Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Steven "Count Stabula" Kelley's LiveJournal:

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Wednesday, May 20th, 2009
9:59 pm	The Ringleaders A favorite pastime of mine and Ralph's was the food storytelling contest. Among the hub of a thousand kids eating and talking, no one could tell we were playing a game. The object was to tell about the strangest thing you had ever been served here. The winner was whoever claimed to have had the strangest meal that at least half the table believed to have been served, and the prize was the best thing on everyone's plate. It was one of the few games I could truly beat Ralph at. Ralph, of course, was graduated by now, and I would be presiding as a judge. These games were nearly always Ralph's inventions (I'd introduced a few since he'd moved on), and we had a huge advantage over the more gullible kids because we remembered our childhoods and the world outside this compound. While the five-year-olds claimed they ate rag dolls and mud and the one of the older kids was telling a very convincing story that he had actually been served a mushroom from a patch he saw growing outside, I scratched my itching hand and thought about how to make my escape. Time was of the essence; the trucks were two months away and I could graduate at any minute between now and then. If I graduated, it was all over for me, for Ralph, and for my parents. Between my itching hand, the food stories, and the fear of my imminent graduation, I couldn't concentrate. Ralph kept floating into my head. I really missed him, and I realized that it had been two years ago this day when I last saw him. Every day was suspenseful when Ralph turned fourteen. He had become tall and muscular, and his facial hair made him look like an adult. He looked like a warrior, but I knew the day would soon come when he would not be there to protect anyone. I knew he'd be graduated, not shipped out on the trucks, and by this point I knew that graduates vanished with no explanation, usually never to be seen again. If I didn't see Ralph for a day, I would be unable to sleep that night. But Ralph never let on if he was nervous. He talked to whoever wanted company, did his best in classes, and stood up to arrogant gang leaders with class and confidence. “Jake,” he said to me one day, “you're as old as I was when I came here. The kids look up to you. They're getting more distant from me. They know I won't be around long.” He was testing me, and to my surprise I wasn't as upset as I thought I would be. For all the stress I had been under anticipating his leaving, when he actually mentioned it, I could handle it. “I'll never forget you, Ralph,” I said. “I'll make sure no one does.” “I won't forget you either, Jake. They're going to wish they never took me. I'll show them how 'special' we are.” I smiled at him. I realized we'd both become tough. We were, in a sense, the only survivors of the war. The children had lost all their memories. I would be able to do his work. From then on I didn't worry so much, and a few weeks later he was gone for good, or so I thought. I saw him for the last time at lunch one day, two weeks after he had disappeared. I was sitting with a more dull group than usual and was staring out the window. The trucks were being loaded. One of the kids was putting up a struggle. I recognized him; he had been a gang leader and wanted to be a supervisor so badly. He would have done anything to graduate. He was kind of a big kid, and he managed to break away and run for the building. I'd never seen that before, so I watched with interest. A couple guards ran after him, but the were overtaken by a man in a black cloak. He blasted towards the building, eating up the gap between him and the unlucky kid. He closed it with a terrific jump kick, which connected with the poor boy's head and collapsed him. As he flew through the air, his hood blew off and I saw that it was Ralph. Ralph grabbed the boy by the ankle and dragged him towards the truck. The boy began to come to, and he dug his nails into the ground. Dirty, disheveled, and banged up, the boy was thrown unceremoniously into the truck by his leg. Afterwards, Ralph made the exaggerated gesture of a job well done, dusting off his hands. He threw his hood back up and left with a few guards. Ralph, who had never raised his fist unless it was to protect the younger kids, who risked corporal punishment teaching kids to play instead of fight, who taught me to devote myself to making this place better for everyone, was the first to attack a prisoner. I knew then why the police murdered the people they had sworn to protect and serve. I knew why Mr. Walker betrayed my parents. I knew why so much of the equipment seemed to come straight from the army, or law enforcement. When they got you, it didn't matter who you were. They took your memories and made you into them. (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 17th, 2009
2:37 am	The Ringleaders I dabbed at my food at dinner. It wasn't uncommon or suspicious not to be hungry; the food they served us was a little like the clothes they gave us: dredged up from wherever they could get it. The meal plans were as eclectic as everything else too. Tonight it was boiled cauliflower and scrambled eggs. Even after separating the weird mixture into its more palatable components, I was still to stressed to eat. I would be one of them, soon, if I didn't get out of here. It was a truck day. New kids arrived off the armored vans, and a few old kids were sent away on trucks. There was a lot of musing about where the trucks went. I suspected that there was a labor camp where all the prisoners were being taken, and that most of the graduates went there too. However, a few graduates were simply taken away. You always knew who, because they vanished at any time instead of when the trucks were arriving, which was about every two months. Occasionally we would see one of them bearing the ringworm on his hand. In here, black cloaks did not designate authority, but the ringworm did. Most of the staff didn't have it, but there were always supervisors somewhere, and they always had the ringworm. It could be on the left or right hand, on the back or the palm. But if you were at least fourteen and had it, you could pass as a supervisor. That's why I'd been wearing the glove. I left it near the drier exhaust