Exploited Antonyms

Friday Night Corridor: A Liberation Side-Story

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Sat, 17 Oct 2015 00:59:00 +0000

(Originally posted on exploitedantonyms.wordpress.com as part of a writing assignment where I picked up the story of Kaylant, Florida. Look for the reference to Liberation: Chapter 4!)

The two of them stood there trembling, horrified… no, mortally shaken by the events they had witnessed there that night. James Ploindekker, a businessman with a master’s degree from the University of Central Florida, and Jessica Fleighty, an artist who made her peanuts selling her paintings at various markets, flea and farmer alike, were experiencing what many could only describe as an atrocity dealt to the truly undeserving.
“Do you think it’s alright?” Jessica asked, fresh canvas underarm. James poked at it, examining it, trying to think about it from as many angles as he could, a habit he formed as a youth in grade school having spent most of his time after school behind a television set, video game controller in hand. “Sorry, but it’s gone, the pepperoni’s stuck to the pavement, you don’t want to even try.”
Jessica’s cheeks reddened and she crumpled the paper plate in her hand, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. She took James by the hand and led him around the corner, passing the bar on the corner where more than a handful of inebriated millenials were enjoying their first official night out on the town. James weaved in and out of the people standing on the sidewalk until he took his place standing behind her in a line outside a bar named Sky57. As a large man in a black t-shirt checked the ID’s of all entering the standard-sized door frame that was the entrance, cars glided by behind him, cells through their vessel. James fumbled for his wallet while Jessica did her best to balance her canvas while rifling through her purse for her ID. James pulled his out as Jessica walked through the doorway, walking up an illuminated flight of stairs without a moment of delay; he followed after her.
James walked by at least three pairs of people talking just inside the doorway of the blue and white-lit bar room, a fourth formed a mobile barrier that failed to prevent him from reaching his destination. James turned his body lengthwise as he slipped by the pair of young women talking about some new singer they heard on the radio and headed for the cold, aluminum handrail in pursuit of his partner for the evening. His search didn’t take long as he spotted her off to the side of the roof overlooking the street; her canvas was already being propped up into an angle proper for maintaining stability. James approached Jessica slowly, watching her as she pulled a single, yellow pencil out of her back pocket and stared down at the street scene playing out below her.
“Is this how you spend your weekends?” James asked, failing to avert her gaze. “Sometimes,” she replied, “most of the time I’m at home spying on the neighbors for inspiration.” She chuckled in an obvious manner, looking over at James, who was content with looking on as she went to work sketching the way that buildings met the street and the palm trees marked the edges of the park in the distance from where they stood. James could only stand and stare in disbelief at the speed at which she sketched out what permeated her field of vision. “How long have you been doing this?” James asked of Jessica. “You know, art in general,” he added. Jessica paused for a second to examine the height of a newspaper stand compared to its passersby and then answered his question. “Seventeen years now, well, seriously pursuing it anyways, I don’t really count what I drew as a child,” she said modestly. The truth of the matter is that even her early drawings as a child drew the attention of her school teachers. As she scribbled on, a bartender was walking around the rooftop with a tray of mixed drinks. James called her attention over, handed her a $10 bill, took two and told her to keep the change. “Could you hold on to that for me for just a minute? I’m almost done. “Almost done?” James thought, “it’s only been five minutes.”
Indeed, the quality of the sketch this girl had produced in under five minutes was astounding to James, who had at once considered entering into the art field, but if not for a rude awakening enacted on the part of his best friend falling into a crater of debt, he too would be holding an art utensil in his hands. This much was certain, she was much better at this than he could ever have been, James thought, patiently holding the glass of poisonous-looking whiskey-and-yellow-something drink for Jessica in his right hand while his left hand cared not much for appearances and slung a splash of the liquid past his lips and down his semi-parched throat. Almost as soon as he did, the canvas leaning on the short fence on the edge of the rooftop was removed from its position of authority and sent to rest against the wall.
James extended the hand holding Jessica’s drink and she eagerly took hold of it. As she sipped the suspicious, yellow drink, her lips came untied, “so I used to do this thing where I would go to the roofs of this one building and try to paint some of the offices with open windows. I figured it would be this opportunity to try something new, but one day someone called security and now they not only lock the doors, but I’m no longer allowed to go into the building.” She laughed while James pressed himself to come up with a response.
“Did you get any good pieces out of it?”
“I did manage to get a few good ones. They never made it past the sketching stage but I’m still getting around to them,” Jessica said, crossing her right arm across her torso. “Why did you choose to pursue business?”
James replied candidly, “because it lets me be myself. I’m not the kind of person who can sit behind a desk and work 9-5, so I specialized in the selling aspects of business and now I go from business to business selling consulting services.” Jessica looked at him with a curious expression, the tinge of red in her cheeks still lingered from the pizza incident just prior.
—-
Forty minutes later, James and Jessica found themselves in the bar room below sitting on a couch with a man in a wrinkled, white double-breasted coat with matching khakis and a grey fedora who was sipping from a glass on the opposite end. James was sitting halfway on the armrest, glass half-full of the same noxious yellow liquid from the rooftop, each successive one lost a little more of its pineapple-and-grenadine accents in exchange for decreasingly subtle hints of its Tennessee heritage.
The night ended for the two with Jessica walking out of the bar at last call, telling James that she would see him again and marching off into the night to walk a dog she claimed was in desperate need of a walk. James decided against settling in for another yellow drink, settled his tab, and walked back outside into the street long blocked off to traffic as the masses mixed and ebbed into the fishbowl of Kaylant, Florida’s downtown scene. Half-buzzed and aimless, James walked down the south-bound sidewalk, passing Burt’s Cafe au Lait & Coffee Bar on his right, watching as a man and a woman smoked cigarettes off to the side of the door. As he passed them, the distinct clatter of a car striking a lamp post and the squeal of tires of pavement sliced through the air from behind James, urging him to turn around and watch whatever scene was playing out behind him.
From where he was standing, James could see what appeared to be the corner of a street barricade poking into the street that was supposed to remain unoccupied by motor vehicles. James walked closer and found the barricade’s accomplice, the front end of a red sports car that was firmly planted against the shiny, metallic base of a street light. The tires squealed once more as the driver attempted to dislodge his car from its overly-conspicuous prison. More onlookers took notice of the scene and stared on as if in a state of disbelief. A police officer poked his head around the corner from the doorway of a night club that was steadily releasing its occupants to their fates, leaving his post in favor of what he thought could become a DUI arrest.
The officer shot a reassuring glance at James, who assumed it was a nonverbal clue that everything was under control. As the officer approached the vehicle, its occupants fell deathly prone and couldn’t help but stare at the approaching man in uniform. The driver broke his stare and turned to his passenger, who threw his arms into the air as if declaring his inability to answer whatever question the driver posed. The officer’s eyes were trained on the occupants as he approached the front door and stood there looking at the driver, who rolled down the window with the hopes that his cooperation might make things go better for him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the officer said in a tone that brought together elements of authority and an intentionally lackadaisical approach. The driver of the pinned vehicle replied to his gesture with a courteous response, calmly explaining that he and the passenger had been arguing over an issue and in his confusion, his foot unintentionally pressed on the accelerator, which brought them to their current predicament. The driver’s words were as articulate and smooth as the blends of coffee served in the very coffee bar behind James, who was following the unfolding of the scene along with the three other onlookers, all of whom held a different reaction. The driver exited the vehicle and walked over to the side of the officer who was already facing the barricade. Together, the two lifted and moved it aside, partially freeing the little, red sports car. The passenger began to move to the driver’s seat, who was quickly reprimanded by the driver, who was having a word with the officer before climbing into it himself. The officer got the driver’s attention once again, but as soon as the officer began approaching the car once more, a woman’s scream issued forth from the night club the officer was just watching. The officer’s attention shifted and the occupants of the red sports car threw it into reverse gear and backed around the left corner before speeding off.
The officer’s full attention came to the bar when the sound of two gunshots rang out into the main drag. Pulling out his walkie talkie, the officer alerted his fellow officers of the situation while drawing his Glock .45 and holding it close to his side. The officer approached the front door of the club, forcing his way into the building amidst the tide of fleeing occupants. James, who was just coming out of shock, gathered his wits together and began running away from the scene, crossing to the other side of the street and taking off at full speed.
James kept running until his brain shouted at him to stop, telling him that he was far enough away from the danger to allow himself the courtesy of catching his breath. As he did so, he took in his surroundings: there were far fewer street lights than there were previously, ten-foot high evergreen trees lined his side of the street. From the looks of things, he had found his way to Treasure Hill Park, James thought as he couldn’t recall how he’d run over half a mile. He thought about his decision to decline joining his college track team while he was still a student months prior, but that was neither here nor there.
Contemplating how he would make it back to his car, he figured that the best way would be to walk down one street and make his way back to the end of the street, where he would find his car and be able to finally go home. With this in mind, James took the cross street that formed the outer boundary of the park halfway to the next street when he heard the sound of a small dog barking furiously. James turned and could see a one-foot tall black-and-brown puff running back and forth barking at a tall figure in a dark jacket. James squatted down and shifted to the left, poking around a bush and catching a full glimpse of the scene playing out. The tall figure was holding a girl to a tree by the mouth while trying to wrestle a purse out of her hands. James recognized that person as Jessica, the girl he had been on a date with less than an hour ago. She was resisting him and he kept his hand on her mouth, a measure the attacker had hoped would keep her from crying out for help. When this failed, the attacker grabbed the purse with both hands, tore it from her grasp, and bolted in the direction towards the exit gate.
James, who had been watching the scene, quickly stood up and tried grabbing the purse from the man in the dark jacket, but this didn’t go how James expected as the attacker struck him with his shoulder and knocked him off his feet. From where he was lying, James watched as the man ran off down a dark street, prize in hand. Picking himself up, James walked over to the tree Jessica was sitting and while he startled her for a moment, she let her guard down when she recognized him and started sobbing. James picked her up off the ground and she wrapped her arms around him and the dog now started barking at him, not knowing friend from foe.
When the tears stopped, Jessica looked at James and smiled, laughing through the tears. James took her by the hand and said to her, “you look like you could use that slice of pizza now.”

What Seems the Same

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 16:15:00 +0000

A pacific blue lampshade stands stout,
shedding regular-colored light
on a table that might be found
in any coffee shop in any state,

Specifically, it's lying about
the Starbucks just beyond the light
at Alafaya, eastern-bound,
and Gemini; university's gate,

Bait just like catnip, to this writer's soul,
drowned in caffeine, too many cups sold,
lightly-headed and bound for gold,
all doubts have been prolifically shoaled,

Clouts of soporific nostalgia
delight me past Arcadia,
wind up in Naples, Florida;
four hours of driving like a monster;

A prolific author returns home,
what was home, resembles a light
atop the trees, each one tall and stout,
from a distance, much shorter from up close

Liberation: Chapter 1

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 21:05:00 +0000

August 29, 2011 began not unlike any other before it, but within minutes of merging on to I-75, the day skipped down a path of steepening instability.

Left turn signal, check.
Cut around slower vehicles prior to the end of the merge lane, check.
Enter the leftmost lane and drive 15 MPH over the speed limit, check check.

Daniel sat in a relaxed position in the drivers seat of his 2001 Chevy Malibu rental car, left arm on the window well, elbow against the glass, hand on back of head. Stretching his back from the early, static hours of the morning, Daniel took in a deep, slow breath, holding it for a few seconds, and then releasing it; an indication that the morning had truly begun. He reached for his orange juice, a replacement to his regular coffee, and before his lips could reach the straw, his body heaved forward with a sudden jolt, his grip tightened around the steering wheel. "...the fuck!?" Daniel gazed into the rear-view mirror to spot an empty lane of traffic, and as if on cue, a red-and-black Firebird sped around to his right, and he floored his accelerator.

Center lane, left lane, center lane, left lane again... The Firebird jumped between cars like a flea, leaving Daniel with only a couple of feet worth of room to navigate the same route as his assailant. Center lane, right lane, center lane, left lane... The Malibu and the Firebird reached the front of traffic, lingering for mere moments before the Firebird's custom exhaust system roared with the fire of ogre bellies and began widening the distance between the two vehicles. Trying to keep up, Daniel's Malibu whined and squealed; it's rebuilt engine taking the stress of high-speed driving with stride. Coming upon the next block of traffic and closing the distance on the Firebird, the pair entered the cluster from the center lane, immediately cutting to the right in front of an aqua Honda Accord, back to the center lane around a black and grey Chevy Blazer, and into the left lane around a Publix semi-truck and trailer. By the time Daniel's Malibu caught up to the left lane, the Firebird in front of him was pulling in front of the truck and took chase to it, but on impulse he tapped his brakes halfway up the side of the truck and pulled around behind it to find that the same Firebird he had been chasing was hovering around the back corner of the truck in a vain attempt to outsmart him. Daniel pulled up behind them and flashed his high beams at them; this amusing game of cat-and-mouse was in check. The Firebird once again accelerated to escape, but as soon as they had started, the Publix truck swerved right and cut them off. The vehicles collided, and the Firebird hovered into the emergency lane for a few, brief seconds before succumbing to drop of the slope, mere feet to the right. The Firebird's driver slammed the brakes as soon as he was on level ground, and the car squealed and smoked before spinning out on the dewy grass and, at last, coming to a halt. Daniel flipped on his emergency lights and pulled off the side of the interstate, threw his car in reverse, and slowly approached the Firebird, his dented bumper leading the excursion.

