marks, Narrator?”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No. I’m just confused. You’re the
only journalism student I’ve met. Now, you can’t be the only one - I don’t
think the University would allow a one-student discipline - so, logic tells me
that there must be others. And I wond--”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Stop,” The Drunkard said. He turned
to face me full-on. “You’re entering a dark world. There are things you are not
privvy to. Things that would change the way you view everything you’ve ever
read or heard. Non-fiction, as a whole, if you choose to pursue this path,
would be forever altered for you. Do you wish to continue? You’ll only get one
chance. Choose wisely.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I snorted. He was clearly being
over-dramatic.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At least, that’s what I thought
before I read the man’s eyes. There was a hardness there. Gone was the usually
present mirth - however buried beneath self-loathing it may have appeared to be
- and it was replaced with something dire.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I gulped. I nodded.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Very well.” He knocked back the
rest of his drink. “It so happens that there is a meeting of my kin this
evening. I’ll vouch for you when we arrive, but it is imperative that you,
above all, remain cool. No matter what depravity you witness, you must remain
collected.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Depravity? Drunkard, you may fool
the freshers in this room, but I know you. You drink, but that’s not depraved.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I am but a learner.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So where’s the meeting going to be
held? I don’t think journalism has a building.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It doesn’t. We don’t require a
building.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What?”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Look,” The Drunkard said, leaning
forward. “There are several things you must know in order to explain why we
don’t need a building. They all have to do with the difference between us and
you literature students. To wit: </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<ol start="1" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We understand that everything we do is pointless. Our
degree is a massive con. You do not need credentials to be a journalist.
You need a sharp eye and intelligence, things that cannot be learned. You
Literature students are much the same way, but you actually buy into your
degrees.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We understand that we will never amount to anything.
Most of you have pretensions to being something other than starving,
debt-ridden pseudo-intellectuals. We journalists embrace the knowledge
that we are the middle men between information and consumers. It may wreck
our livers, but we acknowledge the fact.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Because of points one and two, we are more willing to
engage in self-destructive behavior. When you realize that everything
you’re being told is a lie, there is no recourse other than to live life
in a Bacchinalic frenzy.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Because there is no possibility of our becoming
anything in society, we are driven to take down the sons of bitches in
power. Anarchy, of a sort, is our creed.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ol>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Do you get
it?”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He’d been
gesturing frantically throughout his list. He was sweating, and as he began his
monologue, his speech sped up to a frenzy. I don’t think I understood his last
points, and so I just guessed at it. His final words came out more as
“Jageddit?”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yeah,” I
said. “I get it.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Good,” he
said, calm again. “Meet me in Woolf Courtyard at seven. Be prompt, for time
will be short.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-86870063907874333042012-05-24T13:30:00.000-05:002012-05-24T13:30:07.969-05:00The Epilogue to The Narrator's Second Tale<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“For
Christ’s sake,” said The Drunkard. “Will you stop this? I’m going to crush your
skull beneath a double-decker, so help me God, if you don’t stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“As
retiscent as I am to agree with The Drunkard on anything,” said The Writer, “I
agree. This… thing is a travesty against all literature and story-telling.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah,”
said The Traveler. “What the fuck was that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
knew I’d gone horribly wrong when The Traveler, of all people, was attacking my
story. I shifted in my seat, not entirely sure of how to get out of this
horrible situation I’d stuck myself in. Granted, there was no real consequence
for botching a story that badly, but I knew, deep in the back of my head, that
there was no way I was going to win our competition now. (“The hell were you
going to win anyway,” said the crotchety voice in my head.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Uhm,”
I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Silence
from the table, save for the soft sound of slurping from The Stalker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
bartender cleared his throat and said, “Scuse me, gents. Don’t mean to pry into
your conversation, but you,” he said, pointing at me, “if you tell another
story like that, I’m going to have to bar you from coming into this pub.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re
shitting me,” I said. “It was just a story.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Mate,”
the bartender said, “that wasn’t a story; that was a hate crime against English
literature.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
threw my hands up in defeat as the other Thes laughed at my expense. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
Writer looked at his watch. “I should be heading back to campus. The busses
aren’t running today, and if I want to make my appointment with my advisor,
it’s hard going.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
Drunkard shook his head and grunted. “Telling you, man. You just need to bone
her and get it out of your system. Clear head.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
snickered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?”
asked The Drunkard. “Oh, gotcha. Fist bump.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We
bumped fists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes,
well,” said The Writer, flustered. “I… yes.” He left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
Stalker watched him leave and said, “Would you like to hear about his
pornography collection? It’s quite impressive. The man has many hang-ups. I
suppose he nurtures them under some bizarre impression that the more neurotic
he is, the more creative he’d be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
think you can imagine that none of us wanted to hear about The Writer’s porno. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Dude,”
said The Drunkard, “what, exactly, do you do for your degree?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
Stalker grinned and slurped at his cider for a moment. He looked at our faces,
one and all, for about ten seconds each, much as he had done in the past. When
he had made the circuit around the table, he said, “That’s all very
confidential. Let’s just say that I am in the middle of a serious and
confidential study of very serious and confidential material.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Right,”
said The Traveler. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head off. Making a dash
to the STA branch in town to see if they have any specials on.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Need
to get out that badly, huh?” asked The Drunkard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
Traveler nodded. “It’s getting bad. I look around Canterbury and Rorshach’s
opening monologue from <i>Watchmen</i>
starts playing in my head.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-88131007037561909462012-05-14T09:46:00.000-05:002012-05-14T09:46:12.374-05:00The Narrator's Second Tale<br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It would not be too tall of
a tale to say that in my journeys with my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have come
across some indivduals who might be better off had they been committed to the
lunatic asylum, Bedlam, from the moment of their birth. Of course, on the other
end of the criminal spectrum are those career criminals, such as Holmes’s
nemesis, the inimitable Professor Moriarty, who has—on more than one
occasion—been the utter bane of both our existences. (That is not to say,
though, that there is not some odd respect and esteem between the two
masterminds. The criminal no doubt esteems the detective for his mind and
analytical prowess, just as Holmes, for all the times he has been placed in
physical peril at the hands of Moriarty, has no doubt the same respect for the
Professor’s plots.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But there is one
case that strikes my memory with a specific resonance this afternoon as I sit
by my grounds-facing windows and gaze out upon the fog creeping across the
fields that stretch to the woods. The case took place not too long after Holmes
rejected yet another audience with the Queen—this time after he foiled a plot
to assassinate prominent Captains within the Royal Navy. It was hatched by a
few rather headstrong anarchists and Holmes, ever ready to solve a mystery and
leap into action when called for, had dashed headlong into the anarchists’ den
when it was clear that Scotland Yard was not yet on the scene with their armed
division. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I received the
summons via telegram—as Holmes was wont to do as of late—around half-nine in
the morning, just as I was prepared to write an article detailing a new
procedure to cure headaches that I’d witnessed while traveling around the
Continent for a period of time in the previous month. It was to be one of my
better pieces, I felt, and would surely make a splash, as the Americans say, in
the community. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The door rang and
my maid answered, and brought in the telegram. The note was customarily brief,
saying only that something rather perplexing had occured in North London, and
that I was to make haste to 221B Baker
Street, losing no time and with great speed. I called for a taxi, donned my
jacket, it having been a cold morning and there being no respite from rain,
according to the forecast in the newspaper, arranged for a few matters to be
taken care of in my absence that day, and exited my home to find the cab
waiting outside. I told the driver my destination and stepped into the back and
was on the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Minutes later, there being
surprisingly little traffic along the way, the horse and the cab pulled up in
front of the Baker Street home and I paid the cabsman. The sound of a faint,
solo violin moved through the air. Holmes was in thought and, if I was correct,
the music was Bach. He was not melancholy, nor was he in a manic state, but
this did clearly mean that whatever had transpired to bring Holmes to summon me
was something of great import. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I opened the door
and walked into Holmes’s apartment. His study door was locked, and, thus, I
knocked thrice. The music continued for a moment before Holmes opened the door
and looked through the door. He had not slept the night before, so much was
obvious from the pallid complexion of his face and the slight bags under his
eyes. “Ah, Watson. Good to see that you received my telegram. I do wonder about
the agency sometimes. There are few times that the fellow taking my
instructions has seemed attentive. Please, enter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked into the
study. It was in its typical state of disrepair. Newspapers were askew; books
from the many shelves were laid open upon tables; Holmes’s violin case leaned
up against the window facing Baker Street; a chemist set was constructed upon a
table with some blue liquid bubbling in two beakers. “I see you’ve been reading
the morning’s news,” Holmes said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh? How did you
deduce that? Shall I try to guess?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Please do. It is
often a source of much-needed amusement to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked over my
hands for stray marks of ink. That would not normally be enough to tell a
person that one was reading the paper—as very few individuals make a point to
look over one’s hand unless shaking the hand—but Holmes, as the reader may
know, was uncanny in his observations. At any rate, there were no maks of ink
on my hands—or my clothing for that matter. I glanced at Holmes, and he put a
grin on his face that said he was amused by my search. I then ensured that I
was not actually holding a copy of the newspaper—it having been a bit of a rush
to get out of the door and into the cab, I considered that a real possibility. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Assured that
there was nothing to directly give away my morning’s reading habits, I said,
“Well, I am afraid that you have the advantage once again, Holmes. Tell me,
what told you that I was reading the newspaper this morning?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’ve been
paying attention to their haphazard, fool’s guesses to the weather,” he said,
gesturing at my jacket. “You’re wearing a jacket with enough bulk to imply that
it is padded and protected to some extent against the rain. Having glanced at
the news myself, I saw the forecast calling for light rain later this morning
and, after having summarily dismissed it as little more than the guesswork that
it surely is, filed it away as something that my dear Watson would no doubt act
upon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Once again, I’m
not entirely certain that you are not insulting me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Absurd,” Holmes
said. “I am merely stating that you are a practical fellow with other things on
his mind than memorizing the almanac.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Indeed,” I said
to my friend. “One of which happens to be the rather urgent note I received
this morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Holmes nodded. He
picked a pipe from the recesses of the clutter in the study and proceeded to
pack it with tobacco. “It was urgent for a very good reason. Watson, in our
time together, we have seen many things that would stun, shock, and, I feel I
can say this without being accused of hyperbole, sicken many a men.” He lit the
pipe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I would agree
with you, except having been in the service, I’ve been confused rather than
sickened by many of these sights.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Taking a puff
from the pipe, Holmes nodded. “Your steel </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">nerve</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> has time and
time impressed me, Watson.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> However, we digress from the more pressing
issue. I wonder: Did you read the news-paper beyond the ‘prediction’ of the
weather?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Alas,”
I said, “I did not. I was preparing a rather delicious breakfast and had
intended to read through the news, but was distracted by familial matters until
the point when I looked at the time and realized that I had a very limited
period in which to complete an article for a journal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Then,
I understand, you did not see the drivel that passes for reporting on a series
of robberies and assaults in Dagenham?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
shook my head. “I did not, Holmes. I instead prefer to get my bad news from
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Holmes
chuckled. “Well said, Watson. Suffice it to say, there have been a series of
uncharacteristic crimes in that small parish, and Scotland Yard has asked me to
look into it. Normally, I would not, as such crimes are frankly not worth my
time. However, this being such a quiet and idyllic place, I must say that my
curiousity has been piqued.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
had only a cursory knowledge of Dagenham, despite it being so near to
Blackheath, but what I did know was that it was the very image of a peaceful
parish town. Though there were rumors of industry making its home in the area,
the most mechanical means I could remember hearing about was farming equipment.
Thus, like Holmes, I wondered what drew a criminal to the area. There may have
been a mansion house, but the ease with which one could procure illicit
materials in London proper surely far outweighed whatever goods were out in the
country. I said as much to Holmes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Precisely,”
Holmes said, his fingers tapping his pipe. “Precisely, Doctor. Why take all the
time and effort to travel to Dagenham when you have the vast expanse of London
in front of you?” He glanced up at the wall clock above the mantle. “We must be
going if we are to meet the new detective in Dagenham.” He gathered his coat
and made ready to leave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Is
the good Inspector not joining us?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No.
He feels that absconding to Dagenham would be putting his regular duties in the
City at risk of being foiled by lesser minds.” Holmes chuckled at that. “To an
extent, I agree with him. Of course, if there are lesser minds in Scotland
Yard, then they are only lesser by the furthest stretch of imagination. But
come, we must depart.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We
arrived at Dagenham some time later. The details of our journey were dull, and,
aside from some specifics on the case, are not relevant at all. Most of the
crime reports had it that the perpetrator was a man around sixteen to nineteen
years of age with abnormally clear skin, hair arranged in a bizarre,
“crest-like” fashion, and clothing that was almost, but not entirely unlike
grey wool with odd symbols on it. I wondered, partly in jest, whether or not we
were dealing with some sort of new cult. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Holmes
snorted in derision. “Once again, Watson, if we were dealing with a cult, they
would either be located in the middle of London where they could find more
recruits or victims, or they would be in the countryside, where they could
practice without interference from individuals like you and I. No, we are
dealing with a very abnormal individual. The mode of dress does, I agree,
suggest some sort of uniform. However, I see no reason to believe this is the
work of any secret society.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
crimes had been a series of robberies as individuals walked around parks and
the outdoors around dusk. According to witnesses, the assailant would rush out
of undergrowth and make demands in a queer accent, reminiscent of a Cockney’s,
but malformed and twisted. Holmes, recounting this, did not pay much heed to
the “poetic flourish” in the description, and was willing to grant that the
assailant was a man who lived in the Eastern sections of London and had made
his way out here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It
is perhaps,” Holmes said as we rode in the carriage, “the case that a vagrant
has crossed criminal elements in London and been driven out of wherever he
resides. I would further suppose that his odd mode of dress is a means to an
end, of sorts. Attempting to make the best out of means by way of a uniform
color and fabric would certainly make life easier than possessing a full
wardrobe, yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
nodded. “Indeed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“The
blasted question remains, though: Why come out to Dagenham? A vagabond would
not have the means to easily come to a region where one cannot live as easily
as one could in London.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Holmes,”
I said. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean. Would you like me to remind you
of the time we spent splitting a flat due to the rent? Would you like me to
tell you how much I am paying currently?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Watson,
you are not what one would call a man of extravagant tastes. However, compared
with a man of no means at all, you are a fop.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Shortly
after arriving at Dagenham, we walked to the police station. It was a small
cottage, nothing like the imposing building that one saw in London proper, but
not too far of a stretch for an area of country gentry. The officers of the law
in Dagenham had, until recently, been graced with a very easy post. They did
not need to worry with crime organizations. In fact, by my reckoning, the very
worst crime that Dagenham had to deal with had been an escaped goose that
wrought merry havoc at a market three Wednesdays prior. With that in mind, it
should not be entirely surprising that, when faced with true crime, the
inspector in Dagenham tendered his resignation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We
met the new inspector, a young, fat, bright-red faced man with straw-coloured
hair and mutton-chops, as well as small, circular spectacles, who went by the
name of Donalds. I was surprised when meeting him that Holmes did not launch
into an impromptu, and accurate, biography of the man based on his appearance.
It was his wont in the past, after all. Holmes, though, did show a measure of
distate for the man from the onset, which may have been a reason for the lack
of usual pleasantries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Chuffed
to see you,” Inspector Donalds said, pumping our hands with excessive
enthusiasm when we entered the cottage. “We’re all in a pickle here, and, I
say, it’s a rough time with this my first case.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It
seemed that Holmes’s nature was to get some measure of the best of him, though:
“For a man from King’s College, I’d expect that you would have the intellectual
capacity to handle this yourself. No, don’t bother gaping like a fish. You have
a King’s College insignia on the ring that seems to have been welded onto that
sausage you call your finger. Give me the details of these robberies, and my
colleague and I will do our utmost to assist the Metropolitan Police.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
Inspector blubbered for a moment, blinking in consternation, and then nodded
and gave us the details.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It
transpired that the newspapers were accurate about the crimes. Much as Holmes
had told me, the crimes took place at dusk and were the result of one
oddly-dressed man. The Inspector suggested that we lay a trap. Holmes, not to
my surprise, said that he had intended to. He then turned to me and, again not
to my surprise, told me that I was going to be the bait. “I am not declining,”
I said, “but I would like to ask, ‘why?’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Simple,
Doctor,” Holmes said. “You are the man among us who looks least threatening to
the individual in question. We could not use the Inspector, or any of his
officers, for the fact that they are known throughout the area. I could not be
the bait, because I must remain in shadows to advise the Inspector on how to
better himself as an officer of the law, as well as to ensure that you are not
harmed by this individual.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I
suppose, then, that my use of my service revolver is out of the question.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Holmes
raised an eyebrow. “Did you bring your service revolver?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,
no.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Frivolous
questions are never appreciated, Watson. You know that. Come, it is time that
we set the trap.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We
walked to the park where the robberies had been concentrated. Holmes and
Donalds went into the undergrowth and I sat down on a park bench that was near
a newly-installed gas lamp. It was a pleasant evening, and, being of a
reflective nature, I must confess that I spent much of the time on the bench
thinking of things other than the case. Thus, it was a surprise when the man in
the gray clothing appeared at my side and shouted at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">What
follows is the best approximation of the man’s speech I can deliver:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oi
bruv you got some chips for us then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
looked up from my reverie and saw a man about six foot three with abnormally
clear skin. He wore a grey, loose top that was wool. His trousers were a
material I had never seen before, nor since. They were white with blue stripes
down the sides of the legs. He kept his hand in a pocket in the front of his
hooded shirt. He was the robber, that was for sure. I looked at his hair and
tilted my head to one side. “Sir,” I said. “What sort of pomade are you using
to have that effect?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oi
posh fuck, give us a quid then? Fuckin cold out here innit mate’s gotta get
some fuckin beer to keep warm.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
shook my head. “Terribly sorry, can you repeat that? It sounds as if you
requested a cephalopod.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
man took out what seemed like a spring-loaded knife and waved it in my face. “I
ain’t fuckin wif you bruv.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">At
that point, Douglas and Holmes rushed out of the undergrowth and knocked the
man to the ground. The man then let loose with such a horrid string of
obscenities that, were I to write them down, there would be severe
reprecussions. Soon after—<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-41455592667131403102012-05-09T12:58:00.001-05:002012-05-09T12:58:57.016-05:00The Prologue to The Narrator's Second Tale<br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was like Hoth outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked outside
of D Block that morning and was pelted in the face with the biggest fucking
snowflakes I’d ever seen. The wind had the naked trees nearly bent in half, and
the sky was overcast with clouds that looked less like fluffy cotton balls than
a sheet of gray metal. I expected to hear the opening bits of the “Battle of
Hoth" suite at any moment. I buried my head in my p-coat, threw on my
headphones, and shoved my trilby further down on my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There was no way
that the bus was going to run today, I thought as I crossed Giles Lane. Sure
enough, I made it across campus, across the ice rink that the roads had become,
and there was a sign posted on the bus stop: “Nope,” is all it said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked down the
hill into town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Twenty minutes
later, I trundled into The Sub-Pope’s Flock about ten pounds heavier from all
of the water that I’d collected. The Thes were already in the back of the pub,
gathered around the water heater and shivering, for the most part. The Stalker appeared
to be quite happily slurping from his cider and studying the people around the
table. I nodded to the bartender, who nodded back, and then flipped on one of
the TVs. A couple portly men in seats near the front windows chatted in low
voices and then turned their attntion to the rugby match between two teams I
didn’t know, and wasn’t really that interested in knowing. I walked to the
table, took off my coat, and said, “Gents.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard took
a big gulp from a glass of what appeared to be hot cider and nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student
clutched the cup of coffee in front of him and said, “Narrator, hello.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re not
drinking hot cider?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No,” he said.
“After consuming vast quantities of <i>vin chaude</i> last night with some
French comrades—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard moaned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Not them,” said
The Student. “Don’t worry. I need something other than booze, you see. Coffee’s
good. Coffee heals.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Right,” said The
Traveler, clearing his throat. “Glad to see everyone made it down for our
weekly gathering.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I <i>should</i>
be preparing with my meeting with my advisor,” said The Writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, shut the
fuck up,” said The Drunkard. “Just bone the bitch and get over it. Fucking
hell, if I have to see one more of your damn facebook posts about how <i>excited</i>
you are for the next time you get to discuss the state of your novel with the
love of your fucking life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m sorry,
Drunkard,” said The Writer, “but perhaps you sho—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay,” said The
Traveler. “Who’s next?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student
whipped out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “Give me one sec. The
spreadsheet has to have some time to load ever since I added a few new pages to
it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Pages of what?”
I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“He added pages
that detail the amount of times I have creeped him out, the numer of times The
Narrator has tried to stammer his way out of doing something uncomfortable, the
number of times The Drunkard has blacked out, the number of times The Traveler
has gotten that far-off look that says he’d rather be in another country, and
the number of times The Writer should have been punched in the face,” said The
Stalker. He punctuated his aside with a very loud slurp from his glass. “And
then there are the, ah, <i>other</i> pages that he’s added. But I don’t think
The Student would want me to share those, would you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student
flushed and grumbled. “Narrator, your go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Shit,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Better add
another tick mark to that worksheet, Student,” The Drunkard said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No, no. I, er, I
got this, yeah.” I looked around the pub. To one side of the register, there
was a volume of Sherlock Holmes stories. Entering the pub to the sound of the
clanging bell at the top of the door were two men in track suits. “Right,” I
said. “This is called, “Sherlock Holmes, and the Case of The Gangster, Gangster
at The Top of The List.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“The fuck?” asked
The Drunkard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-71655487090137060282011-10-26T10:43:00.000-05:002011-10-26T10:43:03.916-05:00Karaoke Night<br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Thanks to The Student for
filling in—for what that was worth. (No offence to him, but I never quite
intended for this behemoth to be as much about literature as all that.
...Granted, my M.A. is in Ranting in Literature, and I’ve talked about that
quite a bit. No matter, though.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As he mentioned, the Fiddler
on the Roof rehearsals were amping up, and I was beginning to think that I’d
entered into something I wasn’t quite perpared for. Not regarding the lines, or
the music, or even the dancing (I was actually improving on that! Couldn’t
quite understand how a person was supposed to be able to alternate what foot to
lead with, but whatever). No, I was, for the first time, understanding just how
out of my league these English were when it came to binge drinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">See, The Student had warned
me a bit. Since he’d been abroad to England before, he’d seen just how bad the
English could be. However, my understanding was that he hung out in Coffee
& Corks a lot more than chav bars, so I don’t think he quite understood.