vents where it could stay warm and moist for weeks, and rubbed it in the dirt whenever I got a chance. Two months had gone by, and I still didn't have one. After dinner, I had to deal with Kanito, another fourteen-year-old and a gang leader. He had threatened me a long time ago to tell the supervisors that I had been teaching games to children, and when the children in his gang were punished, they turned on him and deposed him. Now, he had overtaken another small but rising gang and his first mission was to get even with me. I had warned everyone who liked me to stay away from Kanito, but he had finally struck. He and his cronies had been dumping all kinds of food and dirt and weird things onto the plates of poor one of my poor five-year-old idolizers. Now he was very hungry, having missed four meals in the last two days. The solution was easy enough. All gang leaders had a horde consisting mainly of “cool” clothes and the junk food and sweets that occasionally found their way into our meals. I bribed his guards with a sock puppet I made (very contraband, mind you) and made off with a few apples, a bag of chips and a box of juice pouches. The poor little boy was now well fed, and with nothing left to do I went back to the laundry to retrieve my uncomfortable glove. I would sleep in it every night until I got what I needed. I had to wake up at 6:00 to hide the glove before the breakfast wake-up call. After a hearty breakfast of Salsbury steaks came class. Each day we learned a different subject. Wednesday was grammar. None of the kids remembered school except me. I was in fifth grade when the invasion happened, and I remember finding the subject and predicate nominative in “Timothy has a new puppy.” and similar English class sentences. They were never particularly exciting, but they left at least a little to the imagination. In grammar class at the compound, the sentences were either facts of the driest nature such as “The rain is wet.” or “Light is not dark.”, or else they were complete nonsense like “The hammer lurks up a vet.” or “Yellow danger will make down a cloud.” The syntax is correct, but the sentences are absolutely incomprehensible. It's kind of an interesting challenge, actually, when you have to identify the components of a sentence by their order and part of speech alone, and the definitions of the words are no help. Even more confusing is the fact that we have vocabulary class the day after grammar class, where we're taught to learn the definitions of word after word after word. There isn't a kid in here who doesn't have the vocabulary of a Jeopardy contender. Math class is on the next day, and we study arithmetic as well as a variety of puzzles. The final class is the strangest of all. We're taught to look at optical illusions and see both the illusion and the picture. For instance, we would look at a picture where just the shadows are drawn and identify the hidden image, and then we have to look at it again until we no longer see the image but just the shadows. This class is always taught by someone with a ringworm on their hand, and they wear a special hat that can somehow tell them what we see when we look at the illusion. After lunch I had to deal with Konito again. “Kogan,” he said, “let's make a deal.” “I'm listening,” I replied. “I know you made this,” he said, showing me the sock puppet I gave to his guard. “I won't give it to the chiefs, and I won't mess with you or your friends anymore, if you give me something.” I didn't really have anything. “You want me to make you one too?” I said. Surprisingly few people could make anything like that (arts and crafts were also one of those things they absolutely forbid) so it would actually be an interesting trophy. “I want your glove,” he said. Crap. I had forgotten that gloves were rare. They're not distributed among us normally. They're just something that can occasionally find its way into a shipment. I found that one recently and would have ignored it had I not come up with the idea about the ringworm. “Consider it done,” I said, and I went to fetch it. He probably wasn't going to wear it much. It would dry out in his possession. It hadn't infected me yet, so it couldn't have ringworm in it. Even as I said them to myself, I shuddered. This plan always had one big hole: what if they knew it was just an ordinary rash? And they would never accept someone like Konito as a graduate. Gang leaders always went to the truck. In spite of their ban on any sort of game or organized leisure, the people they graduated were always creative, resourceful people with a certain degree of courage. If you pushed little kids around, it was a sure-fire way to get the supervisors to lose interest in you. If Konito got a ringworm on his hand before I did, they would know. They would find some other way of proving it was genuine, just as that man Ralph and I deceived with our dumbness all those years ago somehow proved we had not lost our memories. The badge of authority would mean nothing, and my one shot at escaping would be lost. Well, I would give him the glove and keep my word. Perhaps he would continue pestering me and I'd simply steal it back. But no, treaties were rarely broken. They were the only thing that let at least gangs have a modicum of personal possession. So I gave him the glove, and he agreed to a truce towards me and all children with no gang alignment, for now. He would forget eventually, but in the meantime I had to get ringworm from somewhere. I reach under a twelve-year-old's bed and pulled out a clammy sock. I stuck it on my hand and went to sleep. The next morning, I had a single, ring-shaped rash right in the middle of my hand. The plan was ready to go into motion, if I could just keep from scratching it for five seconds.\ (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 10th, 2009
