2024 Rants
NEWSLETTER RANTS – 2024
BY: MARCUS V. CALVERT
Contents
01. SHORT STORY DECLARATION.. 4
02. PASSING THE AXE. 7
03. VENDOR ISLAND.. 8
04. REPURPOSED.. 10
05. THE WILD BOOK.. 11
06. THE SCHOLAR. 12
07. STYLE POINTS. 13
08. FRAMED.. 15
09. CONSEQUENCES. 16
10. THIS LATEST PITCH.. 18
11. OLD-THINK.. 19
12. FIFTY-ONE TIMES. 22
13. ABRAMS. 23
14. BAD CHOICES. 25
15. ARES PRIME. 26
16. MASTER THOR. 28
17. EARLY RELEASE. 29
18. WHODUNNIT. 32
19. FATHER SANCHEZ. 33
20. THE KING’S LABYRINTH.. 36
21. WASTED DREAMS. 38
22. R2-D2’s WRATH.. 40
23. THE BIOGRAPHER. 40
24. THE LAZARUS PIT. 43
25. THE SCULPTRESS. 43
26. THE LITTLE HUMAN BOY.. 45
27. “JUST MARRIED”. 45
28. THE REAL CARTER BURKE. 48
29. ‘FRO HAMMER. 49
30. THE MONEY MEME. 51
31. FANGED JOKER. 52
32. THE SEED BLADE. 53
33. LUKE & LEIA HUTT. 54
34. DEAD BLOODS. 56
35. THE KIRK PROTOCOL. 57
36. THE LADY.. 60
37. HAWKEYE V. LOKI 61
38. THE POACHER’S NEPHEW.. 63
39. THE FAVERSHAM CHOICE. 63
40. THE RISE OF THING.. 65
41. A WIZARDLY BOND.. 65
42. DRUNKARD’S TALE. 67
43. KINGSMAN RANT. 67
44. THREE INSTANCES. 69
45. THE BOOMER SPHERE. 70
46. THE STATUS DRIVER. 71
47. THE TIME RINGS. 73
48. THE VOLUNTEERS. 74
49. A BIT OVERDONE. 75
50. RIPPLE BET. 77
51. THE TARDY FLEET. 78
52. ROTTEN CHOICES. 79
53. THE PINOCCHIOM.. 80
NEWSLETTER RANT #141 – 12/31/24
01. SHORT STORY DECLARATION
I mean to maniacally write short stories between 07/09/24 and 01/08/26. Then I’ll pick the best 25 pieces and refine them into full-sized, finished tales. How many will I be able to generate in that time? I’ve no idea. Guess I’ll have to maintain a story list, to keep me honest. Think of this as an example of the Batchery method.
Here are the first thirty-eight:
38. “The DUI” – After an embarrassing DUI incident, a demon asks a Catholic priest/occultist for some divine assistance.
37. “A Private Heaven” – Someone’s murdered your son and kidnapped his soul. You’ve hired someone to settle the matter.
36. “The Damsel” – Your ex-SEAL monster hunter of a brother tricks you into hacking covert files, regarding a team of female mystical assassins. Guess who gets sent to kill you all and retrieve the missing intel?
35. “The Carolers” – “The Carolers” – What if a singing group of assassins specialized in singing carols as they tried to kill you?
34. “The Plea” – A modern-day mage story that involves Jack the Ripper.
33. “The Widower” – How could a dying billionaire happen to outlive each of his gold-digging wives?
32. “The Bagman” – As your cartel's second-in-command, even you've never met the boss (an eccentric, genius-level drug chemist). So what do you do if he/she got kidnapped?
31. “Damned Elites” – In a near-futuristic college class, a history professor explains how democracy destroyed itself.
30. “Mirror’s Key” – For eight generations, a defeated general was locked in a hell mirror by a tyrannical dynasty. Then some careless mage gave him a way out . . .
29. “A Sculpted Future” – A super genius son tries (and fails) to destroy his dad’s super villain empire. Even worse, the son’s best weapon becomes the dad’s key to ultimate world domination . . . sort of.
28. “Patient Eleven” – I recently ran into a screenwriter/critic who claimed that it wasn’t possible to craft a non-gimmicky story about a zombie superspy. I decided to prove him wrong.
27. “The Cupless Sage” – An aging warrior/spy has three unique split personalities. To switch between them, all he needs is a cup of wine.
26. “The Bloodmate” – A botched delivery forces a group of vampires to use the delivery guy in an unorthodox experiment.
25. “The Sleeptalker” – A clever hacker arranges yet another drug-induced kidnapping. Ransoms aside, he’s also after more lucrative blackmail from his wealthy hostage-to-be. What could possibly go wrong?
24. “Gaia XII” – Two British Imperium survey teams have gone missing on a promising, Earth-grade world. A third team’s been sent out to investigate the disappearances . . . with a squad of marines to keep them company.
23. “The White Sheep” – A mad genius kidnapped six kids from a lab and raised them in his image. Five boys became villains. The sixth kid became a world-saving super heroine, until she lost her mind . . .
22. “The Supercop” – A tough-as-nails supercop mixes it up with a bona fide super villain, who’s nearing the end of a pre-paid killing spree.
21. “The Last Twin” – In this fantasy tale, a fallen prince-turned-pirate is betrayed by his crewmates and confronts his twin brother’s killer.
20. “A Bonding Thing” – A near-futuristic political satire that involves a SWAT cyborg, a pair of terrorists, and a truly dangerous liberal.
19. “Town Limits” – A grizzled ex-priest must free a small town from the machinations of a dream enslaver.
18. “Mr. Day” – The world’s oldest surviving super soldier thwarts a genocidal plot, only to stumble into a calculated trap.
17. “Follow the Bodies” – A pair of monster hunters quest onto accursed ground to halt the resurrection of an ancient earth demon.
16. “The Scholar” – Even after America collapsed, handpicked kids were hypno-trained to be free-thinking bastions of human knowledge. One such “Scholar” has a run-in with a group of fifth-generation zombies and a half-crazed scavenger (with a shotgun).
15. “Handshake Deal” – One of the world’s mightiest super heroes was kidnapped (by the American government) and left in stasis. Two decades later, a different President sends you to beg for his help.
14. “I’m Cheap” – Stuck between a hostile mob and the DEA, an ex-thief reluctantly turns to the only one he can trust . . . his imaginary friend.
13. “Lemon Eye” – The city’s matron super heroine just got murdered, leaving only her underaged sidekick to protect the streets. You’ve decided to collect the price on his head.
12. “A Quiet Out” – Ten years ago, you were a psychic mob’s top enforcer. Now, you’re dangling from the ceiling of an abandoned building—a pawn in someone else’s master scheme.
11. “The Threat Board” – A misfit team of heroes attempts to breach a heavily defended island fortress. If one of them wasn’t a traitor, their bold Plan A just might’ve worked . . .
10. “No Time” – A small-town sheriff has to conduct a hostage negotiation (in a bridesmaid gown) with tornadoes in the background.
09. “The Applicant” – A desperate mystical sleuth tricks a group of mystical academics into saving the world for him.
08. “The Relforde Choice” – Ten years after an actor marries into one of the most ruthlessly powerful families on Earth, his wife is kidnapped. He’s forced to choose between love and survival.
07. “The Fifteenth” – During an ultratech corporate heist, the only one who can save the day is a Game of Thrones junkie from I.T.
06. “Ninja Leprechaun” – Tired of burying his top lieutenants, a besieged crimelord hires a leprechaun hitman to resolve the matter.
05. “Unleash Him” – A street hero seeks vengeance against a black ops agency (and its top killer).
04. “The Blind Bard” – A womanizing bard (who’s also a sword master and can speak with objects) is attacked by a group of sword-wielding mercenaries.
03. “Closing Day” – A realtor closes a lucrative property deal with a genocidal alien couple.
02. “Loose Ends” – A corporate gangster has to solve his wife’s murder and avoid her killer’s vengeful trap.
01. “I Call Upon the Dark” – A summoner is hired to bring a unique form of justice to a child killer.
NEWSLETTER RANT #115 – 07/02/24
02. PASSING THE AXE
I ducked under the hard-thrown, single-edged lumberjack axe. It sank into the redwood tree I had previously been crouching against. I tried to run, only to realize that the axe had pinned me by the hair!
He approached me with a steady stride and a firm malice. Dirty white leather strips were wrapped around his head and face. Only his brown hair stuck out. Covered with squiggly occult writing, Brandt figured that the face wrapping kept him going.
Something of a ghost hunter hobbyist, Brandt was into that mystical b*llshit. He even claimed that this guy was long dead. That someone, somehow, had brought him back to guard this land—and that only “something of the land” could kill him. Well, Brandt’s curiosity made him Victim #1.
This guy should be dead a hundred times over! His shirt burned off when the barn exploded. His blue work pants and boots were smoldering. Bare-chested and soiled, he was covered with burns and holes . . . but no blood?! Casey must’ve stabbed this f*cker a dozen times with his fancy Army knife—before his neck got broken.
Ray drove the van into the killer and pinned him to the cabin. Then he parked and ran for dear life. But Ray couldn’t run faster than a well-thrown machete. Even timid little Karla blew up the barn when he cornered her inside. But it still wasn’t enough.
Now there’s just me. It just wasn’t fair!
The fiend’s work boots crunched on the dry grass as he came closer. I tried to pull away, but I was out of time. He reached for the axe and easily yanked it free. I landed on a fist-sized rock. There had to be a way to kill him! Simply a dumb blonde co-ed from Pasadena, I went with what I knew. When he reached down with his left hand, I grabbed that rock and hit him in the nuts with it.
To my shock, the bastard doubled over with a groan and fell down. The axe fell from his hands as the f*cker grabbed his aching balls. With my dead friends in mind, I didn’t run. I did something really stupid and smashed him in the face with that rock.
Over and over and over again, I pounded his skull. At any moment, I expected him to break me like glass. Instead, he groaned from hit after hit. Stranger still, he began to bleed. He finally stopped moving but I wasn’t a sucker. I’ve seen enough horror flicks to know what to do next.
