tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30732471152145495862024-03-05T11:13:33.425-06:00Dragons Are DeliciousIs that a broadsword in your pocket or are you just happy — oh that's a broadsword. :'(Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-778834390625930982019-10-07T22:54:00.002-05:002019-10-09T13:04:52.738-05:00Review: Joker and the Ending ExplainedBefore I begin, I want to address something. To all of you Blue Check-Marks on Twitter and all the left-leaning media sites: You are a part of the problem that you fear so much. Why? Because you dehumanize people into lists that fit into 280 character limits leaving no room for empathy. And we're all tired of your narratives being pushed into the spotlight and presented as mainstream. Your cult of social "justice" is on the fringe, too. And your niche might be bigger than others, but it's not popular opinion. You don't speak for us, and you need to quit pretending to.<br />
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I just want anyone reading this who's mentally ill, poor and white, or maybe an actual incel to know that I don't hate you. I don't think the world hates you, either. And the Joker scares them because they don't want to understand anyone. That would lead to knowledge, knowledge that could break their religious, brainwashed zealotry—that they are everything good and just, in the world.<br />
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The Joker is not a film about any sort of agenda you believe in, either. You can project whatever you want, onto it. But if you really want to know what the joker is ... it's when you're not feeling confident in your appearance. Maybe you've gained a lot of weight, gotten old, your hair is thinning, or your skin broke out the night before. It's whatever that thing is that makes you look away from your naked body's reflection when passing the bathroom mirror. But this time, you can't turn your head, and you're forced to stare straight into all your insecurities, in crystal clarity. That is the essence of the Joker.<br />
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Joker isn't the first movie to do this, by far. You've probably read comparisons to King of Comedy or Taxi Driver, but I'd like to offer up a different film if you're into this stuff, and that's 1993's, <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0107653/" target="_blank">Naked</a>. Maybe I'll even do a review on that, someday. It is, however, really amazing that they went to these lengths on a comic book character. It would make the few legit, real writers of comics, like Alan Moore, proud.<br />
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Arthur Fleck's Joker isn't in most of the movie. What we see is a heavily medicated, emaciated guy beaten down further and further into hiding within himself. And the film not only acknowledges this, it's commanded by it. You're not getting a story written about the Joker. You're getting a story written by the Joker. This is an autobiography, a memory of what it was like to be Arthur Fleck.</div>
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His uncontrollable, painful laugh pops up while he's having negative experiences. And this same laugh can be heard, forced, when he's responding to fairly lame jokes. It tells us, early on, that he's not wired like a normal person. His comedy is in pain and tragedy, much like how a masochist derives pleasure from pain. In fact, it tells us he's really struggling to be someone he's not. Arthur even asks for more medication to try to feel normal, and even states that he doesn't feel real. <br />
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This is a better, infinitely more complex version of Pagliacci. We have a clown, someone who only desires to bring joy into people's lives, suffering for no reason other than circumstance, which is heartbreaking, in its nature. And honestly, Joaquin Phoenix absolutely delivers the performance of a lifetime. If this doesn't move you at all, you are a broken person.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">A tear runs down Arthur as he forces himself to smile.</span></td></tr>
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My only problem with this Joker is that he tries to explain himself a little too much. I feel like the Joker is beyond caring about that. And it's forgivable because Arthur is new at the role when we finally see him take on that mantle. The Joker I know would have gone on the night talk-show, took his time looking up the joke, said knock knock, and then the punchline would have been shooting Robert De Niro, in the face, while laughing at the audience's screams. That, honestly, was my only real issue.<br />
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The ending:<br />
This doesn't spoil anything. It's subjective. The Joker is in Arkham, and he's talking to the same therapist he was seeing as Arthur Fleck. It's weird that she would have become a psychiatrist though and working at an institution for the criminally insane. But, then again, she could have been injected into the role of his past therapist. It does, most definitely, take place after the story. Personally, however, I would have rather seen Harley Quinn there.<br />
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The entire movie is thus presented as a memory of Joker's. The last scene, before his laughing starts, is of Bruce Wayne's parents being gunned down in the alleyway. While we see the film as a tragedy mixed with horror, he sees it as hysterically funny. It's literally just a passing thought while speaking to his shrink about something else. She asks him what's so funny, and he responds that he just thought of a funny joke. It then cuts to him dance-walking, down the hallway, leaving a trail of bloody footprints and eventually being chased by orderlies.<br />
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What we're left with is a very biased look at Arthur's life from the Joker. He sees Arthur as a pathetic, oppressed, idiotic loser and outright laughs at his misfortunes. And all the dancing and celebratory gestures is self adulation from the Joker's rise and Arthur's death.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="color: white;">Arthur is dead. There is only The Joker.</span></td></tr>
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The movie doesn't glorify the violence it portrays. If anything, it's mostly unexpected and not presented as a reasonable "action movie" response to the situation, like Kill Bill or John Wick. It does, however, touch on how society fails the mentally ill. And that's a hard pill to swallow for a lot of people, but yours truly has seen it over and over, in my life. And the Joker does not mock the mentally ill or make light of anything. In fact, it sheds light on how horrible we treat them. The Joker leaves me with only one thought, and it's what Vonnegut would often write, "so it goes."<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-4667167010187461312015-01-30T06:39:00.003-06:002015-02-26T15:04:31.998-06:00An Honest Review of TaeKwonDo From a StudentI've had an off and on relationship with the martial arts almost my entire life. And about seven months ago I enrolled, for the first time, in TaeKwonDo. Before I actually learned it, the only thing I really knew about the martial art came from video games like <b><i>Tekken</i></b> and <b><i>The King of Fighters</i></b>. Also, it was featured in one of my favorite, cheesy martial arts movies, <i><b>The Best of the Best</b></i>.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Being in my 30s now and out of shape, I thought it would be a great way to get back into exercising while doing something that I used to love. In that regard, it wasn't too bad and did help me regain flexibility, stamina, and an interest in fighting.<br />
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Coming from a Karate and Judo background, doing my white and yellow belt stuff came easy. So much so, that it was quite boring. But just for the record, I have no issue with excessively practicing the fundamentals.They are usually more important and useful than the majority of "advanced" techniques.<br />
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In my second month, I fractured my wrist during free sparing. This happened because I mistimed a block, and my knuckles connected with a side kick, head on. The block was a typical TKD block: the low block. It's probably the dumbest thing to do in an actual fight. But it's illegal in TDK to throw a kick to block a kick. It's illegal to grab a leg. It's illegal to do a takedown. It's pretty much against the rules to do what you're supposed to do. So that's the only reason I was using the move.<br />
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I had to reprogram myself to throw these blocks, committing to really learning this stuff and giving it a fair chance. In my first sparring match, I was told I was breaking the rules. I was against a bigger, but much younger guy. And every time he tried to kick me, I knocked his leg back, with my foot, before he could fully raise it. This was my instinct from my years of training before TaeKwonDo. After my training, I started throwing a fist to counter a kick. I didn't even realize when it started happening, but I'm going to, damn sure, stop it.<br />
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Shortly after, testing was coming up. I was ready, but my teacher said I wasn't. So I had to wait another four months before I could test for the next belt level. In those four months, I spent most of my time training the new white belts on how to do their form and one step sparring sequences. BTW, I hate one step sparring. Everything negative everyone ever said about it is absolutely true.<br />
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I even used to defend it as a teaching aid. I thought, at one time, it was to get a good look at a student's technique and help them get familiar with new moves. Maybe in that way it could be used as an effective learning tool, but when it's the sole focus of what you do, then it's just a farce.<br />
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After four months of pretend fighting, I finally got to the next testing day. We lined up as normal, and the room was darkened. Cheesy 90s R&B music about achieving your dreams played through the PA. I had to hold back the laughter and just zone out. Apparently I look really serious like this, which I find ironic. This all was the background to a candle lighting ceremony, in which all million of us would go up and have a candle lit, symbolizing our spiritual growth or something. Fast forward another hour, and finally the real "test" began.<br />
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We all sat around the dojang and waited for our names to be called. We were to respond, yes mam and then we'd go line up in front of a panel of black belts. They partnered us with our peers, and we'd do our one steps, form, and then a random move or answer a question about the meaning of some Korean bullshit.<br />
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Out of the entire white belt class, I was the only one to make zero mistakes. That doesn't mean I couldn't have done any better. It just means that I did everything that was asked of me. I also had the most experience out of everyone in my rank, with the least experienced person having started less than a month ago. Yes, they actually knew less than I did when I originally wasn't allowed to test.<br />
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After we finished, I sat around watching everyone else do the same thing and then it all ended with a royal rumble free "sparring" session between all the color belts. I did quotes there because it looked exactly like this video:<br />
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When it came time to give out the new belts, every white belt got the same yellow belt with one stripe. All my extra work, effort and time had zero effect on the belt grades of my class. So it felt more like a participation ribbon because we all got the same thing, no matter how bad or good we were.<br />
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Now, I didn't have a lot of stock in the belts to begin with. The majority of the students are kids, and they have no separate belt division for children in TDK, despite having separate standards. So I don't really know how to care about my rank when the children above me can't even throw a proper kick or do one real pushup.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-medium; text-align: start;">My Dojang consisted of more children than adults, so I probably looked like Dwight from </span><i style="font-size: medium; font-weight: bold; text-align: start;">The Office</i><span style="font-size: xx-medium; text-align: start;">, a lot of the time.</span></span></td></tr>
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So if I can't care about my rank, then I have to be able to care about the art and my training. After all, that is the most important thing. Well, we know I've already become worse defensively. There are other really dumb blocks that only seem useful if people are attacking you at 90 degree angles, but I don't really need to go into detail about it. TDK is the honeybadger of defense.<br />