11:08 pm	The Ringleaders A spy! I felt myself seething inside. Our neighbor, Mr. Walker, was a spy for the enemy! I remembered watching a documentary in class that year on real-life spies, how they weren't like in the movies or video games. They were just people who lied and stole. That was Mr. Walker, a real-life spy. A man who lied to my parents and stole them from me. And those other townspeople among the policemen, the ones who weren't being bound and carted off, they must have been spies just like him. But why the police? What did they have to do with it? And who were those strangers in black, the real invaders? I had to preserve myself though. I couldn't be captured and carted off with the rest of them, or I'd never save my parents. No one had noticed me until now, and most of the action was several blocks away. However, enemies were already beginning to search buildings. I saw people dragged out, some of them dead. I needed a better hiding spot. I found rickety stairs going up to the next floor of the abandoned building, and after searching that floor I found an entrance to the attic. The attic floor was collapsed in places, but there was an old machine, perhaps a furnace or something like that, sitting on a more or less intact section. I hid myself inside it, and lay shivering for the rest of the night, not sleeping a wink. Several times the enemies came into the building. I heard them moving and saw their flashlights dance across the room. I didn't budge an inch, and they never knew I was there. The rotted staircase and weak floor prohibited them from scouring the place. Hunger and curiosity drove me from my hiding place later that morning. There was no more gunfire, and when I peeped out the window, the town square was empty. Apparently they had shipped off most or all of the prisoners and were probably now patrolling. I was sore, freezing cold, and hungry. I felt feverish. I left the building and looked outside. The streets were a mess, with blood, broken glass, and wrecked cars strewn about. I crossed the street carefully, hiding under and in different vehicles and searching them for food and supplies. I was eating Pringles I found on the floor of a shot-up sedan when I heard someone say from the trunk, “What are you doing?” At first I froze, but then I realized it was a boy's voice. “I'm starving,” I said. “Pop the trunk,” said the boy. I did, and out came an older kid than myself. His eyes had bags under them and he was covered with dirt. I felt sorry for him, until I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw my own face. It was then I finally thought to take stock of myself. My face and arms were crusty with mud and dirt, my clothes were dirty and torn, I had bangs and scrapes all over, my nose was snotty and my eyes were bloodshot. I felt a strong urge to cry, and I fought it as hard as I could but eventually a few hot tears leaked out. The bigger kid put a hand on my shoulder. I struggled out in a hoarse voice, “My parents...”. “Mine too,” he said. “Let's get some food.” Food wasn't hard to come by. The town square was home to a lot of restaurants and cafes, and their kitchens were still stocked. The enemy appeared to have no interest in looting. “Drink lots of water,” the kid whispered, “and I'll see if I can find us some food. We'd better be quiet. We'll use as little equipment as we can.” I did as he told, and was surprised at how much I wanted to drink. I hadn't felt thirsty, but once I'd started drinking I wasn't satisfied until I'd had a good deal. We searched the kitchen for food. They had tons of eggs and waffle dough, and I would have gladly started the grill, but the kid warned me not to. Instead, he eventually found some frozen hamburgers and put them in the oven. He grabbed a knife and a big metal spoon, and smashed out the little light that said the oven was on. Then I hid in a cabinet, and he hid in the pantry, and no one who hadn't seen us there before would know we were cooking or had ever been there. The kid was resourceful. I was beginning to admire him. We told each other our stories while we were eating. His name was Ralph, and he was two years older than me. He and his mother lived downtown, where the fighting began without warning. His mother was in the military, and she fought to protect him but the police shot her down. He escaped by driving away in his mother's car, where he wrecked it in town square. The police chased after him and shot at him, and he fell and played dead. This was during the main part of this fighting, and some townspeople quickly pulled him away. When the police surrounded the squad he was hiding in, he once again slipped away while they fought to buy him time. He hid in the trunk of his mother's car, and was undisturbed until I found him. After we had finished our stories, we were discussing where to go next when we heard someone enter the building. “The smell! They'll know we're here!” I whipsered urgently, as the aroma of cooked hamburgers still hung heavy in the kitchen. “In there!” he hissed, pointing at the oven (which had cooled down by this time). I climbed into the big commercial oven and he shut the door as someone walked in. I heard the man say “Smells good, kid. Whatcha cooking?” The oven door opened, and I was face-to-face with a surprised policeman. He looked over at Ralph and said, “You try to run for it and it'll turn out the worse for your friend.” Then, he crouched to reach into the oven and pull me out. Suddenly his face changed again. His eyes opened wide and he grunted and fell over. A large kitchen knife stuck out from between his shoulder blades. “Ralph...you killed him...” I was shocked, forgetting briefly that the police were now executioners. “Jake, so many people have fought and died to protect me. I'm going to fight to protect us now.” We stole his keys and drove off in his car, resolving to head out of town the direction the intruders supposedly came in from. We hoped to find where they had taken the prisoners, and maybe even rescue my parents. Ralph now had some driving experience, and there was no one else on the road to trouble us. However, as we neared the next city, we had to abandon the car several miles away and walk in, well away from the highway. Before we ever approached the actual urban area, we saw what appeared to be a military convoy. There were great big U.S. Army trucks and soldiers, or at least men wearing U.S. Army equipment, but they were loading ordinary people into the personnel carriers. We also saw armored S.W.A.T. vans, into which children were being loaded. Also, there were men in cloaks just like I saw last night. One of the ones supervising the loading of children saw us, and grabbed a soldier and headed our way. I was ready to run, but Ralph whispered very quietly, “Better to be captured than shot.” The men reached us. The man in the cloak asked “Where are you from?” in a very stern voice. His hand had a red welt on it. It looked like a bad case