Since the moment he got rear-ended, Daniel had his first, rational thought. "Who would run from something small like that, considering I could have reported his license plate later." The thought that the Firebird he had been so desperately chasing could have been stolen, and the driver was some hardened criminal who was breaking his parole. "Ah, Christ. What have I gotten myself into?" By the time Daniel has his epiphany, he had already backed up to the car with the smoking tire wells, and the doors had already begun to open. "Fuck, why did I have to stop for this asshole? He's probably got a handgun and an ounce of cocaine in his glove box. Maybe I can throw my car in reverse and... no, that's never gonna work, he's probably The freakin' Flash on that crack. Shit! Fuck! I could always just drive off..." Daniel threw his car into D and was about to slam the accelerator, when he had an epiphany. His foot hit the brake and the car shook and his transmission grinded as he threw it into P from an idle speed. "Fuck it, I'm no pussy. I'm not gonna run from this shit, I've got too much pride for this." Daniel opened his door with haste to meet the driver of the Firebird face-to-face. His face tightened, a confident scowl formed from his lips, his eyes squinted, and he marched stiffly from his car to his partner in chase. Daniel walked around the open driver-seat door and was greeted to a twenty-something blonde girl with her nose pointed downwards at a small puddle of vomit; his guard was dropped immediately.

Daniel bent over, wrists to knees, "Ma'am? Are you alright." She shook her head up and down as well as she could and he looked side-to-side and noticed there wasn't a steering wheel on the car. Puzzled, he looked through to the assumed passenger side of the vehicle and found a forty-something man with receding whitish-brown hair attempting to call someone on his cell phone, his forearms resting on a steering wheel. Snapping back into defensive mode, Daniel power-walked around the front of the car and the right-side driver's door, putting his hand on top of it. "You," he said in a powerful voice. The man shook as his neck snapped over to look at the man he had been running from. The man replied with a heavy Brazilian accent "I am so, so sorry Mr. American Man. My girlfriend and I were driving when I drove into you car... and..." the man was cut short. Daniel smelled marijuana. "Let me get this straight. You were stoned and driving on the highway when you ran into my car and tried to run away." The man nodded once, "Yes, that's it. I'm so sorry, if we were caught I would have been deported. I'm here on a student visa, I'm learning about physics. I'm just here for the weekend, I go to University of Florida. Do you want to see my student ID?" The man was panicking. Daniel just stood leaning inward in the doorway, one bent arm on the door, the other on the roof, looking around for any other details that might be useful to know, when the sound of a car tire driving through gravel sounded to his right. The progenitor of the disturbance? A Florida Highway Patrol car driving off the side of the interstate and into the grassy area occupied by the two cars. Daniel turned to look at the third car, suppressed a spiteful quip to the Brazilian man, and tapped his middle and index fingers on the roof of the car in anticipation.

The officer stepped out of the car calmly and approached Daniel and the Brazilian man, glancing to his left on the sound of the young girl vomiting. The officer looked slightly taken aback. "We received six reports of two cars racing on the interstate, and five reporting a car driving off the road. Would any of you like to explain to me what happened?" Daniel glanced at the Brazilian man before starting. "I would, I was on my way to work when I was rear-ended by him," Daniel pointed to the Brazilian man with his thumb, "and he tried fleeing the scene, so I chased him down and he was run off the road by a Publix truck," Daniel concluded by stepping out of the officer's path to the Brazilian man. The officer looked at the Brazilian man and spoke, "Sir, is this what really happened?" The Brazilian man was unable to keep eye contact, "Yes, officer, it is." The officer quietly inhaled a deep breath, paused for a second and walked over to the other side of the car. "Ma'am, are you okay to stand up?" She nodded her head as she had for Daniel, only quicker, took a deep breath, and stood up with the help of the officer. He led her towards his car and said to her, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to place you and the driver of the vehicle under arrest for the possession and use of a controlled substance. Will you please step into the back of my patrol car?" Looking at the ground with her arms crossed, she nodded again and sat in the back seat as he held the door open for her. She sat there with the door opened, arms crossed and staring at the headrest of the passenger seat, her lips pouting. The officer walked back to the Firebird, past Daniel to the Brazilian man, who had stood up on his own. The officer locked eyes with him for a moment before walking back to his patrol car, seating him next to the blonde girl and shutting the door. The officer walked back to Daniel with shifty eyes.

"Sir?" The officer spoke to Daniel, "Yes officer?" A sinking formed in Daniel's gut, "You are being placed under arrest for illegal racing and reckless driving. Please follow me to my patrol car and I will escort you to the Florida Highway Patrol holding facility." Daniel's reaction was that of someone struck in the solar plexus. "I'm sorry, officer?" The officer continued to look Daniel in the eyes. "I do not intend to repeat myself, please follow me to the patrol car," the officer said as he turned around and began walking. "Fuck my life," Daniel hesitantly followed the officer, who held the door open for him. Daniel took his seat next to the blonde girl, who was hunched over, forearms to thighs, looking roughed up from sweating too much, and the Brazilian man gave Daniel a quick glance before huffing and putting on his seat belt. The officer entered the driver's seat, started the engine, and drove back on to the interstate and sped up to 80. The blonde girl began leaning to Daniel's side and turned her head to say something, but her speech was interrupted as a mass of vomit left her lips instead of words and coated Daniel's shirt and tie; the excess pooling in his lap.

Orange County

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 18:54:00 +0000

Waiting with a scrapped tire by my Hyundai Elantra, sipping McDonald's coffee while my friend negotiates the replacement. I compose a poem on my phone as the garage workers change a tire and flow with the lyrics to Insane in the Membrane. Regrettably, we can't find the correct 15-inch tire and the search continues.

Two used tire shops and half an hour later, Wal-Mart's Tire and Lube Express employees facilitate our return into our daily routines at a cost.

That cost was an hour of talking about high school affairs, pining over sixty dollar gaming controllers, a trip across the street to the tobacco shop and back, a walk to the water fountain, and seventy six bucks from the pawn shop.

We gathered our wits and water bottles and begun our strides towards downtown, stopping only to put $10 in my tank and to take a leak. We spoke of our relationships, our friends, and, of course, how the rest of the afternoon would be spent.

When we made it to the slighted Oldsmobile Silhouette, still parked across the street from the IHOP, the day's treacherous wrath faded with every complete rotation of the tire iron. Slowly but surely the sun emerged from behind the clouds and the new tire held the old van upright.

Our conversation thereafter was short-lived as we went our separate ways for the time being; he drove west to drop off a band saw, while I drove east for a well-deserved reprieve amongst my felinish traveling companions, where the memory of today's trials would soon vanish into the murky depths of my subconscious, slumbering until they are needed again. The day, the 20th of August, 2012, one week short of the month I have been in this city, will remain as a constant reminder of the life and place I chose to better myself. This place, Orlando, where wings are allowed to reach their full span, the place I now call home.

Liberation: Chapter 6

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Wed, 08 Aug 2012 19:32:00 +0000

It had happened the same way as the twenty-two cases before it; twenty two victims, twenty two home computers accessed, fifty-one bank accounts cleaned out with an overdrawn amount of measly five dollars and seventy-one cents. 'How could it have happened to me?' all of the victims must have thought at one point or another, nonetheless, as the red text continued reading -$5.71 every time he refreshed the page, Bradley Tzernich shocked himself when he slammed his fist onto the surface of his desk so hard that his rage was temporarily redirected at himself.

"Son of a bitch!" Brad screamed at the ceiling as he fell to the floor from his knees. He held his hand to his chest, squeezing it tightly, seeking comfort in the new-found silence around him. His face, red as the twilit sky, sank into a beach-like shade of tan as he slowed his breathing with each breath, and finally opened his eyes to look at what he'd done to himself.

He extended his right hand and rotated it to either side, feeling a stiff pain when it turned to the right. He bent his elbow and held his palm inches from his face. Brad clenched and unclenched his fist, squeezing tightly the third time through; he felt nothing. Still skeptical, he pressed on the bones in his hand, but still to no result. He had started believing his pain was only a temporary affair, but when he tried moving his two leftmost fingers independently, palm still facing him, the stabbing pain that shot down his arm, starting from the wrist and ending before it reached the elbow, the hope that the pain was only temporary had been derailed. Before he had time to fully take in the realization, however, Brad had found the way back onto his feet and was headed back to his desk, where he reached for the cell phone lying just to the right of his computer monitor.

"Nine-one-one... Nine-one-one..." Brad murmured to himself as he held the phone between the thumb and his two good fingers and dialed with his left hand. After pressing Send, he took the phone with his left hand and held it to his ear, letting his right palm rest on the desk as he slid into his expensive reclining computer chair, rocking back and forth. The phone clicked and a pleasant-sounding voice spoke broke through, "Nine-one-one, how may I..."
"I need the police."
"What's your situation sir?"
"My bank account... it's been emptied... I think it's the..."
"Hold on, let me transfer you."

'Click...'

...

...

'Clic-Kaylant P.D. Cyber Crimes Division, this is officer Anthony Hengrin, may I have your name and location?"

"My name is Bradley Tzernich and my address is 12874 Jilpardon Circle, Growli, FL 37548."

... ... ...

"Okay, Mr. Tzernich," Hengrin spoke in a calm tone, "you told the operator your bank account had been accessed and your funds have been removed, is this correct?"
"Yes it is, officer. The account balance was negative five..."
"Negative five dollars and seventy-one cents?"
"Yes officer..."
"You're the twenty-third to call in about this same problem. You will be happy to know we have enlisted the aid of the best internet-security professionals in the state to get to the bottom of this. All I can advise you to do now is change your online passwords and leave your debit card at home in a secure location." Brad's fist tightened again, reigniting the fire in his wrist, "I apologize for the inconvenience caused to you on the perpetrator's behalf, and I wish there was something else I could do for you, but all I can give you right now is my confidence in the team we enlisted."
"Thank you officer," Brad said calmly, despite his inclining frustration, "in case you can't reach me on this number, call my wife on her phone, her number is three-five-two, eight-eight-four, five-two-seven-six."
"Thank you Mr. Tzernich, we will contact you as progress is made in this case."

'Berrrrrrn!' Brad pressed the red, digital End button on his phone and set it face down on his desk and let his head fall back into the curve at the top of his chair's back. He looked at an angle at the intersection of the wall and ceiling above the double doors leading into the garden he and his wife built together out of an unattractive plot of sandy soil and grass. 'Honey...'

Brad pictured his wife and daughter in the garden. His wife's long-red hair swinging back and forth as she picked their daughter up out of the dirt. A small tear welled up in the corner of his eye as he was brought back into reality. His mind raced, wary of the heavy burden looming above, but pressing on nonetheless; he was determined, desperate to figure something out... then he stopped. Brad's torso shot forward from it's leaning position and he began bawling into his hands.

---

She watched the clock as the small hand crawled over from 2 to 3, and no matter how she attempted to get her mind off of it, reality refused to bend. For what seemed to be the fifth time in the last half an hour, some lazy customers left not only their cups on a table she had just cleaned, but dirty straws, wet napkins, lids wearing a fine coat of cappuccino, and melting ice cubes. Taking nearly immediate notice to the mess, she searched near the sink for a clean-looking rag. Identifying her quarry, she tightened up her apron and turned on the sink, allowing warm water to wash through the white square of fabric. She wrung out the rag, twisting it on both ends, and paced towards the table, lifting up the opening in the counter top to allow her passage.

"Can you clean that up Melissa?" Called her coworker, who wiped a bead of sweat from underneath her faded-tangerine bangs. "I've got it already," Melissa called back in an irate tone of voice. She thought of how her coworker should have been the one cleaning, but since she'd been hogging the register since about a quarter after one, this would prove nearly impossible to accomplish.

Melissa let her mind focus on how much she couldn't stand people like her coworker Jeanine at times, as well as customers like the ones who left her table a mess. She kept telling herself that she shouldn't feel that way towards others, but she was already at the point where she was beyond sympathizing with anyone who only cared for themselves. Despicable, basic creatures, hardly worthy of being called human, especially since that's how she referred to herself. The thought angered her as she threw the empty plastic cups into the trash and placed a ceramic cappuccino mug on the seat while she wiped the table down. A bead of sweat formed under her left eyebrow, such an uncomfortable feeling, she thought as she wiped it away, the smell of stale soap, water, and blended coffee filled up her nasal cavities, triggering the olfactories.

She couldn't help but think of another cigarette at this point, the series of inconsiderate customers coupled with her unwilling coworker made the prospect of stepping outside for 5 minutes of respite seem a gift. She stood up fully, looking around to find not a single customer standing in line. Walking up to Jeanine, who was in the middle of flipping through a newspaper, Melissa dropped the rag on the other side of the counter and informed her coworker that she was going outside for a cigarette, who simply responded with an indifferent "Meh." Melissa decided she was taking that as a sign of approval and turned and walked to the door.

Pushing the door open from it's frame instead of the handle, Melissa walked to the left and past the large window in the store front. Fiddling around in her pocket, she produced a single, 100mm cigarettte and a transparent purple lighter. She put the filter of the cigarette in her mouth and lit the open end, her eyes firing upwards towards the grey sky.

A sign, she thought as she took a drag off of her smoke. Her day was nearly over, it was only another twenty-two minutes until her shift ended, but the thought of seeing her stepmother for the first time in seven months was almost enough to make her want to stay until closing time. That option wasn't feasible, much to her dismay, as she was broke for another week and her tips weren't exactly paying her part of the rent.

Her thoughts became long as she lingered by the window, length of tobacco growing short. Her thoughts began to focus on the men and women coming from every direction. Who they are and what sort of lives they led intrigued Melissa, surely their lives were more interesting than hers; sharing a cramped apartment with Jeanine and her obnoxious friends didn't exactly fit into her image of ideal city life. It could be worse, she thought, tossing her cigarette butt into the gutter below her feet. 'I have a job and a place to live,' she told herself often, but it wasn't enough. She never asked for much, never too much anyways, and things always seemed to work out just fine, but it wasn't enough. She envied the people on the street that she knew nothing about, and that worried her.