You see—and you probably already know this, but bear with me—there is a world
of difference between the <i>ways</i> people drink in an urbane sort of place
like C&C and the English equivalent to a club where the prevailing sound is
the pumping of bass pouring out of speakers and raping your eardrums.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Which is, essentially, what
I discovered the young people are into nowadays. You see, in terms of academic
standing, I was the oldest person in the cast. (That of course doesn’t apply to
<i>time</i>, where I was somewhere near the top, but not quite near the top,
and it frankly doesn’t matter because I’m a sixty-year-old trapped in a
twentysomething’s body and I’ll shut up now.) This meant that I’d been through
the two and a half years of excessive killing-my-liver that was Freshman
through half of Junior years of college, and was very much in the mindset that
one did not have to pickle one’s brain in whiskey to have a good night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">However, this view was not
particularly prevalent in Musical Theatre Society. Maybe it’s the venues they
chose. It’s hard to relax and talk when the Black Eyed Peas are screeching
about what a good night it’s going to be (not to mention randomly throwing in
Hebrew into their songs, the schlubs), not to mention the difficulty of
expressing oneself when one is being jostled every which way by people on
insane and unhealthy amounts of drugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And thus, most times when
rehearsals were done on Thursday or Friday nights, a portion of the cast would
wander over to The Venue or Massive Mungo’s. (Massive Mungo’s was a, er,
massive event that was the closest I’ve ever seen to a rave. I hated it. The
beer was served in plastic cups—Guinness in plastic cups should be a crime—the
people were whacked out of their minds, and no one could hear my awful jokes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I did see The Drunkard
around the crowd, though. He seemed to fit in quite well, but judging from the
amount of times I saw him get slapped, I guess he wasn’t having a fun night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, there was one thing
that MST did that I could get behind: Karaoke nights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">(A brief digression:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">When I was in high school, I
had the extreme honor of being in the top ten percent of my graduating class.
This meant that I did just enough homework to have a low A as my GPA. It
further meant that I was able to go on a trip to Gatlinburg, paid for by the
school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Gatlinburg, and the nearby
town of Pigeon Forge, for those who don’t know, is an awful place. It’s like
the redneck Alps. Set rigth at the foot of the Smokey Mountains, the town is
made to look like some bizarre hunting village. The illusion falls apart,
though, when one sees the giant Ripley’s Believe It Or Not tourist trap right
alongside the hundredth consecutive bauble vendor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Pigeon Forge, though, is
worse. There are three types of buildings in Pigeon Forge: 1) Go-Kart Tracks;
2) Fast food restaurants; 3) Big cubes that hold clothe stores and the like.
They all look similar, and, after spending an hour in the town, one is tempted
to rip out one’s own eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, the reason I brought
that up was because there happened to be a karaoke bar attached to one of the
big cubes. My fellow nerds and I went to this karaoke place one afternoon.
Others chose to sing songs that people knew—pop hits and the like. I, however,
said “Nope,” and went with a string of Bob Dylan. I was not liked.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The karaoke nights at the
University of Kent were held in Rutherford Bar—in Rutherford College, it may
surprise you to learn. A guy and his wife had a catalogue of karaoke tunes you
could howl along to. Speakers were set up in one corner, and it was free to get
in—which was a huge plus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">So, Tuesdays after
rehearsals, the cast would go down to the bar and proceed to monopolize the
whole thing. I’m fairly certain that everyone else who showed up, not expecting
to see a horde of hyper glee-club types, hated the cast for filling the request
queue with Elton John, Phantom of the Opera, and other musicals. And frankly, I
could understand why. There were a few people who sang the same songs <i>every
week</i>, and some weeks, twice in one night. They viewed it as their signature
songs (I’m thinking of one odd guy who chose “Hallelujah” every week and, my
friends, was not Leonard Cohen). Everyone else viewed the songs as the reasons
why they couldn’t get up in front of their friends and sing a
horrible-on-purpose rendition of “Don’t Stop Me Now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And this Tuesday was no
different. I showed up a little later than everyone else, having to stop by the
Gulb and get some post-dancing coffee and think about a few songs I’d try to
sneak in between the society’s onslaught of Broadway songs. The society seemed
to be already drunk—which I thought was amazing, considering rehearsals had
been over for only half an hour—and I was greeted with several unintelligble
shouts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">To my left was a portion of
the cast, huddled around one person clutching a microphone for dear life. They
all yelled lyrics to some song from some musical I’d never heard before. I
looked over to my right and saw Dixie hanging around with somepeople I
recognized from American Society,<a href="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/asimon/My%20Documents/Dropbox/Writing/Canterbury_Tales_Two.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[1]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
so, not really wanting to deal with the voices of a dozen drunk English
students, I walked over to his group. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yo man,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dixie turned around. I could
tell he was quite drunk already. “Hey!” he shouted. Then he introduced me to
the group of people surrounding him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Turned out they were all
Americans. It was strange, how Dixie seemed to be a cultural attache to
American students studying at Kent. The Student hadn’t mentioned such a thing
when he was here a couple years ago, so I assumed that it was a new position
put up by the Student Union in conjunction with the American Society. Or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, the three people
around him were Miles—from South Carolina, he looked a bit like Rivers Cuomo if
he were taller—Jeff—a man who, I assumed, had followed The Dave Matthews Band
around the States—and Flynn—looked a bit like Neil Patrick Harris. We drank,
and discussed the many ways we preferred England to the States. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Now, it turned out that
Flynn would be one of the founding members of the Man Squad, along with a man
who—I believe—was directly descended from Thor himself. The Man Squad, you see,
was a loose confederation of a few people who enjoyed video games and acting
like jackasses. The founders of Man Squad determined that it would stand for
the Fourfold Path: Coffee, Beer, Hockey, and Internship. Further, meetings of
the Man Squad went about going down in pubs and over Risk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But I’m getting ahead of
myself. At that time, I’d just met the guy and was more trying to convince
Dixie that him getting up and singing “Stand By Your Man” was a good idea. It
didn’t work, sadly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I was interrupted by Lucie,
who demanded that we sing a song together. I said, “Yeah!” We decided on “(I’m
Gonna Be) 500 Miles” by The Proclaimers, I went to get a Jack Daniel’s, and she
disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well that’s odd,” I thought.
I then went back to talking shit about the South with the Americans until
having to go up to the mic and sing two parts in a two-person song. The good
thing about the Proclaimers, you see, is that both of the singers sound exactly
the same, so it might as well be one person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div>
<!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/asimon/My%20Documents/Dropbox/Writing/Canterbury_Tales_Two.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[1]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> You remember
them? No? Well, it has been a <i>very</i> long time since I mentioned them.
Right. American Society were a bunch of Brits who, for whatever reason, had an
odd fixation on American society and culture and decided to form a club around
it. </div>
</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-87233958375742505332011-10-19T13:23:00.000-05:002011-10-19T13:23:16.253-05:00The Student Fills In<br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Um, hello. Yes. Hello, then.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">You probably realise that
I’m not The Narrator. That is, if you’ve read the title above—which I hope you
have, since it’s a very good... yes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Look, sorry. I’m not used to
these blog things. I’ve never started one myself, and I don’t know anyone who
has. Well, except for The Narrator, who’s apparently started two of them.
That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think? Having two blogs covering the same
time span—one (this one) much longer than the other. Of course, not being privy
to that blog, you wouldn’t know anything about it, would you? Frankly, I’m not
sure who’s reading <i>this </i>one. The Narrator, you see, didn’t give me any
instructions vis a vis posting this to any website, and all of my JSTOR and
LexisNexis searches have turned up nil for most of the more unique sentences in
this thing. So, point being, I’m not sure anyone <i>is</i> reading this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Though, on the other hand,
someone must be reading this, for if not, then why would The Narrator be asking
me to “fill in” for a gap of time in posting? And, more importantly—once
again—to write “like myself” as opposed to the more flowery and traditionally,
shall we say, Victorian style that The Narrator has adopted elsewhere. And on
that note, one must wonder why, exactly, The Narrator, a largely unVictorian
sort of man when it comes to everything except romance (though, frankly, I have
never spoken to the man about such topic, and have only this blog, and the
other, to go on—though when considering the proposition inherent in these blogs
[that is, that they have fictional elements (such as the scenes wherein The
Narrator is drugged and taken to some absurd dungeon)], neither may very well
be an accurate portrayal of The Narrator’s feelings)—yes, apologies—one must
wonder why The Narrator has chosen to adopt said style.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I shall have to query him
about that the next time we meet, and I am not in a mad rush to the library.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The one thing The Narrator
did suggest is that I take this time to introduce myself to you—whoever “<i>you</i>”
may be. So: Hello again. My name is The Student and I am studying the
correlation between classical and neo-classical mentalities in the literature
of Joseph Conrad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Well, studying that at the
moment. It may very well change. I despise Conrad, you see. I know, I know.
There are legions of academics who would lynch me for saying that, but there is
something utterly despicable about the man’s utter and overwhelming desire to
be seen as British instead of his native nationality. Why, I do not know.
Perhaps it was because of political turmoil, or some self-loathing instinct. But
when an author such as Kafka—one of the greats, and there can be no doubt of
that—willingly identifies himself with such an obscure nationality as
Hungarian, then why must Conrad divorce himself from a nation that has played a
large role in European affairs like Poland? Such a confusing mental state, if
you were to ask me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But you didn’t. No doubt you
want to hear more about my love life or something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It’s dead. Is that short
enough for you? Dead, blasted, and buried. Fucking paratroopers. Yes, yes, yes,
I know, he may not have had the anxiety that defines me to such a whole extent,
and may in fact have had more <i>people skills</i>, but that’s all nonsense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Also, if you are of the
clever sort, you may have noticed the tense of that phrasing up there. I’m
writing this well after the fact of the year in Canterbury that the five of us
underwent. I’m under strict orders to not tell you what The Narrator—or anyone
else—is up to (though I can assure you it is nothing amazing and is quite
dull), only that I may say what I am doing. I am working on my Ph.D in Comp
Lit—focusing on what I mentioned above. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I believe that there was
some mention of my hatred for Conrad in this narrative before, so I shan’t
dwell on it. I will only say that it is sometimes easier to talk about what you
hate more than what you love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Right, anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Narrator left off
talking about the time Tuna, The Drunkard, and he broke into the Inquire
offices. That much is true—and we know it is true because the next day, the new
issue of Inquire had the headline of “DIE INQUIRE IST TOT, DADA UBER ALLES”,
followed by bricks of text in the Wingdings font. It was, for lack of a better
word, mental.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">No one got the joke, it
seemed, except Literature students—and even then, only the ones who really
cared about what they were studying. (So, that is to say, there were about ten
who got the joke. I was one, along with six other post-grads, and I think I
overheard a couple of third years in Mungo’s discuss the implications of the
return of Dadaism.) Regardless, The Drunkard saw this as a triumph against the
forces of mediocrity on the paper—and, in a way, it was. The editor was let go
soon after the issue was released, and the assistant editor, who I knew as a
third year who was more focused on buying three hundred pounds’ worth of
make-up along side a couple hundred pounds’ worth of accessories every month,
was put in his place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The next issue—which came
out a month after the Dada issue—resembled more of a celebrity gossip tabloid
than anything else. The Drunkard foamed at the mouth and tried to encourage his
French flatmates to rise up and break out Madame Guillotine. (The veracity of
that account of events, wherein The Stalker was almost decapitated, is still in
question in my mind. If I remember correctly, it was around the time when The
Drunkard first discovered mead, and shared it with The Narrator, and both were
quite drunk when the former told the latter the story. I believe if there were
such a thing as Madame Guillotine, The Drunkard would have used it upon The
Writer by now.) As evidenced by the lack of murder, The Drunkard was not
successful in his appeal, and, the month after that, another issue of Inquire
came out—this time focusing on an all-Lady Gaga issue. The Drunkard disappeared
for a week after that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, I think that The
Narrator intended me not to give you a full recounting of those events, but
more of what he was doing after the break-in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For whatever reason, talking
about rehearsals makes him go twitchy. I don’t know why. He seemed fine and
happy at the time, so why he should, a year and a half after, feel the need to
overdramaticize the events—or whatever it is that he is doing by having another
peron write about what happened to him—is beyond me. Here. This is what he
wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">On October 4, 2011 at
1:23AM, </span>TheNarrator@Gmail.com<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Student,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I need some help from you,
buddy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Been working on that blog,
right? (No, not the one you saw when we were in Canterbury—that one’s long over
since I’ve finally stopped reading fucking Coleridge. The other one that I may
have mentioned to you a couple times. And if not: There’s a second blog. Layers
upon layers upon layers; turtles on turtles on turles; INCEPTION.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, I’m hitting a rut
with it, and could use someone else to write a bit for me. I’m going to start
with you, then, depending on how that goes, go to the others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But yeah, I’m about that
point in the spring term when Fiddler rehearsals were ratcheting up, and I
don’t want to talk about them. Yes. I know it’s weird. I have my reasons. Please
stop judging me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .3pt; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in left 63.0pt; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Narrator<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">On October 4, 2011 at
8:32AM, </span>TheStudent@Gmail.com<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> wrote<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">You wrote that at 1:30 in
the morning? Narrator, don’t you have a job? Are you okay? Dear Lord, man. Seek
help if you have insomnia and don’t worry about your bloody blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Yes, I will write a guest
chapter. Just, please, get some sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">--<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And so, that’s why I’m here now. Talking to you about
my hatred for Joseph Conrad, The Drunkard and Madame Guillotine, and The
Narrator’s worrying insomnia. That’s... about it.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-22553662723683891022011-10-07T13:32:00.000-05:002011-10-07T13:32:12.329-05:00Breaking In with The Drunkard<br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked out of Block D at
11:01 PM wearing black trousers, dress shoes, and a black button up shirt. It
was chilly out again, but surprisingly not too bad. I guess there was so much
pot being smoked in Woolf that night that it created a sort of warm air bubble
around the college, trapping in some heat. There was a group of people in the
courtyard in front of my block. Two of them wore black hoodies, one wore a
black pea coat and a black fedora. The other, obviously The Student, wore a
sweater, jeans, and black tennis shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Look, dude,” said The
Drunkard, one of the people in the black hoodies, “I’m not saying you’re doing
it wrong, but you need to rethink your outfit tonight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You said ‘wear black,’”
said The Student. “I’m wearing black. I fail to see what the problem is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“The problem is you look
like normal. There’s nothing to disguise you fro—oh, fuck me, really, Narrator?
Are we going to <i>shul</i> tonight?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” I asked. “You said
‘wear black.’ I’m wearing black. I fail to see what the problem is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“See?” asked The Student.
“Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Can I ask you something?”
said the other man in a black hoodie. He had what could be described as a Jew
nose, and in the brief glance I got of his eyes in that dim light, I saw
unpredictability and the desire to watch the world burn. “Why are all your
friends idiots, man? They’ve got cameras. Everywhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah, Tuna,” The Drunkard
said, sipping out of a flask, “I know. They’re all pretty law-abiding people,
though. Not their fault—they just haven’t had the same experiences we’ve had.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’ve taken drugs derived
from rhino shit,” said the man in the fedora.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I squinted. “Traveler? Is
that you? Why do you look like a spy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“They said to dress in
black. This is all I had.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Man,” said the guy named
Tuna, “this isn’t <i>Spy Vs. Spy</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nor is it Let’s Dress Like
Chavs Night, but you two seem to be under that impression.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A silence passed over
everyone. “I’d kick your ass,” said Tuna, “but you’re funny. Come on let’s go,
I’m bored.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“We got everyone?” asked The
Drunkard. He looked around. “Yeah, looks like we do. Let’s head out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Where are we going?” asked
The Student.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wait,” Tuna said. “You just
showed up because he told you to?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student looked down at
the ground and cleared his throat. “Well, my girlfriend just dumped me for some
other guy, and I don’t have any essays to write at the moment, so I didn’t have
any reason to not to go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Traveler shrugged.
“Sounded like it’d be fun.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Tuna nodded approvingly at
this. He turned to me. “You?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Erm,” I said, scratching
the back of my head. “Well, he, uh, told me to show up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Tuna’s eyes narrowed.
“Sheeple.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I gently coughed out an
apology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard moved towards
Giles Lane, and we followed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The door was unlocked. This
made our job a whole lot easier, and made me think that perhaps we weren’t breaking
and entering. Maybe someone was pulling an all-nighter on the paper staff and
left the door open so they could go grab a shitty burger at The Kitchen.<a href="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/asimon/My%20Documents/Dropbox/Writing/Canterbury_Tales_Two.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[1]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I’d never been in this
building. There hadn’t ever been a reason for me to come in, honestly. Some
people I knew said I should have gone in, dropped off a stack of my writing,
and demanded a job—but that was absurd. I’d read Inquire. The paper was put out
on a monthly basis, chock-full of typos, and had leading stories such as
“Students At Kent Want More Opening Hours for The Venue.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Put short, I don’t think
they would have appreciated my style. Granted, I’d had an Op-Ed column at The
Unversity of Tennessee, so one could make the case that there was precedent for
me being a part of this particular student publication, but that would be
omitting a very important fact: I was fired from that job after turning out a
column calling governors useless and demanding that they be pitted against each
other in something akin to Thunderdome. That was my style. Power outages? A
lesser columnist would have called for the University’s administration to do
something to upgrade all of the generators. I, however, claimed that I’d seen
Gremlins mucking about in them, and that they were—obviously—readying
themselves to kill everyone on campus. The worrying state of Hollywood? Well, I
said, at least they’re not remaking <i>Red Dawn</i>. (This being several years
before the announcement that they were, in fact, remaking <i>Red Dawn</i>. I’m
a Prophet, you see.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway. The point is that I
was not familiar with this place, but that The Drunkard seemed to be. He led
the charge up the staircase immediately in front of the door and held Tuna back
when he, in some barbarian rage, almost headbutted down a door. “Save the
hatred,” The Drunkard said, “that’s the wrong door.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Tuna grunted and clenched
and unclenched a fist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Narrator,” asked The
Student, “are we going to die?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well, we will all
eventually die, Student,” I said. “It is just a question of when and in what
state.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Thanks. That helps a lot.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No problem.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I don’t think we’ll die,”
said The Traveler. “There is no doubt that our new Turkish friend is built like
The Goddamn Batman, but there’s no reason—” he said as Tuna screamed and
kicked down a door, “—that we should be afraid. You know, just don’t stare into
his eyes. That might be a sign that you’re challenging him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Good man, Tuna Shark,” said
The Drunkard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The two stepped into the
large room on the other side of the door, and the three of us, languishing
behind and not really sure why The Drunkard wanted us along, followed behind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The room, when The Traveler
turned on the lights, was the top of the Student Affairs building stuck onto
the end opposite the bookstore. It, I guess, was the headquarters of the
Inquire newspaper. There were three flimsy, plastic desks on top of which sat
old computers with CRT monitors. Against the wall to my left upon entering was
a gigantic printer, out of which—I reckoned—came the newspaper every month. The
rest of the room was given over to some large desks on top of which sat tools
for measuring out and aligning the paper before it went to print. It was one of
these tables that Tuna threw out the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The alarm sounded, The
Student fled, and The Drunkard sighed. “Jumped the gun, man.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Tuna
said, paced back and forth along the windows. “You call me up and you say,
‘We’re gonna wreck some shit.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I said ‘We’re going to
engage in sabotage,’” said The Drunkard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Same thing. You say that,
and then you want me to <i>not</i> wreck some shit? You need to work on your
communication skills.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” said The Traveler.
“I’m—I’m going to head out, now. Don’t really see the point in hanging around
only for Campus Watch to swing by and arrest me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Man, Campus Watch aren’t
worth the badges they wear,” said Tuna. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Be that as it may.
Narrator, you want to head out?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked at Tuna and The
Drunkard. The Drunkard was haphazardly smashing at a keyboard on the largest
desk, and Tuna had pulled a face that said, very clearly, that if I left now, I
would forever be branded a coward, and would not have his respect. And I knew,
then, that not having Tuna’s respect would be a dangerous thing. (I didn’t know
at the time that Tuna was actually a really cool dude—except when someone
insulted one of his friends—who listened to opera, of all things.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nah,” I said, “I’ll stick
around. Y’know, bar the door and rappel down the side of the building if needs
be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Traveler raised an
eyebrow. “You’re going to rappel down a building? Y—look, your funeral.” He
lowered his hat over his eyebrow, dug his hands into his p-coat, and left the
building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Where do you get your
friends?” asked Tuna.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“We tell each other
stories,” said The Drunkard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What, like some gay shit?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard looked up with
a quizzical look on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Man, I’m joking.” He turned
to me. “Your name is The Narrator, right?” He now had to scream as the alarm’s
volume grew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah,” I shouted back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What are you here for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Ranting in Literature.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What the fuck is that and why are you doing that in grad school?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s like everything in the
School of English,” I shouted. “It’s an excuse for otherwise unemployable
people to gather around a table and talk bullshit for three hours a week. At
the end of it, we’ll get a degree that means nothing except that we should
probably go for a PhD if we want to accomplish anything in life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Tuna laughed. “I like that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“All right!” shouted The
Drunkard. He swiped a bunch of stuff off of the desk in front of him. “Let’s
head out.” He walked to the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What were you doing?” I
asked as we passed the door that Tuna had almost headbutted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Tweaking a few things on
the next issue of Inquire. See, this organization?” he asked, drawing the
hoodie tighter around his face as we approached the door. “This place is unbelievably
shitty, as you well know. Gents,” he said to the two tall, obese Campus Watch
guards who were standing outside the building, looking up at the broken window.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">They looked at us and said,
“You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard laughed a merry
laugh and put on a shitty posh accent. “Why, what a humorous question. My
friends and I were just locking up at the Societies Room, what, and happened to
overhear what seemed to be the most awful crash—pip pip, what? When we looked
out into the hallway, we saw some uppity Yank storming out. Believe he had
black contacts in and looked just on the pallid side. God save the Queen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“God save the Queen,” the
Campus Watch said in chorus. “This American,” the one on the right—who had the
extremely thin hair—said, hatred dripping out of his voice at the word
‘American,’ “how tall would you say he was?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh,” said The Drunkard,
scratching his chin. “About my height. A bit thinner. Pallid. So very pallid.