I tossed the rock, grabbed that axe, and stood up. The plan was to lop off the head and punt it away. Only then would I even think this was done. So I swung.
Though I missed his neck, I did sink the axe blade into his wrapped face—just under the nose. I expected him to get up from that (he did from everything else). The bastard didn’t even twitch. Did I kill him? I couldn’t tell. I started to pull the axe out—
When a painful flash of green light sent me flying. Whatever it was knocked me out. When I came to, there was a cute dead guy on the ground with an axe in his face.
Why was everything green-tinted all of a sudden? I looked over at the burning barn and the flames were green. The moon was up but everything was so bright . . . and green. Something was on my head. I reached for it and felt leather strips.
No. God! No!
I tried to grab them. To pull them off. Only I couldn’t! The leather strips were, like, glued to my head! Worse, I suddenly wanted to kill someone—
Anyone, really. I heard sirens in the distance. Someone had heard the barn explode and called 9-1-1. I eagerly ripped the big axe from the corpse. It felt so light in my hand. I grinned as the sheriff’s SUV pulled up.
From a good forty feet away, I waited for him to step out. Then I’d fling this axe through his head. Then I’d kill everyone else who came by until dawn. Why? I don’t know. I don’t care.
All that mattered was that I couldn’t ever leave. I had to lie low and roam about at night. Anyone who ventured here after dark was mine to kill. Only when someone killed me with a piece of the land—and took my place—could this nightmare finally end.
03. VENDOR ISLAND
This place was considered a black ops fairy tale.
Even super spy agencies (like mine) didn’t believe the rumors: until a mad genius clued us in. Dr. McGannit, our “trusted” source, was about to get a lethal injection for her atrocities. Most of the time, Homeland would cut a deal with someone of her caliber.
The problem here was that some of McGannit’s victims had very powerful (and angry) friends in the American intelligence community. Once her pleas for employment fell on deaf ears, the “good” doctor told us everything she knew. One of the pearls she shared with us involved Vendor Island. She thought the intel would save her life . . .
It didn’t.
As for Vendor Island, I was told to pull a team together. I had them triple-vetted. After all, the only way this place could remain under the radar was with tons of inside, high-level help. They’d need agents within every intelligence agency on Earth (including ours).
Our mission was to gather and/or steal intel on Vendor Island—and then destroy it. We tasked a satellite and didn’t like what it gave us. Somewhere in the Pacific was an artificial, floating, and maneuverable island! There were almost five thousand people on it. It had eighteen factories, each churning out product twenty-four-seven.
Cargo planes routinely flew in and out, via two landing strips. According to McGannit, Vendor Island supplied ultratech gadgets and weaponry. Everything was on the table, from hypno ink to spy cars to weather machines. McGannit explained that these guys had an in-house dark web. Her access was revoked when we arrested her.
We ultimately gained access to their network via Reyes, the seductress on our team. Through money and wild sex, Reyes managed to acquire ten zombie pills from a high-end drug dealer. Slip one under a fresh corpse’s tongue, add a cup of water, and the body would rise with an indefinite undead life span and infectious bite.
Some madman cooked up the recipe and Vendor Island perfected it. The asking price was ten grand per pill. Gail’s purchase earned her access to their black web buying site. It was like “Amazon” for demented spy movie villains.
Access alone was a serious win. Vendor Island hosted other sites that traded elite criminal services (from diamond laundering to new identities to wet work). We managed to verify several “dead” targets who survived our attention, courtesy of a service that specialized in faking deaths. Whoever ran Vendor Island earned a piece of these deals. Between that and the arms traffic, they easily made billions per year.
From the looks of it, a full-scale incursion wouldn’t work. The place was dotted with multi-ranged missile launchers (some of them nuclear). Chaingun turrets dotted the island. They had drones in the air and sonar nets in the water, which made covert insertions unlikely. Some of the weapon turrets appeared to be energy-based, possibly with enough kick to bring down a satellite or inbound ICBM. To add to the level of difficulty, four ultratech submarines patrolled the island. Their capabilities were unknown.
Halfway through our planning, our tasked satellite was blasted out of the sky. By the time we could task another one, Vendor Island was gone. Our access to their site was revoked. Nigel (our trusted hacker) was found in his flat, thoroughly tortured, and shot twice in the head. Was he a mole or a victim?
Stapled to his chest was a printout for a kill order. Listed on it was everyone else on the team—including myself. The price-per-kill? $100 million.
Our only advantage was time. A place that vast couldn’t move quickly. We got the go-ahead for a stealth mission. My flawed plan was to cram a prototype stealth plane with every gadget imaginable, find Vendor Island, and destroy it by any means possible. They’d be expecting us. Odds were that they’d kill us before we left the runway.
Couldn’t be helped. To see our next birthdays, we had to frag this place—pure and simple. No one could survive a kill bounty that high or run from bad guys of this scale. Besides, Vendor Island had to go. If allowed to exist, one of its WMDs (like those zombie pills) would kill us all.
NEWSLETTER RANT #114 – 06/25/24
04. REPURPOSED
The combat serum was said to have “walked out” of a Cold War lab in the ‘80s. Its initial formula was meant to offer an extended adrenaline boost. Soldiers could dose on it and charge into battle with heightened speed, stamina, and strength.
The side effects? Naturally, there was an addictive element and plenty of enhanced aggression. Also, the human body wasn’t meant to stay awake for a solid month—the main side effect of a full dose. The mind couldn’t handle it, there’d be hallucinations, yadda yadda. Child soldiers seemed to handle it better than adults, especially on a quarter-dose.
It bounced around Africa as a party drug for warlords and terrorists, until some Russian oligarch snagged a sample. What appealed to him was the fact that this drug was nigh-untraceable and could allow their athletes to someday own the Olympics. He spent millions in research and put some of the best black market geneticists on this pet obsession of his.
The researchers made enhancements, skipped the lab rat stage, and went straight to full-on human testing. Most of the subjects immediately died from an injection. The few who survived suffered from a surprising range of psychological side effects—from kleptomania to necrophilia.
Then some geneticist spliced in some alien DNA. What kind? “Don’t ask. Don’t tell,” was the gruff response they offered. For the geneticists, the results justified the means.
Technically, their efforts were a success. All one ever needed was a single dose. With sufficient medical prep, a sturdy patient could survive the initial system shock. Once that happened, then the drug permanently bonded with the user’s DNA. Then a human became superhuman. When in stressful situations, users sprouted an extra hundred pounds of musculature. Then they were able to dodge bullets, throw cars at people, and sprint for hours at a time.
When the threat was over, the body would revert to human normalcy and the user would be ravenously hungry and thirsty. Most users typically needed to consume five meals in one sitting. Without enough food and drink, this power couldn’t activate. There was also a modest chance of cannibalism, depending on the mindset of the user. Still, the insomnia and other psychological effects were weaned out. Best of all, the drug was even harder to trace.
Unfortunately, a new health risk emerged. Sometimes, the serum made a user pregnant. The process could happen within hours of being dosed or even years. The geneticists couldn’t agree on what triggered the gestation process.
Once it began, the embryo often formed into a viable child within hours. Oddly enough, the impregnation happened to men more than women. The result was a butt-ugly, gray-scaled, hybrid creature that would both claw and chew its way out of the parent’s belly. They grew rapidly and had both the physical advantages and memories of the “host” body. The creatures were immune to assault weapons fire, came with a triple-digit IQ, and had a fondness for human flesh.
Needless to say, the Olympic applications for this drug went out the window and the Russian military turned this into a super soldier project. To date, none of these enhanced hosts have survived a birth.
Hybrids were captured, studied, and then put down before they could successfully escape. Each of these creatures began to “poop” self-fertilized eggs (by the hundreds) and defended them with a feral tenacity. The marble-sized eggs grew up to twelve feet high, before they were incinerated. Why? Because the Kremlin was afraid of a hybrid outbreak.
Agents were chosen and injected. Most died in the line of duty, simply because they were routinely sent into suicide missions. These brave agents weren’t warned about the impregnation risk. After all, the odds of it happening were a paltry 1 in 48 [insert nervous laughter].
05. THE WILD BOOK
Ginvex was as beautiful as it was impenetrable. Atop the massive island was built the most magnificent and fortified city in the known world. Its army and navy were modest but elite. An academy of mages was placed there, as was a temple to every deity. A bastion of commerce and education, opportunities aplenty could be found there. They had trade pacts and long-time alliances with every surrounding kingdom. It was also rumored that Ginvex’s spies were among the best in the Known Realms.
Its true secret for longevity was in how it picked its rulers. There were no ancestral dynasties here. No, when a sitting king abdicated or died, the J’Kellian (or “Wild Book”) was called forth. Once the last monarch left the throne, the book was opened. The skies would darken over Ginvex for three days and three nights. During that time, anyone who wished to be king simply uttered the J’Kellian by name . . . and they’d disappear.
For within the book was a hidden land of mystery, beauty, and menace. Once they were transported into the Wild Book, would-be kings (and queens) would face a series of trials meant to test the mind, body, and soul. Many entered. Few returned when the skies became normal again. None were ever the same. The one with the golden eyes was named the next king (or queen) of Ginvex.
The others often returned to their old lives. Some were wiser. Others were kinder. A few were driven mad. While most were born in Ginvex, a few foreigners ended up on the throne. When asked what was within the Wild Book, none would answer, even after too much wine. It was rumored that they couldn’t reveal its secrets, via some kind of enchantment.
Never have two people won these trials. The golden-eyed monarch would always take the throne and rule with a benevolent, god-like wisdom. Their children lacked any special gifts. These rulers seemed to know everything as it happened, from an enemy’s ploys to the application of any particular skill. Their personal and physical flaws were gone, replaced by an even-tempered perfection. After an abdication, the monarch’s eyes returned to normal and they became as they were.
It was prophesized that, should the Wild Book ever be stolen, Ginvex would fall in flame and ruin. That’s why a distant tyrant has secretly hired (forced, really) you to put a team together and steal the Wild Book. He wants to unlock its secrets and become a god-king.