She took a few short but deep breaths to calm herself down and she turned to walk back inside, but she was caught off-guard by an ambulance rushing by, forcing her to jump back a couple steps. Her heart beat for a few moments, leading her into deep breaths to calm herself down once more, this time leading her into a series of painful coughs that lasted a good fifteen seconds before she started breathing normally again, "I need to quit smoking."

At the Mating

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Sun, 05 Aug 2012 02:11:00 +0000

Sitting
at the table
of a foreign
and familiar city,
this place,
my home,
this foreign
and familiar house
where I live
but every night

The place
where I make
Honduran coffee
and practice
the esoteric
with nothing
more
than a pen
from my old home,
this notebook
I made a promise on,
and the promise
to a distant friend;
promised
to myself

I become
at the mating,
myself,
a person,
no longer,
an idea,
or a misconception,
a false imagining
born of a dream,
a desire,
a bottled existence,
this way of thinking,
deemed invalid,
by the din,
kindred,
myself,
I become
at the inception,
myself,
a person,
who I am

What Libertarians Talk About on Their Birthdays

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Mon, 09 Jul 2012 22:36:00 +0000

Risen like a ghost
from a life already past
the night played host
to a discussion so fast
and furious, one sure to last

in my head for weeks to come
for we spoke on a matter of great import
one affecting all, not just some;
we spoke of reform, not of tort
in the name of America, since our time is short

before we gather at the polls
to cast a vote
for whom, nobody really knows,
policies are a coat
until one reaches office and strikes at the throat

of our great nation
once humble and free,
full of elation
as a soldier home from an Iraqi
tour, presented to his family.

--
Mr. H's insight:
This poem is about a conversation I had with someone I used to run into quite a bit when I worked at a grocery store through my last year of college and them some. I ran into him over the weekend and being a self-proclaimed Libertarian, we had a bit of a chat. This one could have been longer, but I feel it still manages to say something.

Nation of the Personal Story

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 00:18:00 +0000

It's the Fourth of July
and a spirit's in the air
that nobody can deny,
compelling them to stare
into the sky from their beach chair.

Family and friends,
barbecue and beer,
gather as the sun descends
into a valley unclear
to impart warmth into cheers

Whose bubbles fly so high
they graze heaven's basement,
and inspire even the quiet to cry
out the way they were meant
when their spirits are spent

At four in the morning,
the night strikes itself silent,
without even a warning,
people grow silent
at the moment they've been lent

Just a moment of freedom
as it was intended
from the first days of the kingdom
their bliss becomes blended
for those whose night hasn't ended

God Bless America
and all of it's glory
May we be blessed to live in the
nation of the the personal story

Liberation, Chapter 5

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 18:03:00 +0000

If there's one experience just about anybody shares, it's losing a job.

If there's one experience just about nobody shares, it's losing a job.

Some people take the news with stride and see their departure as a new opportunity. Other people have been known to slash their ex-boss's tires with a switchblade. However that one common event unfolds, one principle always holds true; the unholy steed of stress offers its saddle to everyone, and 99% of them jump on for the ride.

Another common outcome is a thirst; a thirst for freedom, a thirst for adventure, a thirst for anything over 5% alcohol, which is typically the strongest of the three. That first, slow, coolly-carbonated drink is one of control. It's the one everybody remembers with fond memories, maybe that's why the drink leading into the fourth is remembered as the Final Fantasy. The only reason it exists is because of the self-denial that the second drink was a good as the first, which leads to the belief the third must be as good as the second, in effect being as good as the first. Anybody who knows their beverage knows that anybody who says the third drink was as good as the first is either lying or believing their self-delusions, but none can say they ever admit to it when it's them slinging the slugs. Four becomes five, six becomes eight; nobody realizes it when they've become the Nate, that guy making a bit of an ass of himself in the public eye. Nobody really notices at first, but that's also a product of self-denial. Slowly but surely, as the drinks make their way to their intended recipients and the bar tab slowly builds over the course of a few hours until it begins to resemble a college student's semesterly Starbucks budget, the mugs start to run dry and the only spirits left in the air are the excess of excitement that can only be conjured up with the perfect blend of anger, relief, self-assuredness, and ambition.

Dan sat on the sidewalk on the side of the bar, cars drove by on the main street to their side. He sat in a long-deserved state of bliss, the top of his shirt was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up. He was drunk, while he and Brad waited for the cab their friend Jairo called, the pair decided to focus on the reality standing in front of them. Dan wiped the sweat from his forehead and let his face fall into his knees, although his cheerful spirit remained intact. "What am I gonna do now? All I have left is a couple hundred bucks in the bank and that damned high-interest credit card that cost me my last car." He was teetering back and forth on the edge of the sidewalk, his legs pulled into his chest.
"Don't worry about it, man. You'll think of something," Brad said as he tried to stand still, his palish face red from the spirit of the night. "Tomorrow morning, we'll wake up, go get some coffee from that girl you like, and we'll search for leads."
"And what if they're only looking for badgers?" Dan looked up at Brad with the most serious of faces.
"If they're looking for badgers you won't stand a chance. We'll make them think you are one of them and their own short-sightedness will be their downfall."

Dan stood up and staggered over to his equally debilitated friend. "Thank you, you're a true friend." Brad started laughing a little, which grew into an outburst once Dan joined in. Before long, Brad started to cough and put his hand up to cover his mouth. They soon returned to their normal selves. From around the bar, they heard their name being called. "Brad, Dan, the cab's here. Hurry up, let's go!" Jairo disappeared around the corner. "It's about time," Dan said as he started in the direction Jairo disappeared to, having to touch the wall with the tips of his fingers every couple of steps. Brad, on the other hand, staggered down the sidewalk, refusing any aid. Dan spoke, doing whatever he could to keep himself together, the alcohol was hitting him hard, "Let's go to the Waffle House... after we get back." He was starting to slur his words.
"Let's go tomorrow. Do you feel like walking a mile and a half just to get a waffle?" Brad shot back as they rounded the corner. Brad saw Jairo standing behind a front-side passenger cab door and headed over to him just as a trio of almost-thirty women walked out of the bar, clamoring on and giggling among themselves. "Here they are," Jairo said to the driver as he climbed in, and Brad, followed by Dan, filled the backseat of the cab.

"Is everyone buckled in?" The taxi driver called with a thick Russian accent as he adjusted his rear-view mirror. "Yes," Dan and Brad replied, one after the other, Dan, however was slouching slightly more than everybody else. The driver stood up in the seat and looked over at Dan from the rear-view mirror. "You look a little messed up back there. Are you going to be sick at all?" Dan gave a half-assed, yet confident "no," which led to Jairo inadvertently laughing out loud, which the driver took as suggesting otherwise. He looked back to Dan and tried concealing a worried-sounding sigh as he shifted into reverse and pulled out into the busy parkway.

Elsewhere, the spirit of the night had just begun it's daily rounds. "Hey Melissa," he said from his lawn chair, sitting upright with his legs swung over the side. She looked over at him from her own chair. Unlike her friend, Melissa was fully reclined.
"Yeah Bobby?" She said in a sweet, unassuming tone.
"You should be drinking, me and my housemates had this party so everyone could have a good time."
"I'm having fun, I'm just tired." She tried to sound as excited as she could. Bobby chuckled and she sat up in her chair and faced him.
"I'm sorry if you think I'm bored, I'm really not."
"Let's go have a shot then, we've got rum, tequila, 99 Bananas... or we could have a shot of the absinthe by brother brought back from France." Bobby played it smooth, he sounded off without as much as a stutter. Melissa stood up and Bobby followed, "Where's the bar at? It's out here somewhere right?" Her efforts were in vain as every party-minded man, woman, and underage college student were part of the obstruction standing between Melissa and the bottles of sweet liberation.

Bobby pointed between a pair of drunk dancers who were both clearly separated only by many years of age and through the audial membrane of the Hollywood Undead reaching from behind the smallish wooden bar, "Over there," Melissa took Bobby by the hand and walked over, dodging all the way. She passed by two remarkably similar-looking twenty-somethings snorting lines of cocaine on a side table, but she just ignored it, slipping between two groups of dancers and began looking at the bottles. Walking to the back of the bar, Bobby opened a small drawer, pulling out two novelty shot glasses with shrimps and fish on them and grabbed the closest bottle to his left.

"Let's try this. Every time I take a shot something good happens." He filled the shot glasses and reached for his. With her elbow on the bar, Melissa brought hers to her lips and gave Bobby her best facial taunt, which only made him laugh, which made her laugh out loud in turn. "Here's to another good night," Bobby said as he extended his arm and clinked his shot to Melissa's. They took their shots, hers right before his, their shot glasses tapping the table in the same order.

"Refreshing and self-destructive, an excellent combination."
Melissa shot to Bobby, who laughed from behind his teeth and looked across the table at her. "You're a funny girl, and pretty too." Melissa brushed his compliments aside, "let's dance." She stood up and made her way to the middle of the lanai, when she looked back and saw Bobby still seated, she waved him onto the dance floor and he reluctantly made his way to the center of the crowd in tow.

---

Back at his apartment complex, Dan leaned against the taxi, his arm rested at the top of the closed backside passenger door. Brad, on the other hand was slowly pacing back in forth in front of the taxi, tying to text or something on his phone. Jairo was ending a conversation with the driver with a few strong laughs. He handed the taxi driver a few folded up bills and some change, "Thank you sir, maybe we'll run into each other again some time," the taxi driver said as he put the money on the passenger seat. He glanced through the opposite window to the man leaning on his cab and returned to Jairo, who was walking around the front. Brad took notice and put his phone down for a second to get out of the way. Dan peeled himself away from the door and noticed Jairo before walking around the back of the taxi and towards the apartment building that lay ahead. The taxi driver shifted into gear and started driving off, the noise of the revving engine flooded out the song of the nocturnal insects.

Dan turned his head to Jairo, who was walking towards the building, hands in pockets, and he followed, pulling ahead of Jairo and passing Brad, who held his phone up to his ear, "I'll be right in, family call." He turned his back to Dan and replied with a "hello" while Dan dug through his right pocket for his keys. Dan fit the key he isolated from the rest and inserted it into the deadbolt, turned it, and put it into the door knob.

The door swung open to reveal a neatly-ordered living room complete with a blue-upholstered couch, a TV stand and setup, and a gray rug in opposition to the off-white floor. Dan fed the keys back into his pocket, took his shoes off at the door, and gravitated to the couch. Jairo was next to enter, he too removed his shoes and asked Dan if he had a bathroom. "Yeah, over there," his wide-sweeping gesture pointed to a small enclave," and on the right."
"Thanks, it's been a while since I've been over."
Dan took a long, deep breath and pulled his hands down his face to revive himself. Exhaling, he paused for a moment while Brad opened the door and stood for a moment, wrapping up his phone call.
"Yep, yep, I'll call you tomorrow... I love you too." He closed his phone and pocketed it as he walked in the door, closing it behind him.

He walked past the living room and into the kitchen just beyond and took a glass from the cabinet to fill with water from the tap. "Hey, are you alive?" Brad called from the kitchen, just as Dan got up and walked over to the television stand to snatch the remote up. "Probably," he replied, the television popped to life and he fell back into the embrace of the comfortable blue sofa, its upholstery still cool to the touch from the air conditioner. Dan slowly became entranced in the passage of television stations dancing before him. He slowed down when he got close to the cluster of channels he gravitated towards in his former years; brief and blurred visions of ultra-high resolution video game footage and their trendily-dressed commentators, modern-day American action cartoons that had long-since departed from their Japanese influences, Jean-Claude Van Demme's infamous role as Colonel William F. Guile in the American movie adaptation of Street Fighter II... Dan's former years found their avenue to catch up to him, and he found himself slowing the remote as he found himself in the middle of his favorite channels.

It wasn't until he put the remote down that he noticed Brad sitting in the chair next to his side of the couch. He looked at the untouched glass of water Brad was grasping when it made its way to him.
"You need this more than I do."
Dan took a sip from the glass and stretched forward to set it on the low table. Settling back into his couch indentation, Dan's eyes were met with some show he'd never seen before. He looked at it with intent,
"What do you think this is? Gundam? Code Geass? Full Metal Panic?"
"I don't have a clue," Brad replied, "it doesn't really look like any of them."
"Is that your final answer?" Dan laughed, half self-muffled at replying with that old, tired quote. "It's about time they made anime for our generation again. All of this new crap is the same high school-oriented stuff we watched ten years ago."
"If they did that it wouldn't make them any money, anime didn't catch on as heavily when we were kids than it does today."
Dan reeled his head at this harsh check of reality, "I just can't watch this stuff anymore." With that, Dan suppressed the TV guide button and scrolled through the listings.
"Hey, flip to the news, I want to check on something," Brad requested, the chair beneath him groaned as he settled in. Dan pointed the remote and punched in the numbers,
"and the word of the day is..." He punctuated his clause with a swift press of the final digit, and the television screen flickered into the middle of what looked like a political address. The person speaking, however, was the founder of Terran Innovation, an environmental engineering company recently charged with ethics violation and environmental destruction charges.

The CEO and founder, Leysa Kindreson, spoke from the podium to her captive audience. "...do not believe we can be held accountable. Our workers are guided by strict procedural protocol and are supervised by experts in the field..." Dan looked over at Brad, who was hanging onto every word.
"...we Can Not..." She punctuated. One of her colleagues, a silver-haired man with a comb-over adjusted his posture so he was sitting up straight, but was overcome with a tried expression. It looked as if he were reaching into his pocket before the camera re-focused on Kindreson, whose last comment had aroused a number of questions from the crowd. Reporters and protesters held their microphones and banners in the air respectively, one such banner reading "Don't take away my baby's water." Kindreson was having trouble keeping focus on just one person, and the security stepped in to part the crowds away from the stage.
"You, from INN." She selected a single reporter from the unsatiated crowd.