As if Death himself were about to swoop down with his mighty scythe and take
off his head. Would be worried if he weren’t going around breaking through
windows, what what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Indeed,” said the two
Campus Watch officers in chorus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oi James,” said the one on
the left—the one with the ginger hair. “Don’t that sound like that one who been
peekin through windows, what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So it does, Carl. So it
does. Lads,” said the one on the right. “We thank you much and get home safe,
now. See any more Yanks around causing trouble, you tell us, and we’ll head over
and beat em down for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard thanked them,
and we went on our way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Right as we were at the
border between out-of-earshot and still audible to the Watch, Tuna began going
on a tirade against the Brits’ and their “post-colonial mentality.” I didn’t
quite follow him all the way, since I think there was just some need to vent at
something there, but as long as he was content, that was cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We got back to Woolf and
Tuna went to “watch <i>Dark Knight</i>, because I need to see <i>something</i>
blow up tonight.” The Drunkard and I hung around the courtyard for a bit
longer, discussing what was going on in our lives. This was aided by a bottle
of Scotch that The Drunkard procured from some deep recess of his hoody, and
two cigars—which also magically appeared from somewhere in his hoody. (I’ve
never quite understood the way that clothing garment manages to always have
much more storage capacity than it should.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He was having nightly
confrontations with the Frenchmen about their smoking habits and the odd pamphlets
he’d seen sprinkled around the house. “If I’m translating them correctly,” The
Drunkard said after a puff of his cigar, “then they’re tracts calling for the
upheaval of the cultural cesspool that is the British royal monarchy and
complete reversal of the current hegemony.” He sighed. “I don’t know what the
fuck they’re studying.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Revolutionary Cliches?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard shrugged. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There came a ruckus from
Block E. We looked over and saw the two morbidly obese Campus Watch officers
pulling a screaming and flailing Stalker from the building. “Fascists!”
screamed The Stalker. “I have rights, God damn you! Where are my rights? I
demand a barrister!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The officers didn’t respond,
just dragged him out of the building and tossed him—as if he were a rag
doll—into their golf cart. They sped off and The Drunkard and I looked at each
other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“That’s not good,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No,” said The Drunkard.
“That’s probably because of what I did.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Probably,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Think I should do something
about it?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Probably.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Time passed. “God damn it,”
he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div>
<!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/asimon/My%20Documents/Dropbox/Writing/Canterbury_Tales_Two.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><!--[if !supportFootnotes]-->[1]<!--[endif]--></span></span></a> It is a well
known fact that there are very few places—per capita—to get a good burger in
the UK. I guess it’s because they are—overall—healthier than the U,S,m and
thus, the urge to eat fat-ridden red meat is lesser. Still. As an American,
seeing the profusion of the cardboard the Brits called hamburger patties was a
horrible thing. Next time you’re in the UK, tell them that they don’t know what
a good burger is. They won’t listen and insist that Yanks are too stupid to
talk about food, but you’ll at least be trying. </div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-22035028388339069972011-09-28T10:58:00.000-05:002011-09-28T10:58:48.050-05:00The Stalker's Second Tale<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai ben Yosef was a short, stout man from a Caliph’s land far to the south. It was rumored to never have seen snow, and the people were said to move about by way of mounting strange, four-legged beasts with bumps on their backs. He was a man of books, sent from that land because he’d insulted the intelligence of his teacher by insinuating that the trainer had mistranslated a word in a Greek text while preparing for a discussion at a temple. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The teacher, an extremely egotistical old man, had Mordechai banished on the next trade caravan heading north. As tended to happen, that trade caravan was ambushed by nomads fifty miles north of their departure, and everyone who had not been killed in the ambush—totalling twenty people—were captured and put to irons. Mordechai was one of them, and came close to death several times simply because he continuously complained about his station in life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The slavers’ patience wore thin, and the only thing keeping a blade from hacking<span> </span>off Mordechai’s head was the suspicion that the Jewish scholar might pull a decent price as a galley slave. While incredibly undernourished for such a position, the Jew showed a good amount of stamina by not dropping dead in the desert heat, which several other slaves had. The only problem was the man’s incessant yammering, but that could easily be solved by sewing the man’s mouth shut.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">At any rate, they didn’t make it to their destination. As the slave caravan passed into Asia Minor, they stopped at a small river to rest for a few hours. Mordechai had been allowed a bit of freedom after he pulled one of the guards’ dead tooths. He wandered off to the river and plopped down in the bank-side dirt for a nice, long think—most of which had to deal with him analyzing his present situation and deciding whether or not he’d be able to get away with fleeing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">About ten minutes into his interior monologue, Mordechai looked up from his reverie to see three very odd-looking ships, long, wooden things with square red-and-white sails and horrible beasts that resembled </span>Leviathan's<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> description on the front of the boat. Men were on those things. hulking men who looked like they could rip someone in half with their pinky fingers. They stood at the sides of the boats, clutching sharp axes and straight swords, things that lacked the grace of a decent weapon. Mordechai, of course, was scared the point of petrification.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As they drew closer he heard their chanting. It was a guttural sound that hugged the water and the ground, and crawled instead of flew through the air. They thumped their axes against the decks of their boats. “Go back to the caravan and warn them,” Mordechai thought—for a moment considering the caravan more like family than these people. “Yeah,” Mordechai thought, gulping, “screw that. Those <i>goyim</i> can—” his thought was interrupted by a small axe whizzing through the air and burying itself in the ground right next to his right leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The men on the boat laughed and leapt off onto the shore.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A couple of the caravan guards had come to the river to fetch the Jew, saw the longboats, and called for help. Mordechai looked dumbly from the longboats to the slavers and gulped. “Oh God, help me please,” he prayed. Not that he expected anything to come of it. This was the same God who allowed him to be put in this position in the first place, caught in between a group of terrifying pale-skinned barbarians and people who wanted to sell him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">No sooner had he thought about all of this than one of the Vikings knocked him unconscious.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">When he awoke, he was in a dank, cramped room and was slowly swaying from side to side. He bent up and blinked a few times. He felt around him and noticed that someone had taken away his tefillin, which at least the caravan had had the decency to let him keep. “Great,” he thought. “First I’m cast out of Yerusalem and now where am I? Stuck on a boat somewhere with no tefillin. Can’t pray. There’s no getting out of here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Several thumps landed on the ceiling above his head, followed by raucous shouts and more chanting. A section of the ceiling lifted up and one of the giants, a man with one eye and a huge, ratty beard leapt down the stairs from the outside, walked over to Mordechai, said something in his grunting and spitting language and laughed, and then picked Mordechai up and threw him up on the deck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Compared to the dark of below-deck, topside was blinding, and it took even longer for Mordechai to get used to what he was looking at. When he did adjust, he wasn’t happy with what he saw. The accumulated gems and treasures and coins of the guards were piled on the decks of the longships in what looked like roughly equal amounts. Smoke raised from just beyond the rise separating the river from where he remembered the caravan to be. In the middle of the deck, about four yards from where he stood, two of the guards were tied to the mast of the ship, blood streaming from their noses, their heads lolling down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh good Lord,” Mordechai said. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The giant behind him spat something out, laughed again, and pushed Mordechai forward, towards the other end of the ship. As they passed the mast, one of the men looked up, blinking, and said, “Salaam, please, help us off of this place and—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He got no further before another giant, this one with stark red hair, lopped off his head with an axe. The head flung up in the air and the man caught it by its head, shouting out something. The rest of the men on the ship, about twenty, all laughed. The giant prodded Mordechai along to the other end of the longship, where another man, this one a bit grayer about the face and, yes, without an eye and a whole lot of scars across his arms—presumably across his torso as well, though that happened to be covered up by a leather shirt—held a large piece of parchment and argued with another man.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai stopped three feet away from the man, and his prodder said something.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The old man looked up and over Mordechai. He pointed at the parchment. Mordechai tilted his head. The younger man, who had black-and-gray hair and spoke in Greek, “You are Jew!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai blinked. His Greek wasn’t the best, but he was more surprised that a man who had the skin color of a man whose home was a tomb knew Greek. “Yes,” Mordechai ventured.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Jew knows writing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes,” Mordechai ventured again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The man talked to the old man. The old man responded and the young man said, “My father is leader of our expedition. He says you translate map or we kill you with blood eagle.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai gulped. “What’s ‘blood eagle?’”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Eh,” said the younger man, “it is something that is very bad. Very painful. See, Erik Redbeard—” he nodded to a towering, barrel-chested man with a long, red beard who was kicking one of the guard’s corpses on the bow—“he will take a knife. He will take the knife and he will cut your torso open, at which point, he will take your ribs and—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay,” Mordechai said, feeling sicker than he had since the day he’d been asked to go to the butcher’s and pick up some fresh meat. “Okay, okay. That’s enough. I’ll translate your map just—oy vey iz mir, just don’t talk about any more of your ways of having fun with dead things.” Mordechai wiped sweat off his brow and walked up between the two men, and looked down at the map.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was a poorly-made thing, he could tell that immediately. The ink on all of the physical features bled together, creating a greenish-blue blob whenever rivers met plains, as they did so often on the map. From Mordechai’s reckoning, they were somewhere near the Black Sea, which should have put the danger from the maniacs on horseback—with whom the caravan wanted to trade—instead of the maniacs on boats, in whose hospitality he found himself. Far to the east, at least a fortnight’s ride if the map was anywhere near scale, was a trading city in the middle of the land of the Khazars.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai nearly leapt in joy. The Khazars, while assuredly as barbaric as everyone else in this godforsaken land of steppes, sand, and the barest of grass—not an olive grove to be found, can you believe how these people lived without olives?—were supposedly Jews. Mordechai glanced around him and quickly studied these people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">All men, no women and no livestock of their own. Some of them were engaged in bringing the trophies of their raid of the caravan down into the empty holds. Mordechai would have wagered that these men were not looking to settle down in the area—there was no way their fair skin and predilection for gutting people could make them friends in this civilized area. So if they were hoarding materials, and trying to translate a map, he figured that they were going to either pillage their way around the world, or eventually stop and trade. Now, whether they’d pillage the Caliph’s lands was the question, but, ultimately, Mordechai didn’t care. The mamzers back there had sold him into slavery and they could go shit in the ocean for all he was concerned.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But the Khazars—they were rumored to be people one did not want to fuck with. Armies, ships patrolling their waterways, that sort of stuff. Added to the fact that they were supposedly brothers of the maniacs on horses, and thus carried some of their bloodlust, and it was pretty certain there was a way to get out of this. “Well over there,” Mordechai said, in Greek, pointing to the few buildings sketched on the map, “is a city—can’t pronounce it, but I’ve heard of it. Trading outpost, from what I know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The older man nodded and spoke to the younger, then walked towards the bow of the ship and conferred with Erik Redbeard. The younger said, “Jew, you and I will go to this place.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m sorry?” asked Mordechai. “You and I? H—Wh—How?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“We kept four horses alive. The rest are food now. My father Wotan Baldricksson sends us out to search, destroy, and spread the fear and war of the All-Father as we go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai looked at the towering, grinning man with his gapped smile and bloodshot eyes and gulped. “I—I’m not really one for long trips. The longest trip I’ve taken was a couple years ago and that was the butcher. Know how that ended? I plotzed when I saw the lamb carcasses. No, I think I’ll—uh...” He looked around the boat at the gore and treasure. “I can teach your friends Talmud?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The tall man burst into laughter and slapped Mordechai in the back, sending him hurdling forward and nearly falling off the top of the longship. “I like you! Jew has name? My name is Sven Wotansson, and I have killed ten men today—” he held up ten fingers, “—and many more in the past. How many have you killed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai pulled at the neck of his robe and cleared his throat. “Once I killed a lizard. That was on accident. It stepped in front of me and I stepped on its head and cried shortly thereafter. My mother, she told me to stop being a moron and slapped me and brought me to the rabbi, who called me a moron and slapped me, so I don’t really—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Norseman boomed laughter and shouted in his guttural language. His shipmates, in turn, also burst into laughter. “What was that about?” asked Mordechai. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I say that the Jew will be like a sentry for them. If we are in trouble, you will scream loud enough for Valhalla to hear!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh,” said Mordechai. “What’s Valhalla?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I will tell you all about it. Come, friend Jew, we begin a long journey.” Sven Wotansson smacked Mordechai on the back once again and left to gather supplies for the long journey to Khazaria. The rumored towers and high city walls of the exotic nation rose up in Mordechai’s mind, just enough to allow him to overlook the stinging pain of the Nordic man’s less-slap-more-bash.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The steppes never ended. Mordechai had never conceived of something that could never end. After all, his world existed within the confines of a walled city. But these lands, with their repressive flatness and vegetation that was, well, <i>alien</i>, stretched out far and wide with few signs of habitation. That evidence he did see was mostly ruins, shells of buildings and burned-out frames of huts, with some dead and decaying animals nearby. “Battle,” Sven Wotansson said. He sniffed at the air and squinted into the distance. “Battle from these beasts.” He shook his head. “Not the right battle, though.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Sorry?” Mordechai asked. He’d long ago taken off his coat and hat. Stripped down to his shirt, trousers, and yarmulke, it was still too hot. He wondered what the rabbis would think of avoiding heatstroke as an excuse to trim his beard, but decided he better not tempt bad things. “There’s a correct sort of battle?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wotansson nodded. “That is right. From ships. A quick raid, just enough to take a village’s gold and maybe some women, yes?” He boomed in laughter. “There was a time, we sailed down River Volga—you know Volga?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Can’t say I do, I’m afraid.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You should see Volga. I think we are near it, actually.” He squinted into the distance. “Yes, I recognize this land. My boat sailed through here years ago and took enough prizes and—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A horn sounded somewhere in the distance. A low sound, almost like that of a <i>shofar</i> at Rosh Hashanah, cut across the steppes. Sven silenced himself immediately and his hand jumped to the base of his double-bladed axe. Mordechai gulped and a chill went down his spine. “What kind of bird was that?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Friend Jew, this was no bird,” said Sven, hoisting the axe in his hand and stopping the horse. “Look,” he nodded off into the distance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai looked. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then came the cloud. Then he saw the horsemen and felt the charge. There must have been a whole army of them, he thought, to feel their approach this far out. “Do we get off our horses?” he asked. “You know, dig holes, hide maybe?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Sven only shook his head. From the pack on the back of his horse, he grabbed a long knife and tossed it to Mordechai, who caught it, barely missing cutting his palm open on the blade. “Oh,” he said. “Thanks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wield it well and honor your ancestors.” A terrifying grin spread outwards on his face as Sven spoke. “For today we die, friend Jew.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh fuck me,” Mordechai said. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve got a plan, right? My ancestors—forget it. My father was a baker and my mother’s family were musicians. Warriors they were not and, oy, if they were to go into battle, then well they’d <i>plotz</i>, I think. Sure wouldn’t be abl—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Then you will be the first to die honorably in your family, and you will meet Odin in the halls of Valhalla and feast and fuck until Ragnarok. Fight from the saddle.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“With this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, with that,” said Sven.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The riders were now close enough to loose some arrows at the pair. Mordechai knew this because an arrow sailed through the air and hit his horse in the throat. He learned something, then, that he never thought he’d have to learn: Horses do not like being shot in the throat with arrows. His mount reared up and bucked him off, sending the Jew falling onto the ground. The horse ran off back the way they came and Mordechai had just managed to stand up as the riders rode up, screaming in a horrible language. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The next five minutes were brutal and bloody, and, weeks later, Mordechai still wasn’t able to recall everything that had happened. He did know, however, that he somehow managed to live and, judging by the way Sven Wotansson clapped him on the back so many times, he must have killed someone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He guessed it happened as he backed up to Wotansson’s horse, which was treating this like it was just another day in the life. As the riders—all wearing thick leather armor, caps with flaps that covered their ears and oily black hair (he figured out this detail as the decapitated head of one of the riders flopped down at his feet, followed shortly by the rider’s corpse)—rushed and circled them, the horse grazed at the grass even as blood speckled its body and the Norse warrior screamed nonsense about Odin, Thor, and that Valhalla place while heaving his axe all around him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai, figuring that there might have been safety in the calmness of the horse was pressed up against the beast, clutching the knife out in front of him. As Sven fought above him and the riders circled, one of them, whose horse was nowhere to be found, charged at Mordechai from the circling ring of madmen. The only detail Mordechai caught was the man’s teeth, which were godawful, and bared like the man was some sort of damn baboon. But the more worrying part of this was the sword the the man held and seemed quite intent on burying in Mordechai’s skull. The scholar froze as the barbarian charged, screaming and bringing the sword down in an arc.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">At the time Mordechai was begging Adonai’s forgiveness for all his sins, the horse decided that he didn’t actually like this spot. Perhaps the sudden deluge of blood had ruined a patch of grass. Anyway, for whatever reason, Wotansson’s mount moved slightly, but just enough so that Mordechai toppled over backwards and the rushing barbarian, carried by surprise, stumbled a bit. Mordechai reached out with the knife and swiped at the man’s calf. Judging by the spray of blood, he connected—and then promptly vomited. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The man toppled forward and, through a couple of freak occurrences that worked out quite well for Mordechai, stabbed himself through the gut by falling forward onto the blade. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Soon after that, the riders fled the wrath of Sven Wotansson. The Viking leapt down from the horse and gave Mordechai a kick in his ribs. “Friend Jew, I hope you are not dead; someone must read the maps.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai rolled over, squelching in the blood-soaked dirt. “No, that would be a kindness. And when has God been kind?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Sven laughed. “Odin is kind to those who kill.” He nodded at the dead rider a few feet away. “Is that your work?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, oh shit it is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wotansson barked a laugh—in the back of his mind, Mordechai worried for this man; no one should laugh this much, and if they did, they probably had some severe birth defect. “Well met, friend Jew. It is a shame we travel through a country where one man can kill fifteen and receive only a scratch across the chest.” He pointed at a deep, bleeding wound running across his pectoral muscles. “You brown men are weak. Too much sun, I think. Drains energy, makes you rely on those weak bows instead of an axe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai sat up and made a perfunctory effort to dust off his robes. “Yes, well, I don’t know quite about you, but I spent most of my life learning to read.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Read?” Wotansson asked, puzzled.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Never mind. Let’s move on, shall we? I wouldn’t want your horse to get sick from eating grass affected by, er, entrails.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Not yet,” Wotansson said. “First, we loot.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The looting was, somehow, even more barbaric to Mordechai than the massive amounts of killing. Maybe it was the unadulterated glee Wotansson showed when he mocked the various dead men on the ground as he went around, stealing lightweight, valuable-looking items. Of course, when Wotansson tossed Mordechai a long, curved scimitar, there wasn’t much complaint out of him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And then, several hours later, near dusk, they made camp at a bend in the river they followed. Mordechai made the fire and then had to instruct Wotansson on the proper way to cut the meat from the lamb he’d killed earlier. “I’m not eating that,” was how it started.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What do you mean?” Wotansson asked. “It is a perfectly good brain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, God, no. Just, no,” Mordechai said with a shiver running up his spine. “Look, that’s not good for you. It is well-known that the people who eat kidneys have plagues called down upon them by God.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wotansson gave Mordechai a blank look. “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay, look, take my uncle Yeshua. My uncle, he was a member of a trade caravan, yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I have killed many trade caravans. They are weak.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fair enough,” Mordechai said, “but that’s not the point of this story. Look. One day, they’re travelling north from Yerushalem, yes? Well, they run out of food because some schmuck up ahead got lost and thought they were following a Phoenician Road when they were really following a Xian road, okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“This is all nonsense,” said Wotansson. “They should have been in boats. Rivers go one way. Never get lost that way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay, I’ll make sure to tell that to the trade companies when I return. Can I continue?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Please do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So they run out of food and, thanks to God, they find a herd of wild sheep. So, they proceed to butchering them. Well my Uncle Yeshua, he was never the smartest man in the family, so he starts eating literally everything from the body, because he’s so hungry, you see.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well, as you probably know, there are certain things forbidden to man to eat—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” Wotansson shouted. “What sort of god would forbid man to eat something? This is madness, and you too are mad.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Anyway,” Mordechai continued, “after he eats the sheep kidneys and, ah, various unmentionables, a group of raiders not entirely unlike yourself sweep through and eliminate the entire caravan.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wotansson shrugged. “They were weak and had probably eaten sheep with sickness. I tell you, kidney is fine to eat. This sheep I killed, it was fine. No zig-zag walking and it sounded perfectly normal. I eat brain, look,” Wotansson did, indeed, take a big bite out of the boiled kidney. He wiped his mouth, belched, and tossed the organ on the ground. “It is fine. Tomorrow, I will be alive, healthy, and I will kill another fifteen men if Odin the Gallows God wills it. Now, you tell me about your mad god who makes people follow stupid rules to make him happy, let me tell you of my god.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai, still disturbed by the wanton consuming of something so blatantly treife, nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Excellent!” Wotansson said. He clapped his hands, cracked his back, and sat up straight. “Many eons ago, after he was born, Odin killed a frost giant and carved the world out of his armpit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“The hell?” asked Mordechai.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes. It is true. It is also known that this was one of the first times that Asgard and the frost giants clashed—but it shall not be the last. For when Ragnarok comes, all will be bathed in fire and warfare, and the righteous dead—those who have died honorable deaths in battle and have feasted with Odin and the Aesir—will fight alongside the gods against Loki, Hel, and the giants.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What? Who are these people? Define your terms.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, yes. The brown ones do not know Odin and the Aesir.<span> </span>Loki is the trickster god who killed Baldur, the favorite son of Odin, the All-Father. Ragnarok is the end of all that has been made, when Fenrir breaks free of his chains and Loki rips out of his son’s intestines.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m sorry?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Ah, yes. Loki was sentenced to be tied to a rock in a cave by his son’s intestines while a snake drips poison onto his head. But he shall return, angry for whatever reason, and lead the combined races of giants and trolls alongside Hel’s armies of the dead too weak to have died in battle. And in the ensuing war that will sweep across the surface of<span> </span>Midgard, which will be called Ragnarok, Man and the gods will be eliminated.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wait,” Mordechai said, breaking in and shaking his head. “What sort of gods can die?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wotansson tilted his head to one side. “<i>The</i> gods. Not your god, who is a finnicky eater and requires you to dress in woman’s clothes.” Wotansson pointed at Mordechai’s robes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” Mordechai responded, gesticulating wildly. “You’re mad. This is the only proper way to dress; not parading around, in fur leggings like some—some... faun.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What is faun?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“One of the freaks the Greeks see when they’re drunk. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you, and all your people are barbaric morons, drunk on blood and delicious, delicious honey wine of yours—speaking of which, do you still have any?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Friend Jew, it might not be wise to drink mead when it is hot enough to make Thor sweat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Eh,” Mordechai said with a shrug. “I’ve made worse decisions—like joining you, for example.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wotansson laughed and held out the skin of wine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The next day found them hiding behind a rocky outcropping at the top of a hill. They were still in the steppes—as Mordechai feared, the steppes truly did appear to be never-ending—but at least it was overcast today, which blocked some of the heat and made the hangover much more bearable. That said, there were times through the day when Mordechai seriously considered lopping off his own head with the scimitar. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But now, around midday, Wotansson, the horse, and Mordechai had stopped dead in their tracks and right in the middle of another argument about whether Odin could beat Adonai in a fight. They stopped because just over the hill was a camp full of men who looked exactly like the riders who had ambushed them. The camp was arranged in a circle and made up mostly of brightly-colored, circular tents. To the west, a small herd of horses and sheep grazed in the grass. Fires rose up from within the main camp as some men stood over stone pits and turned spits. A few men wearing swords and bows on their backs walked around the edge of the camp, eyes on the horizon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Inside the camp, there wasn’t much activity, since a good number of the men had been killed the day before. Those who weren’t watching the animals or patrolling the perimeter were all congregated one man in particular who stood on a raised, wooden platform. The man wore a purple version an outfit that reminded Mordechai of one of the priests in the Temple. The difference being that while the priests were distinctly Jewish, these men quite obviously worshipped some sort of blob—at least, that’s what Mordechai judged by the bronze-cast splat-shaped object attached to the man’s hat. He shouted—Mordechai could hear bits of his speech, but not enough to get any specific words—and held his large staff in the air, bandying it about like he was trying to stir the air. “Have you seen these guys before?