of ringworm. We stood there, dumb. I was too scared to say anything. “What are you names?” the man demanded. I didn't know whether it was safe to answer or not, so I didn't. The man said to the soldier, “It appears they've undergone the memory training. But why are they so filthy?” “Maybe they're from the van that got shelled,” replied the soldier. “They must have walked a long ways to get here. We should really put patrols out on the highway.” “A van got shelled? They shelled their own children?” the man asked. “Well, I suppose they're our children now, right? And yes, several raids have been made on the vans. They don't know which ones have untrained children and which ones have the memory-conditioned ones,” answered the soldier. “Anyways, can't you tell if they have the training or not?” The man reached out towards me with his blighted hand. He opened the palm wide, and I saw the rash which on closer inspection looked exactly like ringworm. I'd gotten it borrowing a towel that summer from one of my friends. I was afraid he'd touch us with it, but he didn't. He frowned. “They're untrained,” he said. “INCOMING!” Suddenly, there was an explosion. A personnel truck rolled over in the air and came down. Ralph and I ducked under the twisted metal heap for cover as more shells came down. People and vehicles flew about and chunks of earth and clouds of dust scattered everywhere. We dashed out from under the truck, having decided we could make a break for it during the chaos. We saw the man in black who had first spotted us, lying dead. The soldier who was with him was also dead, and many of the prisoners as well. The surviving soldiers and black-hoods were scrambling about, racing to load children into trucks and get them out of there. We were snatched up by men in army fatigues and thrown into an armored van with a bunch of other kids. Soon, we were rolling. As the kids in the back talked amongst themselves, I found that there was something wrong with them. First of all, they all had such strange names, names like Balghest and Jokul and Cabarite. Also, every one of them had the same last name even though they were obviously not a single family. But the strangest thing of all was when we asked them about their parents and families, they didn't know what we were talking about. None of them could remember ever having parents. We were unloaded at what looked like a weird neighborhood. I now know it used to be a college campus. There were so many buildings, and all were very different. As we got off, we were lined up. A doctor looked in everyone's eyes and mouth with a flashlight, and a woman asked everyone a few questions. When she got to me, she asked my name. “Jacob,” I said, but she interrupted me. “No, no, no, sweetie. Your real name.” I thought about protesting, but then I decided it would be faster if I just made something up that sounded as exotic as the names I'd heard on the way up here. “Kogan Trommell,” I said, adding on the last name that every child had. “Very good, dear. Now how old are you?” I didn't have the slightest idea what to make up, so I just told the truth. “Ten.” “My, what a big young man! And you too! What's your name, sweetie?” she said to Ralph. “Alagar Trommell” he said, picking up off my cue. She continued with her questions and went on down the line. After that, the boys and gilrs were separated we were sent off to our dormitories. We were given what looked like a random assortment of clothes that could possibly have fitted us, and a twin bed each. The room, which looked more like it used to be a classroom than anything else, was filled with at least forty beds. There was no privacy. Nevertheless, it had been a long day for us, with me having spent all night in an old furnace and Ralph having spent it in the trunk of a car, so we slept very well. The next day, we were exposed to the routine that his been ours ever since: wake-up call and breakfast at 7:00 a.m., class from 9:00 until 12:00, lunch at 12:30 and relatively unsupervised free time until dinner at 5:00 p.m., and no lights out. What they prohibit is strange. We can't leave a certain area outside the complex of buildings we live and go to school in. I don't even know where the girls live. I haven't seen a girl in the four years I've been here. They don't care if we form any sort of club or gang or army, but absolutely no playing of sports or forming choirs. Gangs fight and children beat up children, and everyone's stuff gets stolen by everyone, but none of the adults put a stop to it as long as you show up for meals and school on time, do the classwork, and don't play any organized games. I've seen people get flogged for a footrace. It's very strange, and seems wrong. So naturally, I don't follow the rules. Ralph was my hero. Of the thousands of kids, nearly all of them are eight years old or younger. The big kids are quickly made into warlords of grubby little armies who fight over possessions such as favorite shirt. But Ralph neither led nor joined a gang. He only had his circle of friends, and he only fought to protect younger kids, and when he graduated I did the same. Ralph and I taught kids little secret games like thumb war and rock paper scissors, and taught them to make up stories about where they came from. Hated by gang leaders and loved by everyone else, we gave the little kids a way out of constant fighting. It made the strange life we led here feel worthwhile, and I didn't lament that I couldn't help my parents yet. But we never broke our facade when the authority figures were around. They told Ralph he was special over and over again. Now they say it to me, and that they'll be proud of me when I join them. (Comment on this)
Saturday, May 9th, 2009