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To TDK's credit, it's not too bad offensively. The side kick is good, the ax kick is useful, I like their butterfly kick, tornado kick for karate, and the infamous turning / spinning back kick can be devastating. But there are also a myriad of really stupid moves that nobody should ever bother with, like a reverse twist kick for example. Hell, I watched a red belt's one step that required him to kneel on the ground while turning his back to his attacker. I don't have to point out exactly why that is not a good idea.</div>
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But on one occasion, my teacher criticized my Muay Thai roundhouse. Not for me doing it wrong, but because I'd apparently only hurt myself putting my hip and body into a kick. Man, I must have gotten real lucky the thousands of times I've done it before. To her credit, it is very different than the TDK version, which is a much weaker, angled side kick with a snap. </div>
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Even in a school like mine, where punching isn't frowned on, there is no training on how to actually put power behind a punch or to not telegraph it. Even worse, there were strikes that required me to not shift weight from a back stance. Basically, the only force I could have gotten was from my elbow up. I can understand doing this as a part of one's happo no kuzushi training, but this wasn't jiu-jitsu. and the threat of being taken to the ground doesn't even factor into it. </div>
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Also, there is no emphasis on the importance of the feint or any tactics remotely useful to an actual fight. In fact, everything I learned seems to mainly be effective in a TDK match, where both combatants are following the same rules. Basically, I was being trained on how to be a rock 'em sock 'em robot.</div>
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There is other crap that comes with "traditional" schools and mcdojos that I don't care for. The foreign rules and customs that are forced on the students, usually by the whitest people ever who haven't even been to the country they've appropriated this crap from. Mine only had a little of this. Like I had to bow to the teacher, bow to the black belts, bow to the flags, even bow to the building. I couldn't fix my dobok or belt while facing the teacher, and we couldn't get a drink from our own water bottles or use the washroom without asking for permission, first.<br />
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One last thing I'd like to add about the experience, coming from a lone student. I had no friends or family doing this with me. While I found some families to be very positive toward me, others were a bit negative. I found the ones who had zero martial arts backgrounds prior, often saw me as some weirdo, invading their family pass-time. And I can kind of agree with that.</div>
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I'm a real fighter at heart. I don't hate kids or anything. But I don't want to train with them. They should have a separate criteria from me. I want pain and progress. I want to feel the burn and learn to prevail against the odds. I want to become something better. I can't do that when my training is being limited to another's limitations. No more play fighting and karate dancing, I'm going to go wherever the real fighters are.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-79320317563824718492014-05-28T16:37:00.005-05:002014-05-28T16:37:51.561-05:00Amazing Stories: All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Writer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Trying to be a successful writer can be quite difficult. For those of us who hold day jobs, doubly so. My wife is a good example of someone who can hold down a job, come home, and be creative. It’s why she’s published; it’s why she’s a best seller. I, on the other hand, have always struggled to come home, after a shift, and pick up the pen.<br />
Continue Reading on (<a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2014/05/work-play-makes-jack-dull-writer/" target="_blank"><u>Amazing Stories</u></a>)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-59932756094033615822014-05-28T00:42:00.001-05:002014-05-28T00:42:49.518-05:00An Analysis of My Twisted World by Elliot RodgersBefore I get into anything, I don't really recommend reading this. Although several media outlets have called this work a manifesto, which it is in part, it's more of an autobiography, really. But if you're thinking of educating yourself as to what sort of horrors it must take to turn a young boy into a mass murderer and serial killer, I'll save you the time as this book is mostly filled with banal non events and the rantings of a misanthropic malcontent. <br />
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<a name='more'></a>In <i>My Twisted World</i>, we learn Elliot's "bullying" turns out to be very slight. A girl pushes and yells at him, one time. Some seniors threw food at a freshmen him, again, one time. And one time some guys drove by and yelled random stuff toward him and threw eggs which missed. Oh, and another time a guy called him a loser to his face. But wait, the bullying gets even worse! In probably the most unbelievable and shocking of these human rights violations, his beautiful dream girls don't desperately throw themselves onto his penis. My god, even Dante couldn't have imagined such circles of hell.<br />
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He rants about his parents a lot. And I can see why. They allow him to quit every time something becomes slightly difficult. When he throws a big enough tantrum, they give in. He's so accustomed to this, that he thinks it's reasonable to demand his mother marry a man for money, just so he can be rich and never have to do anything because doing stuff is hard. They let him turtle from the world, with the exception of his stepmother who seemed to actually give enough fucks to try to push him out of his comfort zone. The fact that he hated her so much, probably means she tried to help him.<br />
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Elliot writes about every year of his life. In this 100,000 plus word turd, he has one real hobby for a year, skateboarding, and quits because he didn't become Tony Hawk right away and, of course, practicing is beneath him.<br />
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His lifelong goal is to become popular. To do this, he fixates on pretending to be wealthier than he is and lives as a hermit in his father's basement. For some reason, avoiding human contact did not help him obtain his goal of being noticed by women. Who would have thought?<br />
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The obvious theme in the book is rejection by women, but nowhere in it does any real rejection occur. He get's sloppy drunk and creeps on some girls, like twice, but that's more self defense on their part than it is actual rejection. As Elliot can't be bothered to strike up a conversation with them, he parades around with his designer sunglasses and polo shirts, picking fights with brutes and slobs (everyone who isn't him), while occasionally brooding by various walls, waiting for the party to magically come to him.<br />
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"Hey everyone, there is a really pissed off creepy looking guy standing with his arms crossed in the corner, let's go to him," said no one, ever.<br />
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My favorite part of the book happens right after his last party scene. He gets drunk, and his racism comes out. He did what he always does and got angry when nobody came to bask in the glory of a "magnificent gentleman." He's sauced and decides to antagonize a group of boys and girls.<br />
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Well, they dish it back, and he ends up threatening to kill all of them by trying to push the girls over the edge of a ten foot drop off. The men they were with, who I'd like to buy a round of drinks, thwarted his scheme and subsequently kicked the shit out of him. They even finished him off by shoving him off it. Elliot ended up breaking his leg and gimping around for months. This was one of the few times justice was actually served, in his story.<br />
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Rodger's eventually goes full retard. Deciding that he'll never get laid, he planned his day of retribution and deemed himself a god of vengeance, intending to kill his roommates, his little brother, and an entire sorority. But even before then, he actually talked bout some of his fantasies of flaying and boiling people alive with his best friend, who then unfriended Elliot in real life.<br />
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This brave soul pulled knives in fist fights, dumped coffee on couples from the safety of his car, and loved to cry in public restrooms after seeing public displays of affection. His last resort before his end game was a foolproof, genius plan to become wealthy. Wait for it ... he was going to keep buying lottery tickets until winning the jackpot! Yes, that's right. He continuously drove to Arizona to play the powerball, thinking that the universe owed it to him for all his "suffering." Then he'd use the money to buy someone's love, even though he would never buy a prostitute because that's way different ... somehow.<br />
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Feminists claim that these guys are everywhere, but they really aren't. There are bad guys, everywhere, but I've only met one person, in my entire life, who was similar to Elliot Rodgers. There is nothing we can do about them until they become violent. We can't give them any life advice because they don't take it. They remain awkward forever because they won't take any risks or put themselves out there. They develop inferiority complexes and become hyper sensitive to criticism from their isolation. Honestly, they need to be sent to some sort of rehab that forces them into situations that stimulate emotional growth.<br />
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Anyways, the story ends right before he heads out to murder all those innocent people. Not ironically, he ultimately did fail at his master plan, like everything else in life. It's just too bad any idiot can fire a gun. If it would have taken some skill, everyone would still be alive right now as Elliot Rodgers had the mental fortitude of an amoeba<br />
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In conclusion, My Twisted World is about one of the biggest losers in American history. It's a tale of how not to live a life. It's a guidebook on how not to raise your children, and all he did was prove every woman that ever rejected him, right.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-213463630212747332014-03-28T16:12:00.000-05:002014-03-28T16:12:56.757-05:00Top 6 Things that Never Need to be Said<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">6. I'm sick with (ex: the flu).</span><br />
Oh, I didn't know. I thought you were well with the flu. You can add whatever illness you want to this one, but if you say this, you should get checked for redundancy.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">5. Washed Off</span><br />
Really? As opposed to washing it on?<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">4. It was a dark night.</span><br />
I can't count how many times I've heard or read variations of this phrase. <b><i>A Wrinkle in Time</i></b> even starts out with this cliche. Night is dark by definition. Sure, some nights are darker than others, depending on the cloud coverage and phase of the moon, but it's the most non descriptive description, ever. You're not really saying anything!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">3. Tuna Fish:</span><br />
Oh, you're eating a tuna FISH sandwich. My mistake, I thought you were having the tuna beef.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2. I have the hiccups.</span><br />
Seriously, you weren't just faking them?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">1. I'm Back.</span><br />
Even with online conversations, I think people can figure this one out for themselves.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-5810845331793936652014-02-20T17:35:00.002-06:002014-02-20T17:35:59.363-06:00The Top 5 Reasons Adults Still Suck at Video Games<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There was this time, way back, when I’d laugh at the idea of my parents playing a videogame. I mean, sure, they had some fun with Pacman and Mario Bros., but it was a novelty for them. Naturally, us kids were better because we took to it with the obsessive, hedonistic passion that would’ve made Aleister Crowley proud. So, with all those childhood hours invested, surely we haven’t become the ham-handed controller wielding doppelgangers of our technologically unhip, parents – have we? I hate to break it to you, but here’s five reasons why you now suck at video games.
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Continue reading on<u> <a amazingstoriesmag.com="" href="" http:="" top-5-reasons-adults-still-suck-video-games="">Amazing Stories</a></u>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-67550141542612129372014-01-07T13:01:00.000-06:002014-02-20T17:40:49.426-06:00Amazing Stories: Being a Geek Today vs Yesterday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The emperor stands before an AT-AT, which rests on the TV
stand above a David Tennant Years box set of Doctor Who, above Star Trek: TNG seasons.