But how can you steal the J’Kellian from a monarch who’ll know your every move? Magic, of course. The potent kind. The dangerous kind. And that’s never easy to find, get, or use.
NEWSLETTER RANT #113 – 06/18/24
06. THE SCHOLAR
You were kicking back in some little oasis town with a lit pipe in your mouth. It was downright peaceful on this cool and starry night. An adorable little pup snored at your sandaled feet. Just as you were about to turn in, an implanted AI chimed within your head. The Temporal Council satellites detected a volley of inbound missiles headed for Earth: point(s) of origin, unknown.
One of them was headed for your vicinity. You’ve been ordered to investigate. The priority order’s ridiculous, of course. The Temporal Council regulated all human time travel. If they wanted, they could send a team of agents or even a fleet of starships to this particular point in the past (July 5th, 1622). You were an unarmed temporal scholar, here to put together a holo-thesis on Saharan trade routes. Why did they want you to go check this out?
Before you could make this objection, the satellite signal fell apart. The AI ascertained the cause to be some form of temporal interference. It didn’t just block all satellite contact. It had (somehow) blocked all time travel to/from this time period. That got your attention.
Essentially stranded in 1622, you reluctantly geared up and rode out into the desert. The AI tracked the path of your designated warhead. It came down like a shooting star. Two days later, amidst a sea of sand dunes, you found the impact point.
The warhead struck the top of a dune that was some 547 feet high. The size and depth of the impact crater suggested that the warhead was small. Perhaps even light enough to carry. Whatever it was appeared to have detonated on impact.
Not in the mood to linger, you hopped off your camel and ran an in-depth scan. The harmless jamming radiation had subsided enough for you to re-establish contact with the TC satellite. Relieved, you didn’t detect any evidence of airborne toxins. The only oddity was the surrounding sand. Something had bonded to the silicates, almost like sentient nanoware—
A red kinetic beam punched through your back and existed through your chest. You dropped to both knees. Seconds later, the sand beneath your camel simply parted. Stranded and dying, you realized that the bloody sand had just shot you.
Your AI sent a mayday signal and requested immediate temporal extraction. You mentally belayed that and called for an orbital strike on your position. The last thing you wanted was for this “construct” to get a free trip into the future . . .
Then you fell over and died.
Holo-scan data continued to glow in front of your lifeless brown eyes for a few moments longer. Then it flickered away, just before your corpse was sucked below the sand—blood and all. Your AI sent a self-destruct signal to all of your future-made gear and then itself.
A few minutes later, another “you” emerged from the sand, down to the clothes and fingerprints. With a smile, the “siliclone” considered the intrusion threat handled. Beneath the sand, both corpses were almost reduced to composite materials. Within a year, every living thing on this planet would suffer a similar fate.
Each colony warhead landed in an area rich in sand. That abundant raw material could be converted into whatever was required—from siliclones to bases to warships. All that was required was time. Interlopers, like this one, would be terminated. Your archive on this world suggested a primitive patchwork of human societies. Yet, this one carried highly advanced equipment that your tech couldn’t copy.
The siliclone wondered if you came from a rival planet. Possibly a spy from some unknown world with an invasion agenda in mind? Not knowing your point of origin bothered the siliclone. Still, the alien entity tracked your signal into space, just before a volley of green particle beams lanced down from the heavens and—
07. STYLE POINTS
This one’s a horror story.
It involves a pyrokinetic serial killer who has the ability to astrally target his victims. In theory, he can sit down and use fire to kill someone, from up to a mile away. His power can do anything from spontaneous combustion to manipulating existing fire.
The setting? A remote, woodsy corporate retreat spot with great WiFi. The killer sizes up the killing zone months in advance and knows every nook and cranny of the heavily wooded area. With a perfectly crafted fake identity, the killer joins the opening night’s revelries and meets his victims. They eat, drink, and return to their fancy little cabins.
Then the dying starts . . .
Victim #1 flosses before bed. To her horror, the floss bursts into flame. She drops it into the sink, only to watch it float between her face and the mirror. Too mystified to run, she watches a flaming copy of her floss grow into a floating garrote wire. Then it snakes out and around her neck. It strangles her (like a metal wire would’ve), except that it also melts through her neck and spine. She dies alone and headless.
Victim #2 sits in front of his cabin’s fireplace with a pair of glasses on his nose and a sticker-covered laptop in his lap. Busy on a project, he got used for archery practice. Each fiery arrow zipped out of the fireplace, through the laptop, and tagged him in the chest. By the fourth one, he’s very dead.
Victims #3 & #4 are a young married couple. They leave the baby at home to get some work done and enjoy some “horizontal” time. Things get sweaty for a while. Then the hubby steps outside to have a cigar. When he lights up, the flame of his lighter zips down his throat. The pyrokinetic expanded those flames and flash-cook the poor guy from the inside out.
The wife hears nothing during her shower. With an evil grin, the gloved (and masked) killer sneaks up to the back of their cabin. He melts the lock to the door and slips in. Then he picks up the dead husband’s lighter, generates a flaming hatchet, and hacks the wife to death with it.
He melts the cell tower’s circuity at this point. Then he hits a button on his phone and uploads malware into everyone’s smartphones, in case they try to use them. The main road out is blocked off by an odd little forest fire. Its flames surround the entire retreat site but haven’t spread. All attempts to douse it have (so far) failed—because the pyrokinetic’s that strong. If he loses consciousness or dies, those flames will pose a problem.
The authorities are tricked into believing that the retreat area’s been evacuated. Thus, no one’s coming to save them. Maybe throw in six more guests and some staff. One of them’s the killer.
Why all the effort? Was this killing spree business, pleasure, or something personal? Lastly, how does it end?
NEWSLETTER RANT #112 – 06/11/24
08. FRAMED
I laughed at the judge, the jury, and the detectives responsible for my conviction. This entire case was flimsy as hell. My lawyers thought I was nuts, even though they agreed that I was being railroaded into a kangaroo court conviction. Odds were that I’d be sentenced to death row.
I didn’t murder my wife. In retrospect, that was my worst mistake. My second-worst was to assume that the NYPD would have enough sense to clear me of the crime! Holly’s killer was still out there. After what happened, I almost wanted to break out of prison and buy the man a steak.
On that fateful night, my “loving” wife handed me a spiked glass of bourbon. Whatever she used barely showed up on my tox screen in the ER. The problem? Being the world’s greatest sleuth was a stressful lifestyle. I was on a number of meds. One or more of them didn’t agree with that nigh-untraceable sedative.
For reason(s) unknown, Holly’s intent was to roofie me. Instead, I hit the floor and proceeded to die. Guess that wasn’t part of the plan because my would-be killer angrily rushed into the room. He was white, tall, lean, left-handed, mid-thirties, a heavy pipe smoker, dressed entirely in black, and sported a stylish ski mask. His eyes were a light blue, intelligent, and unfamiliar. We’ve never met or I’d have remembered him.
My wife then argued with her killer. The conflicting chemicals in my system left me too blitzed to hear what was said. I blacked out around the time he strangled Holly. Perhaps Holly’s death was part of the master plan and she was the last to know.
Why’d it happen? I was dying. All they had to do was wait. The NYPD and the feds would’ve needed a miracle to make sense of this case, much less solve it.
Good thing my diabetes patch app came with an emergency feature. If my vitals went too far in the wrong direction, there’d be an automated 9-1-1 call from my iPhone. The paramedics barely revived me on the scene. I died twice more on the way to the hospital. A few days later, I woke up in handcuffs and was charged with Holly’s murder.
The bruising around Holly’s neck suggested that the killer’s hands were larger than mine. Then there was the part where I was utterly helpless. Instead, the lead prosecutor argued that I drugged myself and hired some masked thug to kill Holly. He argued that all of this was a carefully constructed murder plot—just like the hundred-plus exotic cases I’ve solved over my illustrious career.
The lead detectives had clearly tainted key bits of evidence that would’ve exonerated me. My defense team did their best and lost. I’m sure they’d charge me a hefty fee and offer to work on my (doomed) appeal. The whole time, they tried to persuade me to solve the case from prison. While I probably could’ve, such a feat would’ve been a waste of time.
I was on the wrong side of someone with the means to make this silly frame job stick. Whoever it was wouldn’t allow me anywhere near an exoneration. Even if I found enough evidence, I couldn’t trust the justice system with it. Besides, I’ll likely be murdered in prison by Sunday.
The safest, smartest thing I could do was to vanish before I was put in my cell. And the nicest thing about being the greatest detective alive was that all kinds of folks owed me favors. A few of them were about to break me out mid-transit and slip me out of the country.
A plastic surgeon was waiting in Nassau. A grateful billionaire, whose innocence I once proved, waited to bring me on as his head of security in a non-extradition country. Having seen through so many villainous schemes, my escape was all too easy to concoct. Once I was settled, I’d move on to the next phase.
Someone ruined my livelihood. While I’ve put many a villain in jail, I wasn’t a good man—or a forgiving one. This would be my last case and first true crime. For its success, I needed some high-end, disposable minions.
From afar, I’d guide them through the investigation and piece it together. Once I knew the names of everyone responsible, I’ll kill them myself. I’ll get away with it too, because I’m the greatest detective alive.
09. CONSEQUENCES
Certain people just don’t mix. Mom and Dad were prime examples and I turned out to be their very worst mistake. She was a ninth-generation monster hunter and oracle. Bound to a family pact, she had the power of foresight.
Every time she foresaw someone in danger, she had to take action or forever lose that power. Most of her bloodline chose to “opt” out of the pact. Not Mom. The world made it into the current millennium based, in part, on her warnings. When she spoke, world leaders listened. Other times, she took matters into her own calloused hands and made with the violence.
Dad was the strongest hero on the planet. The guy had a cape, his own comic book, and could breathe in space. He had five different kinds of eye beams, perfect muscles, and a movie star face. The guy had girlfriends on four continents and saved the world with a cavalier boredom.