7:21 pm	The Ringleaders I was talking with a friend who asked me about the sci-fi series "Ringworld". I said "Isn't that the one where the ringworms take over humanity?" It turns it out wasn't. But this is there story. The Ringleaders I took off the glove that I had been wearing all day. The cool, dry air would have felt great, except I wanted it to feel itchy. So far, nothing was working. Dinner was in 20 minutes, so I would have to stick the glove back in the laundry room. I'm Jacob, or at least that's what my parents named me. I'm not allowed to call myself that, but I think the fact that they don't want me to remember is a good enough reason for doing it. To them, I'm called Kogan Trommell. I'm one of about a thousand Trommells, and none of us are relatives unless by pure coincidence. We're just the kids who live in the Trommell ward. I think there are about 15,000 children and teenagers here, scattered over 25 "last names". We go to school for three hours a day and spend the rest of the day doing whatever we want, as long as we don't leave our ward. So I spend my days trying to get ringworm. Why the ringworm? The constant itch is entertaining, but there's more to it than that. The invaders, our rulers, all have a ringworm on their hand. It's a mark of authority. If I had one, I could leave any time I wanted to. Perhaps I could even find my parents again, if they're alive. But I don't have a lot of time. I'll be graduating soon. I'm one of the oldest kids here. I'm fourteen, the age we graduate. The age they say we will be inducted into their own. Perhaps I should explain everything from the beginning. I lived a normal life until I was ten, and by normal, I suppose I mean free. I had two parents, no siblings, I went to school, I played video games, read, and had just enough friends to make a mean field hockey team. We'd probably all be star players on the varsity team by now, if there was still a high school, but sports aren't a part of our education anymore. Anyways, it was during winter holiday that the invaders came. One night, Dad woke me up and sent me to the basement. I thought there might be a bad storm, but when I looked out the window, the sky was clear. I could hear my parents talking really fast, like they were having a hushed argument. Even then, I thought it was a little cheesy for my parents to send me to the basement so they could fight, and I decided to climb out the window to hear what they were talking about. I climbed on a bunch of stuff piled on a desk, opened the window, and slid out. I could hear sounds everywhere. I'd never heard a night so loud before. Sirens seemed to be coming from all directions, and it sounded a little like people were celebrating New Year's Eve a few weeks early. I was creeping around the house to the back yard, where I would listen through the kitchen window. As I moved around it, I heard a car racing down our street. It sounded like it screeched to a stop right in front of our house. I looked in the kitchen to see one of our neighbors, Mr. Walker, talking to my parents. I put my ear to the window to listen. I heard Mr. Walker saying "...and leave this place right now!" "I'll go get Jacob," Dad said, and headed to the basement. My face flushed. He came running back up a few seconds later, saying "He's gone! He's gone!" Mom's face turned white. I was too afraid of what he would do if he found me out here to tap on the window and let them no, so I listened on. Mr. Walker spoke next, very slowly and deliberately. He seemed very calm. "He's probably out listening to what's going on. Let's get in the car and go around the block. He won't be far." I dived into the bushes, deciding I would wait for them to get in and drive, and sneak back into the basement. I'd tell them I thought they sent me down here because it was storming, and wanted to get a look at things, and was out for just a second. Dad must have come during the few seconds I was out, and I think I even heard the door slam as I went back inside...it sounded perfect to me. Meanwhile, they looked out in the backyard, didn't see me, and went around front, thankfully not checking the basement again. They climbed into Mr. Walker's car, and he did not drive around the block but roared right down the street. I was confused. Then, something occurred to me. First, I noticed that the distant sirens were louder and clearer then before. They were getting closer. Next, I realized why I recognized the distant reports. They weren't firecrackers. The last time I had heard so many loud, repetitive cracks was on a news broadcast covering war in the Middle East. We were at war! My stomach felt like it wrapped itself as tight as possible around a very hard rock. I was separated from my parents with enemy soldiers on the loose. I knew my only chance was the police, so I got dressed, hopped on my bike and headed into town. As I got closer to downtown, the reports got louder, and I was afraid I'd be shot if I biked right down the road. I decided to abandon the bike behind a building and sneak through the alleyways I'd often played in towards the police station. It was nerve-wracking, because I could hear shouting and screaming over the gunfire now, and it sounded crowded. I left the shelter of buildings and ran into an undeveloped field. In the middle was a large drainage culvert that headed in the direction of the city. Invisible from the city streets, I hurried across rocks, litter, broken glass and water towards the fighting. Unfortunately, as I approached the town square, the culvert grew smaller and smaller. I decided that muddy pants were the least of my concerns, and so I dropped to my knees and crawled through the freezing, muddy water into a pipe that ran under the street. It was smelly, slimy, freezing, and absolutely pitch-black except for the light at the other end. Crawling through it put me behind an abandoned building near the edge of town square. I climbed through a broken window and sneaked upstairs to see if I could scout a clear path to the police station. It sounded like town square was the epicenter of all the fighting. I thought the police were making their stand against the enemy, that I was nearly too late! Perhaps if I could get behind their lines, I'd be safe until the Army got here. I looked out the window and lost all hope. The people shooting were the police. The people screaming and shouting were ordinary people, like my mother and father. Some of the people were trying to fight back, organizing little squads, and being taken down. Others were dragged away shouting to be shackled among a herd of prisoners. There were others among the police. Some looked like they were in some kind of uniform. They were wearing what looked like black cloaks with hoods (I'd never seen a cloak or anyone wearing one before) and they seemed to either fighting or, it appeared to me, ordering the police around. There were also a few townspeople among the police and the black-hood guys. I recognized Mr. Walker among them. (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 5th, 2008