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I have not,” said Sven. His face was devoid of the sadistic glee that Mordechai was used to seeing and his eyes seemed like they’d turned to ice. “But I want that staff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What? Why?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“That icon is of bronze; bronze can be traded for more than gold in some places—and with that much, I can have my own ship.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re crazy, you know that? We go around these sorts of things. People in the thralls of religious mania are not to be crossed, Sven. That’s why the armies of Israel have never—what are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Sven Wotansson stood. “I am going to find out what they’re doing.” He dropped his axe on the dirt and said, “Friend Jew, give me the knife I gave you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mordechai did.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I will be back.” The glint returned into his eye. “Or not, if Odin wishes to feast with me this day. If that happens, then you must return to my people on the northern end of the river Volga and tell them that this land is not for the likes of us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Of course not. All lands belong to Odin. But, my people have not the patience to come this way anyway.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I don’t understa—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wotansson smacked him on the back with a hearty laugh. “Worry not, I shall return.” And with that, Wotansson crept down the hills. Mordechai was impressed. Such a man as him, what with his massive frame and all-around loudness should not have been able to creep, but there he was. The horse wasn’t bothered by its master’s departure, apparently; it kept grazing, tail flicking back and forth. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Northman, after a ten minute descent, reached the edges of the camp. He hid behind a tent and peeked around a corner, spotting a lone rider walking away from the center—unarmed. Wotansson headed his way and the two intersected about six yards away from the rearmost tent on the south-western side of the camp. There was a moment where the rider stood in confusion and was about to shout an alarm, but then Wotansson buried the knife in the man’s throat and heaved him to the ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The viking then removed the clothing the rider wore and put it on himself. Surprisingly, it fit. And the only problem he now faced was how to hide his face. A Nordic man such as himself would stand out easily in this group of men with braided black hair and tan skin. So he looked around, had an idea, and cut a strip fabric off of a nearby tent and wrapped it around his face, hiding all but his eyes. He then put the man’s wool cap on his head and walked into the camp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The center of the camp was in such a horrible state that Sven Wotansson sighed and considered lobbing off the head of the man closest to him, but decided that wouldn’t get him any closer to learning what was going on, or getting a hold of the priest’s staff. So he lingered and listened. The man spoke in a language that sounded as if he were trying to dislodge a hunk of pork from his throat, punctuated by a wheezing breath that, Wotansson supposed, was some sort of vowel. Regardless of the hideousness of the language, it was clear that the man was working himself up into some sort of frenzy, and that was having an effect on his congregation. The riders started chanting in the same language and holding their hands into the sky. Wotansson, still wanting to blend in, mimicked the group. Then, for a brief moment, the world grew dimmer. He heard a deep thrumming all around him and, just as soon as it had begun, it ended. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He shook his head and everyone lowered their arms. The priest spoke a few more words in his language and then shuffled off of the platform, walking into a large, red tent crowned by a large, iron blob much alike the one that was on top of his staff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The crowd, murmuring passed by Wotansson. A few clapped him on the shoulder, speaking to him. He grunted back, and the others laughed and walked off towards the horse pasture. The Viking, though, kept focused on the priest’s tent. He realized that he had little time before someone discovered the corpse on the edge of the camp, and he had to act fast. He doubted that the priest—who seemed from this close to be surprisingly thin, and eyes sunken—would be able to put up much of a fight, so he figured on a good ten minutes to take him out and remove the bronze icon. Then the fun would begin. He grinend to himself and figured that the bloodshed would begin when it would begin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He strode to the priest’s tent and walked inside, immediately hit with the stench of a hundred different oils. He blinked in the low light and saw the priest in detail—a wrinkled, old man with blackened teeth and milky-white eyes. The man looked at him and began murmuring and pointing at Wotansson.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Knowing just what to do, the Viking leapt and buried his knife in between the priest’s eyes. The warm red spurt covered Wotansson’s chest, but he didn’t pay it any attention. The body dropped to the floor and the Viking picked up the staff, which leant against a small table towards the back of a tent. Also on the table were a few gold icons, also shaped like different kinds of blobs. Shrugging and figuring that gold has universal value, Wotansson picked them off the table, stuffed them in the stolen robe, and grabbed the bronze blob on the staff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The world went dim then, except for a deep, bass throbbing. His head felt like it was going to pop at any second, then went to the other extreme and felt like it was going to shrink into a size smaller than his eyes. There came a guttural language, something that resonated at the back of his head, as if he’d heard it before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-20474458808660098382011-06-30T10:15:00.001-05:002011-06-30T10:15:01.529-05:00The Prologue to The Stalker's Second Tale<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">We sat in The Sub-Pope’s Flock the next day. It was interesting, today, how we all seemed to be so simultaneously quiet and morose.</span><br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Student was quiet and morose because, well, he’d been dumped for a paratrooper. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Drunkard was silent and sad because—well, I don’t honestly know; perhaps he was just going through one of his funks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Traveler was quiet and morose presumably because he’d stayed in one spot for too long. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer was quiet and morose because—and he’d made a point of telling all of this when he sat down—his instructor had written “not your best effort,” on one of his hiccups of prose. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Stalker was quiet and remorse be—well, he might not have been; the man’s face just didn’t change all that often.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I was quiet and morose because I had no idea why I kept being drugged and kidnapped by a shaddowy organization operating out of the Registry’s basement (or even if that was actually happening, and if not, then why was I going insane?); was going through one of my bouts of depression sparked by seeing too many happy couples; and was facing the sincere realization that I would have to start paying back my loans much sooner than I wished to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Flock was quiet that day. It was Saturday early afternoon, and being pleasant outside, most of the tourists had elected to roam around the streets rather than spend their time in low-lit pubs under the glow of rugby. That is, if there had been rugby on. There wasn’t. As such, the TVs were off and the music was on. Not the best atmosphere for the Flock’s usual clientele, and, thus, we were the only people in the pub aside from the landlord, who longingly stared out the window. I think he was trying to attract people inside by sending good vibes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M. came on the speakers and a groan came from each and every person in the pub. The landlord clicked a remote a couple times, and the song switched to something more upbeat with a piano in the background.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Son of a bitch,” said The Drunkard.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Tell me about it,” said The Student, rubbing his eyes for the twelfth time before taking a drink of his bitter. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Okay,” said The Traveler, “it seems we’re all a bit depressed for one reason or another.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Women,” said The Drunkard and The Student in chorus.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, women,” resumed The Traveler. “Fair enough. However, it’s Saturday, and none of us had anything better to do, so we’re meeting here to tell a story. Damn it. And someone will tell a story. Who’s up?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We all looked at each other. A good amount of time felt like it had passed since the last one. “The Student went last,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Student gave a slow, sad nod. “And it was possibly the worst thing we’ve had to deal with in our contest. I can’t do anything right, can I? Just one fucking failure after another. Know what my last paper got marked? A merit. It was called ‘good, but not as good as it could have been.’ How miserable is that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Would you like me to put an end to your misery?” asked The Stalker.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The table, customarily, fell silent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I know ways,” The Stalker continued. “Many of them are quite painless. And quick. In fact, the only thing you might feel is the slightest prick, as if a mosquito were having its way with your arm.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What?” asked The Drunkard. “Did you just say ‘having its way with your arm?’ What is wrong with you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Stalker slurped at his cider and The Traveler cleared his throat—while The Writer jotted all of this down in his notebook—no doubt to use in another hiccup addressed to his instructor. “Okay,” said The Traveler, “who wants to go?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Well,” said The Stalker, “by my accounts,” and here he pulled out a smart phone I hadn’t noticed before, tapped the screen a few times, and said, “it appears that The Drunkard has taken a second turn, as has The Writer, The Traveler, and The Student. Thus, the only two who have yet to go are The Narrator and myself. Narrator, have you any desire to tell your story?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I did, if only to keep The Stalker from letting loose another depraved list consisting only of women’s addresses and phone numbers, but I had no idea of what sort of story to tell. Honestly, I hadn’t even thought of anything. I could—nope, nothing. “Eh,” I said, shrugging in what I thought was a nonchalant manner, “it’s fermenting like a fine, fine whiskey.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Drunkard snorted. “Sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Well,” said The Stalker, “then it seems as though it would fall unto me to regale the lot of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Scuse me, mates,” said the landlord. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We turned to look at him. He was leaning over the bar with a handtowel over his shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“It don’t seem as if there are going to be a whole lot of people coming in to the pub today, yeah?” he asked. “Mind if I come over there and join you? Proper dull back here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We looked at each other. Then a collective shrug. “Sure,” said The Traveller. “Come on over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The landlord grinned, walked around the bar, pulled up a chair, and sat down at the table. “Cheers mates. So, what’s the story about, then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“The story,” said The Stalker, “is one that has been brewing in my head for a while now. It is a story of a mismatched pair, of sorts. Adventure. A lost homeland. All of that good stuff. I am planning on turning this into something quite grand, you see.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What,” said The Drunkard, “is this when you’re not slobbering over nudie pictures on the internet?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I have all of the erotica I need, Drunkard, and most of it is provided by your mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Oh snap!” I yelled, jumping up and snapping my fingers on my right hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The table stared at me in silence. Judging. Condemning my outburst.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I cleared my throat. “Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Very well,” said The Stalker. “I call it: The Norseman and The Jew.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer snickered and laughed. “No,” he said, veritably chortling, “please, go on.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I know where you sleep,” said The Stalker.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-37194993994489295332011-05-27T08:51:00.000-05:002011-05-27T08:51:30.689-05:00The Registry<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I woke up groggier than usual.What was also abnormal was the conspicuous absence of classical music. Further, when I opened my eyes and they adjusted to the odd green light that seeped out of the track lighting around the room, I noticed I seemed to be in some bizarre sci-fi holding cell.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The was a green symbol etched into the wall. It looked sort of like a Buddhist wheel mixed with a compacted Union Jack. I was seated—not tied—to a chair in the middle of the room. Across from me was a large, black writing desk. On top of it was a small desk lamp, and posted to the side facing me was a picture of a kitten hanging on to a branch with the—you guessed it—phrase “Hang In There” superimposed on the bottom. A speaker mounted above the door emitted a periodic <i>ding</i> every few moments. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I thought back to my brief time under the Labyrinth and halted my breath for a moment. There was only the silence. Also, I noticed that I wasn’t tied to a chair, this time, which I felt was a great improvement.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The door slid open and the man from before—the man in the suit riding an Irish Wolfhound named Delphi—rode in on his dog. “Hullo,” he said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Hey.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The dog padded up to the table, and the man dismounted and sat behind the desk. “I do hope you don’t mind if I ready myself for our little interview,” he said, taking a rubber chicken and a wax apple out of one of the drawers. “There was a bit of a nasty situation in the room upstairs whilst our Organisation removed Agent Zed from our roster. Seems the poor chap was under the impression that he was going to keep his pension.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes,” he responded. He took an inkwell out of another drawer, along with a feather quill topped by a smiley face. “Poor chap had to be told the appeals process.” He sighed. “Such a difficult situation we’re in, what? Ah well. To you.” He took a flask out from his jacket pocket and took a swig. “Would you like some?” he asked, after drinking. “The finest orange juice squeezed fresh in Spain. Shipped in this morning, as a matter of fact.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re drinking orange juice from a flask?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, but of course,” the man said, screwing the cap back on the flask. “Wouldn’t do to consume alcohol on campus when one is a man in my position.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What, exactly, is your position?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The wolf hound barked. A red light on its collar blinked twice and then a computerized voice bleated, “Fucker. Fucker.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Delphi,” said the man, level-voiced, “what did I say about minding your language? Wouldn’t want to half your ration of bangers at mid-day, would we?” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The dog turned around in one spot and laid down. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Good,” said the man. He cleared his throat. “Now, as for your question, I am what is known as an Important Individual Who Oversees the Running of Things. It’s on my card, if you’d like it.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Sure.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Terribly sorry, but you cannot have it.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“But you just offered.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well yes, I wouldn’t want to seem rude, now would I? If we may begin.” He dipped the ink pen in the inkwell. “Where are you in the play?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I told him we’d barely started.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, I see. And have any of the cast members been acting suspiciously?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re asking American.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Indeed.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I thought back. What about this group wasn’t suspicious? They were drama folk, the lot of them. I’d never met someone involved in drama who was normal. Every action performed by those people, to me, had some devious, possibly insane, motive behind it. I couldn’t watch one of them drink a beer without them turning it into some insane game<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=4361506646329016462#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;">[1]</span></span></a> that defied all common sense. “Well, all of them.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He jotted down a note in his book.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Very good, I say. Very good. Now, how are they being suspicious?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“They’re... well, British students.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The man threw down his quill pen. “Shocking. I say. Expound further.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I told him about the excessive drinking and the, well, gropey nature of everyone in the cast. All the while he tutted, jotted in his notebook, and asked odd questions like, “And the foreigners—how are the foreigners?” Occasionally he’d drop a reference to something called the Principia, I’d</span> <span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">look at him blankly, and he’d jot something down.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">After a couple hours of talking about how strange I saw every action taken by the actors in the cast, the man suddenly threw down the quill pen and said, “Right. We’re done here.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“But I have questions.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He laughed. “Oh, yes. I’m quite certain you do. But it is not for the leaf to question the giraffe, do you understand?” Before I could respond, he continued: “Couldn’t have all of the tools dropping down at their non-existent knees and looking up at the builder and shouting, ‘Why are you using us, we just want to exist!’ That just wouldn’t do. Would upset the order of things.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I blinked. “I don’t think I’m following where you’re going, here.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, I wouldn’t expect you to. Delphi!” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The dog scrambled up and walked over to the man.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He sat on the dog’s saddle and said, “Hut tut rut.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wh—?” I got out before a section of the green symbol opened up, revealing an image of Marlon Brando from <i>Apocalypse Now</i>. Even odder, that face’s mouth then opened up and a dart flew out and embedded itself in my neck. “Mufuh,” I said, blacking out again. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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</div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br clear="all" /> <hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /> <div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=4361506646329016462#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;">[1]</span></span></a> Example: Hoovering. If beer was spilled, the game called for the spiller to drop to the ground and suck up the beverage. It was disgusting in every sense of the word. More proof, in my mind, that they were all nuts.</div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-34313985555554536302011-05-18T10:38:00.000-05:002011-05-18T10:38:12.352-05:00A Fourth Public Service Announcement from The Justice Trio<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1026"/> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout v:ext="edit"> <o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div align="center" class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><br />
</span></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">INT. FORTRESS OF JUSTICE’S LIVING ROOM – DAY</span> </span><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SquidJew and Killman 3000 stiffly sit on a couch in the Fortress of Justice’s living room. It is a ratty, run-down room. The carpet is ripped in places, the couch is puke-green and looks like it’s fresh from a charity shop. On the walls are a series of terrible paintings depicting weeping clowns.</span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Behind the couch and to the right, there is an opening in the wall that leads to the kitchen--not so much a doorway or entrance way, more like someone has taken a sledgehammer to the wall and approximated what a doorway should look like.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Throughout the scene, rats can be heard squeaking in the background.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Okay, so for zis announcement, I vant you both to be natural, and pleasant, ja? Nothing like the others, please.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">This is totally natural. This is how I usually sit.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Killman SNICKERS and CRACKS his neck.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN 3000</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Hey, before we begin, what happened to the other director? We were told he was going to be on set.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Vaht zis mean?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The DIRECTOR’S ASSISTANT, 29, a young, slim, voluptuous blonde-haired woman, TRANSLATES for the Director.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Hey, Fraulein, how about you and me go out for drinks after this?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR’S ASSISTANT (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Nein, Mollusk Semite. Focus on the scene, please.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ze previous director broke his contract and set it on fire in ze producer’s studio after being told he would be working with you two again.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He CLAPS his hands (os).</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S., CONT’D)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Zere vill be quiet on ze set, or I will have you all fired, union contracts or not.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The PRODUCTION CREW continues talking and LAUGHING (os).</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The Director CLEARS his throat (os).</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span> </span>(shouting)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">If zat does not convince you to stop ze talking, I vill have you all vork on my next film.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Absolute silence.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Gut. Camera roll.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">CAMERA MAN (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Video rolling.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Gut. Sound roll.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SOUND TECH (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Sound rolling.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The Director’s Assistant walked in front of the camera holding a clapper. SquidJew grins and winks at her, points with his fingers and winks again.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">She ignores him.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR’S ASSISTANT</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><a href="" name="OLE_LINK42"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ze public service announcement for ze cessation of licking of power outlets. First take.</span></a></span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">She CLAPS the clapper and walks off-screen.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I’ll show you licking.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I’m going to puke all over you.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Silence. Action.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SquidJew CLEARS his throat and shifts in the couch. He stiffly turns to Killman, Killman stiffly turns to him.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><a href="" name="OLE_LINK43"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></a></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">So, SquidJew, of The Justice Trio, I wonder what Agent, the nemesis of our fine triad, is going to—</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He turns to the camera.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN (CONT’D)</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Oh, hi. I did not see you come in.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SquidJew turns to the camera.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Neither. Did I? Neither did I. You are very sneaky. You could be a supervillain, like that.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ha.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ha. No, but seriously, we were just talking about superhero stuff that is very serious.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Say, SquidJew. You know what I was reading last night?</span></span></span><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Nothing. Because you can’t read. You can’t afford to buy a book. Bam, motherfucker! Owned you!<br />
<br />
</span></span></span></div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span> </span>(shouting)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Nein! Cut ze roll and silence the microphone device.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He doesn’t sound happy.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Killman rubs his temples.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">You idiot.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: -4.2pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The Director stalks into the camera’s view. He is a tall, reedy man. He wears nothing but black, wears sunglasses, and has two more pairs around his neck. Cigarettes are crammed into the bill of his black fedora.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: -4.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: -4.2pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He moves as if he is on the verge of toppling over. He points at SquidJew and leans over him, looming like a very drugged-out cloud.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: -4.2pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin-right: -4.2pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Mollusk Juden, you do not do zis. Zis is not in ze script.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">But ze--er, the last guy let us riff on the script.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Do you have ze retardation, Mollusk? Do I look like weakling director zat you push around? Nein, I do not. </span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The Director takes a cigarette out of his hat brim, a lighter out of his trouser pocket, and lights it. He lets it dangle perilously out of his mouth. </span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (CONT’D)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I am not ze won who you push around. I vill push back. I vill make you, how you Americans say? Ah yes, I vill make you cry like little bitch.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">That’s kind of--</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">You know vaht actors are?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Don’t answer him, SquidJew. He’s leading you into a trap and you’re not smart enough to get out of it.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The director turns to Killman, takes the cigarette out of his mouth, and holds it very close to Killman’s right eye.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Nein, you vill not speak. Zis is not between ze two of us. If you do, I vill burn out ze eye, ja?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Killman GULPS and nods.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Gut. Now. Mollusk. Do ve have understanding, or vill I must be burning your eyes?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Nah man, I got ya. You don’t dig on improv.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ja. Ze script is flawless. </span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He takes a quick puff of the cigarette and then snuffs it out on the floor and kicks it OS. He CLAPS his hands and walks OS.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Gut. Zere vill be quiet on ze set, and zen ze camera vill be rolling.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">CAMERA MAN (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Film roll.</span></span></span></div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Sound roll.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SOUND TECH (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Sound roll.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The Director’s Assistant walks in front of the camera with the clapper.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR’S ASSISTANT</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ze public service announcement for ze cessation of licking of power outlets. Second take.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">She walks off screen.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Action.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Killman and SquidJew both mouth (MOS) “one, two.”</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">So, SquidJew, of The Justice Trio, I wonder what Agent, the nemesis of our fine triad, is going to—</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He turns to the camera.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN (CONT’D)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Oh, hi. I did not see you come in.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SquidJew turns to the camera.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Neither. Did I? Neither did I. You are very sneaky. You could be a supervillain, like that.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ha.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ha. No, but seriously, we were just talking about superhero stuff that is very serious.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Say, SquidJew. You know what I was reading last night?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">You can’t r--</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SquidJew tics. His head twitches to the left.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">--eally expect me to know that, can you? </span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">No, I suppose not. I was reading--</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He holds up a small book with a blue cover.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">INSERT BOOK</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">which reads</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">HOW NOT TO LICK OUTLETS: A GUIDE</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">How Not To Lick Outlets: A Guide.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SquidJew takes the book and FLIPS through it. As it is a very short book, this takes all of two seconds.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Wow, this sure does seem like a good thing to read.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Yes. Did you know that over seven thousand Americans die a month because they lick power outlets?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SquidJew tilts his head.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Seven thou--?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span> </span><span> </span></span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">He CLEARS his throat.