To my left is a life size replica of R2D2. To my right are book shelves,
populated by the likes of Asimov, Card, Clarke, Herbert, Huxley, Lovecraft,
Orwell, Martin, Tolkien, etc. But take a closer look, and you’ll find a contact
juggling ball, a chain-mail bag filled with gaming dice, two sonic screwdriver
replicas, Star Trek insignia badges, little dolls of Einstein and Tesla, an RC
helicopter, and a homemade replica of one of Tom Baker’s giant scarves, acting
as the cherry to this layer cake of dorkness.<br />
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Continue reading on<u> <a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2014/01/geek-today-vs-yesterday/">Amazing Stories</a></u>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-40667863895323063382013-12-24T14:37:00.002-06:002013-12-24T16:47:25.429-06:00Amazing Stories: A Rant on Goodreads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is something wrong, really wrong, when a site dedicated to book-lovers has the same community etiquette and literacy as YouTube’s comment section. <br />
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Maybe it’s just another sign of the times: readers no longer really know how to read, commercial books are more passive, digestible in a single sitting even, and nobody seems to be interested in growing up. So much like Bradbury’s <b><i>Fahrenheit 451</i></b>, every book I love lay scorched on Goodreads. <u>Continue reading on <a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/12/rant-goodreads/">Amazing Stories</a></u>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-54747695267111642352013-10-30T14:25:00.000-05:002013-10-30T14:25:21.992-05:00Amazing Stories Post: On Ghost Hunters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Pumpkin ale and scary tales aren’t the only things which come around this season. Have you heard a strange bump in the night? Perhaps a door mysteriously opened or slammed shut? Or maybe your druidic harvest ritual backfired, summoning an ancient elder thing that is tormenting your life? So what do you do? My advice, read Carl Sagan’s Demon Haunted World. <a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/10/ghost-hunters/"><u>Continued on Amazing Stories</u></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-26865587078132775492013-09-02T15:33:00.000-05:002014-03-23T12:45:31.196-05:00Dragon Fire Frights: Pretty Bird<a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
Sometimes, I don't know what time it is or where I am, but today is one of my good days. Who's a pretty bird? Who's a pretty, bird? The bird I'm talking to is Franky; the folks here named him that, I think. When I put my fingers through the cracks in the cage, he bites at me. But I know he's just scared. I'd probably do the same thing if a giant hand came toward me. Lots of stuff scares me.<br />
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The sun was going to sleep, and I got really hungry. The nurse came to get me for dinner. She is real pretty too; her name is Julie. Who's a pretty bird? She holds my hand and takes me to the cafeteria: that word always give me trouble. The dinner tonight is meatloaf, and I like it with lots of ketchup. It's so much better than the mystery casserole.<br />
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I sit down next to Sammy and Tom; they are my friends. Sammy tells us all how he copped a feel on Nurse Lilly; she's really pretty too. Tom then tells us a story about how they put things in the meatloaf, and that's why we like it so much—says it keeps us stupid. I don't believe him though as he likes to play goofs on us to get our supper.<br />
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At twenty, I'm the youngest one here. Most of the guys call me kid, but I think I'm older in the brain. Sammy just flicked his peas at Dean; we all hate that guy. He thinks he's better than everyone and likes to hit us. The other day, he tripped Henry, and now Henry has to wear a cast on his right arm. I feel bad for it, but I wish Dean would go to sleep forever.<br />
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Speaking of sleep, Julie and Lilly both came in with our pills. Mine need food with them or they don't work. I take the blue ones, and they make me go to bed. I'm what they call a three. The threes sleep in an area away from the others, but we never see each other. They have to tie us up and watch us all night: say it's for our own good. I feel sleepy now....<br />
<br />
I'm cold, hungry, and alone, stumbling through the dark woods. Earlier, my body had been beaten against the rocks by the river's torrent, after a desperate swim near the falls. I slowly crept up the incline and leaned against a narrow tree to rest. Out of breath and out of strength, I don't know what to do.<br />
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Oh god, I can hear their screeches echo across the valley: “who's a pretty bird,” repeated over and over. It slowly becomes a chorus with others joining in the hunt. And I have no light to find my way. I don't know how they do it, but they've found a way to keep me here—running in circles. And they're not just birds; they're something else: something wrong, unnatural.<br />
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I continue moving toward what I think is the north, the moss side, which is also the way I first came. Their taunting is getting louder, closer, but I'm still far ahead of them. All I want now is to be back home, next to the fireplace, maybe with a nice ribeye and a glass of whiskey. I wish I never came to this place.<br />
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It's breakfast! The guys come in, undo my straps, and help me up as both my arms and legs aren't alive yet. I hate this part; they start to tingle at first then slowly become prickly and stingy all over. The fellas tell me because I'm dumb, I don't know how to wake everything up at the same time; this makes me feel bad.<br />
“Who's a pretty bird?” I ask as Julie walks into the room. She smiles, and I feel better. We go down to the cafeteria where I see Tom sitting. It looks like Sammy hasn't gotten up yet. I sit down next to Tom, and he makes a joke to Julie.<br />
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“While the oatmeal does sound good, I think I'd rather have the oatmeal instead.” We all laugh. It's funny because that's all we ever have. I see Nurse Lilly and ask her about Sammy. She puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me that she's sorry, but Sammy isn't going to wake up. Tom doesn't understand why and gets angry. He yells at her, over and over, to “well, wake him up then.” I'm the only one who understands what she means.<br />
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After breakfast, Tom and I walk to see the birds. This is what we do most of the time as there is little else. But today one was missing: the red one. Tom thinks they took it to Sammy because that was his favorite bird, and it could somehow wake him up, but this feels all wrong.<br />
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I stare at Franky, and he looks back into me. He does silly things sometimes, like throw seed all over or try and bend the bars with his beak. It's real funny to watch. “Who's a pretty bird?” I ask him. Franky jumps off his perch and onto the bottom of the cage. My eyes follow him down, and I see something strange. I don't know how to read, but the pattern in the seed looks a lot like writing. I get Tom to come and see it, but he just laughs and calls me a bird brain. Here comes that wrong feeling again.<br />
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Dean came in with his chest pumped out. He walks up to me and grabs my arm. He then asks how I was doing while punching me in it. Tom and I are too scared to stop him, but I manage to yell for help. Dean lets go and shuffles away while muttering “memory is pain; pain is memory.” I repeat that under my breath as Julie walks in.<br />
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“What was that?” she asks me.<br />
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“Who's a pretty bird?” I say. She shakes her head at me, and I have her go look at the message in the seed. Julie glances at it and says “there aint none.” She's a bad liar. I know Franky is trying to tell me something important, and I need to figure out how the hell to know it.<br />
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I think about what Dean said, about memory being pain, and I decide to do something even crazy for my kind. I put my longest finger through the crack and let Franky clamp down on it. I scream, and it bleeds out real bad. Julie rushes toward me to pull me away, but I fight her off. And then my head starts to clear up, like a bad storm was finally rolling away.<br />
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I remember now: I had been fly fishing in the Waggisa. There was strange mist over the river, and I had a bad feeling all morning. About noon, I was going to head up stream some more, but I forgot the river had flooded, and the current was much stronger. I ended up slipping and got all sorts of beat up against the rocks.<br />
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And the mist didn't go away. Hell, it got thicker as the day went on. I couldn't recognize a damn thing about where I was and got myself lost. Hours went by, and I came across a grove of very strange looking trees. Under the canopy, old great horns were perched, screeching at me. Now I recognize a bad omen when I see one, but by the time I turned around, they were on me—clawing at my face. I swatted at them with my pole, and they flew away.<br />
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Sweat and blood flowed into my eyes, blinding me. Hobbling in random directions, I came across a needle point of light and went toward it. But the blood loss was to great, and I shortly passed out.<br />
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The nursing home and bird cage were now gone. I’m alone and naked in a dimly lit, metal room. I search for a doorway to no avail. A gush of air causes me to shiver, and from nothing comes a pair of eyes: solid black and almond shaped.<br />
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What is this? What is this? What is this? I can no longer move. I can no longer breathe. I can only feel the sting of a syringe penetrating my arm...who’s a pretty bird?<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-32007107449487098022013-08-30T13:50:00.001-05:002013-08-30T13:50:03.382-05:00Comic Review: Star Trek / Doctor Who Assimilation² I've neglected this blog a bit this month. Working full time and writing for the magazine has taken its tole on my attention to the rest of the world. Meaning, I'm still playing catchup to find things that annoy me or interest me to write about. I do have some short stories that I need to clean up and publish still, and I've been working on a novel. Anyways, here is my latest review of the Star Trek / Doctor Who crossover: Assimilation²<br />
<br /><a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/08/comic-review-star-trek-doctor-who-assimilation%C2%B2/">http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/08/comic-review-star-trek-doctor-who-assimilation%C2%B2/</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-24661870657547507002013-08-06T14:31:00.004-05:002013-08-06T14:33:13.369-05:00Review: Magic 2014I finally got around to playing this enough to review it. If you want to know what I think, head over to Amazing Stories to see.<br />
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<a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/08/review-magic-2014/">http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/08/review-magic-2014/</a><br />
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I do have something I want to add, though: There are a lot of posers out there who google up the best deck configurations for Magic 2014 — who have no business playing any Duels of the Planeswalkers games, let alone any version of Magic the Gathering. However, it's been an absolute blast completely destroying them while watching them rage quit, very early, in sealed play. <br />
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A lot of people think this mode is flawed, and they're wrong. I'm sorry, but half of the game is discovering your favorite cards and forming strategies around them. I'm sure some of you would love to be able to trade with people, but the fact that none of us can makes it fair, forcing players to think a lot harder about the cards they put in their decks. Sure, even before the Internet, players could have read Scribe and copied championship level decks, but you'll never be a real player until you learn how to actually build one. And the auto build feature does not give you the best deck possible. Go ahead and use it; I don't, and these are my deck ratings.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnT0SJLuAnkUy493iszWwiroYMIjRprfBd7yO7RERjL0zXgLrZJd11NT8SESwyOy_fvKoOYidtuMcXUl9JVlDlU-S26TTWckwAkJTwILa64n_U3h7qVlegglAZ7FAlfy0bAnRAWTOrak/s1600/sealedplay2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnT0SJLuAnkUy493iszWwiroYMIjRprfBd7yO7RERjL0zXgLrZJd11NT8SESwyOy_fvKoOYidtuMcXUl9JVlDlU-S26TTWckwAkJTwILa64n_U3h7qVlegglAZ7FAlfy0bAnRAWTOrak/s400/sealedplay2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">Awesome Sealed Deck Strength in Magic 2014</span></td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-79981326981918391292013-07-27T14:53:00.000-05:002013-07-27T14:54:29.428-05:00When Our Heroes are VillainsThis is my latest article for Amazing Stories magazine (<b><i> <a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/07/when-our-heroes-are-villains/">http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/07/when-our-heroes-are-villains/</a></i></b> ). It's a little bit of life experience mixed in with comic culture.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-18298301535445286342013-07-21T21:26:00.000-05:002013-07-21T21:27:31.608-05:00A List of Films I've Seen on FlightsStreet Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li<br />