10:51 pm	Biography Middle school was so long ago...but I believe it pretty much went like this. (Comment on this)
Thursday, February 7th, 2008
7:48 pm	Z3 Program Are you the human, the son of Sparda, who challenges the darkness Mundus? Flock off, feather face! Or you can stick around and find out the hard way! HOO HAH HOO! (Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 5th, 2008
8:23 pm	Phat 2'sday Fifty + hours of Metal Gear Solid has only made my mouth water for more video games. They surround me, but without a television to play them on I am hopeless. They merely roll around inside my mind with the buzzing of an unlikely bee winch. Always in my eye, they hop just out of my grip like a demented otton frog. This was a saved draft of a journal I apparently forgot to post over christmas break. Worth the wait, I should say. It made me forgot what I was going to write and desire instead to break the necks of unsuspecting Gurlukovich soldiers. "Eeennnnnnnnemy sighted." (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, October 29th, 2007
2:54 pm	Repurcussion Josh is going to be graduating soon, and have we all decided what Brazilian souvenirs we want? I hope he's been practicing his Capoeira, because I would like a 3-motion kick to the side, shoulder and head. What about the rest of you? (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007
2:05 pm	Fools! I'll never update! (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 16th, 2007
12:10 am	He shakes me all night long Someone on my floor has a speaking voice in the exact same range as AC/DC's singing voice. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, September 10th, 2007
11:54 am	Recapitulation I went to New Orleans this weekend for the Tulane game. The band stayed in the very same Marriott that Josh and I did so long ago. I didn't get any pictures or souvenirs, so you'll all just have to take my word. I did, however, visit the aquarium and to this day continue to brag about it. I wore Mardi Gras beads in the Yager style, and feared no other for I knew the spirit of Josh would be with me, just as sure as Josh has spirits with him at any given hour of any given day. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, August 26th, 2007
12:17 am	Round Three I've received my new research-free schedule. Differential equations, or as my father affectionately calls it, "Diffy Q", is the only real threat to my dominance. I'm back to work on band, my security job, and fencing. I also had my testicles removed to prevent hair loss in the near future, and sold them for book money. However, I soon suffered from a loss of equilibrium and realized I had to get them back. The dealer on whom I palmed them off told me that he did not share his records with anyone, so I sneaked into his house and found them in a strong box. Using the Rat style I learned in the sewers of Tibet, I gnawed through the corners and removed the details. I found that they were sold to a self-styled apothecary who makes aphrodisiacs out of such things. I briefly researched the process to discover they would be grinding them into a fine powder. I suspected the process would be irreversible. With little time to lose, I found he operated out of a small shack in southern Louisiana. By the mercy of fate, or the tendency of junked-up old pickups, he had suffered engine trouble on the road, and I beat him to his shack. The next beating was administered by my hand unto his face, and having subdued him, I discovered he was no longer carrying my precious cargo. What I had taken to be a blessing had proved a curse--he was forced to trade my testes for assistance on the road to a homeless hitch-hiking former mechanic. Fortunately I am good with landmarks, for I had no means of tracking him down except for where the car had broken down. There I was apprehended by the police, for unbeknownst to me, there was a warrant out for my arrest in Jackson. The hitch-hiker had used some of my incriminating hairs to mask his own trail. Fortunately, after explaining my situation to the police, they let me go and I recovered a valuable clue from the experience. In Jackson my fate changed for the worse. The crime scene yielded nothing to my benefit, and the hitch-hiker was still all but untrackable. It was during my third fruitless night when a car drove up behind me and three men got out. One said something like "Stay out of other people's business" and then a bag was over my face. When I came to, I was at the bottom of a deep body of water with cinder blocks chained to my knees. I employed the Rat style to chew my bindings and swam to the surface. The tepid, waveless water could only have belonged to the Gulf. Seriously set back, I wondered what recourse I had. It was then that I saw a huge, old fish. It looked at me with a wizened, almost human look. I knew at once to follow. Grabbing hold of its tail, I swam along with it through the Gulf to the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, and perhaps beyond. In the swirling colors of the water I saw many things that humans had forgotten, or perhaps had never known. I came to realize that I was seeing history as it had never been seen, a history told by the animals and plants. Through it I discovered the true significance of the hitch-hiker, the great trickster and usurper. He sought to halt evolution so that he alone could go uncontested. Pulling no punches, he did whatever he could to stay at the top of the game. He was generally resented by all peaceful creatures, for wherever he prospered it was at the expense of others. Though his life had been sought after for eons, he was never caught, either through trickery or by monopolizing the strongest life form available. Now, as a human, he was abroad again, and pitting his timeless wit against the craft of humankind. However, whether by design of fate or random chance, our paths had crossed. I knew that this went way beyond me. I learned years of knowledge in one night, but I had one question unanswered. Without saying it, the fish took me to one last image. In it I saw a brood of eggs. They hatched and fish I had never seen swam out. The were of radiant colors with beautiful flowing fins and long, delicate whiskers waving from their faces. They were truly the most beautiful of all fish, and in their faces I saw an intellect that surpassed our own. I watched as they grew. The sea filled with life and as the years