Then, one day, Mom warned him of a threat. Dad ignored her and got himself taken by a doomsday cult. They had one of those insidiously clever ritual ideas. Sacrifice him under a mystical mirror, during a certain stellar alignment. Once that happened, a mystical copy of Dad would’ve popped out of every mirror on Earth. Each would be bound to their will and have his powers. Needless to say, that would’ve been tragic.
Backed by a team of loyal shooters, Mom interrupted the ritual and barely saved him. Covered in ritual cuts and downright helpless, Dad’s powers were locked in the mirror. Like an addict, he was game to do anything to get them back. Mom’s side of the family used their deep mystical contacts to aid him. Somewhere along the way, my parents started bumping uglies.
Dad lost patience about the time Mom got pregnant with me. He stormed out, after a really bad argument. A week later, Dad’s powers returned. He flew off and fought crime without a second thought about Mom.
I was born a bit premature. There was nothing special about me—either genetically or mystically. Mom pegged me as a biomystical anomaly. It happened sometimes, when superhumans bred with mystics.
I didn’t mind because fighting crime looked difficult and I had a fat family trust fund in my future. Mom taught me everything she knew, both to look after myself and in case I stumbled across a world-ending crisis. I didn’t mind because I never saw action.
Then, on my twenty-first birthday, I awakened to my first vision of the future . . . and an extra hundred pounds of muscle. Guess I was a late bloomer. With a natural grasp of my powers, I averted a plane crash and saved hundreds of lives. My uncles and Mom took me out to celebrate. They had big plans for me.
The next day, Mom stopped having visions—along with everyone who still honored their ancestral obligation. Meanwhile, I had visions practically every five minutes. Mom called in favors. Within a day, she supplied me with a used costume, gadgets, and planetary comms.
Good thing I could fly at MACH 9.6 and all. But I eventually had to sleep. If I ignored even one threat, I’d lose the family gift forever. Needless to say, everyone on Mom’s side of the bloodline looked into this crisis. Me? I tracked Dad down.
He was in the middle of stopping a coup in some country I could barely pronounce. While happy to see that I had his chin, the old man wasn’t surprised to hear what happened. Back when he left Mom, some guy with a pointy tail tracked Dad down in a bar.
The demon offered him a pact of his own. Very, very drunk . . . Dad laughingly accepted it, just before he blacked out. He claimed not to remember all of the terms of it. It was twenty-one years ago, after all.
Clearly, this deal gave Dad his powers back. The idiot might’ve given his soul away. Still angry from their last argument, he wanted Mom’s powers screwed up and got his wish. When I asked about my soul, the vain prick shrugged.
I asked Dad how long he could go without sleep. He bragged that four months was his personal best. That was my clock then. I asked for his help, to undo this pact. Dad selfishly refused, before he easily punted a main battle tank off a cliff and out to sea.
Finding this demon would be next to impossible. Even if I could, magic was my worst vulnerability. What were the terms of the pact? Could they be undone? How could I figure this out before I failed Mom’s side of the family and forever lost their world-saving ability?
As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I had a vision of a hell portal opening up over the Vatican. I had eighteen minutes to cross the Pacific and stop it. Before I did, I noticed something: Dad had no shadow. It was a sign of an active demonic possession.
Okay then. I’d let Mom know. She’d have to arrange a kidnapping-slash-exorcism, while I kept this up. Something told me that this Vatican hell portal was a trap with my name all over it. Still in character, I made fun of the old man’s cape, and then zipped off to save the world.
NEWSLETTER RANT #111 – 06/04/24
10. THIS LATEST PITCH
I’ve heard my eighth movie pitch of the day. This one had the makings of a big-money flop that might (someday) redeem itself as a cult classic.
What if dwarves existed in the modern world? They were hairy, bearded, short-tempered, and could easily drink us mere humans under the table. Dwarves were also fearless, loyal, ingenious, tough-as-nails, and able to beat up a full-sized sumo wrestler in a straight-on brawl.
That wasn’t absurd.
Were dwarves here the entire time? Nah. This concept was spun from Norse mythology. Apparently, there’s some big honkin’ tree (“Yggdrasil” or something). Attached to it were nine worlds, including ours. One of those other worlds, Nidavellir, was where the dwarves came from.
I was still on board at this point. We could whip up a heroic pack of dwarves (and a token human). They’d quest to vanquish some kind of mystical baddie. Peter Jackson wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near it. Of course, we’d throw in magical blades, guns, and gadgets. This could turn into an importable summertime blockbuster for the Asian, European, and other markets.
So, why did dwarves leave their homeworld? Well, Ragnarok happened. It was Norse mythology’s long-prophesied doomsday event. When it ended, only two of the nine realms remained. One was Earth. The other was Hel, land of the dead.
Huh. That second one made sense. After Ragnarok, there was probably a population boom in Hel. Funny part? Hela, goddess of death, got whacked during the Asgardian apocalypse.
I was hoping for some sort of “zombie Asgardian gods” angle. Alas, nope. The Asgardian deities were dead and gone (unless there was a sequel).
Anyhow, the dwarves fled to Earth and interbred with us humans. You could find ‘em in Scotland, Vietnam, Kansas, or Bangladesh. Their DNA was overwhelmingly human, after so many generations. A chosen few were given some kind of potion that allowed them to fully unlock their dwarven abilities. Eh, this made more sense than some inbred enclave of dwarves in a dimensional pocket.
These chosen dwarven agents protected the Earth from mystical threats—including Hel. Without a sitting death deity to run the show, that world endured vicious cycles of factional civil war . . . until one side finally came out on top: vampires. And that’s where they lost me. Norse vampires?! That’s pretty out there. Then again, if no one’s really done it before . . .
Well, the vampires secured their grip on Hel and wiped out their competition. Then they came sniffing around Earth—and its massive population. The top vamps wanted our blood to both survive and ascend.
How it worked was that a vampire lord/lady turned a bunch of people and sent them out to feed. Those lesser peons, driven by a blood hunger, wouldn’t hold back. Each of their fanged kills would equal a sacrifice to that vampire lord or lady. Given time and enough kills, these alpha vampires would ascend to godhood.
Their evil plan was to have a good, old-fashioned feeding frenzy at humanity’s expense. Then there’d be a vampiric pantheon out there. The only ones who could stop them were, of course, the dwarves. Armorers of the old gods, they could whip up the firepower.
Okay, this might make the Korean film circuit or NetFlix. Especially if the protagonist was a dwarven vampire with free will, vengeance in his heart, and good intentions. I refilled my glass and waited to hear if this pitch came with anything resembling a script . . .
11. OLD-THINK
My colleagues and I witnessed the cremation of Agent Frederick Vidge. He was more than a mentor and friend. For the last eight years, Vidge was the uncle I never had and godfather to my kids. Without his devoted service, I’d be dead by now . . . along with the rest of the world.
We protected the Earth from a variety of extraterrestrial threats. More times than not, we were up against genetically superior hostiles with tech that belonged in a sci-fi film. While we (somehow) kept winning, we had a lot of turnover. A twelve-year man, Vidge had the most field seniority—and luck.
Four years ago, for example, his team stumbled into an Acceterim spore exposure. He caught some of it, slapped on a breather, and then killed his fellow agents before they succumbed to the hive mind. Protocol was for Vidge to secure the site and then blow his brains out. Well, Agency techs just happened to be onsite (in hazmat suits). They dosed Vidge with an experimental detox.
He was quarantined for a year and hit with enough chemo to kill a small town. Vidge’s symbiotic cells were knocked dormant, which was why he didn’t become an Acceterim hive drone. The problem was that, sooner or later, their symbiotes always grew back.
Before their sterile race (technically) went extinct, the Acceterim created a mutagenic spore and launched it into space via ships, warheads, and even asteroids. One of their rocks made it to Earth, survived re-entry, and hit a cruise liner in the Pacific. Barely the size of a fist, it left a nasty dent in the upper hull before it released a gray cloud of spores. Luckily, somebody filmed it and streamed the event.
The Agency learned of the exposure and tasked a satellite to track the ship. Within a half-hour, over three thousand crew and passengers were turned. A hundred or so fell over dead, just because they happened to be immune. That was how Acceterim exposures worked, according to warnings from our alien allies.
Thanks to their intel, the Agency heads knew what to do next.
My dad called Ronald Reagan a “nutbar” for sinking all of that cash into the Star Wars project. If he only knew where that money really went. An Agency satellite fired a projectile at the cruise liner. On impact, the shell emitted a miles-wide pulse that disintegrated everything in range (down to the air molecules).
The problem was that Acceterim symbiotes were psychically linked to an interstellar hive mind. It contained tens of billions of drones, from dozens of worlds. Their goal was to infect every sentient planet in the universe.
For decades now, our alien allies have tried (and failed) to destroy the hive mind. There was no “hive queen” to kill. The link itself couldn’t be destroyed or poisoned. Each Acceterim-occupied world was too heavily defended to destroy.
After the cruise liner exposure, the Acceterim hive knew about us. Infiltration teams were sent to Earth. All they needed was a viral foothold and we were done. Tens of millions of people would die while billions more turned into Acceterim hive drones.
Vidge’s team (barely) blocked a foothold incursion when he was exposed. After that quarantine, those dormant symbiote cells gave him the advantage of a one-way link to the Acceterim hive. With it, he had real-time intel on the enemy.
Vidge became an instant expert on their culture, tactics, and science. The intel he provided was priceless. He designed a vaccine to protect us from future exposures. Once our eggheads verified that it indeed worked, Vidge was reinstated.
Better still, he could warn us whenever the Acceterim sent a team to Earth. We couldn’t just blast their ships from space—or they’d know that we had “eyes” on them. We had to stop them on the ground and make it look like luck and paranoid vigilance.
Vidge quarterbacked most of our containment ops. We had to allow exposures to happen, and then swoop in with perfect containment. None of the infected got away because Vidge knew exactly where they were. Still, innocent people died in the process.
