Tuesday, February 14, 2012

...happy birthday, dear man in want of a name or past, dear man who wants to be much more than he is, dear man who tries to save people and can never do much more than make it worse...happy birthday to me...
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Rested, Radiantly Running Royals Roar

Today was an adventure.

Rocinante and I were...procuring some information out of what had once been a locked shed in the backyard of a man who is currently on vacation. Rocinante stood just inside the door, ready to take off if need be. It is a good thing that the shed was a very large one, or else the both of us might not have been able to get in there.

I was just about to pack up and go when a powerful voice said, "Put it down." I stopped moving, but kept all of my things in my hands. The voice spoke again.

"Put. It. Down." Something compelled me to drop the bag. I nearly hit myself later. Why did I drop the bag? Why?

"Now, turn around. Slowly."

I put my hands upon my head and turned until I could see my attacker.

It was a policeman. He was slightly rotund, had light stubble, and a bit of dandruff on his shoulders. The light he held in his left hand was traveling around the shed, and the gun in his right was pointed at a spot directly between my eyes and backwards a little.

"Dispose of your guise," said Rocinante. The policeman laughed, shimmered, and changed.

He was tall, about as tall as me. His hair was jet-black and slicked back as if with grease. Other than that, his cara was bare. His lips were thin and pale, as was the rest of him - the man's skin was as white as, perhaps, a vampire's would be. His eyes were a light red color, almost pink, but with even less color in them than that. The man wore a long black leather coat, had on a black turtleneck, black leather pants, black leather boots...I suppose he's very devoted to black leather. A silvery chain hung around his neck, but I did not get to see what was on the end of it.

The most interesting thing about the man was the sickle he had in his hands. It was long, and gleamed even in the clouded sunlight that broke through the shed's decaying planks.

"Yes, O Knight," said the man. "I like olden weapons myself." The sickle's blade dropped to the ground with a clink and a thud, but the man still gripped its handle well. It was attached with a chain, some sort of sleek mechanism. Coming after the chain in the great journey towards the ground was a small can. It was unmarked, though it looked as if it had once contained coffee.

"Now." He gestured with the sickle, or the handle, anyway. "Pick it up." I nodded and bent down. The can of gunpowder was already peeled open. All I would have to do is rip it back.

"Spread it around." I nodded again.

Then I threw the can at him.

We were out the door in seconds. I heard the man's horrid laughter behind me. "You can't hide!" he screamed. "You can run, but you can't hide!"

The shed exploded. The lawn caught; the house, no doubt, burned. But we were miles away when any officials - any real officials - showed up.

Recuerda, recuerda, el cinco de noviembre,
Pólvora, traición y complot.
No veo un razón porque traición de la pólvora
Debería ser olvidado nunca.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Quirky Quixotic Quilts Quack Queens

The hardware store across the road sells televisions. They have their display set up in the window so you can watch sixteen or so different screens of the exact same channel at the exact same time.
The manager changes it on a schedule. At six a.m. he puts on the news. At ten he switches to sports. At one in the afternoon, it's cartoon time. At two, you can watch crime shows. At six it's back to news, and at eight he turns the TVs off while the night passes.

At seven thirty one in the evening I saw something that scared me. I didn't really catch any of the names, save one. I don't much care about names anymore. And in the end, I don't care to retell the whole story.

Girl. Young. Had a life to live. Disappeared. Cross-country killing spree. Not detected. Until now.

What she saw during her travels was so bad that she would rather mutilate herself than see it again. She would rather stab out her own eyes than -

And I thought I had it bad.

Her hospital room - she's not quite dead yet - is being guarded, said the anchorman. I'm sure I could make it to Arizona, but...I'm afraid. I'm afraid of getting in another scrape with the police. I'm afraid of being helpless. I'm afraid of making it worse.

I'm afraid of what I might see. I'm afraid that I might see some small remnant of her nightmares, and I'm afraid I wouldn't ever be able to stop running.

But I still have my mind and heart and soul and body, and blood still passes through my veins, and I would say a thousand prayers that I might not be guilty, that I might not have a pained conscience.

Poor Lea Ritter.

El techo, el techo, el techo está en llamas 
El techo, el techo, el techo está en llamas
No necesitamos agua
Deje al hijo de puta quemar
Quema, hijo de puta

Saturday, October 22, 2011


smiled gently. "It'll be all right." Her face shone like the morning sun.