passed, but the radiant fish neither ate, aged, reproduced, nor died. Then a shadow passed, as though a great fish swam above them. But the shadow descended without taking form, and settled on the muck in the bottom. It ate greedily and that it could not swallow it corrupted, making devils out of living things. The creatures of the sea attacked it but none survived swallowing the vile poisons of its constitution, save the radiant fish that ate nothing until this time. The ate and ate it, and diminished as they did so, but nevertheless kept up their assault. When they finished, only a handful survived. They were now as brown as the muck. They swam into fresh waters where they settled to the dirt on the bottom and fed there forever more. The great catfish was one of the survivors of that battle, and though he shared the appearance of his short-lived and simple descendants, I knew that deep down inside some of the radiance had survived his poisoning from that day long ago when the most beautiful and carefree of all creatures sacrificed themselves to save the budding life on earth. I swam to the bay. It was still night. The fish followed me up as far as the shore, where it barely had water to breathe. Even then, it pushed onwards so that I had to throw it back in the water. But it resisted my efforts, and I was forced to relent and watch it beach itself. I thought vaguely of burying it, but I was weary from the night's adventures and hungry to boot, so I made a fire and cooked him. Then, I devoured him and promptly fell asleep. I had a nightmare that night. Black oil poured from my mouth and nose. I tried to cover them up to stop the flow, but it backed into my lungs and I coughed and sneezed. Oil squirted between my fingers and I couldn't breathe. It pooled around my feet, and my reflection looked at me mockingly. Even as I suffocated and my life faded away, I used my last effort to kick at the reflection, distorting it into a bizarre and somehow horrifying shape that I cannot to this day will myself to remember. Then, I was swimming in blackness, and the feeling of the filth was both disgusting and penetrating. I felt a sharp stab of cold all around my body and realized I was in water now, though the blackness had not abated. The fish spoke. "My life would have come to naught if it were not for you. For though the radiance of old still shone on in me, it diminished year after year while the poison did not. On this night, I knew I would succumb. You ate me and with me you have ingested the devil. But fear not, for even as I speak you are recovering. You have survived and will not die, not yet. You will survive the poison, and it will not be imbued in your body as it was in mine. I realize for what end I had been made to contain the poison for so long, why I survived the physical agony of the corrupting toxin and the emotional agony of loneliness as my brethren passed on one by one into blissful oblivion." I awoke in mid morning. Some passers-by noticed my and made some comment about their party days of passing out on beaches. It occurred to me that I could kill them more easily than they reckoned, but I knew what I had to do. I had a weapon now that not even the hitch-hiker could resist. I headed to Jackson to settle the score and get back my own. It was about a day or two when I was accosted again. The same three scoundrels approached me in another alley,but they did not know it was I who hunted them. They came at me brandishing switch blade, cleaver, and garrote, but such weapons, though cruel, can be bested. For in my nightly travel I had a good length of rebar such that I could wield in both hands, swift and sure. In a quick stroke I snapped the garrote and brought my weapon down with such force that all three jumped back. Then I stood, and the one with the cleaver advanced. I struck a window and, in surprise, he covered his head and the sound and rain of glass. Chuckling inwardly at the old trick, I dispatched him with a mighty blow to his side. The man formerly armed with the garrote approached me and I dropped my weapon. He immediately went for it, and I brained him with a glass bottle so hard it shattered on impact. I am always careful to check for useful unbroken bottles in an alley when I suspect violence. He fell to his knees, subdued for the moment, and I immediately whirled around and thrust the jagged edge of the bottle in front of me. The third man with the knife had thought to flank me and get me from behind while I dueled his comrade, but had not expected my trick maneuver any more than his vanquished friends. Now, before he was able to stick steel into my side, he was staring at the clear green shards an inch from his face. I looked at him directly and said "You are the one I want. You are the leader." He took a step back. "How do you figure?" he asked. "Because," I said, "Only a bully could keep thugs like those in check, and the way you went to my back while your tougher friends fought face to face clearly shows me you are the only one cowardly enough to direct violence at people who trust you with their lives." He flinched before me, but his tongue was ever smooth. "Well, this makes us one for one, but are you ready for round three?" And as he said it, his weary comrades picked themselves up. Now they surrounded me, and two were still dangerously armed. "Finish him off." Yet I sensed their hesitation and played on it. "Are you men really going to attack me? If so, you're more loyal than I could hope to be, fighting for a guy who lets you two take all the licks and when we're face to face, waits for you to get back up rather than fighting me." "Shut up! Shut his stupid trap boys!" he snarled. "'Finish him off!' he says! Well try if you may, but it'll cost at least one of you a few bruises apiece and this guy won't get his hands dirty for it!" I indicated the leader, of course. "Damn it, you lazy slugs! Carve his eyes out! Throttle him 'til his head explodes!" He ranted, though still not approaching within striking range of my weapon. "If you ask me," I said coolly, "it's him who needs the finishing." And with that the disarmed man picked up my rebar and advanced right beyond me. The cowardly leader ducked, dropped his knife, and put his hands to his face as his goon raised the stout steel rod over his head for a blow that never came. I grabbed the bar from the thug's hands as he swang. He looked at me