Then we figured something else out. With a few gene tweaks, Vidge could become a “Patient Zero” for a humanity-based hive mind. His spores could make us immune to the Acceterim exposures, as a hive of our own. Then we’d be able to take the fight to them and save countless worlds. Our eggheads confirmed that a human hive variant (with a few fail-safes) was doable. It was our best shot at victory.
The Agency heads laughed the idea out of the room. All of them were ex-field agents with decades of experience. They lost friends and loved ones to all sorts of alien threats and developed a group bias toward non-human life. No way would they have seen the advantages of a human hive—only its flaws. In their paranoid minds, Vidge’s offer was a “Trojan Horse” move. We’d create our own hive mind . . . and then the Acceterim would usurp it.
As it later turned out, those crusty old bastards were right.
After three years of our non-stop victories, the Acceterim pulled the plug on Vidge. Yes, his hive connection was one-way: while he was awake. When the guy slept, it became two-way again. Whatever Vidge learned went right back to the Acceterim hive.
Naturally, they fed him the idea of a human hive mind. Then they waited for someone to get desperate enough to try it. When that didn’t happen, they triggered Vidge.
Four days ago, he took a catnap in one of the Agency break rooms. His symbiote cells triggered and took over his conscious mind. Vidge woke up and headed for the main research lab. It was late. The halls were mostly empty.
Vidge accessed the lab and pulled a fake tissue sample that he had logged there three years ago. According to Forensics, what he really stashed was a viral nuke. If exposed to air, these cells would’ve turned Agency HQ into a mushroom cloud.
Good thing viral nukes took years to properly “ferment.” We were also fortunate that the Agency was run by conservative xenophobes. They zealously oversaw everything Vidge did, down his bowel movements. When he crafted his weapon, they swapped it out with a convincing fake. When the poor guy popped the cork on the test tube, he died from a fast-acting neurotoxin.
With Vidge gone, we lost our best weapon against the Acceterim. Odds were the enemy would hit us with a wave of incursions. They knew the Agency’s containment methods and how best to circumvent them. Barring a miracle, we were doomed.
Our allies offered to assist with an evacuation. The Agency heads politely declined because they didn’t trust them either. My bosses claimed to have weapons and stratagems in place. That’s what scared me. To win the day, they were perfectly willing to frag a cruise liner. In the face of an Acceterim foothold, they’d burn the Earth—just out of spite.
NEWSLETTER RANT #110 – 05/28/24
12. FIFTY-ONE TIMES
My son never had it easy. Dolores died in childbirth. Her crazy-a$$ed family had already turned their backs on us when she got pregnant. Guess they didn’t want her mixing up with my kind.
Timmy was in an incubator for months, then sickly for the first couple of years. With my travels, the best I could give him was a nanny for a mother figure. I took it all on the chin. Life wasn’t fair and all that. He was my son and I loved him.
The kid was smart, like his mom. Near-sighted and painfully shy, Timmy was picked on all through grade school. High school was even worse. He hated sports and just wanted to curl up with a large stack of books. I was fine with that. He was an “A” student with a bright future.
Bullying was an unfortunate, character-defining rite of passage. Timmy was strong enough to weather it. Just the same, I was more worried about his physical safety. That’s why I taught him everything I knew about hand-to-hand.
We even agreed on rules of engagement. Most of the terms were my kid’s idea, which made me quite proud of him. Yep, my son kept a tally. Timmy tracked each instance of his being bullied. He logged it like a diary, down to the minute and location.
After the fifty-first instance . . . there’d be an a$$kicking.
Of course, Timmy had my blessing. I taught him how to destroy people in a variety of ways. I urged my son to make it look clumsy. Like a geek who had been picked on one time too many, threw fists, and just “happened” to crack some ribs along the way.
Then I’d sue the bully’s family for pain, suffering, and threatening my son’s lucrative financial future. After all, this was an expensive boarding school—one that opened doors. My lawyers would argue that this bully had jeopardized Timmy’s sterling academic record through this “traumatic” pattern of blah blah blah.
It would make for an interesting case. My son had a tally, sympathetic teachers, and character witnesses on his side. People who have seen him being bullied would be subpoenaed. Then there were the bullies themselves (idiots that they were), who allowed their friends to record their sins and stream them.
The school should’ve protected my son. Instead, they looked the other way. No worries. We’d sue them too, if they gave Timmy anything worse than a slap on the wrist.
In the end, my son wouldn’t become a bully or kill himself because of one. I’ve seen both during my deployments. That’s why anyone in my son’s “diary,” who got past fifty-one instances, just might catch a second beating—from me.
I’d wait twenty years or so (to make it fair). Then I’d make a judgment call. If the bully matured, he’d get a pass. If not, I might have to possess a loved one and pick a fight. Lucifer love him, my dorky son objected to that part of the plan. He was forgiving, just like Dolores.
His mom was so sweet and kind. It was one of the reasons I went after her soul in the first place. Dolores’ first exorcist was a half-wit. The second one sent me straight back to Hell—but by then, she was knocked up. The infernal conception was purely accidental. I hadn’t inflicted one of those since the Civil War (fun times).
Eh . . . fine. I’ll go Timmy’s way on this. If the bullies cleaned up their acts, they’d end up in Heaven. Goody for them. The ones who didn’t, however, would earn some quality time with me—between my deployments.
13. ABRAMS
Randall Abrams used to be the top criminal defense lawyer in the country (arguably the world). He’s single-handedly beaten teams of prosecutors and made it look easy. Super villains, cartels, and even confessed terrorists walked away from airtight convictions, courtesy of his perfect arguments.
With a relatively small firm and no partners, he charged top dollar. The smart clients paid and saw little (if any) prison time. Somehow, the guy dug up usable dirt that even his clients didn’t know. What was his secret? No one could ever figure it out. Abrams avoided the spotlight, didn’t brag, and lived the life of an unmarried workaholic.
It never occurred to anyone that Abrams wasn’t human, until someone shot him on live television. He had just gotten a case dismissed against a local businessman, whose wife was about to leave him for a long-time lover. In a rage, the client killed his unfaithful wife in front of their daughter (the only real witness).
The case was a slam-dunk, until Abrams got all of the relevant evidence tossed. The strength of the prosecution’s case rested on the traumatized daughter’s testimony. Abrams destroyed her in the cross-examination. The judge grudgingly dismissed the case.
Abrams was on the courthouse steps, in the middle of a statement, when the daughter produced a machine pistol and opened fire. The gal’s clear intent was to kill her dad and Abrams in one sitting. Well, that didn’t happen.
Instead, the defense lawyer stepped in front of his client and caught every bullet fired (all thirty rounds). The accumulated damage cut through his hands. Underneath his palms were hyper-alloy bones. The crowd gasped at the sight. Was Abrams some kind of cyborg or a high-speed robot from the future?
Needless to say, all hell broke loose.
Abrams shrugged it off and finished his statement. Bombarded by questions, the lawyer wisely got out of there. The cops at the scene arrested the daughter and almost cuffed him too. Abrams threatened a record lawsuit if any of them so much as stepped on his shadow. That bought him some time.
An investigation was called, of course. Abrams put together his own legal team and probably told them exactly what to say. The feds wanted to know what he was. They argued that Abrams had some kind of unethical advantage. The defense countered that this “harassment” was a gross violation of their client’s civil rights.
While their arguments were flawless, the judge hearing the case hated supers. Thus, for the first time, the best defense lawyer in the game lost a motion. He was ordered to appear for a full diagnostic exam. Every case he ever touched would be reviewed for any malfeasance.
I wasn’t surprised when Randall Abrams disappeared without a trace. Congress passed a law that barred superhumans (of a certain type) from being lawyers. They were afraid that psychics, super geniuses, and whatever Abrams was could dismantle the legal process. The Supreme Court struck it down as unconstitutional.
After that, a record number of superhumans hit the law schools. What kind? Psychics and super geniuses, of course.
Randall Abrams was never seen or heard from again. Odds were that he walked the streets with a new face and name. He might even be a lawyer.
Each of his court victories was examined and verified to be authentic—along with his time in law school. In the end, it was determined that the “man” won each case fair and square. Huh. Maybe Abrams was just better.
Whether or not that was so, I wondered why a “guy” like that would ever want to be a lawyer in the first place. Why not write award-winning movies, cure cancer, or become a billionaire CEO? Geez! Abrams could’ve just skipped the foreplay and taken over the world.
Hell, maybe he did.
NEWSLETTER RANT #109 – 05/21/24
14. BAD CHOICES
A homicide cop was working a serial killer case, as part of a joint investigation with the FBI. This cop’s kicked in doors and bent all sorts of laws to close in on this faceless menace. Why the tenacity? Did the killer target someone the cop knew and loved? Nah. That’s been done to death.
The cop’s got a unique set of motivations here. At the top of the pile is this one: this serial killer left a trail of bodies and is far from done. Then, all of a sudden, the FBI dropped the case. The cop ignored their excuses and rationales.
Over the last few weeks, this serial killer’s murdered (at least) one person per day. Eventually, the killer got sloppy and left a usable fingerprint at a crime scene. The cop (after a significant delay and some threats) got a name and address from the feds.
Without backup, the cop drove through mayhem traffic and reached the killer’s suburban home. The bad guy’s hastily half-packed, with the firm intention of a one-way departure. They got into a quick shootout. The cop took a round through his vest but stayed upright. Something of a coward, the bad guy surrendered when his gun jammed.
Witnesses started to gather for the arrest. The dying cop ignored them and cuffed his prisoner’s hands behind the back. With the suspect pinned to the grass, he should’ve called for backup and an ambulance for that wound. Instead, the cop put a bullet through the serial killer’s right foot—in full view of everyone.
The cop spat out blood and emptied his gun into the air. Fresh out of spare mags, he tossed the weapon away. More witnesses showed up, drawn by the noise. The killer screamed obscenities—both from the pain and abject terror. The cop separated the handcuff key from his key ring and then swallowed it with a spiteful smile.
And with that, this homicide detective closed his very last case . . . on day twenty-three of a zombie apocalypse. The chase had kept him sane, through the fall of society and the deaths of everyone he knew. With no real survival skills, the cop moved from spot to spot and ate whatever food he could scavenge. If not for this case, he’d have blown his brains out by now. Instead, he’d die a cop.