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW (CONT’D)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">No. I did not know that. Gosh, you’d think it would be common sense to not lick a fu--er. I’m shocked.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Yes. I know. Me too. That’s why I recommend that everyone read <u>How Not To Lick Outlets: A Guide</u>. </span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">BOTH</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">It might just save your life.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">They point at the camera.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Cut. Ja. Zat might be enough. Ve can alvways replace dialogue in post.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">KILLMAN</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I’m sorry, repeat dialogue?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Ja. Ze two of you are awkward. It is terrible. Ve vill hire other actors to record dialogue.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">But you’re the director, man. It’s your job to get a performance out of actors. That’s why you’re hired.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">A CLATTER (os).</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">SQUIDJEW</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Oh shit.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The Director stalks on camera.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 108.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I vill not be told how to direct by a subhuman actor! Scum!</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">CREW MEMBER #1 (O.S.)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Shut the camera off, shut the camera off.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The director pulls out another cigarette and lights it. He holds it over SquidJew.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">DIRECTOR</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span> </span>(shouting)</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Have you felt vaht it is to burn, Mollusk?</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin: 0in 108.3pt 0.0001pt 1.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">The Director’s Assistant rushes on screen and pulls the Director away as SquidJew WHINES and slaps at the air.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Screen turns to static.</span></span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="2004" style="margin-right: 0.3pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">FADE OUT</span></span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-61674818827570490942011-05-18T10:32:00.000-05:002011-05-18T10:32:56.175-05:00In Which I’m Getting Really Tired of All This Shit<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked out of Coffee and Corks about half an hour later. It had started misting outside—the sort of rain that just liked to remind you that it could rain if it really wanted to, but felt that simply annoying everyone wearing glasses would suffice. I grimaced. I hadn’t brought my handkerchief down to town. I’d be half-blind through the full walk.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I tried to pop the collar on my pea coat, failed, tried again, failed again, and kept walking and repeating.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As I walked through the Buttermarket and passed the Cathedral Gates, I heard someone clear their throat to my right side. “Stalker,” I said, “what do you need?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh,” said a decidedly un-Stalker voice, “I don’t need anything, dear chap. I would, however, like the time.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” I stopped and looked over. Standing there, holding a thin, yet incredibly classy, black umbrella was a tall, thin man with a pencil mustache wearing a black three-piece suit and a bowler cap. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” I continued. “Not again.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Hold still, would you? Only take a second.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In a blur, the man whipped out a hyperdermic syringe and jabbed it through my both my pea coat and my shirt, nailing my vein on the spot. He pushed in the stopper and I felt the woozy immediately. “Yer good youknowthat?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Terribly sorry,” he said, catching me as I fell and cleaning the needle while still holding the umbrella. (This might have happened in a chain of events. I don’t know. I can’t imagine that I was in any way a reputable witness during that time.) “Couldn’t understand a word you said. Seems you came down with a bit of vertigo, what? Better take care of you.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Another person wobbled into my field of vision, and I saw him turn into not one person, but five continuously morphing and mutating individuals. The five of him blurred into one another, eventually stacking and then changing into a rough approximation of what a seven foot-tall horribly mutated man would look like through a fish-eye lens. I didn’t hear what he said, but the bowler-hat individual certainly turned him away.</span></div><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And that’s when I blacked out, but not before thinking that I was really tired of all of this bullshit.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-38834396057699697262011-05-12T11:32:00.000-05:002011-05-13T15:23:48.436-05:00Pain and Writing<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The next morning, I woke up in such pain that I thought someone—of course, the first person my brain conjured up was The Stalker—had come in during the night and beaten my legs with a baseball bat. I sat up with more cursing than usual when my alarm went off at eight, tumbled out of bed—thus putting myself in more pain—and flailed around with my arms until hitting the right combination of buttons on my computer to turn off the alarm.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I then sat there, sprawled out on the floor, wondering a variety of things ranging from why I’d chosen to put myself in so much pain to whether I’d ever solve my crippling emotional problems to where those crippling emotional problems came from, and eventually hit on the realization that I didn’t have crippling emotional problems, and was just looking for a reason to avoid getting up and showering. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Once you hit upon the source of your, ah, ills?—does that make sense, readers? I’m going to assume it does—then the day starts getting a lot easier to bear. In this case, realizing that I just wanted to sleep instead of getting up, running through lines, and then facing the hellish task I’d chosen for myself made it a lot easier to accept all of the above. Still, it took me another twenty minutes of laying there listening to the Chinese run around and shout in the foyer to actually get up and shower.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">After finishing cleaning myself in the closet that doubled as my shower, I ran through the lines of the first few scenes, working on a few ways to say each word in the script and then eventually deciding just to go at it like I was Zero Mostel and Chaim Topol combined into one big uber-Jew. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Then my alarm went off on my computer. It was 11:15, and I had to leave. My destination was in town, Coffee and Corks. I hopped on the bus outside Woolf a couple of minutes later and was hit with a text from The Writer. The exchange is as follows:</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer (11:21</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">): Where are you?</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me (11:21)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: On the way. Why?</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer (11:22)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: We need to get started...</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me (11:22)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: I’ve got twenty minutes. Relax.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer (11:22)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: Don’t tell me to relax, you bastard. Do you want to keep The Muse waiting? The Muse waits for no one.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me (11:24)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: What? </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer (11:30)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: Where are you?</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me (11: 32)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: About to kick your goddam ass if you don’t stop texting me.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 72.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer (11:40)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: Where are you?</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: 72.3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">At that point, I walked into the dimly lit ambiance of Coffee and Corks. I looked around and saw The Writer sitting in the lotus position on the floor to the right of the entrance. He wore a odd-colored button-up, jacket, and—new for today—khakis. He looked furious, face scrunched up like a demon in a Japanese Buddhist sculpture. He bent over, clutching his phone and furiously having at the keyboard. I could either head right over to him, or go up to the counter and grab a coffee first.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I chose the latter.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The nearly impossibly attractive woman—the pale one with curly red hair—was working. She sat behind the counter, distractedly tapping at a laptop. The music over the speakers cycled rapidly through Hendrix’s <i>Axis: Bold As Love</i> album. I walked up. “Guh,” I said. I cleared my throat, tried to get it across that, in any—literally any—other time or place, I would have been impossibly suave and possibly pulled off a, “Hey, there,” but, for whatever reason, I couldn’t this time and oh God she wasn’t even looking at me when I said “guh.” Thank Christ.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Heya,” she said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Hey. Er, americano?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Sure.” She walked over to the machine pressed a few buttons and put a large mug under the sprocket thingies, came back, and I paid. “Well,” I said, “have a good one.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You too,” she said, smiling and going back to her laptop.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I sighed, picked up the americano and walked over to The Writer.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He was still furiously typing at the keypad. My phone buzzed, he looked up and said, “Oh, so glad you found the time to get a fucking coffee.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“By all rights,” I said, “I should throw this in your face. However, as it was one pound fifty and I’m naught but a poor, starving grad student, I’ll have to accept saying: knock knock.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer sighed. “No.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Go fuck yourself,” I responded, laying my coffee down—ever so gently—on the floor next to the carpet in front of The Writer. I pulled up a bean bag from the wall, put my messenger bag on the floor and sat down. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You might consider sitting in the lotus position,” said The Writer. “It would help you with concentration.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I’ve got my own position I like to use,” I said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Oh?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah. You know Indian Style?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He rolled his eyes and pulled a Moleskine notebook out of his left jacket pocket and a lacquered black ink pen from his right inside pocket. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You ever worry that thing’s going to burst in your jacket?” I asked. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He cocked an eyebrow. “Now, if we may begin. Please take out your notebook.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I took out my laptop.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Wait,” said The Writer.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I paused in the middle of taking it out and opening the monitor. “Yes?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You don’t have a notebook?” he asked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“No, I have a laptop. I can type much faster than I can scrawl.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“But you’re not <i>writing</i>. You’re <i>typing</i>. You came to me for suggestions on how to <i>write</i>. If you had wanted help with your typing, or keying, skills, then I could have given you my typing instructor’s e-mail from high school.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I sighed. “Don’t turn this into a production. The ideas are the same. You’re just putting them down in a different way than I am. Do you think Kerouac could have written <i>On The Road</i> if he’d been writing it?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer snorted. “Don’t mention that post-modern charlatan to me. The man had as little skill as he had brain cells. Beat generation my fatigued ass.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Whatever, man. Look, I just came to you to get your—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Shh,” The Writer said, holding up a single finger in the air.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He shook his head, keeping the finger in the air.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Time passed. Patrons of Coffee and Corks eventually stopped talking and decided to look at the pair of imbeciles—one sitting really weirdly, and the other sitting like he was in kindergarten—and stared at us. A hush only permeated by the soft strands of Hendrix’s “Machine Gun” wafting out of the wall-mounted speakers filled the air. Outside, the sounds of Italian language school students parading down the King’s Mile seeped in. I stared at The Writer, trying to figure out just what the hell he was doing.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He took deep, measured breaths. Not a damn muscle moved aside from his torso, barely expanding with the movement of his lungs.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Off to the back of the room, coming out of the toilets, came Graham. He wore his usual bizarre quasi-artist motif outfit of a black fedora, ratty black jacket, old jeans, and black-painted nails. He held a bottle of Black Sheep Ale. “Why’s everyone gone fucking quiet?” he asked. “Did someone fucking die or something?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer, then, broke out of his trance with a small smile on his face. “Now,” he said, “we can write.” He opened the Moleskine to a page that was half-full, and started writing.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Conversation slowly resumed. I shook my head. “What? No, I just want to see whether or not I should come up with an outline for a story or go at it with, er, well, no-mind.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer cleared his throat, tapped the pages, and continued writing.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Fuckhead,” I muttered.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I opened Word on my laptop as conversation hit the levels it was at before the silence. Across from me, The Writer hurriedly scrawled into the Moleskine. I, much more disinterested than he was in the exercise, disinterestedly tapped the keys and then started typing “All work and no play makes The Narrator a dull boy” in various typefaces and formats. Before I got bored with that—half an hour later—I’d constructed a document consisting of 7,000 words. It could have been passed off as a brilliant post-modern surrealist work, I’m sure. I made a mental note to submit it to the <i>Paris Review </i>and then opened up the Mac version of Risk and started playing.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer was struggling with something, I could tell. He was grunting, groaning and making clicking noises with his tongue. I glanced at his notebook and saw that he hadn’t finished the page he’d started on. It was now an hour since we—well, he—started working on his story. I thought about the possible reasons it took him so long to actually get going writing, and then decided that thinking about it wasn’t worth my time, but playing Risk was. So I went back to playing Risk. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Soon after I decided that, The Writer’s phone alarm made a horrible screeching sound—called “The Wilhelm Scream”—and he gently placed the pen back in his jacket, turned off the phone, and said, “Well. I must say that was one of my most prolific writing sessions this year.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I cocked an eyebrow.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“How about you?” he asked. “Let’s trade notes.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I shrugged and passed my computer over to him. He passed the Moleskine over to me.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">This is what he’d written:</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 36.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">For every summer after that, I thought about the smell of lavender shampoo I smelled on her hair. Summer became lavender season, and lavender was summer. More than that, lavender was Helen. Helen was summer. Every May, I’d be entering Helen, much like I had that July afternoon.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And that was it. The son of a bitch had taken a damn hour to write a paragraph consisting of wannabe-Hemingway sentences about a girl the character had fucked. I grunted. I could write a goddamn sci-fi story filled with explosions and aliens in a damn hour. The schmuck.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I sighed.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Well?” he asked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Needs more spaceships.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He grunted and snatched my laptop from me. I winced. This thing was my link to, well, everything in life. I didn’t like for it to be rough-housed in such a way—considering once I lightly tapped the case near the keyboard, and the casing splintered, requiring a patchwork repair job consisting of duct tape, there was precedent for my wariness—and saw it shattering into dozens of pieces while I stood bye, helpess.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer scrolled through the document. His face slowly evolved from a critically interested look to one of despair as he progressed through the pages. “Narrator?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Hmm?” I asked. My attention had wandered and I looked outside at a group of French kids fighting over a pasty.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What is all of this?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“That’s my story.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“This isn’t a story.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t think you appreciate contemporary writing. The traditional bounds of the narrative form—i.e., paragraphs, sentences, dialogue, etc.—are too constraining for individuals such as we. Do you agree?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer clenched his jaw. “You know very well I cannot disagree with you without seeming to make myself look like an ass.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You could just say, ‘Touche.’”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“I try to avoid the parlance of the Internet whenever possible, thank you. I would love to say that you are a pompous charlatan, but no doubt, you have an answer prepared for that contingency.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I didn’t, but now I did. “If you were to say that, I’m sure I would be offended by your lack of confidence in my ability to articulate the stifling, crushing hell of the modern world. Surely, sir, you wouldn’t dream of saying that by repeating the same thing over and over again, ad infinitum, that I was trying to waste time while you took a goddamn half hour to write one paragraph.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Writer nodded. “Very well.” He stood up, putting his Moleskine in his satchel, and made to leave.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Woah,” I said. “Hold on. You haven’t answered my question. How do I start this thing? How do I start writing?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“What? The skilled writer who created a 7,000 word masterpiece in the space of thirty minutes, on the subject of the inherent madness of our post-modern, materialist society—this writer? This writer needs help from me, a person who clings to past narrative mores like a classicist to marble sculptures? Why, sir, if I did not know any better, I would assume that you were mocking me.” And with that, he drank the remainder of his tea, and walked out of the building.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I groaned. I looked back at my notebook scrawled with notes and decided I’d go the route that made the most sense: Get drunk and see what popped out.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-13427776903508808202011-05-03T09:47:00.000-05:002011-05-03T09:47:15.656-05:00Moving Is Difficult<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Rutherford Common Room, at least the bottom floor, reminded me of a gymnasium in an elementary school. Like the gym in my elementary school—I think, it had been quite a while since then, to be honest—the floors were wooden, the lights were fluorescent and flickered, and there were a whole shitload of scuff marks.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was a two-level room, the bottom of which resembled the home plate of a baseball diamond. Two of the were glass, and faced Eliot Hill’s footpath, with a nice view of the library on the crest of the University’s hill. The entrance to the common room, one of them, at least, led in through one of the winding hallways that went right by Rutherford Bar. Opposite the windows, there were a few entrances to the Bar.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The second floor – or first floor if you’re European – led to a game room that held a few disheveled pool tables. For the most part, the game room up top was empty, as most people at UKC would rather get blackout drunk than anything else. (For that, more than anything else, they paid three thousand pounds a year. They sure as hell didn’t get that amount of value from their education.) This semi-functional alcoholism was assisted by way of having a bar in every living quarters on campus. Along the walls of the Common Room were couches and tables, set up with chairs. I imagine that the intended use of this area was for students to study here, however, whenever I walked in I saw groups of people playing <i>Dungeons and Dragons</i> and drinking; talking football and drinking; playing poker and drinking; and sleeping after drinking.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I was there because it was time for the first dance rehearsal, and I was shitting myself in fear. Not because I was about to embarrass myself in front of people—I was counting on that, actually; I’d been working on an absurd accent reminiscent of the battlecruiser admirals in <i>StarCraft</i>—but because I’d inherited a very inconvenient gene from my father: The Not Being Able to Dance Gene.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And yes, I understood that this was a musical, and that, thus, I would have to dance. However, when I auditioned, I didn’t quite believe that I would get the role. I expected to get told “Yes, you were fine, but we found someone who was beyond fine and actually good, so goodbye.” That, obviously, did not happen, and I found myself in quite the predicament of being unable to move with any semblance of rhythm in a setting that required a person to have quite a bit of rhythm.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As such, the cast of <i>Fiddler</i>, the specific number of which eludes me at the moment because it’s been a year (oy) since then, stood in four lines in the middle of the room, facing Jamie the Choreographer, a guy who’d won a European dance championship and was now spending a lot of time with a bunch of schmucks who’d rather be drinking. And now, he stood in front of all of us, doing a dance that I vaguely remembered seeing from my synagogue days as a kid, when we had electives in Hebrew School, and one of those was Dance.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><a href="" name="OLE_LINK36"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So then you do one of these,” he said, kind of squatting and shuffling to the side. Think Zoidberg’s scuttle from <i>Futurama</i>, and then mix it with less jerky movements and more along the lines of stepping in time to “Hava Nagilah.” “And then raise your hand up like this,” he raised his hand into the air, palm up. Kind of the anti-heil Hitler. “No, don’t do that,” he said to one of the people in the line behind me. “That’s a Nazi salute.”</span></a></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK36;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The room erupted into laughter and then started chattering like a group of five year olds getting ready for recess.</span></span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK36;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Hey! Hey, no! Hey!” He shouted, trying in vain to get everyone’s attention. He clapped his hands, but it led to nothing.</span></span></div><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK36;"></span> <div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Laura bolted up from the couch and shouted, “Hey!” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Everyone shut up. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She harangued the cast, and after a bit, we shut up and started practicing how to step to the side in time with the music.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Of course, I couldn’t get it. This was my people’s dance—in a way—and I couldn’t get it. “Pfff,” I said. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jamie came over, rubbed his temples and said, “Okay, take a breath.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I did.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Watch my feet.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I did.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I tried to do the same thing, stumbled a bit, stomped at the wrong time, and said, “I’m sorry.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He rubbed his temples a bit more. “No, no worries mate, you’re doing fine.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">That was a lie. I knew it was a lie, because there was a massive vein pulsating in his forehead, and I knew, deep down inside, that I had failed yet another person in my life. I made a mental note to practice the damn dance five hours a day until I could step in fucking time to something that, by my odd logic, I should have been able to do from the womb.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jamie moved to another group of people, and I turned to the other Papas. (A word:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the “Tradition” dance, we’d been separated into groups like The Papas, the Sons, the Daughters, and the Mamas. The Sons were every guy who couldn’t grow facial hair; The Daughters were the youngest-looking/shortest girls; The Papas were the principle males/the two non-principles who could grow facial hair; and the Mamas were the girls who looked like they could be overbearing and ruin a day via a nice, long guilt trip.) <a href="" name="OLE_LINK37">Among them were Johannes, the Faroese Viking who once grew a beard the length of Darwin’s in the span of ten minutes; Simon, the gay Tevye; Marcus, the well-meaning but perhaps-unintentionally sleazy sonofabitch; </a>and Jon, the man who volunteered to be a dead grandmother, and reminded me of Animal from the Muppets for some reason.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I can tell,” said Johannes. “Look,” he continued, displaying the proper way to move one’s feet in a circle, in time to music, without tripping over them.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I tried it again and, once again, gave up in frustration within a few seconds.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Luckily, though, there was a certain team spirit (probably brought on by the realization that if we failed something as easy as moving in a circle, Laura would have our heads on a platter<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=4361506646329016462#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;">[1]</span></span></a>) about it all, and eventually, after about half an hour of tripping over my feet, I managed to not trip over my feet as much, and Jamie had finished tweaking the other groups’ performances.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We all lined up and engaged in linedancing. This was different than any Jewish dancing I’d previously experienced—but then again, most Jewish dancing I’d experienced was in a drunken haze in the basement and wasn’t very Jewish at all. The dance lesson lasted for a good thirty or so minute later until Jamie gave up and asked for help bringing his speakers and CD player back to his car. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The room emptied nearly immediately. Left in the room with Laura, Lucie, Kane, and a few other people in one bunch, I decided that now was the time to swoop in and beg forgiveness for my disturbing inability to dance. “Yo,” I said, walking up and clearing my throat. I pointed at the speakers and said, “need help?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah,” Jamie said, wiping sweat off his brow. “You’d think there’d be a few more people offering to help an injured man move a stereo to his car.”</span></div><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I helplessly shrugged.</span> <div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br clear="all" /> <hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /> <div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=4361506646329016462#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;">[1]</span></span></a> There’s a little, squeaky voice in the back of my head that’s saying I’m coming across as being mightily unfair to Laura. She was doing her job as a director, overseeing a horde of libido- and alcohol-driven actors and actresses made up mostly of freshmen. As such, the shift into Director Mode brought her into Janice the Ripper territory, and since I’m neurotic, I sometimes have a rough time separating professional (or amateur, since this wasn’t a professional production, though it could have been because it was really well done, as you’ll see if this goddamn blog ever moves forward) conduct from personal conduct. Basically: Never trust anything I have to say. Ever. </div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-59265968707820962932011-04-29T10:27:00.000-05:002011-04-29T10:27:05.414-05:00At The Venue<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1026"/> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout v:ext="edit"> <o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I planned on spending the night laying in bed and readingthe stack of Philip Roth novels by my bedside. <i>American Pastoral</i>,</span> <i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Plot Against America</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">, and</span> <i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Portnoy’s Complaint</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> had all been assigned for the Ranting in Literature course. Todd’s intro to them, via e-mail, read:</span> <div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 31.5pt; margin-right: 36.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 31.5pt 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There’s something about Jewish-American literature that lends itself to ranting. Maybe it’s because all the authors wanted to be comedians. I don’t know.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 31.5pt; margin-right: 36.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 31.5pt 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 31.5pt; margin-right: 36.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 31.5pt 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, you take a look at Philip Roth, here, and you find a rare example of self-hatred, and rants against the self and the author’s community. Roth, it should be noted, was raised by a charicature, and few things he has to say go beyond paranoid delusions. (Ha ha.) Seriously, though, he’s churned out some of the best contemporary literature around, and then he’s turned out some things that just suck.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 31.5pt; margin-right: 36.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 31.5pt 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 31.5pt; margin-right: 36.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 31.5pt 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Have a read of one of the books listed above – or all if you don’t have a life – and we’ll talk about them next week.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 31.5pt; margin-right: 36.3pt; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 31.5pt 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And so, since I was in one of my moods where I didn’t want to see anyone or spend any money (moods in which I am capable of writing scathing dark indictments of the modern existential hell, which are then deleted as I get out of the slump, read them, and think, “needs more space ships”), I readied my room for optimum readingness.