"It doesn't feel very all right." The man was angry. He was tired, and scared, and sad, but mostly he was angry.

"That's because it's not the end." The new voice came from behind. Something

Saturday, October 8, 2011


The man awoke from the so-called unending slumber for the umpteenth time. Once again he had no memory of his past but for a few fragments - those fragments that would turn out to be the most important parts. Tiny seeds planted themselves in his head, urging him to go forward and recover his memories. He had known this would happen again, and so decided to leave reminders for himself scattered about, in the hope that he could find what had been lost.

Little did he know how hard it would be, but that wasn't the issue just now. The issue now was getting his bearings, and dealing with the Giant standing on the horizon line.

The man looked down at himself. He wasn't high up in a tree this time, or way down below the ground, or face-planted in a ditch. He wasn't completely out of the woods, though, in more ways than one - he was slumped up against the base of a huge fir. He wasn't wearing much - pants and an undershirt, and hiking boots. But to his left was a large black duffel bag. He looked inside and saw a strange assortment of items.

A long spear, almost like a knight's lance, but not quite. More like a pike. Its tip glowed faintly in the shadows of the afternoon light. Underneath the pike was an old and worn, yet sturdy, wooden crossbow, just the right size to be held in one hand in an emergency, its tips fashioned out of the same material as the pike - perfect for hooking and smashing. A smaller, reinforced leather satchel within the duffel bag seemed to contain several dozen crossbow bolts. The man couldn't be sure, but he thought that they were made of the same strange metal-like substance. Lastly there was a wallet and a Kevlar vest, which he quickly put on. Better to be safe than sorry.

The man zipped up the bag and looked around again. He was just about to get up when there was a barking noise from somewhere behind him. A huge St. Bernard quickly trotted out of the woods and began licking him about his face. The suitably huge keg of brandy around its neck got in the way some, but the man didn't mind. He tried to ask what her name was, but found that he couldn't - he had no tongue.

But the dog seemed to understand. It composed itself, then, very slowly, said, "Don't be scared."

When the man showed no sign of running away the dog continued. "I don't remember anything either. But we're a part of each other." The man nodded - the dog seemed to feature very prominently in what little memories he had left. "Now. Let's go get him."

The man nodded again and got up. The dog crouched down, offering her back for him to ride, and they rode off toward the Giant in the distance. Or was it a windmill? Something about it was spinning around, for sure.

They arrived within seconds. There It was, in all Its horrible glory. Its tentacles stopped twirling about and the Giant leaned down as if to talk to the man.

The man found he could speak with the dog inside their minds - simple thoughts, but it was enough. He could talk through her when needs must.

"Are you my goal?" asked the man, through the dog.

The Giant said nothing.

"Are you my god?" continued the man.

The Giant said nothing.

"Are you my gallows?" asked the man, and then the Giant nodded.

Yes, said the Giant. 

The man, though overcome with a furious rage, patted the dog on its neck, and they rode away without a backward glance, looking for some trace of civilization.

While they rode into the night, the man tried to make sense of it all. What should I do? he wondered.

Almost immediately another voice answered. Find the hammer, said the voice.

The man pondered this for a moment. And who am I? he inquired.

The voice took a while before it answered. When it finally did, it wasn't very helpful.

You are many things, and many men, said the voice. You were. But now?

The voice did not continue until the dog finally tired and they had to rest for the night.

You will have no name. You are the Knight-Errant.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011


a pretty stupid thing to ban," the man said. He took a swig from his brandy flask, and dozed off.

The truck driver shook him awake some time later. The man looked around and saw that they were at a small but efficient rest stop. He got out of the truck and turned to thank his friend, but the truck had disappeared. There were no tracks behind him on the road, and no tracks ahead - this left the man feeling very confused, but it was apparent from the setting sun that they had gone quite a ways.

The stop had a convenience store, a gas station, and a Bed and Breakfast. It was at the latter of these that the man checked into, as he had plenty of money left over. He chatted with the landlady awhile, doing his best to get some hold on current events, but he didn't manage much. She was rather isolated out here in little corner of peace, but the rates were good and the sheets were clean, so there was nothing to complain about.

He fell asleep easily under woolen patchwork quilts depicting scenes of victory and great men and women of history - Solomon? George Washington? Betsy Ross? Was that - yes, it was - Jesus.

The man pulled the soft cloth over his eyes