Beverly Hills Cop<br />
X-Men Origins: Wolverine<br />
The Social Network<br />
The Soloist<br />
Alice in Wonderland (2010)<br />
17 Again<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-68210599292197386102013-07-12T17:35:00.002-05:002013-07-12T17:58:32.855-05:00On the Boycotting of Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game FilmAs a kid, <b><i>Ender's Game</i></b> was my favorite book. As an adult, I have no idea what I'd think of it. When I learned about his ideologies, I was fairly appalled and disappointed, too. But I'm not gay or very liberal, so I don't have a sense of being attacked by his bullshit. Of course, just leaving it at that would be far too easy, and I'm no fan of opinions involving little thought behind them.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>It's fair to say he's a product of Mormonism, but it's unfair to use this as an excuse for zealotry. It's not like he was just policing his own people within the church. He, and his organization, had to go and try to influence our marriage laws. And that alone is above simply publishing some crappy essays on the subject. From every angle I look at this, the LGBT community have very good reasons to be very pissed off at him.<br />
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So let's not marginalize or downplay this issue because we're looking forward to the film and like his books. He needs to reap what he sowed. Also, I want to know why you feel like you're the person to apologize for him? Note: I use that word in the apologetics sense, not as in literally saying sorry.<br />
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I ask that because it's not up to fans of his work to convince others to forgive or support Orson Scott Card's career; it's up to him! And he's done next to nothing to rebuild that burned bridge. And if you're defending DC or the production studio behind <b><i>Ender's Game</i></b>, what have they done to smooth things over? The answer is less than you.<br />
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Now I don't believe for a second that boycotting this film will have any impact on the legalization of same sex marriage in other states, but in no way am I going to tell someone to sell out to see a movie. Do whatever you feel is right. Me, I'm going to probably wait for it to air on one of the movie channels as this film is coming out about 15 years too late to match up with my current interests.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-55313567861145066402013-07-07T16:37:00.000-05:002013-07-08T12:28:20.040-05:00Top 10 Anime You Should WatchI come from a time when anime was actually foreign and mysterious. The only way we could ever see it, without buying it, was to enter Blockbuster's special interest section and convince your parents it wasn't some weird type of pornography. Although, sometimes it was! Anyways, this is my top 10 list of some of the best anime ever, in no particular order.<br />
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<b><i>Attack on Titan</i></b>:<br />
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I love it. It's edgy, dramatic, and is pretty unique in a sea of copycats. Sure, giants aren't a new concept and neither are titans, but the creepy way this all goes down with a science fiction twist has me hooked. It's still early in the show's life, and it's hard to say if it will continue to impress me, but consider it something current for this list.<br />
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<b><i>Ninja Scroll</i></b>:<br />
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I think this embodies the late 80s / early 90s anime scene. It combines the edgy gore, violence, and sexual content with compelling storytelling. When I think about shows from this era, I'm reminded of <b><i>Grappler Baki</i></b>, <b><i>Fist of the North Star</i></b>, <b><i>Bastard</i></b>, <b><i>Wicked City</i></b>, <b><i>Akira</i></b>, <b style="font-style: italic;">Guyver</b>, and even the<b style="font-style: italic;"> Street Fighter 2 </b>animated movie<b style="font-style: italic;">. </b>But to me, <b><i>Ninja Scroll</i></b> was the epitome of badass, and that's what this time was all about.<br />
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<b><i>FullMetal Alchemist</i></b>:<br />
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A tale of two brothers united in their occult studies. A world where alchemy took placement over modern science and the strange is somewhat normal. There are plenty of heart wrenching scenes and a great balance between comedy and drama. Usually, you don't see shows that have so much care put into the writing get so many episodes, but it remains consistent, only growing stronger to the end.<br />
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<b><i>One Piece</i></b>:<br />
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It really took me by surprise how much I ended up liking <b><i>One Piece</i></b>. Earlier in the show, it comes off as a <b><i>Dragon Ball</i></b> clone, but it turns out being much more. The world where it takes place is filled with more mystery and more adventure. Also, the characters don't always come out on top. Overall, I think it succeeds in many aspects where <b><i>Dragon Ball</i></b> failed.<br />
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<b><i>Trigun</i></b>:<br />
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This one will always have a special place in my heart. Long ago, I had frequented the anime section of a Suncoast store where <b><i>Trigun</i></b> was recommended to me by author John Sanford's son, Roswell — who ended up helping my mother purchase it as a gift, after I was in a terrible accident that left me bedridden for weeks. It quickly became one of my favorites of all time. The animation, the characters, the music, and the story are all compelling, human, and have a subtle depth and dimensionality that is seriously lacking in Japanese storytelling.<br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">Berserk</i>:<br />
<br />
Gritty, dark, and visceral, <b><i>Berserk</i></b> explores the primal side of our nature. It walks the exploitative tightrope a bit, but it balances it out with strong character complexity and development. Unlike other anime in a similar style, the violence isn't just there for shock value.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Samurai X</i></b>:<br />
<br />
This is the OAV for <b><i>Rurouni Kenshin</i></b>. And outside of having the same lead character, they are completely different. This one is far darker and filled with very powerful imagery.<br />
<br />
<b><i>.hack//Sign</i></b>:<br />
<br />
There are a lot of shows that fall into the high fantasy adventure realm: <b><i>Slayers</i></b>, <b><i>Magic Knight Rayearth</i></b>, <b><i>Record of Lodoss War</i></b>. But unlike the others, <b><i>Dot Hack</i></b> approached the escapism, hedonism, and existential boundaries of these alternate realities inside our video games. And that made it more than just another show about magic and big swords.<br />
<br />
<div>
<b><i>Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust</i></b>:<br />
<br />
I debated adding this one a bit, but it is superior to the original. Growing up, Yoshitaka Amano was one of my favorite artists. His captivating and inspiring artwork for the <b><i>Final Fantasy</i></b> series was what got me interested in <b><i>Vampire Hunter D</i></b> as he was its original artist. But <b><i>Bloodlust</i></b> took <b><i>Vampire Hunter D </i></b>to another level, on par with <b style="font-style: italic;">Ninja Scroll</b>, and that's because they were both directed by<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>the same guy,<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>Yoshiaki Kawajiri<b style="font-style: italic;">.</b><br />
<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Death Note</i>:<br />
<br />
Once in a great while comes something so clever and so weird that it blows my mind. And this is one of those shows. If I had something to compare it to, it would be the BBC's <b><i>Sherlock</i></b>. It's riddled with paranoid obsession compulsion, and plays out like the world's most advanced chess match. Also, L is my favorite anime characters ever created.<br />
<br />
Honorable mentions: <b><i>Neon Genesis Evangelion</i></b>, <b><i>Serial Experiments Lain</i></b>, <b><i>Princess Mononoke</i></b>, <b><i>Escaflowne</i></b>, <b><i>Black Heaven</i></b>, and <b><i>Code Geass</i></b>.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-91528606228888578262013-06-25T14:39:00.003-05:002013-07-27T14:54:55.201-05:00The Flooding of High River, Alberta<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9yqI0h1m5qy_EJYBa-ClvXnD0BCAyb6B90dwHDi1w2SAJMPgUYqRu1kyqWQu8rkPGlNOdn9ezSdgkHw_Egiaju96tW9eAJ6vyn7VF9FgwMcLGPECtJCYfSgFH_wonDyKoHY8qnh2RJ4E/s1600/flood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9yqI0h1m5qy_EJYBa-ClvXnD0BCAyb6B90dwHDi1w2SAJMPgUYqRu1kyqWQu8rkPGlNOdn9ezSdgkHw_Egiaju96tW9eAJ6vyn7VF9FgwMcLGPECtJCYfSgFH_wonDyKoHY8qnh2RJ4E/s320/flood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
As one of the new writers for <a href="http://www.amazingstoriesmag.com/">Amazing Stories magazine</a>, I'm generally going to do a lot of my geekier rants and reviews on that site. Although, I'll still be doing it here as well. It just depends on the subject. My first article, however, is one I wrote with solace. My town was flooded. No, other towns in Southern Alberta were flooded; mine was destroyed. And you can read the accounts of what transpired on June 20th, 2013 right here (<a href="http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/06/the-flooding-of-high-river/">http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/06/the-flooding-of-high-river/</a>).<br />
<br />
The future is currently unknown for me and many others. Even if my house was fine, the town isn't, and the ground underneath us wasn't the most solid formation before the massive flooding; a sinkhole could be forming under my basement as I type this. What happened in High River was catastrophic, and people need to know. But we will get through this because we have the whole province and country behind us.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-82359002648705863362013-06-24T11:34:00.000-05:002013-06-24T11:34:42.503-05:00Dragon Fire Frights: Franklin Street<a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" width="200" /></a><br />
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"I had the dream
again, Doc."</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"Was there a
difference this time?"</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"Yeah, I was in a
beat up pickup, instead of the Jeep, but still driving down the
highway. Kept going faster—too fast. So I pushed down, real hard,
on the brakes but couldn't stop.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"We've been over this
before. The dream is about taking control of your life and living at
your own pace. You need to make changes, Paul."</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a>"Doc, I have; believe
me, I have. But I think my brakes don't work because I'm not supposed
to stop. I think something bad is coming: a storm, maybe something
else. I think...I think it's time to go now, Doc."</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Next week, Paul.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I know. I know.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Paul got off the couch and
petted the ficus on his way out of Dr. Roth's office. On the street,
it was a sunny, spring afternoon without a cloud in sight. A small
boy towing a red wagon waved at him from the sidewalk, but Paul just
looked right through him.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sometimes he could tell,
but in public, he rarely took the chance. Maybe the boy was real,
maybe he wasn't. But Paul was tired of all the gawking and murmuring
whenever he made the mistake of being polite to thin air. Rather be
known as an asshole than a damned lunatic, he always thought.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was a short walk to the
bus stop. Already waiting there was a pregnant woman holding grocery
bags along with her daughter. They knew Paul as Franklin because
that's the street he always got off on. But oddly, it wasn't even the
closest stop to his place. He simply enjoyed walking down that
street; something about it gave him a feeling of nostalgia and
tranquility.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The mother gave him a
nasty look as she secured her daughter, which was nothing new to him.