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">That meant turning on the desk light, turning off the main lights, throwing on the Beethoven String Quartets box set I’d borrowed and subsequently ripped from Nashville’s Public Library, and body-slamming the mattress while grabbing the first book on the pile. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Plot Against America</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">, if you don’t know, is an alternate-history novel. Remember that. It may be an important work in that it’s an author’s introspective look into what the American Jewish experience is by way of looking at what it could be, but at the same time, it’s an alternate-history novel, a genre which is usually relegated to the ghettos of the Science Fiction section in bookstores, frequented only by overweight tech guys in thick glasses and bad sweaters.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, it’s a book that wonders what would have happened if the possibly pro-Nazi Charles Lindbergh might have been elected President of the United States instead of FDR, right before the onset of World War II. (Relax, it SPOILER turns out the Nazis were blackmailing Lindbergh the entire time END SPOILER.)</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">So there I was, opening the book right as the quartets started when the phone buzzed on the window sill. I dove over to reach it before it fell out – since the window was the only place I could get reception in my room – answered it, and heard The Drunkard slurring out what was probably meant to be a sentence. There was some fumbling with the phone, and The Student said, “Hello. The Drunkard is quite drunk. He bought a bottle of Jack from the corner shop on campus and, well, yes.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I squinted my eyes. “You don’t sound so sober yourself.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I may have perhaps been drinking a little bit in the past, yes.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A “Woo!” sounded in the background, and then a crash. “The Drunkard,” said The Student, “may have just broken the closet in my room.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Anyway,” he continued, “so The Drunkard said that you need to come out instead of reading.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Screaming from the background.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Sorry. Instead of being a fucking pussy. That’s what he said. Anyway, I think he’s at the point where he’d try to break in if you didn’t come of your own initiative, so it’s really just a matter of showing up in the courtyard in a bit and ensuring that no one has to break in to your block’s front door.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I grunted. “This isn’t something I want to do, Student. I have books to read.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No, no that won’t do. You can read tomorrow. We’ll be outside.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The phone clicked off. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I sighed. Rubbed my temples, and walked out of my room and down the hall to Giannis’s room. I knocked and, once again, the sound of heavy metal subsided and he shouted, “Yes?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“’s Aaron.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Come in,” he said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I opened the door and saw a massive, at-home laboratory. Chemicals bubbled in various glass containers connected by tubes and wires. Strangely-colored steam piped its way out of his window by way of a clear, plastic tube. At the base of it all, various USB cords connected the contraption to his laptop, upon which there was a rapidly-updating spreadsheet and, playing in the background, what I recognized as Iced Earth’s “Violate.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What’s all this?” I asked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“This?” Giannis asked. He was wearing a white lab coat, thick goggles, and gloves. “This is my weekly assignment. Please, wear gloves at least. The gas, it, ah, melts you if it touches you.” He laughed.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked to the left and picked up a pair of gloves from the bed and put them on. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So,” he said, “what’s up my friend?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to head to the Venue tonight, but...”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes,” he said, sadly nodding his head and gesturing at the chemical lab that had been set up on his desk. “I cannot, I think. If I leave this alone, it will...” he made an explosion sound and grinned.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So what is it?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It is a way to see how the skin samples will react to the drops of iodine.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Skin samples?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes. I have some from you, some from Chacko, some from Stasia, and—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wait, what? I didn’t give you skin samples.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, yes, I rubbed them off of you with the wire sponge when you were asleep in the kitchen one day.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I rubbed my cheek. I’d remembered waking up with more pain than was usual one morning and wondering what was up, and it would appear that I had a mad scientist right down the hall. “That’s...”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m kidding,” he said. He laughed. “I did that to Chacko. Would you like to give me skin? All I have to do is slice off a tiny, tiny bit.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Violate” by Iced Earth popped on his playlist and through his speakers. My opinion of the Greeks plummeted from “super cool people” to “cannibals.” “What?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Giannis laughed. “I joke. I won’t need skin for a while, and it will only be a tiny bit of rubbing. Maybe with wire sponge, maybe not. But no, I cannot go out.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A puff of flame formed in one of the beakers in the chemistry set, and a smell not entirely dissimilar to burning rubber filled the room. Giannis sniffed the air, looked over at a spherical container with purple liquid and said several curse words in both Greek and English. He rushed over to the computer, typed violently at the keyboard, and I chose to leave.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A little while later, we were in the thumping, low-lit, sweaty confines of The Venue. Up on the raised section of the floor, there was a reedy-looking guy with huge headphones standing behind a DJ set. Something I’d noticed was that there was no such thing as a turntable, which made a certain amount of sense. Why bring in a case of vinyls when you could just pop on an iTunes playlist and toy around with the knobs on a soundboard? </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">People danced on the floor in front of the platform. A different song, that sounded much like the first one, blared out from the speakers, and my ear drums throbbed, my brain felt like it was trying to collapse in on itself to hide, and my liver cried out for death. The Drunkard, drunk enough to be tripping over himself, blinked and muttered, “Dear God, look at all of this.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I know,” said The Student. His face had turned pallid, sweat beads started forming at his hairline. His nose twitched. “All of these people, contorting themselves in a mass, writhing. They could be out there changing the world, creating new ways to look at it, but they’re—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fucking hot!” shouted The Drunkard, pointing at a tall blond who seemed to be wearing not a skirt, but more a ribbon around her waist, and another, slightly thicker, ribbon around her chest. He dashed at her like he was Wile E Coyote and she was the Road Runner.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student and I were left waiting on the sidelines, watching as he hurdled to the girl in ribbons. In seconds, she turned around, slapped him, and kept dancing. The Drunkard, showing less in the way of ego bruising I could ever hope to see, shrugged and walked back to us. “Drinks! On me!”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We went to the bar, ordered, and stood there, clutching our whiskeys and looking out at the sea of people in the unnatural blue and red lights. I thought about how much of a neurotic anxiety attack this would spark in Philip Roth, maybe followed by a discussion in long paragraph prose about how his mother smothered him when he was a child, and how that turned him into the self-hating man he is today, and took another sip. Sometimes, I thought, I was entirely too introspective.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard pointed at another girl – brunette this time – who also seemed to only be wearing ribbons, and said, “Student, go.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” The Student took off his glasses, wiped them against his shirt, and looked out again. “What do you mean, ‘go.’”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Go to her,” said The Drunkard, swaying a bit, “go to her, young Padawan, and she shall take you up and—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fine, Jesus, just shut up.” The Student slammed down his whiskey. “You couldn’t sound poetic if Yeats had possessed you. Stick to jaded journalism, it suits you better.” He cracked his neck and walked off towards the girl.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I turned to The Drunkard. “How’re things with the French?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He gritted his teeth. “They’re bad enough to make me want to switch places with The Student.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Woah,” I said. “You can—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“She called me a fatass Yank and then punched me in the gut.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I turned. The Student stood next to us, sighing mightily and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I hate clubs,” he said. “I hate them so much. They’re loud, they attract the worst class of human being imaginable—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I go to clubs,” said The Drunkard.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Exactly, and you are, by most definitions of the word, a terrible human being. I mean look at this, no one would ever, in polite society, tell someone they’re a fatass—and I’m not fat, look—” he gripped his torso “—I mean, I could lose a few, but, shit, look at that girl out there. She outclasses me by a good fifty pounds.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I squinted. “I think I’ve seen her in one of the karaoke nights...”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Who the fuck does that? Who the fuck thinks it’s a good idea to tell someone to fuck off? This is how fights get started.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Whatever,” said The Drunkard. He drank his whiskey and headed back into the crowd. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student and I meandered off to one side of the club, which I assumed was the ‘chill’ side, because it had couches that were slightly less stained than the couches on the other side of The Venue. People were draped across them in various stages of drunkenness and undress, and the music continued to thump at everyone from speakers that hadn’t been updated for, it seemed, twenty years. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We stopped in our tracks. “This isn’t a good place,” I said. “We should leave.” Against one of the walls was the paratrooper and Rebecca. They were bonding in a way that The Student would never have felt comfortable doing in public.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked over. His upper lip was spasming, and his eyes flashed between rage, shock, and despair. I shifted him 180 degrees and pushed him in the direction of the bar.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">By the time we reached the bar, he’d recovered the ability to speak, and The Drunkard had stumbled out of the mass of humanity in the center just as the DJ up front hit pause on his iTunes and a massive whirl of obscenities went up from the clubbers before the music resumed.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” said The Drunkard, “that was a bummer. Fuckin chicks, man, they don’t know good when it comes and grinds against them.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Jesus,” I said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What? It’s the club, man,” said The Drunkard. He grinded with the air. It was not a pleasant sight, and it has since haunted my dreams. “You gotta do it if you wanna get the bitches, man.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I said nothing. There was nothing to say. The Student made a disapproving sound that was similar to the hideous screeches put out by the aliens in <i>Invasion of the Body Snatchers</i>, and The Drunkard recoiled a little bit.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">At this point, an incredibly drunk girl with mascara running down her face, who was just a little shorter than I am with long brown hair, black top, and a black skirt came stumbling up to me with a very strange grin on her face. I’ve been told since then – by both The Drunkard and The Student – that this is the I’m-attracted-to-you grin, but it’s so alien to me that I don’t suppose I’d recognize it again. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She said something, and I suppose it was English – for there were English words in what she said – but the words were so mangled and jumbled, and in such a thick accent typical of God-Knows-Where, that I could not understand anything she said. She stood right in front of me, and I said, “What?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She then pressed up against me and took a picture of the two of us. I was still confused, so I backed away and said, “Who are you?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Then she got annoyed – I think – and wandered back into the crowd.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I shrugged. The Drunkard stared at me with a gaping mouth. “What the green Hell is wrong with you?” he asked. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” I asked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He pointed after the girl, who was now doing the same thing with another guy. “That. That girl. She was all over you. Why, I don’t know, but she was. And what the <i>fuck</i> do you do? Sit there, looking at her as if she’s a <i>person</i>.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I say!” said The Student.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No!” shouted the Drunkard. “Both of you in here, you don’t understand the dynamic. People aren’t people. Everyone you see in here didn’t come in here for a <i>fucking conversation</i>, or to make a long-standing connection with another person. They came in here to <i>fuck</i>.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I didn’t,” I said, “I came in here to establish a long-standing connection with another human being and, also, for a fucking conversation.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard scowled at me. “Well, you came into the wrong place, didn’t you?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I was perfectly happy staying in tonight reading my Philip Roth novels and exposing myself to a surely-encroaching existential hell. You’re the one who forced The Student to call me and drag me here with threats of being called a pussy.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Whoa,” said The Student, “leave me out of this. I’m just... here.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re here,” said The Drunkard, “to get your mind off of the girl who ditched you to boink some greasy paratrooper.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student gestured over to the corner from whence we’d run.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard looked over there and, presumably, saw the paratrooper and Rebecca, still apparently trying to eat one anothers’ face of. “Ah,” he said. “Well, that sort of backfired then, didn’t it. Wanna go to another club?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Drunkard, what makes you think a club is the best way to handle the situation?” I asked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Because, God damn it, that is the way to handle it. You’re laden with adrenaline, and you have to hatefuck somebody! Trust me on this,” he said, grabbing The Student by the shoulders and belching, “this is the way it has to be. This is the way you get over a woman who looked into your heart and stuck it on a goddamn spit and sent it straight to Hell!”</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">At that, he let loose a roar and dashed into the mass of people just as some very fast, very bassy song popped up over the stereo. “Think we’ll be seeing him again?” I asked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student was still glaring at the paratrooper.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked over and saw that they’d progressed from heartily making out to nearly schtupping on a couch. “Aaaaaall right,” I said, pushing The Student towards the exit doors. “I think it’s about time that we mosey on out of here.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student started growling as we left, but shortly after we hit the fresh air outside, he calmed down. “That was less than pleasant,” he said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-right: .3pt; tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Indeed.”</span></div><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">We returned to Woolf in relative silence. When we reached his block, he took a respirator out of his jacket pocket, fixed it over his nose and mouth, nodded to me, and went upstairs. I dug my hands in my jeans, headed to my block, and cracked open <i>The Plot Against of America</i> and immediately went to sleep after the first note of the First String Quartet piped through my speakers.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-35480415979409937952011-04-12T14:35:00.000-05:002011-04-12T14:35:52.221-05:00The Epilogue to The Student's Second Tale<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1026"/> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout v:ext="edit"> <o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student finished his tale – further – by flopping completely forward on the table, and letting loose a prolongued sigh/moan combination. The group of us looked at one another in silence, each of us registering on some level that The Student was sad for one reason or another, but, because none of us were completely empathetic to other people’s needs, not quite getting <i>why</i>. After all, the man had recently returned from a trip <i>to France</i> where he spent time <i>in France</i>, <i>speaking French</i>, <i>with French people</i>, and thus, it seemed slightly incongruous to be sad.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Eventually, he inhaled deeply and sat back up, though he slumped just a bit. “Well,” he said, his voice devoid of humor, and sounding more like a nihilist’s upon waking up in the morning, “well.” He nodded. “Well.” He then spread out his hands in an invitation. “Go ahead. Tear it to shreds.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Writer pounded on the table.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Everyone looked at him.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Writer sputtered some words, “What—did—how—there—show—characters?” He gave up trying to form a coherent sentence and simply made several gestures I’d never seen before, but he seemed to think were sufficient enough to convey his message. I looked around, saw my confused look on everyone’s face, and looked back to The Writer. He gave up even his gestures and just sat there making a sound that sounded like a cat sneezing.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” said The Traveler, “Student, I don’t know whether to thank you or turn you into the police: You’ve broken The Writer.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Huhzah!” shouted The Drunkard and The Stalker simultaneously, raising their glasses in the air. They looked at each other, then. The Drunkard with a look of concern—though I imagine it was concern for his own mental well-being, having just agreed with The Stalker on something—and The Stalker looking like he’d just crossed a line of his own. They settled their glasses down without taking another drink.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I can’t help it,” said The Student. “I feel like shit,” he said, his voice raising just a bit, “Rebecca just dumped me—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Woah,” I said, “she dumped you?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student slammed his fist on the table. “She dumped me!” he shouted. “For some Greek paratrooper fuckhead who wears God-damned gel in his hair!” He was standing now. The rest of us stooped in our seats, save for The Drunkard, who cheered on this bout of self-martyrdom at the hands of a woman.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The bartender shouted: “Oi, Yank, shut your fuckin gob or we’ll toss you out! The fuckin rugby’s on and—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Do you know how many pubs close in this country <i>per week</i>?” shouted The Student again. “Do you, you evolutionary fuck-up?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The bartender’s eyes widened. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Do you realize,” continued The Student, “how much of a fucking favor my friends and I are doing you by coming into this pub every Goddamn week instead of going to fucking Wetherspoons? So that you can continue to feature some of the best fucking ale I’ve ever had? Do you fucking understand that?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The bartender, and the rest of the patrons, for that matter, stared at The Student as he continued to flail and spit all over the place in his rage. The Drunkard laughed and clapped like a seal. He was quite drunk by now.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“And yet, you have the <i>fucking gall</i> to assume you’re doing yourself a favor by playing rugby and attracting fucking benefits miscreants,” he here pointed at the men in track suits who were gathered around the TV, now staring at The Student, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, “while your business looks like it’s fucking failing because you’re in one of the most expensive areas in the city, and you don’t have the Goddamn business sense to make it classy? Or tie it in to the fucking Cathedral somehow? Oy gevalt, you’re insane! You’re mad! The mishegaas!</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So what if we’re loud? We blow like four hundred quid in here a week, and you should wish for customers like us! Now.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “I think I’m going to buy a round for my friends, and one for you, as an apology for cursing so many times in one rant.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A silence.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Someone scored in the rugby match. It went unnoticed by the men in track suits.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Right oh,” said the bartender. “If it’s all right, I believe I’ll pour myself a whiskey and have a think.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“That’ll do.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The bartender, shaking a bit, poured himself a Jameson and leaned up against the back of the bar. When he’d sipped a bit of it, we went up, ordered our drinks, and returned.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">After a little bit, the sports enthusiasts began talking about how the French were subservient to the English in everything, especially rugby—but in lower voices. The bartender still stood, confused, behind the bar, glancing around with a look that I’d seen before in a few people who were trying to figure out what to do with their lives; that not-quite-empty, but more overwhelmed wide-eyed and shocked stare around the room that accounted every nook and cranny, every piece of Americana and every vintage poster; all accounted for, and all weighed against the wishes of a younger self. All of that went through the bartender’s eyes, and I saw him shudder.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student sat back down and said, “So yeah. I feel like shit. Then, it’s like... academia. Really? The Ivory Tower is collapsing, but it’s still the only place where the Enlightenment is alive and people think that they can advance the state of human thought. How <i>fucked</i> are we?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Writer made a sound like a turkey mixed with a cow. He then shook his head and said, “But you’ve ruined a story by coloring it with your own existential angst and—dear God. I can’t believe I just said that.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Ha!” shouted The Drunkard. “<i>Gayn cacken afn yahm</i>, you schmuck.You just went back on your own modus operandi and—” he leaned forward, eyes widened, a giant sneer on his face, “—there’s nothing you can do about it.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Writer, defeated, screamed in horror, grabbed his hair, and bolted out of the pub.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” said The Traveller. “Um.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Been reading Kafka lately?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Student shook his head. “No, but my deep alienation from the world knows no bounds, so I suppose Kafkaesque musings simply spew forth from my very soul without my meaning to. Indeed, were there an—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard clapped The Student on his back with much more force than was necessary, and the latter tipped forward. “My friend,” said The Drunkard, “we’re gonna go out tonight, out to—” he shuddered and gritted his teeth “—The Venue and we’re gonna get you hooked up with an incredibly drunk girl from Essex.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh,” said The Student, sighing, “good. I can’t wait to wake up and have my urine causing a fire in my insides.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Stop being overly dramatic.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So,” said The Traveller, “I think we’re all in agreement that The Student shouldn’t tell a tale while he’s in a depressive state.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We nodded, raised our glasses, and paid up. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The bartender, it should be noted, was still scratching his chin in deep thought by the time we left the pub. The haunted self-analyzing look hadn’t left his eyes, and, if I was at all familiar with the typical length of a good existential funk (and I was), then I had a hunch that it’d be around five or six days before he got out of it.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-70158641572316328942011-04-06T09:59:00.000-05:002011-04-06T09:59:23.322-05:00The Student's Second Tale<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">The man who considered himself a warrior, a young man just beginning to reach his prime and just leaving the tumult of his teenage years, walked down an empty path through the hills of the kingdom. It was summer, and though the day was, by all accounts, cool, the young man, Arthur, found himself incredibly uncomfortable; his father's armor, given to him by his mother before Arthur left the household three weeks ago, was heavy, ill-fitting, and the combination of the stitches in the leather scratching any exposed skin and the chains in the mail forced Arthur to yearn for nothing more than a jackass so that he could get by without having to carry the weight on his shoulders.<span style="color: windowtext; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">At a distance of what seemed to be five, perhaps seven leagues, was the capitol of the kingdom: Oxham. He'd never been, nor had his mother, but his father had, once. It was before the war that took him far to the east - and before he returned with the chain mail Arthur now wore upon him. The only thing his father would say about the city was, "Aren't enough cows. Too many people. Not enough cows. People don't have nothing in their eyes what comes close to cows."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur hadn't known what his father was talking about - and neither had his mother - but now, years after that and after having been educated in Thought by a nearby priest, Arthur understood that his father had, most likely, seen things in that war that no man had seen, that led him to forsake humanity as soulless. The priest, obviously, disagreed with this notion of Arthur's father, and suggested wholeheartedly that Arthur pay it no mind. Still, that did not stop the priest from suggesting that Arthur not go abroad from their hamlet. The world, the priest said, was a, well, <i>worldly</i> thing. When questioned further, the priest would not expound, and forced Arthur to read from the hymnal instead of something more substantial.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Still, after a few months of such conversations with the priest, Arthur decided that his destiny lay not in the confines of his family's farm, or even within the cloister of the church, which the priest had suggested several times, but out there - past the Wood and out into what his mother referred to as God Knows What.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">And then his father died and it all happened so fast. With the lack of a pater familias, Arthur's home deteriorated and his mother made ready to move with family in the next town over, a mile or so down the road. Arthur told her his plans and after a harsh discussion, she gave him his father's armor. He then went to the priest, where he had to use all of the meagre education he'd received in order to convince the father of the merit of his decision. Eventually, and after at one point being condemned to an eternity of hellfire, Arthur succeeded in being given a minor blessing and went on his way.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">He spent the trek through the woods engaging himself in a minor internal monologue about what, exactly, he wanted to be. He guessed that he had a predisposition to war, since he'd asked for the armor instead of, say, some of the father's books, but that may not have been true (said a corner of his mind). Perhaps this request was one birthed by a desire to feel a connection - or protection - to - or of - his father. Books wouldn't provide that, but they would have provided ample fire-building material.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">At any rate, by the time he left the woods, he decided that, damn it all, he was going to be a warrior. Moreso, he was going to smite the unjust. Who were the unjust? Well, he'd figure that out later, probably around the time when the king sent him on a quest of some sort. The reward of which, he thought, wringing his hands in delight, would surely be a princess. (Princesses, in his mind, were in ample supply, all were beautiful, and all swooned at whoever completed quests.)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">At the current time, 4.5 leagues from the gates of Oxham, he came across a blind man sitting, his head lowered and a little snore emanating from his nose, at the side of the road. He was draped in tattered clothing, little more than rags, and held in his left hand a brown cloth satchel. His face was pockmarked and creased, and what little hair he had was in patches. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Charity being one of the virtues that stuck with Arthur, the warrior-to-be bent down and dropped a copper piece (bringing Arthur's net worth down by half) on the ground in front of the beggar. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Snapping awake, and a little drool flinging itself out of his mouth and onto Arthur's feet, the beggar felt around the ground near where the coin landed, touched it and said, "Oh hell." He moved his head around to the general vicinity of where Arthur stood and said, "I'm not a beggar."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">"Then what are you?"</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">"I'm waiting to see the king."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur looked up the road to the capitol, with its low buildings, save for the one, tall ivory tower.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;"><br />
<i>“For shit’s sake,” said The Drunkard. “Really? Are you really doing this?”</i><br />
<i> “Shut up,” said The Traveler, “and let the man tell his story.”</i><br />
<i> The Drunkard grunted and sat back in his chair, sucking down half the glass of whiskey in one go.</i><br />