"Good afternoon," the female reporter said in a heavy-toned voice. "Cindy Pfam from Independent News Network. Rumors have come to our attention at INN that tell us of your security's intervention at last week's research reserve rally was in direct violation of constitutional allowances for protestors. Has this issue been brought to your attention, and if so, how do you anticipate future violations of first-amendment rights to be avoided?"

The crowd grew calm and silent. Kindreson paused for a moment, then began. "Ms. Pfam of INN, I'm glad you bring this issue forward. As a matter of fact, this issue has been brought to my attention and while I don't have any final decisions, I am considering many options at this point. My current considerations include additional training to my security staff, reducing total working hours while maintaining current pay scales, and assigning..."

*Blip*

The sudden blackening of the screen prevented Kindreson from continuing her speech, but it didn't matter to anybody in the room. Dan leaned forward and lifted off the couch, using the arm rest for balance. Brad was fast asleep in the chair next to the couch, and the bathroom door knob sounded off, producing Jairo's clearly composed form. He walked over to Dan, who was resetting the cushions on his couch.
"Hey man, how ya feelin?"
Jairo rubbed his eyes and breathed a heavy breath before extending his left hand to Dan. "I'm goin' home, buddy. You take care of yourself, and don't be a stranger."
Dan took his friend's hand in a shake and glanced at the couch, "You can stay here if you're not up for driving."
"I'm fine, just a little tired." He said, trying to sound enthusiastic enough so Dan wouldn't worry. "I barely drank anything, you know that."
Dan nodded his head in agreement. "Drive safely, hit me up some time."
"Okay, I will."

Jairo walked up to the door and unlocked it, then he walked out, leaving the door open. Dan walked up and caught Jairo pressing the lock button on his keys. Dan saw him turn towards the sound of a brief car horn, then shut the door, throwing on only the top lock. Turning around, he rubbed his eyelids and embarked up the flight of stairs before him. He opened the door just at the top of the stairs and walked in. He crawled into his bed and was about to set his alarm when he stopped his arm from reaching over fully. He paused, then retracted his hand, letting it lay on top of the comforter. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, taking in the silence, not allowing himself to think a single thought. When he felt his stillness of mind sinking, and thoughts of the possibility of him having to move out of his apartment, he shut his eyes and succumbed to the night's dark embraces.

---

Sunlight, filtering in between the alternating leaf blades of a royal palm frond, illuminated the empty bed space behind her back. Melissa turned over on to her opposite, left side, and her eyelids swung open, filling her vision with black palm fronds dancing in the sunlight. Scrunching her face and breathing in heavily, she sat up in the bed she lay in, taking a minute to come to her senses. Waiting for something to happen, she found the silence gnawing on her patience.

Tossing and turning around on the floor-bound mattress, she scanned the floorspace vehemently for something to put on. Settling for an old shirt hanging off the back of a chair and her own pair of capris, she departed through the half-open doorway for signs of life in the barely-familiar house. Her initial survey from outside the door produced nothing for her, and in a reluctant stride from the bedroom door, she began her foray. Melissa slowly walked through the hallway, glancing at the doors opposite one another on her sides, but declined to open them. Her mind ran through the few dozen graphic scenarios she might encounter as a result of waking somebody up. Considering how well things started getting out-of-hand the night before, this was a chance she wasn't willing to take. As she approached the top of the stairwell, the walls fell behind her and he took a look around downstairs, but found nothing aside from what would be the last straw for any professional cleaner's career.

'Where is he? He shouldn't have gone anywhere, this Is his house after all...' Melissa thought as she descended the stairwell, staying on the lookout for anything she may step in on her way down, her thoughts began rolling around in her head. She left the staircase and peered to her left into the connecting room to the kitchen and found nothing. She took a sharp left into the living room and still found nothing, even the master bedroom she somehow found the resolve to open was bare of anything living. Despite being at a loss, she tread into the kitchen, knowing nobody was there, but she didn't have anything to go off of at this point. Growing frustrated, she turned around and slowly began pacing to the living room, when she thought she heard a car somewhere nearby.

Melissa briskly walked to the front door in front of the stairwell once more to take a look out the window. When she caught the image of a dark sedan, distorted from the curves in the glass, she unlatched the door locks and walked out on to the hot, white cement walkway. As she walked, an unfamiliar person got out of the driver door and she froze in mid-stride.
"Hello," she said to the driver, "have... you seen Bobby around?"

The large man, with his shaved head, his beard shaved into narrow lines, and dark sunglasses bent over, turned his head inside the car, and called, "Hey Bobby, some girl is looking for you." A number of voices from inside the car began whooping and hollering, and the large man turned back to Melissa slowly and in jerky movements, and then the back door on the opposite side opened up, and a dark, closely-shaved head emerged over the roof-horizon. Bobby turned around quickly to face Melissa, his toothy grin provided a stark contrast to the large, black lenses hiding half of his face.
"Hey Mel, you're up. What're you doing outside?"
"Nothing, I was just looking for you is all."

He jumped out from behind the car and approached her with a plastic bag in his right hand.
"Here," he held the bag up for her. She took it and looked inside, "It's breakfast."

Melissa found a large Styrofoam box and a bottle of water inside, she opened the Styrofoam box and peered inside.
"A greasy cheeseburger and curly fries?"
"It's the breakfast of college kids everywhere," he kissed her cheek as he passed and wrapped his arm around her waist as he walked back to the house.
"Bobby, do they know what happened last night?" She looked back to the driver and the three other male passengers, who were all standing outside the car at this point and laughing obnoxiously. Bobby stopped and Melissa followed in step, "of course not, I don't kiss and tell."
The driver looked at Melissa with a cocky grin on his face, then back to everybody else at the car.
"Are you sure? They made a lot of noise at you in the car before. Did they ask you about it?"
"They asked me about it, yeah," Bobby replied, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Did you deny it?" Melissa's tone became more direct as she spoke.
"I... didn't deny it, but I never said anything to them. You know how guys are."
"Oh."
Bobby put his hand on her shoulder as Melissa turned to the door, "let's go inside, I'm sure you're hungry."
"Can we eat upstairs?"
"Of course, baby."
She grinned and bumped him in the side with her own.
"Okay," she said as they walked into the house together. Bobby's friends followed after them.

Once inside, Bobby gestured, white plastic bag in hand, for Melissa to go ahead. They reached the top of the stairs and turned right, walking down the hallway towards the door at the end. She opened the door and set her bag on the floor next to the mattress. Bobby emerged through the door just behind her and pushed it closed, he was greeted to a passionate kiss the moment he turned around.

"You're not mad?"
"About what?" Melissa replied.
"Nothing," he said as he kissed her again.

Melissa pulled him off of the door and on to the mattress, where they rolled around and held each other close, "I don't care if they know, I'm not a white princess."
Bobby began kissing her on the neck, "yes you are, you are to me anyways."
Melissa smiled contently at this and laid her head gently into his chest, "thanks for going to get breakfast."
Bobby placed his hand on the back of her head, "you don't have to thank me, I wanted to do it."
Melissa squirmed around until she was propped up on her elbow, "let's eat then, it smells really good now."

Monday Morning Conference Call at McDonalds

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 02:37:00 +0000

The time has been set,
the setting always stagnant.
8:30 at McDonald's,
could I be more ecstatic?

Coffee or orange juice
to sip while I wait
for the regional merchandising manager
to make this another Monday I live to hate.

Merchandise this
so they can profit from that,
it's the same old beat every week
an hour-long chit-chat
that I'm always distracted from
with the drop of a hat
due to its bland atrocity
from the man on the east coast
dressed in his fat.

French fries sizzle
in a vat of molten fat,
while our respected elders
hold their own chit-chat.

Obama this,
Newt Gingrich that,
Oh God, it's happened again!
I have the attention span of a gnat.

Angry Birds,
played on unmute
while I play the theme song
in my head on a lute.

The call presses on,
and I sharpen my ears
only to hear someone's quote
from Whitney's last years.

Why do I bother
listening to this trash?
Every Monday morning they tell us
How we're going to make them cash.

The cash, yes
that must be it.
Why else would I care
to submit myself to this shit?

All I do is sit there
an hour at McDonald's
and listen to this guy talk
to twenty other vultures.

While they're in listen,
mouths sat in a gape,
they too get paid to sit,
and listen to that damned, dirty ape.

So I guess it's not bad
to get paid for a break,
because I never really listen,
I just sit and escape
into the chit-chatter of peers
and childhood development belate.
This will be a defining mark
of just one of my many years.

Liberation: Chapter 4

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 02:40:00 +0000

A flash of light from the sun accented the moment perfectly.

Akira Kitsune drew his katana with lightning speed and held it low, reaching across his body. The tip threw its captured sunlight at their foe, who stubbornly stepped out of the shadows. "Hey there," this foe spoke, his stance was completely open, arrogant; he was either very skilled or was trying very hard to seem so. Akira's eyes wouldn't move from his direction, he was intent on discovering a flaw in his form, but that moment never came. Mere feet away, the mystery man spoke, "Akira Kitsune, retainer of the Chisan Shogunate. I've heard you're good." In the same moment he fell silent, the unfamiliar person's sword was already drawn. He held it high, and turning it upside down, he buried the very end into the moist soil at his feet.

Akira observed his unusual foe, "you must be a mercenary." Akira's opponent smiled brightly, his eyes catching the light radiating from Akira's blade. The man crouched low, his rear leg moving steadily behind him, katana in tow, "that's right, there's a pretty price on that head of yours. Who wouldn't pay top-dollar for the man reputed to have broken his vow of honor to Shogun Chisan and defeated an entire outpost of men within an hour." The crouching man licked his lips in anticipation. "I've been waiting for a good fight, can you believe I haven't faced a worthy adversary in over a month? I feel like I'm getting rusty." Akira appeared to be angered from the mercenary's words, "scum like you don't belong in his country. Only honorable men and women deserve to live in Japan, you're a poison to this sacred nation." The mercenary looked at his opponent with steely eyes, "you're one to talk. This country values its honor, and you threw yours away," a sick smile formed from the mercenary's lips, and he spoke in a quick and sinister tone, "Now let's stop talking and fight."

The mercenary lunged forward, leading with his rear leg. Akira reacted to the movement by stepping backwards and deflecting the incoming sword by driving its end into the sky, then kicked his opponent in the chest, knocking his back to the ground, his katana lay just out of his reach to the right. Akira pressed his foot into the mercenary's chest to keep him on the ground. "You're nothing but a novice, an amateur. You don't deserve to chase after my bounty." The mercenary's eyes began to fill with fear and he struggled furiously to reach his katana, but Akira kept his back pressed firmly to the ground. "G... gah! N, no. D, d, don't kill me."

Akira raised his sword up high, the tip pointing downward, "You're spirit's too weak to win this fight, you're nothing but a coward waiting to be erased," Akira muttered as he tightened his grip around his katana's hilt. "I am the anti-venom to this country's suffering," Akira plunged the blade downwards, and the mercenary's final words escaped into the wind, "N, no!!"

Everything fell silent...

Then the lights dimmed away, leaving the audience with the scene of Akira Kitsune crouched over the mercenary. A broad, velvet curtain cut the audience away from the scene they had just witnessed. At first, the crowd was enveloped in a shroud of silence, save for a few, select souls who had reveled in the display of passion. Their claps gave rise to a larger, second wave of applause, less enthusiastic as a whole than the first. Among the minority sat a girl in her early twenties. Soon after the second wave of applause had begun, she placed her elbows on her lap and rested her head on her upturned hands. She faced the stage with a contented smile on her face.

The applauding masses gradually fell towards silence, and the curtains rustled slightly before they retracted and revealed the entire cast of the play standing in line next to each other. Akira Kitsune, the mercenary, who had a prop sword sticking through the front of his costume, a humble-looking village girl, two boys who shared remarkable similarity to one another, and old man with a sickle tied to his back, and a border officer wearing a rounded, grass hat with a point at the top.

The young girl stood up and cheered for the cast, looking at the old man in particular, who sent a warm smile radiating in her direction. She smiled back to him and began looking for a way out of the jungle of dusty, red velvet chairs.

Once she reached the atrium, she took a seat on the opposite side of a specific stairwell, she knew she'd see her father shortly.

When the time came, she attempted to sort him out from the hundreds of attendees who were making their way to their luxurious, fuel-efficient cars. She recognized him by the round, pointed hat he was wearing. She just looked at him if full-costume and shook her head back and forth slowly, wearing a smile that was holding back a giggle that if released full-force would attract the attention of at least a family of three.

When she caught her next glimpse of him, after two rich-looking ladies passed in front of her, he had tipped the front of the hat over his eyes, as she'd seen from Akira Kurosowa's samurai characters. Her laugh broke through and she covered her mouth suddenly and thrust her face down, which didn't prevent any looks from the occasional passerby.

The pair, father and daughter, sat down on the floor of a dark room in the back of the theater. The coffee they held in classic theater-play mugs was both mediocrely-hot and slightly stale, "did you enjoy it," her father asked, waiting for her to reply before he drank. She held her mug close to her body with a hand on the bottom, "I did, you played a good dying old man." He set his coffee between his crossed legs and held his left hand to his chin, "I'd hope so, I Am getting on the rotting side."
"No you're not. You'll outlive everybody who came to see you tonight."
He took another sip of his coffee and held it in his hands, "I appreciate the optimism, honey. But I'm not immortal like Akira Kitsune."
"He's not immortal, he's just honorable, more so than the other characters," she took a sip of her coffee, "that's why he can't be beaten by all of those strong people." She looked at her father with an 'I bet you didn't know I understood that' look. He looked back at her with an joyous, interested expression, "How's life been? Have you met your Oedipus yet?"

Had she been sipping her coffee, she would have spit it all over her lap, instead, she looked up at him with a quick glance and looked him in the face silently. He looked back, making goofy facial expressions before he settled into an infectiously warm smile which made its way to his daughter, "Dad, you're too sarcastic for your own good. You're going to get yourself into trouble one of these days." She brushed the dark hair out of her face and sipped her coffee, holding the mug with both of her hands, never breaking eye contact with the silly old man in front of her.