Paul didn't mind, though, as long as people kept their thoughts to
themselves. Some guys are so crazy that they don't even know it, but
Paul knew and didn't need a damned reminder from every single dope he
passed by.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The bus arrived on
schedule. He stepped up to put his pass in the fare machine. A kid in
the back yelled “Hey, it's the retard!” Paul merely responded
with a cold smile. The bus began to move as he looked around for a
seat. The mother and daughter were up front, and there was a pretty
blond in the middle section.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With his head down, he
nervously moved toward an empty spot, which always had to be next to
a window. That way, Paul could stare out at traffic until his stop
came up. However, leaving him to the mercy of his own thoughts wasn't
always a good idea. If things got too quiet, he'd start to hear the
voices.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He ended up settling
across from Goldilocks, whom he couldn't help but trade glances with.
Something about her captivated him: her eyes mostly. And when she
caught him looking, he got a nice smile back. To Paul's credit, he
was fairly handsome and still in his twenties. But he knew better
than to take it any further; women never stuck around too long after
learning what he really was.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They quickly came up to a
red light. Paul hated those, mostly because it meant the bus would be
stopped, and people in other cars would stare at him. A guy with his
dog got about halfway down the crosswalk before the pooch dropped a
giant deuce on the road. Paul laughed as the man embarrassingly tried
to pick it up with a tiny napkin. Then a rusty pickup rolled up. The
passenger window had been smashed out and replaced with a duct-taped
garbage bag—exactly like the one in his dream. Paul tried moving
around to see the driver but couldn't get a good enough angle.
“Probably isn't real,” he reminded himself.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The truck began blasting
loud, strange music: animal skin drums beaten to complex polyrhythms,
overlapped by a discordant sitar and bansuri cacophony. The
vibrations shook the bus and greatly upset him; he felt like he was
slowly being ripped away from reality. Then chanting started over the
dreadful noise. Paul's eyes rolled back into his head. His right hand
started to spasm open and shut. And suddenly, he was no longer on the
bus, but standing on his front lawn. The sky was now dark, and the
cool night air swept through his messy hair and ruffled his
unbuttoned coat. It was the third time he'd blacked out within the
last few months.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He dug into his pockets,
searching for his keys, and felt something wet. It was a soaked, red
handkerchief wrapped around a soft clump of mass. He caught a whiff
of it and gagged; there was no doubt that the wetness was blood. His
hands trembled as he unfolded it. And to his horror, he uncovered a
bright blue human eye, now resting in his palm.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Paul became dizzy. He
stumbled toward the stoop, dropping the eye in the grass, and grabbed
onto the railing for balance. “It's not real; it's not real,” he
reminded himself. But Paul went limp, fell onto his hands and knees,
and vomited on the steps. His neighbor, Fred Walden, saw this
spectacle while taking out the trash and walked up to him.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You all right, Pauly?”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do me a favor and hook
up that hose over there, and turn it on for me. I think I drank too
much.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“For Christ's sake kid,
you know those pills they have you on don't mix with alcohol. You
tryin' to kill yourself?”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No, just a couple was
too much. I didn't touch anything hard.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fred helped him wash up
with the hose then took him up to the doorway.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I got it from here,
thanks.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You sure you can even
get those keys in the door? Here, let me help you.” Fred went to
grab the keys out of Paul's hand.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I said I got it!”
Paul snapped.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You're welcome,” Fred
sighed and walked off.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The neighbors, across the
street, stared out their bay window at a cursing Paul struggling to
unlock his front door. After several more minutes, he finally got it.
The inside of his place was a complete mess. There were pizza boxes
stacked atop old newspapers stacked atop of even older pizza boxes. A
lady was supposed to come and clean his house once a week, but she
stopped showing up over a month ago, and Paul didn't care enough to
call anyone about it. He'd probably have been evicted if his
landlords weren't his parents.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The dizziness and nausea
had begun to subside as he ran his hand across the wall, looking for
the light switch. The old lamp flickered a few times before glowing a
dim yellow. Everything looked right, but something felt wrong. Paul
made his way to the bathroom sink and splashed water over his face.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Paul,” said a hissing
whisper. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a red blur. As a
boy, he used to call it the Lobster Man or Mr. Red. It would show up
whenever Paul was alone, and it always tormented him; tonight was no
exception.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A loud crash resounded
through the house. He quickly toweled his face off and went to
investigate. The living room was now unnaturally black with even
darker blotches of unreal nothingness floating about it. The air felt
dense and put a strain on his breathing. Paul crept along the carpet.
Bulb shards crunched under his boots as he hunched down to inspect
the smashed lamp.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whispers emanated from the
darkness, enclosing on him. Paul couldn't make them out; the language
was like nothing he'd ever heard. His fear intensified, overtaking
his movements, preventing him from running away screaming. Chills ran
down his spine as he felt a slender, bony hand guide him toward the
couch where the phone lay. He sat down, and it rang.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hello,” Paul
answered.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My god, what's that
noise? Paul is that you?”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, it's me.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was Dr. Roth who
called. He had probably been phoned by Paul's parents who'd probably
been phoned by Fred Walden. It was nothing that didn't happen, at
least, a couple times a week. Paul could hear the doctor speaking to
his wife in the background.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I've never heard such
horrific sounds before. Do you think I should call the police? I
mean, that can't be coming from a human.”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Doc, it's me, Paul!”</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Roth hung up. Out of
frustration, Paul threw the phone, cracking it against the wall. He
could still see Mr. Red in the corner of his eye, contorting his form
in mockingly grotesque ways. The shadows around him thickened until
he could no longer see, and the air stilled until he could no longer
hear. Then the whispering turned to shouting.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Over and over, the voices
repeated “the eye is the key,” culminating into one powerful,
frightening tone: the sound of thousands of tortured souls speaking
in unison. Paul plugged his ears and bashed the back of his head into
the wall. But the bellowing only became louder until his own thoughts
were no longer heard. Then nothing.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Breaking the silence was
an applause from Mr. Red. Paul felt a moment of weakness in the
demon's grip and was able to make a break for the front door. He
violently opened it—causing it to spring back and slam shut after
him. Vaulting off the top of the stoop, he landed in a full crouch.