<i> The Traveler motioned for The Student to continue. After clearing his throat, he did.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“That’s a ways away,” said Arthur, nodding at the capitol, “and you are simply sitting here. Are you sure you wouldn’t be more successful actually being in the same area as the king?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The beggar cackled and rocked back and forth, slapping his knee in delight. “‘In the same area as the king,’ he says. Oh, that’s rich.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur cocked his head to one side.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“No one gets in to see the king,” said the beggar. “Not even me.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Well who are you?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Me?” The beggar puffed out his chest. “I used to be the red knight on the black and white horse.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur looked around. “I don’t see a black and white horse. And I sure as hell don’t see any red armor.” </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“That’s why I <i>used</i> to be the red knight on the black and white horse. Had to give up the horse as a Regal Tax.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“What?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Boy, you don’t know anything about the way this kingdom works, do you?” </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Apparently not.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The beggar leaned back and took a deep breath, “Well, you’re lucky, because I have a chart of the bureaucracy.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur stood scratching his head for a moment. “Uh.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Yeah, I know. I’m blind. Wasn’t always part of it; I had to give something up that I valued in order to see the Grand Vizier, and I chose my sight. Here.” He dug in his bag and pulled out a crumpled and yellowed piece of parchment. It was rectangular, with colored squares linked to each other via black lines. Once, Arthur had seen a genealogical chart that the father had kept as part of his archive; this resembled the chart, but had more of a chaotic feel about it. More of a web. In the center of it all was a box highlighted red, and in the center of that box was GRAND VIZIER. At the top of the web was REGUS. Sprinkled around were various offices throughout the Kingdom of varying importance. The most commonplace - like sheriff, for example - were out at the peripheral of the web in smaller boxes, while the interior offices were in boxes that greatly increased in size as their job descriptions grew more nebulous. Looking over the entire chart at once made Arthur’s head ache. He realized, then, that his mission to endear himself to the king would be harder than he set out thinking. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">He handed the chart back to the beggar and said, “So, what if I just wanted to, I don’t know, gain a little bit of status in the kingdom? Get just a bit close to the tower.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The beggar laughed. “Kid, let me tell you something. Back in my heyday, I had princesses swooning all over the fuckin place. My name? The Red Knight on the Black and White Horse? My friend, that was more popular, on more people’s tongues than the Bible--in some parts of the country. But, did that mean that I could get any closer to the King than you, a veritable peasant, could dream of getting. To keep it short, nobody gets in to see the king; not nobody, not no how.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;"><br />
<i>The Writer spat out a mouthful of ale, which splattered on The Stalker, who made a throat-slitting motion with his finger. The Writer did not notice, and simply sputtered madly for a few moments, his arms flailing. The Student paused in his tale, looked at The Writer for a moment with his head cocked to the side and said, “Er.”</i><br />
<i> When it became clear that the only thing The Writer was going to do was sit there and silently flail, The Student cleared his throat and continued on.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur looked on towards the ivory tower in the distance. Could it be that the beggar was telling the truth? Could it truly be possible that the object of his self-issued quest was so insulated and so well-protected by layers of, for lack of a better turn of phrase, hurdles that in order to reach him, the King, one had to waste one’s entire life, and throw everything else aside? No, he thought. He would not dip to that much cynicism. He built himself up and took a self-inflating breath.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The beggar, once knight, seemed to understand what Arthur was doing by the sudden intake of breath and said, “If you want to proceed, by all means go ahead. Don’t expect to get anything out of it, though. You’ll just be lost in a sea of pompous, self-righteous imbeciles who ask you to prove yourself in incredibly inane ways.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“What does that mean?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The blind ex-knight shuddered. “Imagine, if you will, walking through a pasture full of cows.” He paused, an invitation to do so.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Oh, right,” said Arthur. He closed his eyes and found himself in a sunny field full of brown and white cows, lowing at nothing but the breeze. They occasionally bent their heads and chewed some grass. Off in the distance, one of them pooped. Arthur’s face soured and he wondered what was wrong with his subconscious.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Good,” said the ex-knight. “And now imagine that you must go up to each cow and study them, taking down every detail you see and writing them down in a special booklet. But one cow is not enough, you must do this for every cow in the pasture. You must do so to the point where you can differentiate them in the same way that you could between your family members. This is a task that takes you a year and a half, because you are a fast writer. And then, at the end of the task, as you say goodbye to the only creatures you have known for that year and a half, you return to the Sub-Minister of Agriculture who gave you the task, only to be sent to a slightly more senior Sub-Minister who looks over your work, deems it only ‘passable’ and then assigns you the task of doing the same thing, except this time for sheep.” At the finish of this, the man crumpled forward and shook his head. “Ech.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“I take it you had to go through that.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“And others I know had to go through much worse. One man of whom I’ve heard had to do the same with grasshoppers.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Grasshoppers?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Yes. They’re fast, you know. And they hop. Blend in with their surroundings much moreso than cows.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Still,” said Arthur, “I need to go on. This is my quest, to get to that tower and show myself as a worthy person in the eyes of th--”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The ex-knight sighed. “You’ll show yourself as no such thing unless you’re already one of them. Join their ranks if you want to be worthy; aspirants are a dime a dozen in their eyes.” He waved a hand in the air in front of him. “Go on, waste years of your life in order to join an order that has no effect on anyone save themselves and those immediately around them. I’ve learned not to talk to madmen. Only thing it cost me was my eyes.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur tried to apologize to the knight for seeming ungrateful, but it was if the man had gone suddenly deaf. After trying to reach out to the man, Arthur sighed, gave up, and continued on his way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
A day later (after having to traverse some unsteady ground when the road to the tower had been partially buried for a mile under a landslide), Arthur arrived at the outskirts of a small town called Bugford. In it, all of the houses were uniform and wholly unremarkable. Looking at them one moment, a viewer would find it nigh on impossible to remember any details about them in the matter of an hour afterwards. In fact, the most remarkable thing about the town seemed to be the red, wooden tool booth set up near the entrance of the town.</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">That is to say, Arthur assumed it was a tool booth. It was certainly booth-like. On the window there sat a pail. Behind the pail, inside the booth, there sat a man in a royal blue tunic. He slouched over, his head slumping like he was about to go to sleep; and, indeed, he was. As Arthur approached, the man would snap awake with a grunt, mumble to himself, and then slowly go back to sleep. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur walked up to the toll booth and waited as the man snapped himself awake again.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">As the man’s eyes focused and he wiped the drool off from his chin, he seemed to notice Arthur’s presence. “Oh,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Oh.” He ducked down underneath - Arthur presumed - his desk and pulled out a leather-bound ledger and an ink pot in which sat a quilled pen. The man cleared his throat and barked out, in a surprisingly authoritative voice, “Name?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Arthur. Of the--”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“That’s fine. Have a seat,” the man said, gesturing with one hand to the slightly raised ground to the side of the footpath at the side of the tollbooth and scribbling down Arthur’s name with his other. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur did. In retrospect, he probably should have shown some drive in continuing with his quest, but, well, the man had such an authoritative voice. Arthur watched as the man scribbled for longer than it should have taken to simply write down a name followed by “of the--” and then, with slightly more confusion, as the man replaced the pen in the ink pot, blew on the fresh ink on the page, gently closed the cover, and began to go to sleep again.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">This struck Arthur in a bad way. “Hey,” he said, “wake up.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The man snapped awake with a grunt and said, “What? You? What do you want?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Aren’t you going to take a toll from me so I can continue?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“A toll?” The man thought about this for a moment, then laughed. “No, no that’s not how this kingdom works at all. Taxes pay for tolls, sire. This is simply, ah, a registration booth, so to speak. Yes. And this is the register.” He patted the register.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“What’s the register for?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The man blinked. “Well, to keep tabs on how comes to the town, of course.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Inside the town, church bells rang. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“So that means I can come into the town, right?” asked Arthur.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Oh, no, sire. That’s not possible quite yet. Regulations state that new entrants may only enter into the town between the hours of 12:00 and 12:01. Those bells, by the way, were the noon bells. It is now 12:02. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“But I don’t have a watch. I can’t tell when it’s noon.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The man shrugged. “That sounds like something you could rectify by going into the town and buying a watch.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Can I go into the town and buy a watch?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Between the hours of 12:00 and 12:01, yes. Other than that, I’m afraid you’re stuck outside of the town.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“That’s absurd.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Regulations.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“But I just want to get closer to the King to prove myself.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Well, there’s a chancellor in the town this week. I’d be willing to bet that he could help you. Of course, what do I know? I live in a box.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur gazed longingly into the town.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">‘That won’t help you,” said the man. “Nor will continuing to pester me. We’ve all got a job to do, sire, and my job is not to coach you into learning how to work with governmental regulations. My job is to open this register and write down the names of people when they come by, and, occasionally, I draw cartoons in the margins; though that’s not part of my job description.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“So what do I do?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“That’s none of my concern. If you want into the town, return here tomorrow.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">And so Arthur left. He returned the next day, only to find that it was 12:03 and had very much the same conversation with the man in the toll booth. And so on and so forth until one day, as his rations had been whittled away to essentially nothing, Arthur jumped out of a bored stupor at the sound of the church bells, ran up to the toll booth, blurted out his name, and waited as the man yawned, dragged a finger down the register until he reached the scribble that contained Arthur’s name and finally said, “Yeah, go on in.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur almost skipped inside the borders of the town to find that it was, well, depressing. Inside, everyone moved at the same pace. No one spoke to each other. The only sounds were the sounds of feet scuffing against the dirt roads and the wind going through the alleys between buildings. Arthur wandered the identical buildings, hoping to find some sign of the chancellor. Eventually he came to a building that purported to be a town hall and found that the chancellor had left due to excessive boredom. Slightly more broken than he was before, Arthur trudged to the market, restocked on some supplies, and went along his way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Two years later, an emaciated man hauling behind him what we would know as a rickshaw carried along a man wearing a robe and a black square felt hat. Arthur, the emaciated man, now virtually unrecognizable save for the armor - his hair had fallen out in patches from exposure to various harmful elements, and his eyes were sunken in. The man in the rickshaw, who had a stack of leather-bound tomes with him, and wore a monocle, prattled on incessantly. He spoke few facts, and those he quoted were wrong. His subject of choice was the religious dogma and theological tenets of the world at large. </div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Initially, Arthur took this as an invitation to engage in a discussion, especially considering he had ample experience in terms of the methods by which the Church indoctrinated its followers and educated its members. However, after a minute or so of talking to the man, who referred to himself as a Doctor of Knowledge, Arthur noticed that the conversation was decidedly one-sided. He turned around in the rickshaw (he’d been tasked to carry the man around by a sub-vice-chancellor in a town a mile outside of Oxham) facing the man and saw that the doctor was staring at him with his lips compressed in a straight line, his eyes sunken, and his nose twitching.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">When Arthur had been silent for two minutes, the man said: “Good, you are finished. I think, young man, you are mistaken as to your purpose. No, do not open your mouth to utter one syllable. You are not to express any views, you are not to ask any questions. As far as you should be concerned regarding your purpose: You are naught but an empty vessel which happens to have the ability to propel itself and, thus, my conveyance, to my destination. When we do reach my destination, you may or may not be asked what you <i>think</i> about all that knowledge I have imparted unto you, but the likelihood of that occurring is very much tied to your performance of a self-aware mule; which, by the way, you are failing at significantly. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“Now,” he continued, sitting back in the rickshaw, some of the hatred evaporating out of his eyes with the spittle that flew out of his mouth with the end of the tirade, “now, you will listen to my thesis as I continue to present it. I remind you, plebian, serf, <i>peasant</i>, that you are as far along in this process as you are because I am <i>allowing</i> you to pull me to my destination. Any comments you have will not only be unwelcome, but they shall also remain unanswered. I am a Doctor of Knowledge, and you are nothing more than a minor accident in the grand scheme of things.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur considered calling the man a pompous ass, but by the time he’d managed to recover from the onslaught of madness, the doctor had begun ranting about the inherent contradiction between the Church’s call to charity and the practice of tithing. (Arthur desperately wanted to point out that, in his experience, the tithing went to upkeep of farmers’ houses, but there was probably no chance that he was going to find the time to get that into conversation.) </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">And now, several months later, and no seemingly no closer to reaching the doctor’s destination (though Arthur did not know the destination, it must be admitted), they passed through a settlement composed of a small cottage, an abbey, and an out-of-place light house. The doctor told Arthur to stop in front of the abbey gates. Arthur did.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The doctor stood up out of the rickshaw and stretched. He then stared at Arthur for a few moments and said, “Very well, I thank you for your time these few months.” And then, he walked towards the gates without another word.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">Arthur dropped the rickshaw. “Wait! What about joining you?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">The doctor slowly turned to face Arthur. “Are you still laboring under the impression that--yes, I can see you are. Alas, it was not to be. In my observations during our time together, I have determined that you are, sadly, not up to the task of taking up what I have to teach.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“What? How can you know that?”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: black;">“I studied the way you reacted to my discourses. You didn’t pay nearly enough attention to what I, your senior, had to say. Thus, I can judge by your hubristic attitude towards those who know more than you about subjects which you could ever hope to know, you are not properly, ah, <i>geared</i> to understand.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>The Student let loose a massive sigh. Through the entire narrative, he’d moved from a sitting position in which he seemed like he was truly into the story to where he was now: essentially laying out on top of the table, slurring out words while, presumably, his brain tried to think of something else to add to the story. He’d long since finished his beer, and had begun sighing repeatedly between sentences and, as the story progressed, words. No one said anything, though, because we were afraid of The Traveler’s role as moderator effectively banning us from future roles in our contest.</i></div> <i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">He waved his hands in the air. “Yadda yadda, more bullshit about the inevitable failure of youth to succeed by so-called conventional channels. Everyone has to know someone in order to get in to what they want in life. Academia is bullshit.”</span></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-42091300146253566572011-04-01T09:55:00.000-05:002011-04-01T09:55:18.181-05:00The Prologue to The Student's Second Tale<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We sat in The Sub-Pope’s Flock, in our usual corner, looking out the window at the Buttermarket Square as a few very determined tourists walked through the Cathedral gates, braving the snow and wind. Over the speakers mounted over the bar, an English folk band wrapped up a song about Plato or something and gave way to some new costumed freak named Lady Gaga. (Well, new to me. She’d apparently been making music for a few months. She looked like a Marvel villain on crack, and that was enough to make me ignore her.)</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re not going to start hanging out with them, are you?” asked The Traveler.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He sat across the table from me, wearing a red shirt with a black fist screened on and then some writing in Cyrillic. I assumed he’d picked this up from some market in the Eastern Bloc, but he wouldn’t say anything other than “I got it ridiculously cheap.” Come to think of it, The Traveler didn’t say anything about his trips over the break; he simply stated that where he went wasn’t that special, and what he did wasn’t that special, and any further discussion on the subject would simply be boring. I thought that whenever anyone said something like that, then it would be quite the opposite, but chose not to bring it up.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He was, I think, referring to the glut of undergrads with whom I acquainted myself by joining the cast of Fiddler on the Roof. I say “I think” because there was a good ten minutes of The Drunkard shouting that The Writer was a moron, and The Stalker making uncomfortable-sounding statements about everything going on. Throughout it all, The Student sent text messages on his phone to Rebecca. “What’s wrong with them?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Traveler shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, you<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>know. Undergrads.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I blinked. “I fail to see what the problem is. I mean, some of the chicks are pretty hot and, you know—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Drunkard burst into a gale of laughter. “Come on, man. Don’t bullshit us. You? You can’t talk to an attractive girl to save your life.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Guh!” shouted The Drunkard, his mouth agape. “Guh, guh!” He looked like a fish. I hoped that I didn’t look that bad.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“And,” said The Student, continuing to poke away at his phone, “let’s not forget the surely present gap in intellect.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” I said. “That’s insane.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Not really. Think about it: What was your favorite movie as a freshman?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Anchorman,” I said. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“And now?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Inglourious Basterds, but I don’t see what you’re talking about.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Note that you’ve progressed from a film based on the humor level of dick and fart jokes and have moved to a World War II-Western hybrid with intelligent nods to German cinema of the 1930s and ‘40s that holds its characters to no black-and-white moral standard, and, indeed, shows that ‘heroes’ are just as horrifying as ‘villains.’” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I bet I can find some people in the cast who liked it.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, I’m sure, but that intelligence is buried deep within a sea if inanity and asinine likes and dislikes.” The Student clicked a final button on his phone and put it gently in his pocket. He shrugged. “Good luck finding them.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“That’s... really fucking cynical, man.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He cocked an eyebrow and took a drink. “I don’t see how.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Indeed,” said The Writer, “it’s in the general hu—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Shut up, corduroy-wearer,” said The Drunkard.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What’s wrong with corduroy?” asked The Student.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nothing when you wear it,” said The Drunkard. “You’re basically a prof. But when The Writer wears it...” he paused, took a drink from his whiskey, and leaned forward, “it looks like he’s being eaten by a bear; and the fictitious nature of that fantasy makes me yearn that it were true.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There was a pause around the table. The Stalker stood and slow clapped for a moment. The bartender looked over at us with a scowl and turned up the TV in the corner, and turned down the music. Rugby raised in volume and calmed us down for a moment.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So,” said The Traveler, drumming his fingers on the table for a moment. “The reason we’re here is I figured that it had been a while – too long of a while, if I may say so – since we’d broken for winter and gone our various ways—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Without bringing The Drunkard along,” sneered The Drunkard to The Student, “because The Drunkard would be too destructive.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Traveler cleared his throat, “—and I decided that the best way to break in the new term would be to reinstate our contest.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A general murmur of agreement went around the table, save for The Drunkard, who’d stood up – well, more like staggered up – and gone to the bar to order another Jameson. If we were a hive mind – and sometimes, on the rare occasion when I saw two members of our group with the same facial expression, I believed there was a certain amount of credence to this idea – then the hive would have gone with the idea, even if one member had been temporarily blacked out, i.e. The Drunkard.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Traveler grinned. “Great, now, the hard part is remembering who’d gone last...”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” I said, “The Writer came up with that awesome sci-fi story.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Writer sputtered. “Aw—awesome? That... that <i>dreck</i>, you call that awesome?” He grew wide-eyed. “I just used a vernacular term.” He pointed at me. “Do you see what you’ve made me do, you bastard?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I grinned. “The game is mine. And yeah, I loved it.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Writer flung his hands in the air and sputtered some more, gesturing between me and The Traveler; eventually he gave up and shook his head, took a drink from his ale.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Kay,” said The Traveler.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“And The Drunkard had finished up his story about Lloyd,” I said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Cloyd,” said The Drunkard, returning to the table. “The kid’s name was Cloyd. Wonder what he’s up to. Probably dead on the side of Second Avenue.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Jesus,” I said. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” asked The Drunkard.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’ll go,” said The Student. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Is it your turn?” asked The Traveler.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Does it matter?” The Student responded.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Good point, the rest of us said.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-80772428259642702852011-03-28T14:14:00.000-05:002011-03-28T14:14:03.748-05:00Sven and The Interloper's Return<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1026"/> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout v:ext="edit"> <o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It so happened that Giggles, or Will, was in town at the alt rock pub with one of his friends who was visiting from London. I walked into town—the weather wasn’t as bad as it had been in the past week; still bad, but not enough to wish for sudden climate change—walked through the High Street and headed to the alt pub: The Lady Luck. Something about it struck me as familiar, and, with that familiarity, a small amount of dread. But I couldn’t nail anything down, so I ignored it and went inside. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In England, I developed the habit of going into a bar to wait for someone and ordering a drink before I looked around for that person. Since then, it’s made me late for so many things that I can’t count. Essentially: I have a terrible memory when it comes to being at places at a certain time and have a bad habit of wandering into random places. Luckily, it turned out that, as my ale was being poured by the man who looked like he had recently been in a fight with a tattoo artist, I heard Will’s special brand of disbelief-fueled obscenities from the back. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked in the back room and saw him circling a pool table like it was a piece of roadkill and he was a vulture. Off to the side, with a shit-eating grin, was a man slightly shorter than I, with a black-and-red beard, black clothes, and what looked to be Hot Topic chain-inclusive black jeans. He took a drink from a cider and said, “Mate, if you can’t accept a loss, there’s no need to swear.” He laughed.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“That was absurd. That was impossible. You’ve never made a shot like that in the past—how long have I known you, three years? You can’t do that, you don’t have the skill to sink three balls at once.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“That’s what she said.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Will cocked his head to one side and said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I said, “You don’t make any sense.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Will turned, saw me, “Hey Narrator. This is Sven. Sven’s being a cunt and displaying unheard-of luck right now.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“We’ve met,” said Sven.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I cocked my head. “We have?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Then it hit me. Way back at the beginning of the year, I was here with The Student and this guy and an anti-Semite. “Oh. This is the Nazi place.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Sven laughed. “Luke isn’t working today, no worries. The rest of the people here are cool.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked around. Most of the people here were borderline goths. The remaining people were two extremely out-of-place posh-looking girls at the table closest to the door, and an older biker couple at the bar who were trying to convince the bartender to have a three-way. The posh girls (who I thought I recognized from somewhere) left the pub, and the bartender looked like he wished he could follow suit.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">What was important, though, was the music. Over the surprisingly great-quality speakers mounted on the walls, the acoustic, twelve-string version of “Hear My Train a-Comin” by Jimi Hendrix played. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay, I dig.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Cool. Want to take over for Will? He’s being a bit—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well, well, well, look at what we have here,” said a disturbingly sadistic-sounding voice. “If it isn’t my chum, Kike McYankerson.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuck,” I said. I knew that voice. It was The Interloper. I turned, saw the man—this time alone (which meant there would be no reprieve brought on by a friend with a black bag)—and said, “Gayn cacken ofn yahm.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">That froze him for a second. The presence of a language other than English, I’d learned, had a freezing effect on the small-minded. Enough, at least, to confuse them for a bit and possibly allow for an escape. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Interloper shook off the Yiddish and said, “And these cunts, they your bum buddies?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” Will asked. “Who are you? Narrator, is this one of the Thes?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Kind of. He’s The Interloper.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What does that word mean? My name’s Tim. Sod it, Jew, I’m gonna kick your ass.” And then, I shit you not, he rolled up his sleeve like he was a villain from a 1950s high school sitcom.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Sven propped himself up on a stool near the back wall like this was a damn prize fight, and he had ringside seats, and Will leaned on the stick and said, “Narrator, before I go in on your side, I must know if what you did to anger this man is valid.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">By the time he got to “I must know,” The Interloper had reared back and I held my fists out in front of me like this was a 1920s boxing match. (I’d never been in a fight before—the closest I’d been to one was a shoving match when I was in gym class and I tripped a guy during the mile run—and I thought this was how people fought. Now, I know better. I know people fight like in <i>West Side Story</i>, and that’s why I’ve been practicing my snapping rhythm.) </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He brought the fist forward, the thought that I was doing this wrong flashed through my head and then, in a flash, a black-draped figure smelling suspiciously of cider appeared between me and the fist. The figure’s hand reached out, grabbed The Interloper’s wrist and jerked it down with such speed and force that The Interloper himself fell to the ground with a quick, “Bloody hell.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">At that same time, The Interloper’s keepers burst through the door of the pub with the trusty black bag and a new addition: a Taser. They skidded to a halt at the entrance to the pool room, saw The Interloper on the ground and breathed sighs of relief. “He was going from kebab shop to kebab shop trying to start fights with people,” said the one in the Led Zeppelin shirt.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I didn’t say anything, I was still surprised by The Stalker, who was now standing to my left. I didn’t notice before, but the scent of cider came from the presence of the pint of Strongbow he’d been holding in his right hand through the entire ordeal. “Yes,” said The Stalker, “perhaps the two of you should consider chemically castrating your friend.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The two Englishmen looked at each other and gave off a couple nervous laughs. On the floor, The Interloper groaned. “I think me arm’s broken.