He scoffed, trying to cover the smile on his face, "you're too strict on me. When will you just let me be myself for once?" He joked. His daughter just smiled and shook her head, ran her fingers over the side of her face, and let her head fall into the hammock formed by her hand.

"Didn't you say to me earlier you wanted to take me somewhere?" The old man questioned, knowing the answer already. "Oh, yeah," she said as she reached into her jacket pocket to look at her cell phone. "Shit, it's so late."
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, no. It isn't, I was supposed to call someone."
"A boy?"
"Kinda... not for that reason though."
"Is it a work thing?"
"No, it's not that either. Don't worry about it. It's not important."

She closed her phone and replaced it in her jacket pocket, "let's get going, you're going to love it," she said with a smile.

----

It was ten o' clock. The cars along third street ran alongside the sidewalk pedestrians with a pompous zeal, taking whatever opportunity they could to show their superiority before reaching their destination and joining the inferior masses on their nightly pilgrimages. Only a few drivers actually drove with courtesy towards the crowd they knew they would soon be joining. One of the former slowed down and took a right on a corner regardless of the cross-walkers who had already begun making their way across the busy street. He knew they were far enough away that he wouldn't hit any of them, they hadn't even made it to the street.

A familiar face was present in the half-down drivers-side window. Dan drove down the crowded avenue until he found a parking spot. He flashed his turn signal, put his car in reverse, and backed into the spot with all the grace of a humpback whale. When he shifted into park, after a couple bouts of tug-of-war between (D) and (R), he grabbed his computer bag and climbed out, locking the door from the sidewalk; traffic began moving again. Hooking a right and walking south, Dan pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and started scrolling through his missed calls. Someone had been trying to call him, but he refused to answer while he was driving, he didn't want to be an asshole.

The phone began dialing, and he jumped out of the way of a middle-aged lady he almost ran into the back of, his computer brushed her arm only slightly. She looked at him with an estranged and demeaning expression, and he waved with a smile and continued his faster-than-normal march to his weekend perch. As soon as he brought the phone up to his ear again, a female voice sounded off, "hello, Carla speaking," Dan smirked.

"Hey there, what's going on?" Dan waited for a reply, "Hi Damn, I mean Dan. My mistake."
"Carla? Are you having as wonderful as an evening as I am?" Dan smirked.
"I'm not relentlessly chasing down girls just out of high school if that's what you're asking," the phone whipped back.
"Touche, did you get a chance to run those quotes for me today?"
"I sure did, too bad you weren't around when we had to call them. Some got very upset, you would have enjoyed it."
"Please tell me you saved a couple for me on Monday." Dan said in a rather disappointed tone.
"Criminals don't get any justice in this town, I heard you got arrested."
"Only if you consider being puked on, kicked, and yelled at by a very large and scary man as being arrested." "He did all that to you? You should have gotten his number."
"How could I have been so inconsiderate? I completely forgot that you go for guys like that."
"Only on sick days, hun," the phone paused, "I saved you a couple of special cases. They're sure to be very upset customers."
"You know I live for this shit, Carla."
A silence formed between Dan and his phone; it filled up, bloated at the edges, and eventually burst from the pressure.
Dan spoke, "I've got it covered. If I'm not too hung over in the morning I might even call them then."
The phone chuckled. "Good luck, and see you on Monday." The phone fell silent. "God, I love 2011."

---

He could see it from down the street, "Burt's Cafe au Lait & Coffee Bar," a little coffee shop whose owner decided that since McDonald's decided to break into gourmet coffee, he should try it himself. The conversion hadn't gone quite as he planned, however. Claude, the owner of Burt's, never knew much about gourmet coffee and people stopped coming altogether. It wasn't until he hired Rita, a former Starbucks manager, that the coffee bar began attracting customers back. Dan was one of the newer customers, and while he knew he could get a better cup of coffee down the street, he came to this particular coffee bar every week.

Dan walked in through the front door and began to set up shop. Laptop computer, USB mouse, and wall charger in check, he walked up to the counter to order. "Hey Dan, what can I get for you?" A young girl asked of him. "I'll have a medium coffee, no sugar, no cream, and no room, please." The girl smiled, looking up at him from her downcast face, her fair skin was illuminated from the overhead lamps. "Will that be it?" Dan nodded and hummed an "Mmhmm" at her, "$2.04." She grabbed his coffee and he handed her the money. "Here's your change, happy camping." She threw him a quick smile and greeted the customer in line behind him.

Melissa was a friendly face to him. Dan used to frequent the bookstore Melissa used to work at long before she started working at Burt's. She was friendly to him then, and friendly to him now. They used to sit outside, bum cigarettes from each other, and tell each other stories of their past deeds. She was younger than him, by about seven years, but they had always shared a particular chemistry between one another which coincidentally led them into some deep conversations. When she started working at Burt's, Dan knew it was a sign, he didn't know what kind, but knew it was a sign.

By the time Dan got his coffee and sat back down, Windows had just finished loading, and it would soon ask for a password. He entered the same password he had been using since high school, looking at the keyboard all the while. He looked out the window and around the store before meeting Melissa with his line of sight. Her dark, braided hair fell over her shoulder as she leaned over the counter and her smile was simply stunning. She faced him and stared him down with a goofy smile for a few seconds before returning to her customer. Sheathing his smile, he returned to his computer and booted up his word processor. Opening his last saved file, he began scanning over his previous writing before starting a new line.

"When the current system is challenged, the people who strive for change are held accountable for anything that can be considered "damage," and they are punished." Dan paused for a moment to think, then began typing again. "At this point, the people can either stand up and demand a new system or create a new one of themselves. If the latter occurs, however, the new system must eventually stand up to the established system if change is to be obtained." Dan took a quick sip from his coffee and leaned his head against his left hand.

Just then, the chair in front of him was pulled out and was quickly filled with a someone, a female, "Hey dere." Dan tried to sound Canadian as best he could for that moment. He seemed to be rewarded for his efforts. Melissa had set a clear, disposable cup filled with lemonade in front of Dan. "This might help you. Hydration works wonders." Dan reached over and grasped the cup, taking a sip from the straw. "Not bad, it's a little on the cardboard-tasting side but I can manage." Melissa smiled brightly, rolling her eyes and audibly huffing, "Hey Dan, you want to go out for a cigarette?" Dan slipped the straw out from his lips."Nah, I'm not smoking anymore," he looked at her with an overly-serious expression, "smoking kills, children," he said in a television announcer-like voice. Melissa didn't laugh very much, but she replied without much of a delay. "At least come outside and talk with me if you won't smoke. Dan bowed his head for a second and replied, "sure thing. I'm just worried about my stuff."
Melissa shrugged, "the guys here will watch it, don't worry," she said, blinking rapidly as she spoke.

Outside, Dan checked the time on his phone. "How've you been? It's been a while since you've worked."
She blew out a puff of smoke. "Good," she said in a climbing tone, "semester's over now, so I'll be working here more for a few weeks. You should come by more, I miss seeing you."
Her up-front demeanor caught Dan off guard, "Good, cause I miss seeing you around. It's not the same place without you."
She threw her face downwards to conceal her smile, "I know, the guys here need me more than they know."
"I'll say. Everybody else gives me a sort of weird glance whenever I order just a coffee."
"You know that I, at least, understand your weirdness," she said self-assuredly, then burst out with a series of quick chuckles.

Dan smiled with her. He'd missed his friend, that wasn't a lie. It was also true that some of the workers always seem to be struck with some form of shock-and-awe when he ordered a plain cup of coffee. In this town, nobody seemed to enjoy the simpler pleasures in life, other than Melissa, of course.

"Since it's the weekend and all, and I'm working early, we should go see a movie." Dan liked the idea, and he's had definite feelings for her from time to time, but he knew that he was too old for her. It was about time he started focusing on girls his own age, he told himself. "I'm actually packed for the weekend. I have to be the bad guy and call people to tell them they're being cancelled."
Melissa didn't waste a second, "that's even better, a movie will be the perfect way to get your mind off of it. It'll just be as friends, it's not like it'd be a date or anything."
Dan thought for a second before replying. "Sorry, but I'll have to decline."

It wasn't Melissa that Dan was worried about, it was him. He knew that if he went to see a movie with her, he'd want more from Pandora's Box, and he'd gone down that same route before with younger women, and Melissa was a woman by every definition of the word, he felt it was time for him to move on to older women for once in his life.

"So what are you writing?" Melissa paused for a moment, looking at the side of Dan's face, her back to the wall, "you seem pretty wrapped up in it."
Dan turned to look at Melissa, "it's an essay. I used to write a lot in college, and it's been so monotonous at my job, I wanted to start writing again, so I'm writing an essay about politics." Melissa took a drag and fully exhaled before replying, "that's cool. Is it about Democrats and Republicans or something?"
"Kind of, it's more of an imaginative piece, predicting how a revolution would occur, what leads up to it, and how it would possibly end. I dunno, I had more fun in school with poetry."
"You should do that, then."
"I would, but poetry doesn't have much of a place nowadays. How would I ever get noticed with everybody else out there who have been writing since they were kids?"
"That isn't what it's about all the time. It's about expression, getting out all of the things inside that weigh you down. Poetry is one of the soul's many languages, it's not something that you can learn because everybody in the world was born knowing how to do it."

It was in these moments of insight that Dan truly felt attracted to her, when he was certain that she was the perfect girl for him. If only they had met at another time in their lives.

"You're right, I should do that more. My job is so frustrating that getting some of that out would do me some good." She smiled, "then you should do that instead of your big-headed political essay." He smiled toward her. "Go on, shoo!" She signaled with her left hand, "I'm going to finish this up, you go inside and write me something." Dan remained still, but made a funny face at her, turning his head to the side and looked at her with one eye, much in the same way a bird would, "I'll do that, and I'll make you proud, grand, grandmaster of all things expressive." She chuckled at his goofiness. "Go inside already." Dan turned his back to her and looked over his shoulder, "I'm already gone."

Dan took off around the corner and Melissa stood there, watching him for a brief moment before returning to her cigarette.

Saddlebrook Village

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 12:49:00 +0000

A cold breeze blows through the hallway
of an apartment complex soon to be abandoned
for another location equally worthy of the memories
that were made in the last year, memories
both ugly and beautiful, many, yet few
in the grand timeline that frames our lifetime,
some insignificant looking back,
others that form the newest outer-layer
of my existence,
fragile, yet strengthening,
fragments slowly forming a whole,
the man I always knew myself to be
is slowly coming into focus
when I look at myself in the mirror,
once a sad, lonely man who
struggled by the day
has broken into ash
for the chance to be born again
as a better man,
the first shoot
of a majestic redwood emerges
from the ashes of a lesser tree,
its peak is unknown, probably farther
than the eyes can see,
yet its highest branch
is only a green nub today,
it will grow higher than anyone
could dare to dream of,
and it happens by the day.

Future Focus

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 19:28:00 +0000

The future is a gray amorphous blob waiting to be given a form.
Our past decisions form the core if we wish them to,
for its our conscious decisions that determine its shape and color.

Should we allow our past to make our decisions for the future,
I believe that's how we stumble along our journey,
time and time again.
Instead, let us take the past as a roadmap for the future,
marking the potholes and shortcuts.
The past exists behind us for a reason,
that reason being that it has taught us lessons
time and time again;
Mistakes of the past should never haunt us,
because they are behind us and cannot catch up to the present
as long as we keep a strong, steady momentum
towards tomorrow.

What our future becomes is entirely up to you and I.
The present is that canvas, and the past is the failed works
of yesterday.
Make this next piece your masterpiece
if only to make an even greater expression tomorrow.
The future is upon you, it is upon me.
Don't make the same mistakes today
that you made yesterday.
Learn from the past, live in the present, strive for the future
of yourself and the world as a whole.

The Valkyrie and the Jester

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 03:44:00 +0000

There were three on the floor, and two in the back,
for the workers of Starbucks, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas was like a break from the busiest times of the year.
Kasey, the best if the best of the Baristas, didn't bother taking that break, for she knew what loomed just over the horizon.
With a fire in a soul and a sip of caramel brulee frapuccino snaking its way through her intestines, she worked as hard as she had on that blackest of Fridays, regardless of it being a slow, Wednesday afternoon.

Armed with a hair tie, her green apron, and the fighting spirit of a Valkyrie queen, her very calling up drink orders motivated a full-on caffeinated conquest.
The sheer number of tipped dollar bills could very well build her a castle that reaches from one coast of Florida to the next.

Her fellow-in-espresso, Yoandy the Vargas, helps to chew the fat and re-energize the spirits of all around him, each and everyday... except on sick days, where he practices his craft of mischief to the trees in his back yard.
His verbal antics both shock and astonish, delivering a Shoryuken of service to both his workers and the customers alike.

He brushes the light fixture with his barista visor, and sets off fire alarms with his white-hot wit, and when paired with his partner, the Nordic Destroyer of non-fat lattes, the day is safe from the onslaught of snappy snowbirds.

Let me tell you a tale of one such exploit;
Once upon a time... about two or three weeks ago, when the Spirit of Black Friday was making his yearly rounds, stirring up chaos in every corner of this proud country, it made a personal visit to this simple, yet lavish coffee shop in the heart of Naples, Florida. When push came to shove, and aggravated shopper after aggravated shopper filled that small space in a matter of minutes, demanding the most complicated and sugary of beverages be made when and where they wanted, the Tooth and the Nail went to work, both of them refusing to succumb to the ensuing madness that particular day brought with it when it rose out of hell's fiery chasm.