And before him, still real and still sitting on the lawn, was the
eye.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Police sirens echoed from
the east, sending him into a confused panic. The last time police
were called, he was taken to the mental ward and quickly transferred
to the asylum: a place Paul swore he'd rather die than ever return
to.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He grabbed the eyeball
without thinking, wrapped it back up, and took off running into the
night. Out of instinct, he headed toward Franklin street, but the
buses had all stopped by that time. Paul's lungs burned and heart
pounded, but Red's laughter, cackling across the nocturnal air, kept
him moving faster.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The houses and trees on
Franklin were old, and some had fallen into disrepair over years of
neglect. One, in particular, had the notorious pickup in its
driveway, which was the only thing that could have stopped him. Paul
desperately needed answers. He slowed down and walked up to the truck
bed. The gate was left down, and there was blood on a tarp that was
fastened across it.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Paul went to the back of
the house and found a door hanging off its hinges. Slowly, he swung
it open and peered through the narrow gap, but it was too dark inside
to see. So he tore it off and let the moonlight poor in. The entrance
led into the kitchen. Its windows had been blacked out with garbage
bags, and there was an electric lantern placed on a table. He stepped
toward it and slipped on the wet, linoleum. Instantly, he knew his
clothes were now drenched and stained in someone's blood.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He got back to his feet
and grabbed the lantern; it luckily worked. In the light, he followed
the gory trail to the basement threshold and down a cracked, rotted
wooden stairway. The smell of black mold permeated through the dank
air. With each step, he felt more afraid. The basement door slammed
shut by itself, but he continued his descent.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The cellar walls were
stonework, and the floor was dirt. Dust caked a stack of old porno
magazines at the foot of the steps, and thick cobwebs dangled from
the ceiling to the support posts. Paul turned the corner and gasped
as the lantern fell from his trembling hands. His stop had finally
come up: the pretty girl from the bus, now a corpse, laid desecrated
within a ritualistic circle of arcane geometry, in the basement of
some psychopath's condemned house.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He reached into his coat
to match her missing eye with the one in his pocket. But it was no
longer there. Instead, it was a wrapped up key. Beyond the girl, on
the north wall, was a padlocked door. Paul put the lamp down and
popped the latch. Behind the door was an unfinished half-bath with a
vanity sink and a dusty, cracked mirror. He took the light closer to
it examine it and screamed as Mr. Red leered back at him.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Paul fled up the stairs,
through the kitchen, and out the back. He ran to the old truck and
found the keys still in the ignition. The engine turned over, and he
hit the gas pedal as hard as he could. But as far and fast as Paul
would go, he could never put Franklin Street behind him.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-16501436797396205472013-06-02T01:35:00.000-05:002013-06-02T01:35:30.284-05:00Who Will Play the 12th Doctor?With Matt Smith regenerating out, during this year's Christmas special, a lot of people are speculating who will be the next doctor. There are several guys who I would be happy with, and keep in mind, Moffat is still in control here. So here is my list of potential guys.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>David Tennant:<br />
<br />
How about a degeneration? Sure, it's never happened before, but even it was only for a season, it would be amazing. He is the main reason I can't wait to see the 50th anniversary special. But maybe they were reminded of what they liked so much and made him an offer he couldn't refuse? And I know he's in Broadchurch right now, but they could still make it work.<br />
<br />
Benedict Cumberbatch:<br />
<br />
With two seasons of Sherlock done, we only have six episodes. And with Mofat at the helm of both, I doubt there would be any scheduling conflicts. He would definitely not play your campy funny doctor. It would be a different personality to a role that probably could use a bit of a freshening up.<br />
<br />
John Cleese:<br />
<br />
This is unlikely but would be amazing if even only for a season. Again, a completely different dynamic and personality to the doctor. Realistically, I think the filming would be too demanding on him nowadays and he's probably enjoying not being told what to do all the time.<br />
<br />
Hugh Laurie:<br />
<br />
Don't think he's a one trick pony because of House; he can play about any role you want, and him as the doctor would be amazing, but he'd probably command too much of the show's budget to make it work.<br />
<br />
Robert Sheehan:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The kid has a lot of range and a great sense of comedic timing. I'm all into changing things up with <b><i>Doctor Who</i></b>, and having a younger, edgier doctor would be interesting for a season or two.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Peter Dinklage:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He's just about my favorite actor on television, and this choice would need no explanation!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-65756725110731784252013-05-21T13:52:00.000-05:002013-05-21T15:58:29.308-05:00Dragon Fire Frights: The Resurrectionist <a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" width="200" /></a><br />
This is the property of Doctor Agatha Krause. If found, please burn. No good can come from knowing its contents.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">November 8th, 1930</span></i><br />
<br />
It was always in the back of my mind—sometimes creeping into my fading consciousness, during the moments before sleep. For I knew the darkest day of my life was out there, waiting for me to step out from the light so it could finally say hello.<br />
<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">November 9th, 1930</span></i><br />
<br />
Can't go on; it hurts too much.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">November 10th 1930</span></i><br />
<br />
I walked to the bluffs and stood for a few hours, inching ever so closely to the edge. With just one more step, I would no longer have to fear tomorrow. I closed my eyes and stilled my mind. Faint sounds became amplified: the leaves brushing across the cold earth, the ocean waves crashing against the rocks below turned into a thundering chorus, but something else emerged—something that hadn't been there before. At first I thought it was just the wind, but the more I concentrated, the louder it grew.<br />
<br />
It was a whisper; it was an offer. A voice that promised to take my pain away. And all I had to do was follow its instructions. I agreed.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>November 11th, 1930</i></span><br />
<br />
I buried my son and husband, today. They were both found together in Harrow's Field, stripped of all clothing with no signs of injury. A detective for the police department, Thomas Wakefield, has vowed to bring whoever is responsible to justice, but I find the police rather inept when dealing with the obvious, let alone the mysterious. But it hardly matters anymore; I have too much to do.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>August 21st, 1934</i></span><br />
<br />
I found this journal in a box under the stairs. Reading this is quite odd for me as it feels like a lifetime ago. With my studies finally complete, I think documenting my work could be useful, and I will dedicate this book to that purpose; for none of us can ill afford to waste even a small scrap of paper, let alone an entire book, nowadays.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>September 17th, 1934</i></span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have successfully procured a most interesting specimen: male, approximately 25, skinless, with both muscular and skeletal structure intact. Apparently, he died from mania, induced from an infection of some sort which had compelled him to tear off his flesh. And interestingly, this affliction has preserved his remains from decay—even though the pungent smell would suggest otherwise.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I must make a note to thank my mortician cousin, Maxwell. If it were not for him, I might never have gotten to this point in my research. Now I must get back to my work.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>September 19th, 1934</i></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was two days ago when I began the first tests on the body, and I'm proud to say that today I have successfully revived him! And despite the constant screaming and lack of skin, his vitality remains stable; this is the breakthrough I've been waiting for. I took a tissue sample and examined it under an electron microscope. Perhaps if the hospital had such a device, they could have seen this and possibly saved him. I doubt it, though. To my astonishment, I beheld an entire colony of tiny tentacled parasites secreting and proliferating all across him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The parasite's affliction, which I now call Kalamicrosis, ended up being synergetic with my resurrection syrium, and this allowed for the effects to finally last. So it appears that my new friend will not be dissolving into a puddle of acidic slime, anytime soon. Oh, I have so much more to do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">September 21st, 1934</span></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have created a sedative that numbed his senses and quelled his violent temperament. He was able to speak to me for the first time. However, the only words I could discern from his incoherent rambling were "help me." So it seems that some amount of linguistic ability is still existent within him, which has piqued my curiosity of the effect the parasite has on the human brain; this warrants further experimentation.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>September 22nd, 1934</i></span><br />
<br />
I awoke to a crashing sound coming from the laboratory. Broken beakers, test tubes, and bacteria cultures were scattered about the floor. Something remarkable happened, during the night. The subject had grown a strange type of skin that seems to be its own entity. I found part of it stretched outward, from his chest to the other side of the room. My laboratory looks as if it were tossed, like someone was searching for something: perhaps the key to the shackles?<br />
<br />
Another interesting aspect of his new flesh was its ability to defend against my attempt to extract a sample. For as I moved a scalpel toward it, the skin recoiled back to his body, narrowly avoiding the edge of my blade. And his eyes were locked on it, like a sort of hypnotic trance; wherever I moved the knife, he followed closely.<br />
<br />
It's now later in the day. I've attempted to communicate with the creature, but I've gotten no response. The skin, however, did leave some tissue cells where it had laid. But upon examination, I found nothing out of the ordinary. By all accounts, this skin should be no different than my own. How is this possible?<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">September 23rd, 1934</span></i><br />
<br />
I fear I should have done something more. For when I awoke this morning, the creature was gone. The shackles had been broken, and a pile of dead, eyeless rodents was all that remained in my subject's place. Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk. I have a culture of the parasite and will continue on with my experiments, just on a more manageable scale.<br />
<br />
He came back for me in the evening with a new face, claiming to be a vacuum cleaner salesman. When I denied him entry, his flesh lashed out from his arm, like a whip, and cracked me over the head. I stumbled backwards then grabbed for my pistol.<br />
<br />
I fired several shots toward him at point blank range, but he only laughed as if being tickled. He calmly stepped over me, sat down in a chair, and asked for something to drink. After getting him a glass of water, the following conversation took place.<br />
<br />
"I sure hope nobody saw or heard that. I really want to keep our little affair a secret," he said.<br />
<br />
"Why did you come back here; what do you want from me?"<br />
<br />
"I've returned to collect my brothers and sisters from your petri prison and to tell you that you've completed your end of the deal."<br />
<br />