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m not joking,” said The Stalker. “Ask my friend here: I don’t joke.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I shook my head. “He doesn’t.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I believe,” continued The Stalker, “that your now-injured friend suffers from an excess of testosterone—or, more likely, he has a deficiency thereof, and thus feels the compulsion to dominate other people around him. A sort of compensatory alpha complex, if you follow my thinking on the situation. In my thinking—and I am no doctor, or psychologist—this could be remedied by cutting off the source of the excess testosterone.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Interloper wept on the floor. “Lads, please don’t cut off my bollocks.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The two Englishmen looked at each other again and, without further commentary, dragged the crying man out of the pub. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">After a few seconds of silence, conversation in the pub started back up. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Did you just threaten to chemically castrate someone?” asked Will.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Sven stood up and walked over to shake The Stalker’s hand. “Brilliant, mate. I’m Sven.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Stalker sniffed the air and squinted at Sven. “You should switch to cigars. They’re more fragrant than Marlboros.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Er,” I said. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Stalker slurped at his cider and turned to me. “Narrator. Au revoir. I’ll be seeing you at The Flock tomorrow, yes? I hope you’re prepared in the event that it’s your turn.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I turned to the side to drink out of the glass ale I had, said, “Whose turn is it?” drank, and turned around to see that The Stalker had vanished.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Is he Batman?” asked Sven. “He just... was gone.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I don’t know,” I said. “One thing I do know: He’s a dangerous man, and God help us all if he turns against us. If that day comes, he’ll be as bad as the people he fights against.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Will and Sven turned to each other. “Who does he fight against?” Will asked when the moment of confusion was over.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What? Oh,” I said, “sorry. Got on a Batman track there, quoting Commissioner Gordon.” I coughed. “Right. Next game?”</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-85350073476351418492011-03-25T14:29:00.000-05:002011-03-25T14:29:00.436-05:00Rand and Ranting<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1026"/> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout v:ext="edit"> <o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I schlepped up the stairs of Keynes College the next day, passing the bar and lamenting the fact that I had to go to class and couldn’t just go to the bar for a couple of hours. I made it up to the seminar room, walked inside, and saw that I was one of the first ones in there. There was a girl across from me, attractive, short brown hair, and I recognized her from the doomed fiction reading last term and nodded. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A few minutes later, a couple other people trickled in—one guy who looked like he hadn’t slept last night, and the untucked shirttail and the stamps on his hands backed up that thought—right before Todd. Todd’s a guy about my height and build with James Joyce glasses and a skeptical face. He started off the conversation with a resounding, “So. You guys read <u>Atlas Shrugged</u>? Big piece of crap, huh?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A deafening silence filled the room. The Brits weren’t used to this—and, frankly, I wasn’t expecting to have an American as a professor here. As far as I knew, the Americans on staff were in the Politics department. Anyway, the British professors were very British about their teaching method, as far as I could tell: Stoic, reserved, business as usual types who’d rather be doing anything else than working, and, frankly, didn’t care that much about what you were working on. To hear a professor come in with a statement that decried a work so fully instead of something like, “While this text is flawed, we must take into account that” etc etc, was—even to me, who’d had a screenwriting professor call Michael Bay “the biggest sack of cow dung ever to crawl out of the sewers,” this was jarring. But, that was probably because of the time that had lapsed between when I’d been in America and when I’d been in Politeness Land.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So...” said the guy who looked like he’d just come from the club, “does that mean we don’t have to read the book if we haven’t started yet?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” asked Todd. “You—yeah, you still have to read the book. Well, I guess I wouldn’t know you hadn’t if you didn’t write about it for the final essay, but, you know, read the book.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Huh,” said the guy. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I know a guy who read it for fun,” I said. This is how I added to conversations in literature courses, which also explained how I never made above an A minus in them. “He was a huge fan of Ayn Rand.” I punctuated it with a nod.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, hey, you’re American. Where you from?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nashville and Ohio.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No shit? What part of Ohio?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Canton.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Cool, my people are from there.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For a moment, I envisioned a group of literature professors and writers, as a tribe, coming from Akron—which was a quasi-industrial city most known for tires and their Triple A baseball team. It was an odd image, and, briefly, I wished that my brain would stop sending these things instead of something useful. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So,” he said, “what’d you think?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I think it’s interesting that Rand has such a staunch hatred of government, yet <a href="http://boingboing.net/2011/01/28/ayn-rand-took-govern.html">took aid herself</a>. But yeah. Big ole pile of crap. 500 pages of terrible dialogue, yadda yadda,” I waved my hand through the air, seeming to dismiss the whole thing from my high horse of literary knowledge. Of course, I hadn’t read the book at all, but I had read several articles online about how crap it was, and I’d learned from a professor my sophomore year that it was all about how well you could bullshit.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I know, right?” Todd said. He made a retching sound. “And people take this stuff seriously. By the way, this will essentially be the tone of every discussion we have. Let’s go through the syllabus.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We did. Every novel was met with a sardonic remark about the author’s hypocrisy, the fact that ranting didn’t make for good reading, and then, to close, a collective wish that people had better senses of humor. We left the classroom, and I called Giggles to see what he was up to.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-19507077120204749872011-03-24T10:53:00.000-05:002011-03-24T10:53:59.672-05:00The Rehearsal, the Descriptive Shortness of Which Will Be Disappointing to Those Who Were In Fiddler<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was dead dark on campus by the time rehearsal was scheduled to start. I walked by Templeman in my p-coat, a couple bottles of water and my libretto in my bag. Around me, undergrads stumbled around, drunk already though it was barely half-past five. Garbled Essex accents bounced off walls, high-pitched, scathing laughter cut through the air—and that was coming from a group of “lads.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I sighed, thinking of the frat boys back in Knoxville and remembered that every country has their obnoxious idiots. Moving on.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There are a couple of buildings on campus that are, essentially, mazes. The rumor is that they were designed to be mirror images of each other, and each was designed by an architect who made his living designing prisons for the government. Further, goes the campus legend, the guy, after designing the two colleges, killed himself. I don’t know why, and the tale doesn’t say why. It kind of reminds me of the story about the guy who designed the cover for <i>In The Court of The Crimson King</i> killing himself after creating it. Anyway, the rehearsals were set to be in one of these buildings—Rutherford. I’d been in there to go to the karaoke parties, but then, that destination was clearly marked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">So, in the face of confusion brought on by a complete lack of understanding of the design of a building, I did what I normally did in these situations: I wandered. I knew the room was going to be in a courtyard, so I walked towards what I figured would be the middle of the place and hoped that I’d be correct.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Eventually, I came to a courtyard. In the middle was a large group of smokers. I imagine that, seen from above, this gathering would have resembled a big red target. I walked around the perimeter, looking into each classroom on the courtyard level to see if any of them contained actor types. When I reached the room that was directly to the left of the entrance, I saw a couple people sitting against the wall, smoking. They were chatting about rehearsals for another play.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fiddler?” I asked.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuck you,” said the guy. He was lanky, pale, had glasses. This, I’d learn was Simon. “I’m not a kiddy fiddler you—oh, the play. Yeah, we’re here for that. You?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I nodded.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m not,” said the girl. I never actually learned her name, despite seeing her several times at karaoke and despite the fact that she knew mine and seemed to know a disturbing amount about me. “I just walked Simon over here.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh.” I said, nodding. “Okay.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I gotta go.” She left.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So who’re you?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m The Narrator. I’m going to be playing Tevye.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Simon gave me an appraising look. It hit me that he was one of the guys who tried out for Tevye. And, if memory served, he’d been the one who’d played the role as part of a traveling troupe of actors who performed in places from Germany to Russia. “So you are,” he said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Silence. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” I offered. I looked at my watch. “I guess we should get in there?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He nodded and we walked in the door. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">People slowly trickled in, culminating with Laura’s retinue of Lucie and the Wookie named Kane. A visible shift occurred in her demeanor. She came in laughing at some joke and then turned into a cold, soulless human being, shouting at everyone to shut up and get ready to get down to the serious business of acting. I was scared shitless, but everyone else seemed to be used to this from working with her in one of the showcases in the fall. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">This would be my motivation to perform throughout the time I spent in the cast: Pure, unadulterated fear of enraging someone shorter and lighter than me. Of course, that wasn’t exactly different than how I usually worked with other people. In other words, I’m scared of everyone.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, the rehearsal went on until about half past nine and involved a lot of me shouting at people when I wasn’t supposed to (my method was to base my interpretation of the character loosely on my father, who used to be quite mad), twitching at people who—clearly—hadn’t taken this as seriously as I had and not learned their lines, and sweating. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">By the time the rehearsal ended and we’d made it through two scenes, it was half-past nine. I called Giannis as I walked out of Rutherford. Megadeth played over the phone until he answered and then: “Hello?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Hey man, it’s The Narrator.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, hey man. How are you?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuckin tired. Drink?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A long and exasperated sigh came from his end of the phone. “I cannot. I have work to do.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What? It’s the first day of the term.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, I know, and I have three projects to work on, I must read four articles and write about them, and then rework some of my project from last term.” He sighed. “I hate it.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Man,” I said, “you should have gone into liberal arts. You know how much work I have to do?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“How much?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuckin nothin, man. I have so much time, I’m the lead in an amateur production of Fiddler on the Fuckin Roof. I got like, two papers for the entire term and they’re both due in April.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I hate you.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Dude, that’s not the worst of it. Every assignment I have between now and then is optional.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">This time, Giannis hung up.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-13102319119356577622011-03-22T11:08:00.000-05:002011-03-22T11:08:30.733-05:00Okay, in Class for Real This Time<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Why do you want to do this? Why in the world would you come for a degree in writing?” the professor asked.</span> <div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Simon Smith was a short, portly poet with glasses. By his own admission, he usually didn’t dabble in prose, “but I’ll try.” When the three of us in the course met in one of the seminar rooms in Woolf, it was dusk at around four. It was myself, a guy named Ritchie who happened to be in one of The Writer’s seminars, and Simon in this room. Sitting, chilling out. Initially, when I saw that there were only three people in the class, I thought, “Well, this is strange.” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I was used to literature courses with about eighteen depressed scholars, one skip away from diving into a whiskey bottle due to their time spent reading the works of people who truly hated humanity. Being in a room with two other people, one of whom seemed to be simply mildly cynical and the other who seemed to wish he were writing highbrow crime novels, this was strange. I wondered if every writing seminar were like this. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I mean,” continued Simon, “it’s not like there’s any money in this. I made more money working as a librarian than I did writing poetry.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” I thought, “that’s because you write poetry. Try writing lawyer thrillers. You’ll make a mint.” I didn’t say that, though.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I cleared my throat. “I’m doing this to spite a friend.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay,” Simon said. He gave me a look—one that would turn out to be a common look—that said I was slightly unhinged and didn’t have the firmest grasp on life. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“He’s a dick,” I continued, though Simon obviously didn’t want me to. “Real pretentious type; thinks he’s the shit, right? King Shit of Fuck Mountain, one might say.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Ritchie snickered. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Huuuuge fan of the Russians—writers that is, don’t know about politics—and thinks every piece of genre is total crap.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“And so you’re spiting him... how?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m going to write a long-short story, have you mark it, and then show him that genre doesn’t necessarily fail.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Simon nodded. “Richard?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I don’t know. I like to write. I hated my job. This seemed like a good idea.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><a href="" name="OLE_LINK29"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Okay,” Simon said. He leaned back and looked between the two of us. “Narrator, what books have you recently read?”</span></a></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK29;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Welp, one of the required texts for my other course—”</span></span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK29;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Which is?”</span></span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK29;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Er,” I pulled out my notebook. “It’s called ‘Utter Mishegaas’ with Todd McEween. It’s in the Ranting in Literature M.A. I’m reading <u>Atlas Shrugged</u>. If I get through it without gouging out my own eyes—”</span></span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK29;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Like Oedipus, I like the imagery.”</span></span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK29;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I was thinking Sam Neill from <u>Event Horizon</u>, but yeah. Oedipus will work.</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> If I get through it without doing that, then I guess I’ve completed just as much as I can hope to as a human being.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“How dark.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Meh. Life is objectively meaningless, and I feel it’s best to keep your expectations as low as humanly possible to avoid disappointment.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“How Zen.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nah,” I said. “My guitar teacher taught me that when I was fifteen.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Richard?” asked Simon. I could see the wariness growing already. “How about you?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Richard listed some British novelists of whom I’d never heard, and I zoned out for a bit. Went to my happy place, which, today, was sadly based in Sholazar Basin in Northrend. It’s best if I skip over the contents of the happy place, as to describe it in detail would be incredibly depressing. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well,” Simon said, “here’s a thought. How about we eschew this meeting in a large seminar room, since there’s only three of us in the module, and have one-on-one meetings?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh, at a pub?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What? No. In my office.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh,” I said, deflated. And here I thought writers were all rampaging alcoholics. “Yeah, sure.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Great,” he said with a smile. “Well, how about we break with some thoughts about what we’re each going to do as a final project—I say ‘we’ because, hell, why not do one myself—and then meet next week. Narrator, you at eleven, and Richard, you at one?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Works for me,” I said. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We left the room. Ritchie and Simon were talking about what Ritchie was thinking about doing—a continuation of something he’d been working on for that Rose woman, who, I was certain, The Writer was trying desperately to impress. I figured there wasn’t much point in me thinking about what to do, as I could easily just choose one of my mad daydreams and write that. Or, barring that, if I couldn’t think of anything, just use my blog, which was original writing and I would be damned if anyone said otherwise.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As I left the building and was hit by a heavy burst of wind, I received a text message from The Traveller. We would be meeting at The Sub-Pope’s Flock on Saturday to have another story session. Anyone who did not attend would be counted as bowing out of the competition. It was now Wednesday, which gave me two days to remember who’d told a story last, and to think of one myself. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But, more pressing than that was the reheasal tonight. It was the first non-singing scene (the bit where Tevye leaves off singing “If I Were A Rich Man” and gets mobbed by people with bad news) through the scene where Perchik goes all “guh” for Hodel for the first time.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=4361506646329016462#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;">[1]</span></span></a></span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br clear="all" /> <hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /> <div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=4361506646329016462#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;">[1]</span></span></a> Side note: If you don’t know what I’m talking about, that’s for the best. It’s been about a year since I started rehearsing for the musical, and I’m still having nightmares about being on-stage and forgetting lines mid-song, and then being lynched by Laura. I wake up in a cold sweat and curse my iPod whenever it plays songs from that musical.</div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-66841297838603847712011-03-16T10:19:00.003-05:002011-03-16T10:19:39.842-05:00The Return to Classes<div align="center" class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As I said, the previous week was incredibly dull, and spent with little more than streams of Muppet movies on Megavideo, and Menzopeptol, my troll shaman on World of WarCraft. After I emerged from the dark of my room on a Tuesday morning, hacking up some phlegm and cursing the world for not raining coffee, I walked to the kitchen to get the last of the Dunkin Donuts grinds and saw the following hand-written note from the cleaning staff:</span></div><div align="center" class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear D3</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: .5in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Your flat is disgusting.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: .5in 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: .5in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Please clean it. </span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: .5in 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: .5in 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">John tried to, but found himself throwing up from inhaling the fumes from the black mushroom things on the counter and then his eyes started bleeding which we attribute to the—estimated—three pounds of gutted fish on your table.</span></div><div class="2004" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: .5in 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I sighed and ripped down the note. I didn’t want to confront the Chinese girls, because they were really nice, and weren’t doing anything on purpose. (I’d seen pictures of a Wal-Mart in China online and... well, cultural differences. Dead pigs, I assume to be used for pork, were piled in a giant tub with a huge price marker on it. Semi-cooked ducks hung from a non-refrigerated display. There was another tub full of what looked like different cuts of beef all lumped together. Madness. The horror. The horror.) So I stood in front of the kitchen door, thinking of a way to shrug off the responsibility of cleaning up someone’s mess. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I could tell Chacko, but Chacko, apparently, hadn’t cleaned his room since he’d moved in, so he wasn’t exactly the paragon of cleanliness. The other option was Giannis. Giannis was a military man (by default) and, swear to God, his room could have been used as a model room for guided tours of Woolf College. Everything was neatly placed in its own slot, there was a constant pleasant smell, his desk was neat, and, unlike my room, there weren’t empty liquor bottles strewn across the floor and dirty wine glasses on every shelf.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I dashed into the kitchen—holding my breath—and turned on the coffee maker. Then I headed over to Giannis’s door and knocked. The sound of Iron Maiden briefly dipped in volume and he shouted, “Yes?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“’s Aaron,” I said. “You busy?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No, man, hold on.” Iron Maiden stopped entirely and there was a brief shuffling. Giannis opened the door and I saw Stasia sitting on his bed.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yo, Stasia, what’s up?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She shrugged. “I had to leave. The Writer was complaining that I was shouting, so I threw an apple at him and left.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Sounds fair,” I said. “Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t killed him yet.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She laughed and shrugged. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So,” said Giannis. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah. Right. Kay. Look,” I held out the piece of paper.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Giannis read it. “Yes, I too passed out in the kitchen. The... what are they? The things in the bowl?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Mushrooms?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He snapped his fingers. “Yes. The mushrooms, they stink.” He formed a gun with his fingers and mock blew his brains out.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Wait,” I said, “you passed out in the kitchen?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He nodded. “Two hours.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Chacko’s door opened and, like an Indian Kramer, he slid into the hallway. “Did someone say my name?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“No.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh. What’s up?” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“This,” I said. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He took the paper from my hand and read it. He nodded, crumpled it, and threw it in his room. “You guys want to go see a film? I heard tha—”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Class in an hour,” I said. “Rehearsals later. What’re you going to do about the kitchen?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nothing,” Chacko said.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s not that bad.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Chacko, Giannis passed out!”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Giannis nodded.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I can talk to the girls,” Giannis said. “I have bleach. I will just dump it on the floor if nothing else.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“So,” said Chacko. “A film?”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuck off with ya.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuck you,” responded Chacko.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuck you!” I countered.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuck yoooou!” Chacko said, shaking his fist.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Stasia gathered her things in one swoop and said, “I hate this flat,” and left.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 0in 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We shrugged.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-19061005753415397292011-03-16T10:19:00.000-05:002011-03-16T10:19:09.137-05:00An E-Mail<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">So, I just received an e-mail from a friend of mine. Everything below, until after the signature, is from the body of the e-mail.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Narrator,</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">You need to get on with it. I know what you’re planning, because you talked to me about the days after your trip to France. Don’t do it, man. Don’t write about World of Warcraft, man. Seriously, that’ll be the most boring shit ever. No one, and I mean no one, has any desire to hear about you dual-wielding mutton in Lich King heroics. That makes you a troll (and yes, I know you play a troll), and trolls are the worst things ever.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Just, please, get on with the blog. It’s gone on for over a year now, and you’re still not through December. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Also: I know, you wanted to talk about Christmas. You’re a Jew and you spent it watching <u>Scrooged</u> and <u>The Muppet Christmas Carol</u>. There. Summed up in one sentence. Booyah. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">-I’m out</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">So, yeah, I guess there’s something to that. There’s not much point in detailing how I went into a virtual hermitage for a couple of weeks before classes started back up, and you’re probably not all that interested in hearing about how I spent about three six-hour stretches grinding reputation for a bunch of goblins, so I might as well skip on to the next interesting bit, which took place about two and a half weeks after I returned from France. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Empire Strikes Back</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> was ten kinds of awesome to see on the big screen, though. Hadn’t seen it since they came out with the special editions in the 90s. </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4361506646329016462.post-60518521481900413672011-03-07T14:38:00.000-06:002011-03-07T14:38:43.784-06:00An Interruption<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Outside, a new wave of wintery vengeance rained down upon us mere mortals, and we wept. </span></div><div class="2004"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The old world, gone now—long disappeared behind the veil of white that covered the surface of our planet now—was but a memory. We knew not whether anything lived out there, in the frozen expanses. Perhaps some primitive species had managed to eke out a way of life by tunneling under the permafrost. Humanity would not get that far, I felt. Once our reserves of heating oil and fuel were depleted, it would be a few months—a couple years at most—before we were lost.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Well, that’s what popped into my head as I stood at The Traveler’s window on the top floor of his block. A pretty steady wall of snow flew through the air. Windows around Woolf, which, it turned out, weren’t properly built, vibrated and slammed open and shut with the wind—even if they were supposedly latched shut. On the inside of every door, there was a note by the property management, which read:</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Residents, please take care around the property as there will be strong winds WE will not be in the office until Thursday, as to remain here in this icy hell would be suicide Thank you –UPP”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was a bit of a hyperbolic reaction, but they didn’t lie: The Pavilion was empty. The help desk was shuttered shut and mail bags piled up in front of the employee entrance door. Critter tracks littered the courtyard and the only people who moved around were dressed like sherpas.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In The Traveler’s kitchen, there wasn’t much hint of that aside from the occasional burst of cold air when the windows briefly popped free of their latches. The air in there was filled with spice and the sinus-melting scent of Diablo peppers. The Thes, we took it for granted (turned out that we were all there, except for The Writer, who was still sulking) that we would be in pain from smelling everything in the pot, and were thus able to withstand it. The two Brits in the flat—a tall, tall guy named Ross, who I think I’ve mentioned before, and a shorter guy in Psychology—weren’t faring as well. They’d tear up from the spices and have to wander out of the kitchen occasionally. Giannis and Chacko came over—Giannis was crying, but stayed around because we were blaring Jethro Tull, and Chacko laughed at everyone, saying, “My grandmother could make spicier food than this. Naturally, everyone hated him.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Why do you want to kill us all?” asked Giannis. He was sitting at<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the long table against the wall, red in the face, tears welling up in his eyes, and wiping his forehead with some paper towels.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Traveler responded by shouting, “Pain is weakness leaving the body!” </span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“That,” said The Stalker, “is my personal motto.”</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">An uncomfortable silence filled the room.</span></div><div class="2004" style="tab-stops: 63.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Soon, we ate and--</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11452157034974089173noreply@blogger.com0