It was at this time the most locally famous of duos, Kasey the Valkyrie and Yoandy the Jester, sprung into action, leaving no ounce of milk unsteamed and no cranberry bliss bar unserved.
Low-fat, low sugar cardboard frapuccinos were served by the trayful to appease the tastebuds deadened from months of fad-dieting and artificial sweeteners alike.
All the while, the master wordsmith Yoandy served his share of drinks and jokes to keep the air fresh from the imported air of the Northeast.

The other baristas stood not a chance to be noticed, as it was these two valiant and unshakable souls that stole the spotlight on that night of darkened flight.
Venits were filled, and gift cards were depleted, all in the name of fueling caffeinated rage to be projected on the hapless storeworkers caught up in the maelstrom of Black Friday's spite.
Regardless of the fight nobody believed they would win, the dynamic duo took orders through the earliest hours of the day without breaking away from the forces that would see them sway.
The night drug on, and many of the baristas lost to Black Friday, but when the first light of dawn rose over Golden Gate Parkway and Goodlette Frank Rd, Black Friday was driven away from the masses of civilians, who were left fawning proudly over their newest consumer-goods, and dreamily returned to their vehicles, gift receipts in-hand.

Likewise, when the time came for the heroes of the night to part ways,
The Jester awarded the Valkyrie with a hug and words of fellowship,
departing the scene with a head full of pride at the victory the night left behind.
As for the Valkyrie, she knew the war over Black Friday was far from over,
and she drove her Scion xB to the gates of Valhalla for a short break of recuperation.

Even If You Could, Chapter 1

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 14:02:00 +0000

It was dusk already, the fighting from the night before continued on, lingering like the dust spit up from the hours of gun fighting. It wasn't just the fighting from that last night, either. Night after night for the last six days they battled one another, all of it over a disagreement from a hundred years ago that grew like a cancer until there wasn't enough room for more than one tumor. Regardless of how it came to be, it had become the full-scale war that it was on that day, and there were bullets to be fired, curses to be shot, and blood to be spilled.

---

"Sarge, we can take them out if we utilize our remaining mortars to take out multiple enemy units all at once." Hopkins' eyes remained focused on his commander, he tried keeping a half-smirk on his face, but his hope kept running dry, and his expression failed him. Sergeant Petronus wasting as little precious time as he could spat to his Specialist, "That's your plan? All of our mortars are being shot at those mother fuckers to keep them from encircling us. If we could Somehow get God to grant us the time we needed, we'd be defenseless."

Hopkins inched towards the ledge overlooking a valley of despair, but only for a moment. His will overpowered him and he stepped away. "Sergeant, with all due respect, we have to do something or we're going to run out of ammunition. Gather Cavan, Reinheil, and Deffer and instruct them to order or forces to focus their fire to keep the enemy back at all costs while we gather the mortars. We'll fire into the larger clusters of enemy troops and reduce their numbers. Once that's accomplished we'll use the opportunity to launch an offensive and gain a foothold on them."

Sergeant Petronus turned to look at Hopkins from his seated position. "You are not the commanding officer, Specialist Hopkins," emphasis was placed on his rank, "your plan has such a high probability of failure that we have a better chance of surviving by continuing as we are. We Will hold them off until their ammunition runs low. We will strike then."

Specialist Hopkins knew there was nothing more he could do. He questioned why he enlisted in the army to begin with when he entered this "plane of death," the proud battlefield that lay around him on all sides. He wanted the easy way out of life. He didn't want to go to college, but he wanted to make something of himself at the same time. He thought the military would be his ticket to life, but now it threatened to end everything. Now he stood in place, unable to confront his officer further, he felt the blood of his brothers in the soil beneath him, and they wanted him to join them. He refused such temptations, his will to live had overcome any of his fear at that moment, he knew that if he didn't do everything he could to defeat the enemy, he faced certain death. Sergeant Petronus dismissed Hopkins, who saluted his commanding officer and joined Reinheil and Alpha company.

M-16 at his waist, Hopkins fell in line next to Sergeant Reinheil and double-checked his weapon. "You're back already. It didn't go over as we'd hoped, did it?" Hopkins answered Sergeant Reinheil by jumping above the trenches and firing in quick bursts. Reinheil did the same, taking extreme care to conserve his ammunition.

The whole of Alpha company spoke not a word for four hours. The monotony of exchanging fire with their enemies was their only expression, and the company as a whole took part in it. The fires of hell tore at their bodies, while their minds had remained safe havens... for a while.

As the battle dragged on, the number of casualties grew, and the black hand of despair caught up to the lesser soldiers and dragged their hearts into the bottomless valley of despair. For soldiers like Hopkins and Reinheil, the hand was simply too slow to catch up to them. For the fallen soldiers, their weapons came to embody their souls, so they could continue the fight from beyond the grave, and as each clip ran empty for the soldiers still fighting, they turned to their fallen brothers for support.

Then the mortars came.

The first one took out just one soldier, but the ones following were fired with climbing accuracy, and became a real threat. Reinheil hit Hopkins in the chest with the butt of his gun, "look over there," he instructed, pointing to the company to Hopkins' rear.

What he saw was unbelievable.

Concentrated mortars to high-density areas, the very strategy he suggested to Sergeant Petronus. Hopkins turned back to Reinheil, "I can't believe this shit," Hopkins fired at a mortar hanging in the air, but couldn't take it out in time. Luckily, it wasn't a good shot and nobody was injured. Hopkins continued firing as he had, simply trying to take out as many soldiers that he could. He was fully aware that consuming all of his ammunition is what the enemy wanted him to do, but he would much rather fight back and face a probable death than a certain one. Reinheil, however, saw it differently. He had tried yelling at Hopkins for him to stand down, but it was to little effect. In fact, Hopkins was the only soldier from Alpha Company still firing.

Black Friday Brawlers

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 11:25:00 +0000

Behind a column of people she stood,
knuckles bleached from gripping her shopping cart,
a nervous bead of sweat formed on her brow;
Cecille was a patient woman, a devout Christian, a caring mother.
When her son told Santa he wanted Modern Warfare 3,
all that she knew of the subject was that she would have it.

As quickly as he could,
He lept between women, children, and even old farts,
Their anger for him meant nothing, for he could almost see it now.
Brent was a gamer, one of rare caliber; in his life he had met not another.
Since it was first announced, he thought not of another; Modern Warfare 3,
It was Black Friday today, and on this day he would have it.

They would have never met, had fate done as it should,
but another force was at work, practicing his art,
The Spirit of Black Friday was running amok, he was having a cow.
Dancing and weaving a quilt of hate, it the consumers that he sought to smother.
He watched and he waited, and found the thread to bind all together, Modern Warfare 3
There was a day to be won, and by devil, he would have it.

There was yet another that day, his name was Cassius Wood,
he was the manager, but tonight, he was a dart,
He'd seen it all before, but up until now,
there wasn't a sight he hadn't seen. Well, tonight was like no other,
She had struck with her right, while her left clutched none other than Modern Warfare 3,
The kid hit her back, yelling, "I had it first, you decrepit old bitch!"

That's when he stepped in, and did what he could,
Cecille's cousin Jacob jumped in to break them apart.
Surprised at who stepped in, she decided to back down,
Brent, too ceased, figuring he was her brother,
Then she did the unexpected and fled, fleeing with Modern Warfare 3!
Brent took off after her, knowing that one way or another, he would have it.

And when security stopped her, along with Mr. Wood,
she was taken off to jail, Black Friday had did his part.
and if you ask of yourself, every now and again, "what's wrong with this town?"
remember the Black Friday is there, seeking to smother,
there's always an X-Factor, and when it's Modern Warfare 3,
all hell will break loose, you should have reserved it.

X and Vile

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 00:36:00 +0000

It stood proud and untouched, a single flower that had somehow escaped the flames of war until now. Those flames consumed the proud and humble alike, using those it consumed as fuel to spread itself to every corner of the earth it could find. A battle was taking place, one of many. Not the first, certainly not the last; it was an important one, however, and it's result set in motion a rivalry that would echo through the records of conflict for years to come.

"Vile," spoke X, a defiant fire in the reploid's eyes reflected throughout his resilient stance, "Are you fighting because you believe we're better than the humans who created us, or are you fighting for Sigma's cause?" X threw his words into a black hole, for the only other soul on that deserted stretch of highway seemed immune to X's words. The only thing X could do was wait for the man standing in his way, his enemy, to act.

---

There he stood in his former ally's path, an obstacle refusing subtlety, a man neither good nor evil. His name was Vile, a queller of fires by trade, just a somebody ordered to keep the peace from radical elements, but unlike his former comrade, Vile placed his own agendas before his orders. Months of insubordination and ruthless tactics on the battlefield earned him the nickname 'Vile' from within the Maverick Hunters, a name he was quite fond of. On the eve of his decommissioning from the hunters' ranks, he was given the opportunity to lead a new life by his commander and future leader of an emerging world order; Sigma, a man, a reploid like Vile and X, that believed in the superiority of the mechanical reploids over their human creators. Sigma instigated a rebellion from within the Maverick Hunters that quickly escalated into a full-scale war, rebellious reploids, Mavericks, battled the remnants of the Maverick Hunters, whose numbers fell by the day.

Vile, a reploid aligned with Sigma, and X, a reploid sworn to defend the helpless, human and machine alike, met once more in the midst of battle. The sword greeted the shield, Vile welcomed X, eager to quench his appetite of flames. He walked towards X, who readied his buster gun. Vile readied nothing, his undaunted march to where X stood didn't falter in the least; his gaze never straying from X's. Vile was closing the distance between him and X, who held his buster up to Vile's face. "Not one more step, Vile." He stopped walking, his gaze remained focused on X, "To answer your question, X, I follow no one."
"Then why, Vile? Why are you doing this? How many people have you killed so far?"

A chilling wind materialized from what could have been Vile himself, who stood there motionless, allowing the tension to build between like a bonfire between them before striking at the critical moment. "What reason do you have to defend those arrogant humans. All they've ever done for us reploids since we were created is belittle us, make us more like them. It's simply maddening living life as a human's, when we're capable of so much more." Vile, had he been any less of a man, would have given X the fight of his life at this point to prove his former ally wrong, but something in him had changed. Ever since Sigma granted him freedom that day, Vile had changed. No longer was the the reckless warmonger that spread war-fire with every step, he became cold, calculating, choosing rather to break his opponent's fighting spirit, than to crush his body, but he would make an exception if the time called for it.

"They say we're equal, they give us similar rights, but when it's a reploid committing a crime instead of a human, we're all held accountable. It was a "programming error" that all reploids Must possess," Vile paused to collect himself, "they say we're all broken, imperfect machines... They speak of us like we're monsters, X, but we're exactly the same as they are." X stood, stunned, "that's what Sigma wants to prove." The wind picked up as it swirled around the battlefield. X, struck by Vile's words like a punch to the chest, took no time in retaliating. "Vile, you and Sigma are wrong. As far as I'm concerned, you're both monsters, along with every reploid following along in his rebellion." Vile's failure to say anything back expressed his lack of impression through his opponent's words. "As Reploids, we're equal to humans in terms of our souls. We think, feel, and hurt exactly as they do." X paused, "but we're not the same as humans, that's why they fear us. Our bodies are capable of far more than theirs, you should know that more than anyone, Vile." He remained motionless. "As reploids, we have an obligation to show them we're capable of the same self-control they are. Only when we keep our power in check can we say we're equal to humans." Vile looked up from his cold posture, and the wind died down to a breeze.

X lowered his buster, and similarly loosened his stance, but only slightly. "I know what you're thinking, X. You want me to say that humans don't have the self-control you speak of so you can say that neither do I." Vile rose back into his posture and looked X straight in the eyes, "Sigma fears what you will become as the fighting drags on, he's offered to pay me handsomely for your head," X suddenly became serious again and lept backwards and aimed his buster at Vile, who just stood there and simply adjusted the angle of his neck to look at X before continuing, "but I don't intend to deliver." X aimed his buster at the open slots in Vile's venom-purple helmet, "what are you gonna to then?" X's open eye reflected a ray of sunlight as he looked at Vile down the barrell of his buster. "I want you to join me, X. You won't join Sigma, I know that much already, but what if I told you that once all of this business with Sigma's war settles down, there will be untold of opportunity for reploids like you and I."

X fired his buster gun, Vile snapped his neck to the left and dodged it by mere centimeters. "I expected that much from you," Vile scoffed, "what if I told you you could help countless numbers of people under Sigma's rule? You could be a hero, X. Let's face it, Sigma's going to win this thing anyways, why not be a savior to the people left afterwards? You and I could live a life of luxury, all we would have to do is take out the few stray mavericks keeping these people down, and when Sigma comes to put an end to us himself..." Vile's clenched fist tightened, "we'll crush him."

X took only a moment to think of the possibility. Strategically, the plan would allow for Sigma's forces to be whittled away little by little, and when he's slipped into a moment of arrogance, he would join forces with Vile and take him out. The plan was perfect... almost. "Vile, what of the humans and good reploids? If we run away now, many will be killed by Sigma. I couldn't bear that responsibility, knowing I could have saved them." X raised his buster once again, aiming at Vile's chest. Vile began his dreadful march again. "Don't be a fool, X. If you fight now, you're going to die and then nobody can save them. How does your conscience feel about that one?" Vile's voice carried with it a wisp of anger. "Humans and reploids will reproduce after Sigma dies and his regime crumbles. Facing Sigma now in the prime of his fury will only spell death to not only you, but hope as well." X was struck by Vile's words, his stance broke, his buster fell. "This plan gives the good people of the world the best chance of survival. I would make sure the plan succeeds because there's something in it for me as well, if you've forgotten so quickly." Vile stood proud in front of X, whose resolve was quickly failing. "Join me X, give these people a CHANCE to SURVIVE!" Vile extended his hand to X. "Do it for them, X." X looked up to Vile, then to his hand, and without speaking a word, started towards Vile's outstretched hand with his own. As he took X's hand in his own, Vile began to shake with laughter as he savored the moment. "Good choice, X. You are truly an intelligent man.