"We never had any deal."<br />
<br />
"No, we don't. But my master and you did. "<br />
<br />
"Your master? Do you mean the voice?"<br />
<br />
"No need to be obvious, doctor. You've done well."<br />
<br />
"What are you?"<br />
<br />
"I'm no longer your business is what I am."<br />
<br />
"Then why have this conversation?"<br />
<br />
"You've got a point," he said with a grim smile.<br />
<br />
His arm then formed into a tentacle with several eyes lining the edge. And like a flash of lightning, it whipped toward me, piercing above my breast and narrowly missing my heart. I pretended to die whilst grasping the wound, and the monster went about his business, taking my samples, and leaving me without a care.<br />
<br />
The entire time, I had applied pressure to the gaping hole in my chest. And this is why I'm still around to write in this entry. I managed to hobble down to my lab and stitch myself up. But after the shock wore off, so did the spell I was under. Years and years of suppressed emotions came out, in an instant. And I'm still crying now.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>September 24th, 1934</i></span><br />
<br />
In the past four years, I had not visited their graves. Today, I finally did. The grief I'm experiencing now is as if the funeral were today. But I have something else that I didn't back then: knowledge. And not of the terrestrial kind. What I know was never meant for man, and I was never meant to keep it. If I am to survive, for surely the master will send his pet back for me, I must leave now. Where I go, I do not know. But I will send back what I have unleashed upon our world before my life is through.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-68764343014062935922013-05-01T03:55:00.002-05:002013-05-01T03:55:40.511-05:00TV Review: Hemlock GroveI finally got around to watching Netflix's new series, and I have to say that, for the most part, it's very good. I can't believe some of the hate it's gotten online, but I guess that's what happens when you make something a bit more interesting and not as direct. You'll read a lot of comparisons between it and <b><i>Twin Peaks</i></b>, but that's a bit misguided. It's really nothing like it, but I won't deny that it has a Lynchian vibe to it — which is why it's very polarizing and explains the overwhelming negative reviews.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>I've heard the show described as confusing. And while I did not share that perspective, I can understand why: a lot of its exposition is not in the typical direct, bad writing type of way. The kind where the character talks about things and says things that nobody would ever say. When you watch this show, you have to pay attention to what's going on. You can't be on Facebook and hope that the characters sum up the plot three or four times per episode.<br />
<br />
The writing is a bit hit and miss: e.g., I cringed when Peter said: "I could care less." And there are moments when the dialogue is lacking, and there are some pacing issues, but it's nothing that warrants some of the horrible reviews on Rotten Tomatoes. Or maybe that's just tantamount to the laziness of the E-critic? But I'm guessing you're reading my review either because you loved it, hated it, or want to know if it's worth your time.<br />
<br />
If you like <b><i>Twilight</i></b>, <b><i>The Vampire Diaries</i></b>, or anything that falls into that vein, then no — it's not worth your time. This isn't anywhere near vapid or shallow enough for you. In fact, this is probably the opposite of what you're looking for — despite it having teenage main characters. This is closer to <b><i>True Blood</i></b> in its gritty, sexual nature. And don't get your hopes up that it's like <b><i>Twin Peaks</i></b>. This isn't about an idiocentric town filled with strange characters, but there is a surrealism to the show that is a nice change of pace from what's normally out there.<br />
<br />
With <b><i>Hemlock Grove</i></b> you will get a little bit of everything.The characters are somewhat surprising, but I found a nice homage to other horror writers, in them. For instance, the character Shelley reminded me of <i style="font-weight: bold;">Frankenstein's Monster</i>, which of course was from the novel written by Mary Shelley. And I don't mean just by her grunting and lumbering about in a behemoth exterior. But much like Frankenstein, Shelley has the soul of a poet and a superior intellect.<br />
<br />
To address the critics of the characters: they do have depth. But you're not going to be told about it. It's not going to be spoon fed to you through unnatural dialogue. You're going to have to watch the episodes and discover it for yourself, but it is there, and I can't wait for the next season.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-1575154258402705752013-04-16T21:08:00.001-05:002013-04-16T21:08:12.879-05:00Movie Trailer: Slavoj Žižek’s The Pervert's Guide to Ideology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I've been too busy and have had the creative energy drained out of me, lately. Hopefully, I'll be able to finish up some more stories soon, and I might do a couple more book reviews and maybe even another game one. Anyways, I love Slavoj Zizek and can't wait to see his new film. And Don't worry about the trailer; it's in English. :D</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-22195254072257262482013-03-11T23:35:00.000-05:002013-03-12T16:50:16.740-05:00Dragon Fire Frights: Mephitic <div class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" width="200" /></a><br />
How I wished the mire had taken me that ill-boding day. Or maybe it had, and what lies before you is the leftover, inedible carcass of a man. My dreams decayed: putrescent past the point which not even the most wretched rodents could nibble for nourishment. Yet despite this, I have defied all that is natural by preserving this pathetic existence.<br />
<br />
On the morning of my aforementioned misfortune, most unusually, I had been late. As the court's stenographer, I was to be there by 8:00 A.M.. My alarm was set to an hour before the trial, but I had a horrible habit of convulsing in my sleep, and unconsciously, I'd knocked the clock off my nightstand, causing it to shift the time.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Left to the mercy of my circadian rhythms, I awoke half an hour later than scheduled. I realized my predicament upon casually strolling into the kitchen, where I could see the correct time mounted on the wall. Panic stricken, I rushed back into my bedroom and dressed myself in hasty, sloppy desperation.<br />
<br />
With crooked tie and wrinkled clothing, I ran out my apartment door, down the stairs, and arrived at South Center Station just moments after the 7:45 train had departed for downtown—circumstantially leaving me with only one opportunity to keep my job: a shortcut through the marshland.<br />
<br />
This would not be a suitable option for most. But having grown up here and spending many afternoons playing in the bog as a boy, I knew of a passage which went underneath the bridge, through a subterranean tunnel, and would take me within a few city blocks of the courthouse. Also, a recent drought ensured that my ankles would remain above any sewage.<br />
<br />
As I made my way through the wet land, a faint cry could be heard in the distance. And before the choice was made, my legs had already begun moving toward its source. For the marsh held many hidden dangers and had swallowed up many a poor creature in its time, and whoever was back there might need rescuing; I could not ignore that.<br />
<br />
Wading through the murky waters, I came upon the unfamiliar; something I had never seen before: a lone withered willow atop a muddy knoll, whose surrounding vegetation was rotten and reeked of death. But the crying which led me there had suddenly ceased, and not a soul was within sight.<br />
<br />
I trudged up the slope and inspected the sickly thing when an unnatural sadness overwhelmed me. I could again hear the weeping but coming from all around. Then to my horror, a black tar oozed from its branches and trunk, and a blast of vile, slimy, noxious water gushed forth, onto my face, filling up my mouth and nose, soaking through my suit and into my skin. Its pressure overpowered my gravity's center, sending me tumbling backward into the muck. <br />
<br />
A seemingly endless torrent of sludge exorbitantly expelled itself from my stomach while I sank deeper into the putrid filth. And the odorous intensity, of which, had rendered me completely mad. It was hours before I gained back enough sense to meander through the swamp and head toward my flat. When I reached the building, the doorman placed a cloth over his nose. But I could still see his horrific grimace and eyes begin to water; his muffled voice mumbled something I didn't care to hear. I cursed at him to open the door as I could not get to the shower fast enough.<br />
<br />
After tossing the sullied suit into the bin, the remainder of my day and night was spent in the bath tub. I scrubbed and scrubbed until I bled, exhausting a collection of soap bars to no avail. And no matter how scalding hot the water seemed, I could not become clean. Oh, what I would give to feel that way once more.<br />
<br />
I finally gave up and went to bed. And though exhausted from my ordeal, it was not a restful sleep. My body itched and felt as if bugs were crawling and hatching underneath my flesh, and the fumes of the stench condemned me to plug up my nostrils, lest I lapse into a madness, again.<br />
<br />
In the afternoon, I was rudely awakened by a pounding at the door. My neighbors had called the super to inspect my unit. For overnight the strong smell of decay had filled up the hallway, and they feared I may have expired. When I opened the door to greet him, the feculent air flowed outward; its potentness stunned his senses, causing him to violently gag. The explanation I attempted fell on deaf ears, for the sight of my lacerations and dried, cracked skin combined with the foul, abhorrent odor was too much. He demanded I get emergency medical help and wouldn't hear an argument against it.<br />
<br />
An ambulance came to carry me off. The men were all warned of my condition and donned strange breathing apparatuses. When I arrived through the hospital doors, right away, the staff recognized the danger I posed to the other patients: not just by infectious contamination but by the debilitating nature my affliction can have on others' sanity. After several vain attempts were made to isolate me in a private ward, it was decided that I would be temporarily stored in a place where the smell could bother fewest living things as possible: the hospital's morgue.<br />
<br />
They brought a bed down for me and placed it as far from the corpses as they could. The first night was remarkably cold and dark. A faint light flickered by the mortician's work table as his shadow shuffled across my curtain: which behind it, I could also hear his morbid musings. But even worse was when I'd been left alone and could have sworn to sounds of ghostly moaning emanating from the deathly vaults. Again, I did not sleep well.<br />
<br />
When morning came, I was served a sort of breakfast, but it tasted stale, rancid, and moldy. Even the orange juice seemed to spoil immediately upon contact with my tongue. I could only pray that science could cure me of this horrid curse which had robbed me of even the simplest joys. But my hope was quickly waning.<br />
<br />
Not one specialist or medical prodigy had ever before encountered an odd case like mine. The amount of white coats that came to my bedside could have made me a small fortune if I'd charged admission. And with all their gadgetry combined, they could find nothing wrong. It was as much a mystery to them as it was to me.<br />
<br />
They had multitudes of questions, and I tried to answer them all. I told them everything I knew of the wicked tree from the marsh, but they insisted it was not there. This only increased my frustration as my patience was already worn too thin. <br />
<br />
Another week went by and no longer could I remain in such cruel conditions. A furious attempt to check myself out was met with the revelation that I no longer had such a capability. "You're quarantined for public safety" is what I was repeatedly told. But they did assure me that a solution to entomb me somewhere a bit livelier was in the works; how thoughtful of them.<br />
<br />
Although I had few friends and even fewer family among the living, none were allowed into the morgue, let alone to enter my makeshift chamber. Soon even the doctors stopped coming, and only a nurse bringing my dinner would drop by, but without ever uttering a passing hello. And when one is left in such solitude, strange habitual behavior often arises: it started with thinking aloud, then speaking to invented characters, which worked up to conversing with my cadaverous cellmates.<br />
<br />