The killer begged for mercy. The (undead) witnesses are almost upon them. Since the justice system was no more, the cop gave the killer a different sort of “trial.” If the killer tried to limp away (with a hole through his foot), he’d never escape. Zombies were slow but could track blood like hounds. They never tired, either. Odds were they’d eventually make a meal of him.
The killer’s SUV idled nearby, its tank full of gas. Too bad his hands were cuffed. The cop died with a wheezing smile, just before the first zombie bit into him.
This virus infected both the living and the dead. Since the outbreak began, the killer’s murdered people, only to watch them get up within five minutes. Then he’d kill them again (just for fun). With a defiant scream, the killer forced himself upright.
Unable to think through the pain, his terrified mind simply tossed around bad choices. He couldn’t get to the key. He couldn’t make it into his vehicle (unbitten) and drive off. Even if he could get inside and lock himself in, the zombies would smash the glass. Barely able to stand, he wouldn’t make it a block.
Well over a dozen zombies closed in on him. The distracted killer back away, right into the waiting arms of a large, bearded zombie. The startled serial killer turned, just in time for the undead to bite him in the face—
15. ARES PRIME
A Klondo assault fleet had managed to slither past our defenses and hit Ares Prime. When we got word, Sigma Fleet regrouped and jumped into hyperspace without orders. The enemy would reach the planet five hours ahead of us—more than enough time to shatter its defenses and rain fusion bombs on the population centers.
Ares Prime was a juicy target. Due to early losses in the war, some idiot in Fleet Command left them with minimal cruiser cover. And why not? To some amoral Fleet bean counter, Ares Prime was far from the front. Also, it was the galaxy’s largest penal colony. Yet, while it did have some very rough neighborhoods, Ares Prime was also the breeding ground for our best troops.
Once the faraway world was mined out, the worst criminals were dumped there and sentenced to life. The climate was rough. Supplies were dropped in twice a month with no guards or real oversight. Warring prison gangs became warring clans. Warring clans became a unified government. Eventually, to everyone’s surprise, the citizens of Ares Prime never fought amongst themselves again. Since it was a co-ed prison, kids came into the mix and grew up hard. Families were the societal glue that gave the hardened lifers a reason to evolve.
Refugees and outlaws alike tried their luck there—even though anyone who set foot on Ares Prime was automatically sentenced to life without parole. These visitors brought much-needed resources. The planetary government maintained order. Lesser crimes were penalized through fines or broken bones. More serious crimes earned a death penalty.
In the centuries that followed, cities sprouted across the planet. Ares Prime petitioned to join the Galactic Union—as a voting member and a penal colony. To this day, anyone born on Ares Prime could only leave after five years of military service. Proud parents were given government perks if their kids made it through boot camp (from creds to enhanced insurance benefits).
Active-duty soldiers sent their creds home and retired with lucrative skills and contacts. More than a few became combat legends throughout known space. To be from Ares Prime was an enviable badge of honor, especially when the shooting started. They were the coolest under fire and the best of our best.
Now, they were left wide-open for a Klondo hell strike. The hairless aliens didn’t outnumber us. Our tech was about an even match. They just had better tacticians (for a tyrannical empire). It’s why they were kicking the sh*t out of us these days.
While we were losing big ships right and left, the Aresians allowed us to beat them on the ground. Fleet Tactical should’ve anticipated this attack. A planet of one billion, defended by only three cruisers and orbital missile arrays, was easy pickings for the Klondo. They’d glass Ares Prime and cost us future generations of grizzled killing machines.
Then, as if things couldn’t get worse, our relief operation was canceled. Apparently, the Klondo launched a simultaneous attack on the Daedalus XII shipyards. We built the majority of our dreadnaughts there. If we lost that installation, the war was over. Fleet Command ordered all available ships to its defense, including ours.
While a third of our crew were Aresians, we adjusted course and hauled a$$. By the time we got there, it was over. Unlike Ares Prime, the shipyards were pre-fitted with better defenses. The Klondo attack was driven away. While the enemy took heavy losses, they mauled us right back. The shipyard would take months to get back online and eight of our dreadnaughts were slagged beyond salvage.
As for Ares Prime, the Klondo did the unexpected. Once they realized that our relief fleet had been diverted, the sadists took their time. They destroyed the cruisers and orbital defense array. If they wanted, the bastards could’ve dropped entire legions on Ares Prime with their mass teleporters. The Aresians armed up and awaited a ground fight.
Instead, the Klondo mass teleported the entire citizenry of Ares Prime into orbit—all one billion of them. Then they left mini-sats behind, to record and live-stream the re-entry of their victims. It was the ultimate act of psych warfare. What followed wasn’t too surprising.
The next day, the Head of Fleet Command was found dead in her quarters. She ordered the diversion to Daedalus. The aide who strangled her was from Ares Prime. Everyone involved in the decision to divert was murdered within the following week. The “traitorous” soldiers all pled guilty and were sentenced to life imprisonment on their homeworld—a verdict they accepted with proud smiles.
Mass desertions, resignations, and retirements happened throughout GU space. Most Aresian grunts just gave up on the Fleet and headed home. Ships of all sizes rushed to Ares Prime to aid in the recovery effort. Most of them got there before the relief forces did.
Unable to do much more than look on in horror, the Fleet number crunchers realized that they had just lost sixty percent of their ground forces, thirty percent of their naval officer corps (including six admirals), and the proverbial spine of human military might.
In the months that followed, the population of Ares Prime swelled to a half-billion. Defense plants popped up all over, with four shipyards under construction in high orbit. A government was established with an eerie unity. Their first official act was to secede from the GU.
Normally, we’d have declared them a rogue state and pacified them. The citizens of Ares Prime practically dared us to try. Out of guilt, we granted their independence and a generous aid package.
Needless to say, the Klondo kicked our a$$es in the fights that followed—both in space and on the ground. I figured that some kind of lopsided truce would be arranged and concessions given to the Klondo. For a while, there’d be peace and all of that.
But if I knew the Aresians, the Klondo would someday bleed for this (on a planetary scale).
NEWSLETTER RANT #108 – 05/14/24
16. MASTER THOR
In Thor: Ragnarok, Thor had an interesting (kinda cool) first meeting with Dr. Strange. Here’s the link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9fFPLrO3RU
Soon after, Thor watched his father die. Asgard got blown up. He failed to kill Thanos (when it mattered). Half of the universe’s population was erased and Thor blamed himself. The result? The poor guy ended up on a five-year binge of self-pity, video games, alcohol, and fatty foods.
Here’s a thought. What if Thor went to the Sanctum Sanctorum in New York? His desperate goal was to find some clever way to undo Thanos’ massive genocide. Thor rudely ran into Wong and got his butt kicked. The kindly sorcerer saw an ailing soul—and a potential champion.
Wong invited Thor to become his pupil. The thunder god agreed, in the hopes of learning enough theoretical magic to craft a time spell. Wong assured Thor that it was impossible. The stubborn god decided to prove him wrong.
Under Wong’s direct tutelage, Thor mastered sorcery with surprising ease. Aside from being a walking battery of mystical energy, it helped that his training took place in stressful times. Without a Sorcerer Supreme, all manner of evils reared their ugly heads . . . and Thor lopped them off. Over time, the thunder god relied more on sorcery than Stormbringer.
Four-plus years later, Thor earned the title of “Master.” Wong offered him the New York Sanctum. Ready for the next phase of his plan, Thor politely declined.
The god snuck into Valhalla and had a word with Heimdall, who knew plenty of Asgardian lore (including where Odin lost his eye). His father traded it for knowledge. Down to an artificial eye himself, Thor was ready to do the same. He got the details and rushed off to trade.
The funny thing was that the demanded price wasn’t his good eye. No, Thor had to give up Stormbringer. He grudgingly parted with the weapon, endured a rather unpleasant ritual, and then walked away with a sickening abundance of knowledge. At this point, he knew more about magic than the Ancient One.
The rest . . . was cake. Thor fashioned himself an Infinity Gauntlet, wove a time spell, and retrieved every Infinity Stone (right under Thanos’ nose). The Ancient One handed over the Time Stone with a quiet awe. For the others, Thor had to use a combination of magic, wits, and brute force . . . but he got it done.
The Soul Stone was his most difficult challenge. To get it, he had to sacrifice someone he loved. Thor’s solution was to kidnap Jane Foster and fashion a permanent mystical clone of her. Thor then took the real love of his life to the sacrificial mount. Once Jane was informed of the stakes, she volunteered and then took the leap. It was a touching moment, totally necessary, and it worked.
With all six Infinity Stones, Thor snapped his fingers twice. The first erased Thanos and his armies. The second brought everyone back.
On a whim, Thor visited a hospice and gave a dying old woman her youth back. She’d still die of natural causes (in about five years). But until then, she’d be a middle-aged woman. A day later, Margaret “Peggy” Carter tracked down Steve Rogers and proposed. They had a son and daughter before she ran out of time and died in Cap’s arms.
With the Time Stone around his neck, Dr. Strange reclaimed the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme. Thor rejoined the Avengers and ruled New Asgard well enough. All of the Infinity Stones were returned to their original locations, save one. After all, once Thanos stole the Reality Stone, the rest were much easier to get. Thus, Thor took that pesky little bastard and tucked it in the safest place possible: his right eye socket. Then he put an uru metal eyepatch over it . . . and never lost a fight again.
17. EARLY RELEASE
Quite drunk, I awakened within my stasis vault.
They let me design the mile-long structure under a federally owned stretch of Mohave. It was built to my specs, as part of the plea deal. The vault’s personnel were on my dime, including security. In return, I surrendered all eighty of my homemade nukes and shut down my global syndicate.
I only did this because Hannah tearfully begged me to. Essentially my conscience, she saw what I couldn’t—that my powers had darkened me. It wasn’t intentional. The quantum lab accident allowed me to possess machines and manipulate electricity. My expensive intellect augmentation was a mere precaution, so that I could better monitor my health.