Before his victory could be celebrated, Vile let go of X and jumped away from where he stood. A blue mass of energy approached quickly, exploding at it struck the ground where Vile was once standing. "No, not now!" Vile faced the direction the energy shot came from and readied his shoulder cannon. "Where are you?" Vile scanned the area in front of him and found nothing. X looked around himself, wondering where the blast came from. The sound of somebody landing on the road behind them caught Vile's attention. "I've got you, Zero!" Vile turned around, but found nothing. X shuddered upon hearing Zero's name. "Zero? Commander of the 0 squad?" X caught a glimpse of a shadow covering Vile and looked up to find what he had dreaded at that moment. Zero, the second-highest ranking Maverick Hunter had arrived in the midst of their battle, but for what reason? The possibilities rushed through X's head, meanwhile, Zero landed perfectly behind Vile and struck Vile in the back with his own buster. "You're trying to sway my men, Vile?"

Vile's head snapped to the side to look at the man with a gun held to his back. "Z, Zero. You misunderstand, I was simply explaining to X how we could work together to bring Sigma down. In fact, if you let me repeat it to you, you might think it's a pretty good..." Vile was cut short as Zero pressed into his back, "Shut up and die, Vile." Reacting as lightning, Vile ducked to the right to escape, but Zero was too quick. Zero fired his buster, but it didn't strike Vile as he intended, he severed Vile's right arm at the shoulder, the remainder stumbling across the highway. "Dammit, Zero. You're going to pay for this with your life." Vile began stumbling towards the edge of the highway, his left arm covering the recently freed-space that was once his shoulder, sparks flying wildly. "That really smarts, Zero. I'll be sure to take your whole body with me the next time I see you." Vile stood dangerously close to the edge of the road and the seventy-foot drop on the other side of the barricade. He turned to X and nearly fell over the edge in the process. "We'll meet each other again, X. Count on it being soon." Vile removed his left arm from his damaged area and gripped the barricade behind him. Struggling to balance, he stood up straight and looked down at the pair of Maverick Hunters, "Farewell, for now." Vile lept backwards off the barricade and his eyes slipped behind the obstruction.

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Liberation: Chapter 3

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 19:20:00 +0000

The chill of the wind in the slash pines marked the season, November had begun to build a forward momentum and was trying its best to let everything from the migrating birds to the busier-than-normal residents of Kaylant, Florida breathe its energy. In this modest Florida city of 26,000, second jobs are commonplace, even among professionals, and unless you bring in six figures, your weekend wasn't spent at the beach, but at the local BP working a double. This Thursday afternoon heralded the beginning of a three-day weekend, and a spell of silence indented that vital first sentence of this particular working gear's weekend sabbatical.

"Uh..."
Dan stood in a trance, he had to make a careful choice. Brad was a friend, he wouldn't want to make a fool decision. Even if he did, it wouldn't make a big difference, but it would probably matter in some small, perhaps inconsequential way. But he used to do this too, he remembers what it was like. They were all so similar, yet the difference lies in subtlety. Which one? Which one?

"Which one, sir?" Inquired a man roughly eye-level with Dan. He was older, but his hardened gaze told Dan he'd been doing this for a very long time. Pulling himself together, Dan focused on the task at hand, put all of his energy into making the best decision not only for himself, but for his friend too. His mind flew through a cloud of possibility, breaking past all of the barriers, approaching the pinnacle of mentality where the truth waited for him to arrive. Closer, slower, the end was nigh, the train was coming to a stop. Dan peered out of the window, and saw the truth waiting for him like a child with a big red balloon. His mouth wet, his tongue extended, and he spoke...

"That one, above the grey and gold one." A nod accented the statement. "The 27s?" Inquired the clerk. Daniel looked at the package with a limited intensity, "uh huh." The clerk took a package of cigarettes from the rack and turned around, scanning the UPC. "$6.80, will that be cash or credit?" The clerk's eyes deflected from the computer screen to his customer, who pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket.
"Cash," Daniel's word coincided with the moment his middle and forefinger pinned the note to the counter top, he slid it to the clerk and grabbed his cigarettes. The clerk gave him his change and gestured kindly as left the convenience store. "Come again."

Outside, Dan stepped to the side of the door and examined the cigarettes. He unwrapped the cellophane and opened the top of the pack. He placed his thumb on the filter of a cigarette and pulled it upwards, but he stopped himself from taking the plunge. Pushing it back into the pack, Dan reminded himself that he gave that up. Cocking his head upwards, he quickly scanned the parking lot and walked around to the side of the convenience store to Brad's car. Dan was met with a flash of sunlight as he rounded the corner and walked around the back of the silver Outlook and homed in on passenger seat door.

Dan climbed in through the door and held the cigarettes up to his friend, "Here's your payment for coming to get me," Dan said in a contrived tone. Smiling a boyish grin Brad removed them from Dan's grasp with a slow, right hook-motion, "you've really quit haven't you?" Brad said to Dan, referencing the broken seal of cellophane and full pack of cigarettes. Dan looked over to his friend, "I've been keeping it that way, it's never been easy, you know." Brad nodded in compassion while Dan fastened his seat belt. Brad lit his cigarette with the car lighter, and took the first puff, "that's good, I'm happy to hear you're sticking with it," Brad stated as smoke rolled out of his nose and mouth. "Did you have enough in that joke-of-a-bank-account of yours?" Brad said as he chuckled to himself. Dan replied, self-assuredly, "Sure did." Dan reached for the cash in his pocket. "Once I get old Betty out of jail we're going out for a night on the town." A slowly-intensifying smile crept across Brad's face and he chimed in, "Old Betty huh? You have a date with another senior citizen? And she's a convict?" Dan sat there for a second before smirking and facing the window. "First of all, she wasn't over 55, second, you know I'm talking about my car, and third, it was an interview, not a date." Brad decided to muse himself a little, "all I'm saying is that if an attractive, recently-divorced editor of a nationally-recognized publication wanted to interview me at a four-star restaurant that's more than well-known for their champagne, age wouldn't make a difference at this point. Hell, we're old men practically." Dan rubbed his chin to hide a smile, "Age is a state of mind, my friend. If you feel you're better suited to prowling the nursing home, I've got your back," Dan responded without missing a beat. Brad sounded off with an accented "Fuuuck you," before starting the engine of his proud locomotive. He backed around the corner of the convenience store, causing apparent concern for a couple walking just outside the store. The boyfriend started walking toward the SUV shouting something harsh from behind his Oakley knockoffs, but not before Brad threw the car into gear, sporting a one-fingered salute as he drove off the lot.

Half an hour passed and Dan and Brad reached the impound after an extended series of U-turns, illegal rights, failures to signal, and illegal lane changes. They had reached their destination, the words "Kaylant Auto Park" painted in blue over a long banner made from intersecting sheets of plywood signaled the end of their journey. Brad took the right into the impound but stopped in front of the makeshift banner. With cold eyes from behind the shaded glass of his aviators, he did the only thing that could complete his 1980's Top Gun facade, he lit another cigarette and stared down the motionless banner as if it were a sworn enemy. Brad's intensity was broken as a mother with her teenage daughter in a brown suburban blew her horn to his rear. He broke off his stare and drove into the lot.

Brad grimaced at the broken-down vulgarity of the impound, "good move getting cash, I don't think they accept credit or debit." Dan admitted to himself having the same impression of the Kaylant Auto Park, he expected to find a pitbull tied to a fencepost every time he could see around a new corner. Brad pulled his silver beast into a parking spot to the left and put it in park. Dan unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out, walking to the left to reach the stairs leading to the main office. "I'll just wait out here," Brad said matter-of-factly. Dan passed by the driver's side window, looked in, and walked up the stairs. He reached the door and turned door knob only to realize it wouldn't turn. Looking down at it sharply, he jabbed it briskly left and right a few times before it opened, and he walked into the office.

Once inside, Dan noticed the one-hundred-and-eighty degrees of difference from the outside of the office. Painted walls, the average-looking waiting room chairs, the fact there was carpet; had it not been for only a single, half-functioning fluorescent light lighting the office with a dull shade of despair, the inside of the office could almost be considered... normal for this city. His remained focused and walked towards the man sitting at the desk bathing in lifeless illumination. That man, he remained virtually motionless, breathing his necessary breaths, but none more. He stared listlessly at a blank claims form, making no effort to populate it. For all Dan knew, this man could be dead, which would probably be appropriate, given the mood of the office.

Daniel approached the desk, at which moment the mannequin of a man snapped a curve in his neck and looked at Daniel. "Good afternoon sir," this mannequin-man spoke, his bark-black hair, sagging face, grayish-blue eyes, and subdued vocal tone told Daniel that this man was as lifeless as the light that could manage no more than to ward off the darkness that would surely consume him from all sides. Daniel managed to break himself from his current train of thought, "hi," he managed to sputter, "I need to get my car out of here." The man, identified by his name tag as "Tyler" breathed a heavy breath inward as he reached behind him to grab a clipboard hanging on the wall, "was your car towed within the last 24 hours?" Daniel replied with a 'yes' and Tyler flipped over a single page on his clipboard. "What's the tag number?" Daniel shot back, "H-zero-one, eight, V, I" Tyler looked at the page for a second, "Yep, we've got her, that'll be $187.50 from you sir," Tyler muttered in a deadened tone. "Cash or charge?" Daniel reached for the money in his left pocket. "Cash," Daniel pulled out $193 from his pocket, pulled off the three single-dollar bills, and handed them over to Tyler, who opened a drawer, put the cash in, and handed Daniel back a dollar bill and six quarters and shot him a quick look, "I'll be right back." He signed off with a smile and headed to the back room. Checking his cell phone, it was 4:36 and the sun was bright, but it wouldn't be for much longer.

Meanwhile, Bradley sat outside in his car, admiring the dump he was in the midst of, smoking another cigarette, when he noticed a short, stocky, balding man of roughly 40-or-so years and Hispanic or Indian descent walking next to a light-skinned man of average height speaking Spanish. The Spanish man spoke for a while, but then paused and said something seemingly removed from his established rhythm, and the short man's eyes lit up like a fire. He immediately turned to the Spanish man and began yelling up at him in extended bursts, his downwards-flying forearms accented with the trademark tightly-clenched fists of a tiny raging man took the Spanish man by surprise, throwing him on the defensive, taking a step backwards, frightened. Bradley chuckled and smirked at the ordeal, watching amusedly from the car window. The Spanish man paused and looked at Bradley for a second, then slowly back to the short man, who had paused his yelling for the duration of the Spanish man's diverted attention, and then continued with a short lunge and a shout, scaring the Spanish man again, and resumed his yelling. Brad, thoroughly satisfied by this display of aggression, turned to face the building once more while taking another puff of his cigarette to witness Dan emerging from the office as he made his way down the stairs.

Brad looked towards Dan, who had turned to look at the building and resorted to walking backwards to do so, "They found the drugs, didn't they?" Dan whipped his neck towards Brad once in disbelief, then once again in confusion, then it dawned on him that this was his friend's way of joking around. "They found them all right," Dan said indifferently, still looking at the building, putting his arm on Brad's roof. "Funny thing, too, they say that someone, probably a friend, was using my car as a stashing place. They also found a significant amount of dark curly hair on the bags, he said they looked consistent with that of a Jew-fro. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Brad scratched his head, "What about YOUR car? Isn't it fixed yet?"

Dan briefly recalled the incident from two weeks ago that left his car in the shop. A fruit-vendor was walking between cars during the red light at a busy intersection peddling bananas, when two men began yelling at him from across the street. The man began arguing with them, yelling something back to them whenever they yelled something at him. Even after the light turned green and he drove off Dan saw the fruit man yelling furiously across the street from his rear view window. He turned his attention back to the road ahead of him. Having just gotten off work and being Friday, Dan's first stop was Street Cle@n, a poorly-named dry cleaning business in a plaza on Rusty Pkwy. He stopped, went, turned, and even made an illegal U-turn, but he eventually made it to the dry cleaners often mistaken for a computer repair store.

Dan parked facing the road, squealing his front-left tire as he turned the corner. He popped his trunk, walked into the cleaners, and took his spot in line. Outside, a few children ran around, yelling and screaming as they do, throwing those little firecrackers at each other that snap when they hit something. One kid screamed as he was hit by one on the cheek. Looking to the right, a young blonde girl from the salon two suites down was stood outside. She gave a sort of laugh and watched them run around. Dan turned his attention back to the line in front of him, which had shortened to only two people standing in front of him. Waiting half-patiently, his eyes darted around the suite, reading the little posters detailing garment-cleaning prices and employee safety, observing the yellowed faux-silk wallpaper, he looked at his cell phone for the time, and finally put his hands in his pockets as the guy in front of him moved to the front of line. He watched the young Latina girl running the register as she took the clothes from the man in front of him. He took another look outside to see two kids hiding behind a dumpster while an elderly man walked towards them at a slow pace, the kids seemed to be holding something in their hands, but it didn't matter, Dan took another look over to where the girl had been, but she was gone.

Dan stood facing forward again at the dry cleaners, looking up at the ceiling every so often. He might have been next in line, but the guy in front of him seemed to be taking longer than the two people before him. He looked outside again to find a dump truck approaching from the far end of the plaza, and the two kids hiding behind the dumpster jumped out and both threw a hand full of their firecrackers at the old man who was very much taken by surprise. Some of the firecrackers hit him on the chest and face and snapped audibly. The old man's temper sweltered as the two brats ran off, and he took chase to them as best he could. Walking as if his suspenders held the seat of his pants far too high for comfort, the elderly man hobbled as fast as he could towards the inner walk of the plaza, "you little rascals!" He yelled as he pushed his glasses back on to his face by the bridge and breathed heavily while his right arm ran in opposition to his legs.