Lately my itch has gotten much worse, and I can not scratch it because it's underneath my skin. So I peeled it back to scratch the other side; it feels so much better now. And I no longer notice that repulsive stench. Frasier tells me it's because I'm becoming like him. But I just feel sleepy now; I think I'll have a nap.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-40192862465078302192013-03-05T14:04:00.000-06:002013-03-12T16:51:06.092-05:00Why I Mostly Hate DC Comics<b><i>Warning: The following content is the mostly unimportant opinion of a guy on the Internet. Reader discretion and common sense is advised.</i></b><br />
<br />
OK, I don't really hate DC; they've made some of my favorite comics of all time. But I do hate them, lately: meaning the last 15 years or so. And while I loved the first half of <i style="font-weight: bold;">Superman: The Black Ring </i>and <b><i>Superman: Red Son</i></b>, I absolutely hated <b><i>Infinite Crisis</i></b> and <i style="font-weight: bold;">The New 52</i>. And that's a pretty massive chunk of what they've been up to. So without further ado, I give you three of my bigger gripes with the comic empire.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Problem 1. The stories read like something I would have made up, on the fly, while playing with my action figures as a child:<br />
<br />
I can sum up the biggest flaw in most of the writing with three Latin words: Deus Ex Machina. That's right! At any given time in the DC universe, all the rules can be, and usually are, tossed away to resolve a horribly written plot.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Please, hire some new writers. You can't continue to use the same guys who convoluted the hell out of the stories and wrote you into those dead ends, in the first place. And I don't even want to understand what is up with the new <b><i>Aquaman</i></b>. In his reboot, if you take all the background bullshit out, Aquaman literally has a story where his girlfriend gets into a little trouble while shopping for dog food. This is what was going on in my head as I read it:</div>
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<br />
<br />
Problem 2. A lot of the characters have not aged well:<br />
<br />
Kill them off and come up with new ideas! I know it's insane. But abandon the old model of creating idiotic looking clowns in leotards! Make characters that actually fit in today's world. I'll give you a free idea right now: Create a hero who actually stays in the background of society, who has actual mysteries that the reader wants to desperately know but are only alluded to at best, and a hero that is more show than tell.<br />
<br />
Ya see, a lot of your writers just simply talk about how genius a hero or villains is, but when it comes down to their actions, they come off like average guys possessing advanced technology who occasionally use some nonsensical technobabble. And their evil genius plots are usually laughably simple and poorly thought out. If you want your super genius to actually come off as someone possessing more than a modicum of intelligence, hire someone smarter than the average bear to write for him or, dare I say, her!<br />
<br />
Problem 3. The Films and Video Games:<br />
<br />
My god, these are mostly terrible! Ex: <b><i>Mortal Kombat vs DC Universe</i></b> was not only one of the dumbest things I've ever played, but the entire fighting system is dated, ugly, and has barely advanced from the video game bronze age that was the early 90s! Do you know how I felt when I played that game? I felt like a grown ass man playing with pogs! And trust me, that was not a positive experience.<br />
<br />
Please take back your creative licenses from these guys ASAP and get better game companies on board that can actually drum up interest in the comics. And when it comes to the majority of the films that don't involve <b><i>Batman,</i></b> it's clear to me that the lunatics are running the asylum.<br />
<br />
Now I leave you with this final note: "I sure hope they make another movie explaining who the hell this mysterious Superman fella is," said nobody ever.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3073247115214549586.post-88552674676910230032013-03-04T22:59:00.003-06:002014-03-23T13:07:00.851-05:00Dragon Fire Frights: Fool's Ghost<div class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/9990736/Dragonfirefrights2.gif" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
An excerpt from page one of <b><i>The Official</i></b> <b><i>Ghost Hunter's Guide to a Haunted House</i></b>:</div>
<blockquote>
"To be a proper investigator, one must stay skeptical and scientific at all times. To achieve this goal, we must use a variety of scientifically proven ghost detecting tools: EMF detectors, digital cameras with infrared capability, hand held tape recorders, Geiger counters, thermal imaging devices, and white noise generators. And it is absolutely imperative to never make logical leaps when concluding whether a ghost is occupying a home or not." -<i> Jim "Jimbo" Johnson</i><br />
<a name='more'></a></blockquote>
This was the bible of Boston Supernatural: An organization of elite laborers in search of what had eluded the modern day sciences—right off America's east coast, no less. Jim was their founder, leader, and expert in the unknown. Together with Dave and Bob, the trio had documented hundreds of slamming doors, light anomalies, extremely faint noises, personal anecdotes, random electromagnetic fields, temperature fluctuations, other thermal anomalies, and so much more solid proof of life after death.<br />
<br />
The attention they garnered, mostly within the local bar and rock music scene, led to a chance encounter with Alan Shneck, a man claiming to be a producer for a popular, educational cable television network. Over several beers, the two decided that it would be amazing if the viewer at home could follow along with the team's nightly investigations and see all the great scientific Doyle inspired detective work, in action.<br />
<br />
It was the first day of filming. The Autumn wind rustled ginger leaves across muted shades of deadened earth. A rusty gate screeched as men carried contraptions past it, down the dilapidated walkway. An odorous decay permeated through shattered window panes. The weathered home's rotted roof arched under a pale, waning moon while its outer paint flaked away from the years of neglect, making the condemned property an ideal location for the pilot episode.<br />
<br />
The three set up a twisted labyrinth of cables and cameras throughout its dank and moldy corridors. The windows were boarded up tightly to ensure the men stay locked inside for the duration of nightfall. This was Alan's magnum opus of reality TV. But nothing short of numerous shock scares and a contrived sense of tension would allow his show to ever see the light of day.<br />
<br />
The noxious air caused Jimbo to dry heave at times, and his head was already pounding from the copious amount of caffeine he'd ingested to prolong the required sleep deprivation. By midnight, Dave reported from The Nerve Center, a card table in the dining room with a laptop on it, that a camera had picked up unexplained footsteps coming from upstairs.<br />
<br />
The house rumbled as a lumbering Bob rushed to get on scene first. He scanned the pitch black hallways with his IR camera but saw nothing. Over the radio, Dave suggested he should try to provoke some paranormal action out of the unseen apparition. Bob decided to do an EVP session.*<br />
<br />
* An excerpt from page seven of <b><i>The Official</i></b> <b><i>Ghost Hunter's Guide to a Haunted House</i></b>:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Electronic Voice Phenomena is the scientifically verified occurrence of presumably disembodied spirit voices that have been mysteriously inserted into a digital or analogue audio recording segment as layered sound waves of extremely low amplitude. We know they are not a naturally occurring phenomena because they occur frequently in houses that we've scientifically verified as being haunted by using the aforementioned physical proofs (see page: 1). </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Note: they are mostly inaudible until amplified by exponential factors. It is also important when interpreting these ghostly messages, as they are initially incoherent, to remember the context of your questions, conversation, and or researched history of the property. This will help to clarify them into corroborating the supernaturalness [sic] of the recording." - <i>Jim "Jimbo" Johnson</i></blockquote>
While Bob was off interrogating the dead, Jimbo was investigating the basement with his EMF detector.*<br />
<br />
* An excerpt from page five of <b><i>The Official</i></b> <b><i>Ghost Hunter's Guide to a Haunted House</i></b>:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"An electromagnetic field is exactly what it sounds like. It is a field of electromagnetic energy that is caused by an electric current or change in electric fields. Some ghost hunters theorize that the presence of magnetic fields can be evidence for spiritual activity. And it has been scientifically proven that magnetic fluctuations, at any level, can never appear to be random or emanate from an unusual source, naturally. Note: Do, however, make sure your detector is set for the American AC frequency of 60hz. If you have a European one, it may not detect any ghosts since the standard power cycle in other countries is 50hz." - <i>Jim "Jimbo" Johnson</i></blockquote>
<br />
Jimbo fiddled with the device until the indicator lights detected magnetic fields around him. He tried to find their source but couldn't, so he began to use it as a divination tool for the intended will of the suspected phantom through a series of simple yes or no questions.<br />
<br />
"Did you die here?" he asked.<br />
<br />
The indicator light did not glow.<br />
<br />
"If you're here, can you make this thing light up?"<br />
<br />
The indicator light blipped. Chills coursed up and down his body as he believed contact had finally been made to a reality beyond the senses. Jim continued asking questions while having the EMF detector lead him around in the dark. Brushing the cobwebs from his face, he wound up at the back of the room where he discovered an ancient, mystical looking doorway.<br />
<br />
He grabbed hold of the handle and desperately attempted to open it. But try as he might, it would not budge. After several minutes, he finally gave up and began to back away when suddenly his legs buckled, dropping him to a kneel; his camera was then wrenched out from his grip and smashed to pieces on the cold, cement floor. And before he could turn to confront his attacker, his surroundings faded to black.<br />
<br />
Jim awoke to the flicking of candle light and shadows dancing along the decayed basement walls. His arms and legs were bound. His body was laid inside a circle of blood. And out from the penumbra, stepped a masked man, whose guise was white with an extra eye protruding from the forehead, but it was otherwise featureless with no openings for a mouth or nose. He was also cloaked in the same white with even more eyes populating the entirety of him, like a pox.<br />
<br />
"Who are you? What are you doing!" Jimbo yelled.<br />
<br />
Every eye on the masked man's body simultaneous moved and stared right into his own. A sight which sent Jim into a level of shock and fright that he'd never felt during any ghostly adventure. And despite not even the subtlest of movements from where a mouth on a man should be, resounding laughter could be heard emanating from him.<br />
<br />
"Oh, you don't recognize me without my mask? Sorry about that," he said without even the slightest twitch. The man reached into his flesh and pulled out from it the face of Alan Shneck. To Jim's terror, it was still alive: the nostrils flared as if it were breathing; the lips repeatedly flapped open and shut, and its eyelids blinked in rhythmic timing. The man tossed the grotesque atrocity onto the ground, next to Jim's head, and watched him desperately try to twist and writhe away as it thrashed about like a fish out of water.<br />
<br />
Jim breathily begged for any answers. And to his surprise, the stranger gracefully obliged him.<br />
<br />
"James, how many ghost hunters does it take to open a door?"<br />
<br />
"I...I...I...don't..." Jim mouthed.<br />
<br />
"I don't know either, but it's definitely more than two," the man interrupted and burst into a hysterical fit of laughter.<br />
<br />
The creature went to the table and picked up a long, serrated blade carved from bone. He then began reading an incantation from a rotted, antique book. It was in a dead and ancient tongue that Jim could not comprehend. But he did understand that his life was at its end, there was no TV series; there was never a producer; there was only death waiting in the blackness for its lost lamb.<br />
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