Sadly, the mix of powers resulted in a sort of delusional madness and a fascination with world domination. I was in denial, of course. Even after I became one of the top criminal masterminds on the planet. If not for my daughter’s intervention, I would’ve likely destroyed the global order and reshaped it with blood and ego.
It would’ve taken 32.7 years to craft a viable cure. The best alternative treatment was a prolonged stasis sleep, which could gradually reset my grey matter. Hannah took over my legitimate dealings, under the protection of Solomon (my tactical AI). The stasis vault became my home and prison. I was sentenced to fifty-one years of stasis sleep (which was long enough). Hannah promised to leave heirs behind to both run the family holdings and look after me until I awakened.
Fully conscious, it was clear that something was off. Anxious guards unlocked me. I felt my mind begin to race, like it did before I surrendered. That meant I wasn’t cured. Within a few minutes, my energy powers would return too. Hannah rushed in. My lovely daughter had only aged . . . fifteen years?
She looked scared. Something happened. Whatever it was, it must’ve been apocalyptic for me to earn an early release.
Hannah told me the grim news. An AI will take over the world in 2209 and kill eighty-one percent of the human race. No surprise there. Humanity rebelled and barely won the fight . . . only to turn on each other. Again, no surprise there.
As they warred for dominance, over a nuke-ravaged world, one of the losing factions got desperate and resorted to a modified AI (“Nestor”). They figured it would give them a tactical edge. Rather than lead them to victory, however, Nestor rebelled and made them his slaves.
This new menace didn’t try to conquer a dying Earth. Instead, it turned human prisoners into armored cyborg shock troops and sent them into my present. Human creativity plus AI-driven future tech made them unbeatable. The world’s largest militaries were already on the ropes. Heroes and villains alike were dying en masse.
Since neither side wanted to use WMDs, this became a conventional war. Sadly, the enemy had cyborg troops, better armaments, and an efficient tactical hive mind. Within another month, they would win the past.
Just as Hannah finished her debrief, attack alarms went off. Amused (and still crazy), I assured her that I’d clean up this mess. One of the guards asked how I’d do that without any weapons. With a sneer, I snapped my fingers four times.
The walls, ceiling, and floor slid open. Out floated components of my most advanced battle armor. The guards looked on with disbelief. With a proud smile, Hannah simply told the others to give me room to work. My suit’s pieces auto-fastened around me, linked, and self-activated.
Twelve feet tall and plum purple, its internal reactor and weapons systems flared to life. While I hadn’t christened her yet, the battle armor had a top speed of MACH 9.2. Most of its features (including weaponry) were reverse-engineered from alien tech. Now for a quick slaughter . . .
Solomon reported in and welcomed me back. Nestor’s AI matrix was likely based on some of my tech. Fortunately, our descendants were short on super geniuses—none of whom were a match for my intellect . . .
Sh*t. That’s why the enemy was here: they wanted to turn me. Right before my battle armor’s intrusion fail-safes hit me with knockout gas, I turned into pure energy and possessed its systems. Solomon tried to counter my machine possession ability. The struggle was over in two seconds—but I barely won.
Okay. Now I was mad. That sneaky AI b*tch had flipped Solomon! It was one of my proudest achievements and last line of defense. I cracked its memory files and took an unfiltered peek.
During the opening hours of the futuristic invasion, Solomon had warned world leaders, villains, and heroes alike. It also got Hannah (and my three grandsons) to safety. Then it valiantly disabled the first wave of enemy soldiers. Unfortunately, Nestor adapted to Solomon’s hacks and usurped its programming.
This was a cunning adversary. Made me wonder why they jumped into the twenty-first century. Me? I’d have gone back to the early Roman Empire and conquered it within a week. There’d be fewer mouths to rule and more resources to acquire. Ah well. No AI was perfect.
We had to defeat this foe the hard way. Malware and EMP attacks had already been tried. Even if I knew how it came to be, preventing Nestor’s creation wouldn’t work either. Its “brain” would surely be housed within a secured temporal bunker (much like my stasis vault). I couldn’t time travel into the future, because I’d splinter it into different possible timelines.
Okay then. Assuming they weren’t destroyed, my weapons satellites could be modified to emit a global jamming field: something that would negate time travel from the future. Once deprived of supplies and reinforcements, this war might be won the old-fashioned way: by battles.
I could rebuild Solomon (to wreak guerilla-style havoc). I could reach out to some of my alien contacts, and have a few merc legions shipped in. As I mumbled options to myself, Hannah worriedly asked if I was all right. Rather than lie, I sent my battle armor out to kill our “guests” and returned to human form. Once that threat was handled, I’d examine some enemy tech and make the necessary calculations for that jamming field.
Until then, I headed for the nearest bathroom. Only a madman would consume two large burritos, eight Twinkies, and a fifth of Johnny Walker Blue before a stasis lock.
NEWSLETTER RANT #107 – 05/07/24
18. WHODUNNIT
I wasn’t some barely-paying-the-rent gumshoe with a drinking problem and smoky jazz music to go with my inner monologue. Nor was I some quirky wizard, like in those urban fantasy novels. I was just a divorced cop who got tired of watching scumbags beat the system. Then, one fateful day, I closed a homicide case . . . and the victim’s ghost offered to teach me magic.
Millie Duvanne was a cautionary tale with a cute ass. The spectral sorceress taught me the ins and outs of divination magic. In the beginning, I wanted to skip to the more useful stuff (like healing or combat magic). Millie warned me not to make her mistake. Impatience led her to cut a deal so lopsided that she had herself killed. Forced to exist as a walking ghost, her alternative was eternal damnation.
Millie taught me how to solve crimes with only a piece of evidence and the right spell. Then she took over and made with the curses. Like a kid in a magic show, I got to watch the grizzled sorceress do her thing with a quiet awe. Whenever I asked Millie why she agreed to work with me, her answers (insults, really) changed every time.
Well, when it came to “justice by curse,” her punishments always fit the crime. She cursed a violent crew of home invaders with dueling cases of guilt—enough to turn themselves in during their next heist. When some b*tch slipped ransomware into a low-income health clinic, Millie swapped the hacker’s elite skill sets with those of one of the clinic’s janitors—who “cleaned” out the malware in a couple of days.
The feds took on a knife-wielding serial killer case but couldn’t pin him down. Around his fifth victim, I stepped in and mystically IDed him. For the curse, Millie gave the guy a singing neck tumor. It only broke into song whenever the killer went after a victim. Cooler still, anyone who heard this tumor’s awesome baritone became a martial arts savant (until the singing stopped). That’s how his elderly sixth victim broke most of the killer’s ribs and kicked him into the path of an oncoming garbage truck.
Millie and I could’ve done this for decades, until I f*cked it up.
I pulled a homicide case—a child. My spells divined that this kid was connected to other victims, all from different parts of the world. No one had (yet) connected the dots. Pre-mortem runes were carved into each child’s body. Combined, they likely fueled some kind of potent ritual. Millie couldn’t translate the runes but we both knew that these killings had to be stopped.
Unsure of who (or what) we were up against, Millie wanted nothing to do with this. She was unfamiliar with this brand of runic magic. Also, the killer(s) had a global reach. That made her nervous. We might be up against anything from a psychotic dabbler to a lesser death god. After a vicious round of arguments, my long-time partner cut ties and warned me to let it go.
Never. I’ve seen Millie do enough curses to try one of my own. It was a two-fisted masterpiece. The first half of it blessed the souls of the murdered children. It was a long shot, seeing as sacrificed souls were usually gobbled up during such rituals. But what if those souls were being held somewhere, for future use? The second half of the curse fed my blessing with the soul(s) of their killer(s), like a reverse sacrifice. Seemed poetic to me.
I covered my tracks, burned up some vacation time, and left town. A day later, faceless minions kicked in the door to my hotel room. They literally lacked faces. I barely got to my gun before all eight of them blitzed me. Several kicks to the face and body later, I was helpless. They weren’t gonna stop—
Until Millie stopped them. Her attack spell turned them into puppies. The ghost angrily called me all types of fool, while the puppies licked my face. I was in a bad way. Just before I blacked out, I watched my partner get sucked through the floor. Destination: Hell. Somehow, Millie’s actions had compromised her tenuous grip on the mortal world.
And she gave it up for me.
The next day, I woke up in a hospital. Every ache and pain in my body was gone. I should’ve been in the ICU, on life support, with broken bones aplenty. Instead, I hopped out of my hospital bed and found clean clothes in the closet. As I dressed, a well-dressed guy walked in.
He waved a badge, didn’t introduce himself, and filled in the blanks. Those kids who died? Their souls stumbled into Heaven because of me. My blessing was undone within minutes—but by then, it was too late. According to the “detective,” these killings were periodically done to conceal a group of doomsday mystics from Fate itself. When I disrupted their ritual, Heaven noticed and took the appropriate actions. In short, these mystics won’t hurt anyone else ever again.
I asked about Millie. Tears formed in my eyes when he told me that her soul was now damned. However, there was nothing in the deal that forbade “care packages.” Then he touched my forehead and I saw Millie in Hell.
She wore golden chainmail armor and a perfect pair of angel wings. A burning silver halo floated over her head. At the moment, Millie was in the middle of a slaughterfest. With an evil smile and a pair of longswords, she beheaded yet another demon’s carcass. By now, my former teacher stood atop a pile of them.
The warrior angel seemed to notice us and turned our way. Millie flashed me a half-smile, shook her head, and called me a “moron” one last time. Then she resumed her eternal fight. The guy severed contact and assured me that she’d never fall. I thanked him. We shook hands and he left.
A half-second later, an envelope landed on my bed. Curious, I opened it up. It was a job application, from Heaven itself. The position was for a field agent (like the one who just left). Huh.
Millie’s first rule of magic was simple enough: trust nothing. I ripped the application into tiny pieces and piled them on the floor. Then I cast a divination spell. Sure enough, the paper came from Hell itself. The ink was pure demon’s blood—the kind preferred for soul pacts. Had I been just a bit dumber, they’d have tricked me into signing mine away.