As Dan watched the scene, the girl at the register called for him. He stepped forward and put his clothes on the stretch of counter. Pressed, starched, and done by Tuesday at the latest, as usual. "Will that be cash or charge?" He was asked, "charge." He pulled out his card and before she could take it, the sound of two very heavy objects colliding with one another with a loud THUD shook the glass and everybody inside turned around.

Everybody turned to see a garbage truck with a caved-in front end and the dumpster that it struck running away from it's attacker. It arched around towards the plaza before the slope of the concrete threw it on its right-side wheels and it arched away. Dan looked to see where it was going, and he soon saw the dumpster's designated target. "Oh, shit!" Dan immediately dropped his card and wallet and collided with and pushed everybody out of the way as he threw himself with all his might out the front door and into the parking lot. Within an arm's length of the dumpster from Dan, it struck the back of his car and sent it flying out into the middle of the street, while the dumpster exited on the far end of the plaza. Those drivers erring on the side of caution saw the hurdling dumpster and immediately stopped to avoid the collision, while two drivers, apparently braver than the rest, sped up to avoid it. What they didn't notice was the blue sedan slowly stretching across the very three lanes they were driving on. The first car struck the front of Dan's car, sending the back end flying, while the second received the full impact of the rear end of a sedan being thrown into their gunmetal, hemi-powered 4x4.

Dan ran into the middle of the street, where a young boy, no older than 14, climbed out of the 4x4's passenger door, who, being unable to contain his excitement ran around the front of the 4x4 to look at the car they just hit. A second man, somewhere between 35 and 40, got out of the same passenger-side door and looked over at Dan, the man's face screamed of anger control issues, and they didn't look like they were going away on this particular day either.

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 04:36:00 +0000

I ran,
I ran through a field littered with what remained of an ancient, yet powerful machine.
It's use long forgotten, a time never remembered.
The way we are, the people we have become.
What purpose do we serve?
We sweat from victory to sleep afterwards.
Our hearts race for an hour only to stall for an eternity.
We place our faith in what lies above our crowns, and we stand the storms and battle the winds.
When the ground by our feet chips away, exposing the mud between the pebbles, we fall to our knees in disgust, and curse the Earth for our misjudgment, refusing to look at ourselves.
Every day brings with it a battle that cannot be won, cannot be drawn out.
We face one outcome that never changes, and it waits for our slumber to end.
Tomorrow will be today, and has been yesterday for eternity.
When yet another day lies in wait, hope is our fortress, and love is our spear.

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Liberation, Chapter 2

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 03:36:00 +0000

CLUMMP!!!!

The dull, reverberating sound of boot-on-cheap metal bench extracted Daniel from the warm clutches of sleep and brought forth an even warmer greeting with an irate cell-mate.

A mid-afternoon dose of "Wake the fuck up!" met Daniel's ears, his extreme irritation from being woken compelled him to look his assailant in the eyes with a demeaning zeal.

His nemesis for the moment stood in front of him, looking down at him through a mess of greasy hair. "You're in jail now, you do NOT get fancy meals, you do NOT get to drive fancy cars, and you do NOT get to SLEEP!" Daniel started to stand up, but the man put his hand on Daniel's chest and pushed him backwards into the wall, after which Daniel fell back to the bench. Daniel turned his head to look back at the large, hairy man and was greeted with a thick wad of spit. His face tightened with rage in response and he stood up, and grabbing the man by the shoulders, tried shaking him... or something. The man simply let his torso weave back and forth, and allowing his head to sway back and forth in opposition to his torso.

This continued for a good 15 seconds or so before Daniel stopped. With his face tightened and his hands on the man's shoulders, he opened his eyes to look at the immovable lummox in front of him, who took only a moment to laugh in Daniel's face, "heh-heh... hm-hm-hm-hm-hmph... ya-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...." Daniel stood there, dumbfounded, "shhhitt..." he quipped as he threw his hands in his pocket and walked away to the back corner. Sat back down, Daniel brought one leg up to him and brought it close to, leting out a large but silent sigh, looking up at the concrete ceiling.

Three hours passed and the unmistakable chink... chink... chink... of keys mashing together drew closer to Daniel's cell. An officer stopped in front of the cell, picked out one key from the rest, and placed it in front of the keyhole; both Daniel and the large man looked to the door. "Okay you two, I'm only lettin' one of you two out." The officer held up his free hand and pointed with the index finger to Daniel. "You, come on over here," the officer said as he thrust his finger at Daniel from across the cell. Daniel did as he was instructed, slowly standing up and walking calmly to the cell door, engaging his cellmate in a three second stare-down before turning his head forward and walking out of the cell and following the officer down the sunlit hallway; the burly-sounding words "twat biscuit" reached from behind the cell bars and found him from around the corner.

"Mr. Emerson," the officer started, "you're being released on grounds of insufficient evidence against you. You may collect your belongings and arrange for transportation to escort you from the precinct." Daniel scratched the back of his neck, "what about my car, officer?" He asked in a complacent tone. "Your vehicle has been impounded in the Kaylant Auto Park, the standard fee for vehicles impounded for under twenty-four hours is $187.50 if you were not aware." Daniel's eyes rolled for a brief second before he resumed his slow, uninterrupted march, but everything seemed to catch his attention; chain-link fencing shadows from the windows, the way some of the floor tiles were more yellow than the others... This was the first time he had been inside a cell block. "What's your name, officer?" Had had asked out of nowhere, almost out of impulse. "My name is Officer Hengrin. Everybody around here knows me as Chuck." Daniel shot him a nod in response. "Do you have kids?" A pocket of silence spaced his response, "I do, actually. Two young boys, six and seven." Officer Hengrin's eyes lit up as he spoke. He turned and looked at Daniel over his shoulder, "You?" "Nah, kids aren't my thing. They're cute I guess, but I wouldn't be able to stand the shouting and running around the house." Officer Hengrin, now looking forward, remained doing so. "I get that, I felt the same way at first, but that changes once you get to see them in that delivery room. They're something else entirely, kids." Officer Hengrin couldn't help but smile, but it soon came to and end as they rounded the last corner on the left. "Mr. Emerson," Officer Hengrin began, "in this room you may claim your belongings. A telephone will be provided to you to arrange pickup if you do not possess one yourself, all of that aside, I wish you a good day and I hope to not see you often." Officer Hengrin stood with his back to the corner, straight-faced and official. Daniel walked past him, giving him a silent two-fingered salute and turned the door handle, walking into the claims office.

Daniel scanned the room, finding a rather good-looking, early twenty-something sitting at the desk to his left with curled auburn hair and light skin. "Good afternoon, sir. What's your name?" The young girl beamed her not-so-perfect white teeth and Daniel, who smirked slightly and met her hazel eyes with his own. "My name is Daniel Emerson, you should have a cell phone, a brown leather wallet, and some keys waitin' for me." His speech style mimicked that of the young girl, who replied with a brief, contrived chuckle, "Just one minute, Mr. Emerson." The girl stood up and turned to the cabinets to her rear, while Daniel leaned against the grate of the empty station behind him and crossed his arms, looking to different points across the room as if they were numbered. He heard the sound of high heels on a plastic step-stool, and he faced forward to catch the back of the young girl's black skirt, which quickly turned into the back of a pink blouse, which turned into the back of her head, and then to her face, where she beamed those same not-so-perfect white teeth at him again and set a blue tub down on the desk in front of her and pushed it to over to Daniel. "Here you go, a phone, a wallet, and some keys. Have a great day Mr. Emerson." Her teeth retreated and left two happily-pursed lips in their wake, and Daniel took his belongings, told her "thank you," and turned to the door at his right and entered the main lobby of the Florida Highway Patrol precinct. He reached for his cell phone and began to dial, when a sudden, "hey, no cell phones in the lobby. Take your call outside," hit him from behind. He walked to the double glass doors in front of him without turning around before pressing the send button, the adolescent windmill palms were a welcome sight after his collective six hours in the precinct.

A dial tone sounded in Daniel's ear three times before it ceased and made way for a voice familiar to him. "Hello, Bradley Tzernich speaking." Daniel replied in an unconcerned tone, "good afternoon Brad, you're not gonna believe where you're gonna pick me up from." Bradley responded with, "I'm picking you up from somewhere? What if my car just got stolen and I'm stranded in the middle of a swamp?" Daniel replied coolly, "Who would steal your car in a swamp, Skunk Ape? Why would you be in a swamp in the first place? Are you dropping off a body or something?" Bradley replied in a composed manner, "not quite... kind of... what's it to you?" "I need to know because you need to come pick me up from the Florida Highway Patrol precinct off of the Sea Oak exit. If you're doing something illegal, they're gonna know, karma you know?" "Karma my ass, karma's for fourteen year-olds with exceptionally poor eating habits." "Are you gonna pick me up or not? I need you to take me to the impound lot." "Sure, why not. You're in luck I don't have any clients scheduled right now or I'd come down there just to leave you on the side of the road." "Whatever, your clients would tag along with a four-pack of tallboys just to sit and gawk." Brad took a moment to reply, "damn, you got me. I'll be there in thirty." Having suffered defeat, Bradley hung up his phone, Daniel in turn, did the same and sat down on the curb.

Twenty-seven minutes later, a silver 2009 Saturn Outlook turned sharply and smoothly into the drive-around in front of the Florida Highway Patrol precinct and the passenger-side window rolled down. "Hey man, what's up?" Daniel stood up, walked over, and climbed into his friend's car, closing the door and sticking his arm out the open window. Bradley looked over at Daniel through his pitch-black aviator sunglasses. "What'd you do? Did you finally snap and take a school bus hostage?" He put the car into neutral to rev the engine before taking off. "Sure did. Those little bastards didn't know what was coming." As soon as he was out of the precinct's parking lot, Bradley kicked his Outlook from 20 to 60 in five seconds flat, Daniel was taken aback. "What the hell man, you're in front of the Florida Highway Patrol precinct." Bradley looked over at Daniel, those fat lards aren't gonna do anything, it's not like they have an active patrol car in the lot itself." Daniel forgot about it quickly and lowered the back of the passenger seat. "I hope you don't mind, a large, angry man thought I was a CEO or something and wouldn't let me get any sleep," Daniel said as he shut his eyes lightly and let the sounds of the road place him under their lethargic spell.

Simple Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 02:08:00 +0000

Four lines outline the boundaries,
and four lines determine the height.
There are two doors available to me;
one leading to hope, and the other to the bathroom.

I choose neither of these,
for I find comfort within my bounds.
These things, those familiar sights
Provide me with comfort.

Four walls that surround,
One door that can lead me away from here,
and a comfortable bed to lay upon
when I grow tired.

I am here for the night,
so leave me be.
I'll be fine in the morning,
so worry not.

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Long-Shot Lounge

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 05:05:00 +0000

This place I found was a long-shot if I'd ever heard of one. After taking the highway thirty miles out of Tuscon and driving twenty minutes town a little dirt road where your only enemies are cow piles and horseflies, a little spot of light rises out of the ground and offers itself to you. It told me a few things, too, "come on in, our beer is the coldest in town," and "fifty cent wings all night long!" I said to myself, "you're only tellin' yourself things you wanna hear," and I slapped myself awake to focus on what was really in front of me, and what I found was not at all what I expected.

Out in the middle of nowhere there was a little bar with bikes lined up out front underneath a large neon sign that read "Jan'saloon." It was easy enough to tell what the owner was like; he was a Central European immigrant who's sense of humor was all but dead in this country, but I didn't let that stop me. I parked my car and walked inside, the two front doors were painted with a classic saloon-door effigy.

Once inside, I was taken aback by how remarkably similar it was to every other redneck bar I'd been to in the last eight years. Darts, pool tables, college kids; it was all the same, regardless, I walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. "Thank you," I tipped the bartender, because I expected to drink only one... maybe two before I split. I looked at the happy people, dissecting what made it possible, but not understanding, this looks like any other bar I've stumbled into before.

I sat there for a total of fourteen minutes, drank two beers, and was about to get another, but I decided it wasn't worth it, and I got out of my bar stool and walked into the men's restroom. I got down to the business at hand, washed my hands and began to walk out the door when it burst inwards and I jumped back to avoid one idiot being thrown around by another idiot. I put my back to the sink and leaned as far back as I could until they left enough room for me to slip on by, and when they did I walked out and headed to the front doors. Before I could leave, I turned to the voice of a woman standing and yelling at a man sitting down with seven empty beer bottles in front of him. I could only assume that was her date. She turned around and headed for the same doors I was standing at, so I walked out first and let her follow afterwards.

Outside, I stood some distance from the doors along the wall and called out to her once she emerged. "What was the deal with that?" I asked her, figuring this would be the best place to try and talk to her. "Nothing. Some drunken idiot is all." I chuckled and smirked. "This place seems to be full of them. Why are you here then? Isn't this place full of just about the same people you find anywhere else?" A small flash of light hit me from the corner of her eye, but she smiled a little. "Yes, it is. But it's the only thing around here." She turned her head to look at me, and I did the same for her. When I approached her and pressed my lips against hers, I was taken away to a place not far away, yet completely different from where I was moments ago; it was if the world had suddenly changed from winter to summer. When the kiss ended, we looked at each other in the eyes and just smiled. It was at that time three idiots stumbled out from inside the bar. Huey, Dewey, and Louie. I crossed my arms and looked at them for a second, they looked back, dumbfounded. I turned around and took my woman by the arm and walked to my car. I was done with idiots...

Liberation, Chapter 1

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 17:07:00 +0000

Nature Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Mr. H) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 06:23:00 +0000

The hills are alive with a soul of cheer
Clouds part in the wake of the past's treasure.
Forgetting the rain, foraging the trees,
A great river is born out of the mist;
leading, winding, brimming with life in tow.
Breath beating in the rhythm of nature,
eternity can take a rest one night.
It's you in my arms that now makes me whole.