dully. I looked at the leader. "Where is he?" I asked. "You'll find him at the Greyhound bus station at about ten tonight," he said without hesitation. I looked at the goons. "Don't waste your muscle on this idiot. You are strong and honorable men. If you want my advice, go out and make something of yourselves. Never talk to this creep again." I have no idea if they took my advice, but I did, and I have not seen him since. The bus station was mostly empty. It's funny how some people look like they bring their whole house on vacation, yet it's the guy who has nothing lounging in the seat who looks like he actually lives there. I saw that guy, that uncommonly light traveler. The drifter. "Traveling man, eh?" I said. "I've done a fair bit myself. But I can see I'm not as well traveled as you." "Most aren't," he replied. "I reckon there are none. In history. At least among humans, seeing as how you pre-date us." He didn't stir. "You've seen a lot of places. A lot of times. Continents that don't even exist anymore." I thought I was being impressive, but if he was taken aback he didn't show it. I was afraid he somehow knew of my coming, of my weapon. I continued. "Mister, I think it's about time your travels came to an end. "You can have 'em back, just don't tell the cops it was me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out my two best friends. "So you just wanted to outwit the cops, but you couldn't outwit me." "Who cares if I outwit you. You're not a challenge, Steven the Relentless Inquisitor." My surprise was more obvious than I'd have liked it, for his next phrase showed that he saw it plainly. "Why do you think I'd be carrying these around if I didn't expect you? Now take them, I really don't want them. Go back to school, and take better care of yourself." "How about we trade?" And with that, I let fly my special weapon. Deadly black ooze sprayed from the palms of my hands, and for once, I was rewarded with a look of surprise. The spray was not powerful, yet he was thrown back from his chair on impact. He sputtered as he fell, and dropped my precious cargo. I dove to protect my balls from the spreading pool of disease and caught them very nearly. He looked at me and choked out his last words. "You'll...never see that last of me...but you've unleashed...contagion...on your planet......A...bleak...future...for us all..." and with that he faded. All around the bus station the black ooze lay, but it looked like nothing more than dirty water except for that which was on the body of the hitchhiker. There, it undulated and swept across his body like smoke, and ate at it. It spread like a puddle. I don't know what prompted me to do this, but I threw my own nuts into the puddle of evil poison. To my surprise, they soaked it up. But upon doing so, they met their end just as that glorious fish did all those ages ago. I knew that the trickster would be back, for he had lived for ages and would bury us all, but now that my nuts were destroyed I felt my victory was meaningless. I left dejectedly and made for Starkville. What did I fight for? I wondered to myself. The contagion was stopped, but at what cost? The fish had died. I ate poison and suffered to defeat my foe, but the respite was temporary and the prize was lost. And it was then that I realized my equilibrium was back to normal. I hadn't realized, but when I sprayed the poison at my opponent, it took other injuries with it, and surely enough a fresh new pair of apples hung from the branch of the tree. My balance was perfect, and I suspected that my hair would remain as full as it ever was. I returned to Starkville with a light step. I was late for D.E. on Thursday but it was an 8:00 a.m. class, so I don't feel bad about it. Besides, who can learn at that ungodly hour? (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 3rd, 2007
2:52 am	Demographic I've taken to watching episodes of a Devil May Cry anime. It has done the same thing to me with strawberry sundaes as Treasure Island did to AJ with rum. (Comment on this)
Sunday, July 29th, 2007
10:31 pm	The Guilty One I was weak. That's why I needed you...I needed someone to punish me for my sins. But that's all over now. I know the truth. It's time to end this. HOO HA HOO! (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 18th, 2007
5:38 pm	Unleash the devil inside! These strange incidents of garbage cans being unexplainably leaped over are becoming more and more prominent. Citizens are urged to leave trash cans indoors and locked, and keep themselves and family away from any public receptacles between 11:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. Although some experts maintain skepticism, this amateur photograph seems to suggest to many that the perpetrator is in fact a terrifying half-human garbage leaping demon. Local wildlife experts are attempting to trap the suspect in hopes of getting an identifiable DNA sample and classifying it appropriately. Stay tuned for sports at 6:00. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 11th, 2007
2:25 am	You reek-a! I've made my first breakthrough in what I hope is the beginning of a long and rich research career. My discovery: Chemicals that have been opened for a year or more may no longer be fit for use in synthesis. I've only just begun to unleash the true potential of this magnificent find. Good luck to all of you who are keeping busy or bored over the summer, particularly those who are battling dysentery and monkeys, and going on rape patrol drunk and leaving drunker. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 30th, 2007
4:51 pm	Kindred spirits I could be writing about myself, but instead I nobly devote my own blog to one liners from video games that deserve more respect than myself. (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 20th, 2007
12:58 am	Retribution That'll show ya! No door's going to keep Ark out! (Comment on this)
Friday, May 11th, 2007
2:58 pm	Flock off! Are you the human, the son of Sparda, who challenges the darkness Mundus? (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, April 30th, 2007
8:26 pm	A in organic chemistry 2, despite making a 47 and a 66 on 2 of 4 tests. While it may be questionable as to whether or not I mastered 90% of organic chemistry, there is no doubt that I reign supreme over 100% of the class. It's the first notable academic accomplishment in my life. (3 Comments |Comment on this)