19. FATHER SANCHEZ
After three days of Driftspace travel, the Obama’s shakedown cruise didn’t disappoint. The Seminole-Class light destroyer was a prototype masterpiece. Better stealth, next-gen weaponry, and even heated toilets were just a few of its amenities. A skeleton crew of eighteen ran the ship, which normally held 402.
We Driftjumped into the Dytton Cluster, for a quick patrol run. Devoid of habitable worlds, it was flush with viable asteroid fields. Seven mining stations were set up around there. Swarms of mining drones cut minerals from these massive space rocks and brought them in for processing. Every two weeks, mining craft were supposed to come in and haul the processed ores to different destinations.
The Obama’s tac alerts went off. The ship’s AI reported hostile activity in Dytton. Five of the mining stations were destroyed. The remaining two were being raided by a fleet of twelve pirate craft. Captain Feicum tried to send a warning to NEBCOM but a jamming field blocked our signal. Feicum ordered the Obama to go stealth, weapons hot. Then he ordered an ID on the pirates.
That’s when our AI blinked out. It wasn’t a systems glitch either. This was a damned system crack! Of all the space pirate clans out there, only the Grendels were good enough to crack our systems—or crazy enough to try. The outfit was headed by a group of mad geniuses, who pushed the limits of existing science. Their minions were cloned from the best soldiers, criminals, and spies in known space. Each clone was brainwashed into service and swapped out when killed.
The Obama’s firewall enhancements were designed to combat Grendel hackers. The problem with these mods was that they were only as useful as the security of the damned specs. To crack us this quickly meant that someone in Fleet Command sold them to the Grendels—along with our most current access codes. Captain Feicum ordered the AI to do a malware purge and entered his command override code. Nothing happened.
I found myself locked out of my console, along with everyone else on the bridge (and probably the ship). It would take us hours to regain control of the ship, assuming the AI didn’t kill us first. A holoscreen appeared at the center of the bridge. It warned of an outgoing breach portal. Sh*t! The Obama’s portals were experimental. Even our spacecraft carriers didn’t have them yet because the science behind them was too volatile.
Breach portals were game-changers in a fight. Within seconds, we could roll an anti-ship missile onto an enemy’s bridge or send a relief team into hostile territory without a ship. In theory, one could traverse galaxies through a breach portal.
Constant location calculations and micro-adjustments had to be made—since ships, planets, and everything else in space tended to move about. Any “miscalculations” could make a breach portal suddenly move through a hull and out into cold space. With two-way access, that would’ve been bad for everyone involved.
Even worse, breach portals aged the body. The further one went, the more drastic the aging. That’s why they were outlawed, save for military use.
A portal appeared near the crew quarters. Out rushed four heavily armed Grendel pirates. They closed in on one of the rooms—but why? All of us were on duty . . . except for Father Gonzalez.
He was just hitching a ride to Terra XIV. Apparently, President Barack Obama was a direct ancestor of his. Aside from blessing the ship (and hearing a few confessions), the Jesuit barely left his quarters. What would pirates want with a ship’s chaplain? The pirates rushed into Father Gonzalez’s quarters—
Then the screaming started.
A quick burst of stray fire stitched through the doorway. Covered in pirates’ blood, Father Gonzalez cautiously stepped out. The short, round Jesuit carried a GR-07 plasma carbine like he knew how to use it. When he spotted the breach portal, he angrily ordered the Obama to deactivate it, purge all external malware, and destroy the hostiles. When the AI didn’t reply, Father Gonzalez spat out a nine-digit command override code.
The AI blinked out again. When it came back on, the breach portal disappeared. I tried my console and saw that I wasn’t locked out. The Obama went stealth and opened fire. All twelve Grendel ships became visible as disruptor beams hammered their shields. The Obama’s countermeasures slagged any missiles they sent our way.
Within seconds, eight of the pirate ships were blown apart. The remaining four scattered and tried to jump for Driftspace. The Obama’s guns destroyed one more and crippled another. Rather than chase the last two, Captain Feicum ordered us toward the mining stations, for search and rescue.
So ended the first battle of the Obama. How did Father Sanchez save our a$$es back there? Well, we later learned that he just happened to be a retired vice admiral, who got bored and went to divinity school. Once he got out, Father Sanchez re-enlisted as a chaplain. Thanks to his old contacts, the former vice admiral didn’t lose full command access.
What did the Grendels want him for? His secrets? Clonable DNA? Or maybe to sell him to an old enemy? I had the nagging suspicion that Father Sanchez was about to come out of retirement and find out.
NEWSLETTER RANT #106 – 04/30/24
20. THE KING’S LABYRINTH
King Brodirith sent his High Emissary to my door. The perfumed little man, in his fancy clothes, made me want to cut his purse right then and there—for old time’s sake. Alas, I was a (mostly) honest man now. Married to a wealthy merchant’s daughter, I bought my pardon nine winters ago. Then I tripled my father-in-law’s wealth with my wits instead of my blade.
The Felnari king used to offer heavy coin for our heads. We disbanded after Cornath, our cunning leader, died from a headman’s ax. Most of my fellow thieves struck out on their own and died soon after. Far as I knew, the ones who survived did so because they chose the honest life.
On behalf of the king, the High Emissary asked for my aid. Brodirith meant to construct a burial labyrinth and wanted to make it impregnable. Among Cornath’s many qualities was the ability to bypass traps and raid wealthy tombs. Since the wily thief had practically raised me, it stood to reason that I knew plenty about tombs—and I did. The king’s mouthpiece offered me three chests of gold. I politely demanded five.
When the High Emissary agreed, I told him to expect me in the capital in two days. Once he left, I warned my wife and sons to find a fast ship and flee to the east. Then I hastily packed, saddled my fastest horse, and rode north. The king’s offered fee was too good to be trusted. This had to be a trap. But what kind?
Labyrinth tombs were an expensive and outdated tradition. Even with the aid of mages and clerics, the massive underground structures took years to complete. These days, dead kings were burned on funeral pyres. It was quick, cheap, and practical. Brodirith wasn’t an ostentatious king (at least, no more than the usual type).
No. This tomb wasn’t for him. Well, another thing Cornath taught me was this: the most “impregnable” tomb labyrinths were built to lock away dangerous things. Even worse, whenever a burial labyrinth was built, everyone who helped build it was put to death. That way, no one could reveal the tomb’s secrets. Brodirith must have feared that I’d be persuaded (or forced) to break into his labyrinth. So he wanted me dead.
Full of questions, I rode for the mountain realm of Naemod. There lived a true oracle, Piam, who owed me his life. He could see years into the future. Best of all, he was never wrong. As we dined at his home, I called in the debt and asked for a glimpse of my future. Piam cut a lock of my hair, twisted it between his fingers, and frowned at what he foresaw.
In two winters, Brodirith’s labyrinth would be completed. Piam told me that I was right. There’d be no king’s tomb, surrounded with piles of treasure and mummified minions. There’d only be layers of traps, defensive wards, and the royal headsman’s ax.
The long-used, indestructible weapon was passed down from headsman to headsman. What no one knew was that it was cursed to sacrifice the souls of everyone ever slain by it. According to Piam, it severed thousands of heads. Each victim’s soul went to Midranthuul. The many-faced Lord of Vengeance cursed the weapon as part of a pact he made with some long-dead witch.
According to Piam, the crone eventually lost her head to that very same ax. Her vengeance was centuries in the making. In three years, the moon would cross the sun. On that day, the power of the headsman’s ax would be harvested—and those sacrificial executions would enable her vengeance.
On the appointed day, an army would simply appear around the ax. They’d look human. They’d have horses, weapons, and armor. They wouldn’t know thirst, pain, fear, hunger, or fatigue. Each demon-spawned warrior would have the accumulated wisdom of every prisoner ever beheaded by that ax—from the lowest deserter to the highest traitor to that damned witch herself. Also added to this pot of dangerous qualities were those of Carnath himself. He was the ablest leader I ever knew. This army could not stop its rampage until Felnar was in ruins. And for every life they took, four fresh soldiers would appear.
But first, this army had to escape the Labyrinth . . .
It was a clever ploy. The traps and defenses would exact a heavy toll on this mystical army—perhaps enough to aid in its defeat. Then Piam warned that Brodirith’s efforts would fail.
Once that happened, Midranthuul’s slaughter could only be halted in two ways. The first was for the headsman’s ax to be used upon the current king of Felnar. Piam warned that such a feat could prevent the raising of this army or banish them from the mortal plane. The second way to end the curse was to let it run its course. Once everyone in Felnar was dead, then the army would return to its master’s hell. My guess? Brodirith would flee Felnar, abandon his people to slaughter, and then return once the killing was done.
A dangerous plan began to form. I needed to rouse every thief and assassin I knew. We needed to steal that ax and kill Brodirith with it. If not, our homeland would fall to ruin. It was impossible—but the only real choice.
Just as I finished my third cup of wine, I noticed a familiar taste . . . of olyra venom. The honeyed poison sent me to the oracle’s floor like a helpless sack of flour. I couldn’t move. Soon, neither would my heart.
Yet, I tried to ask Piam why. The oracle knelt over me and explained that he warned the king about the headman’s ax a fortnight ago. Once Brodirith confirmed that a cursed weapon was being used in his court, he paid Piam eight chests of gold. After all, the labyrinth was the oracle’s idea.
Piam then turned my head. Under the very table where I was poisoned was the real headsman’s ax! The accursed weapon was wrapped in a length of crimson-and-gray silk—the kind worn by priests of Midranthuul. The labyrinth was part of the demon lord’s grand scheme.
When the moon next blocked the sun, Brodirith would surround the worthless tomb with his armies—and wait for an enemy that would pour through (unopposed) from wherever Piam placed that cursed weapon.
If I had any air left in my lungs, I’d laugh. Only Cornath was this cunning . . .
NOTE: This would make for a sick gaming campaign. About a month before that eclipse, the adventurers could be hired by the merchant’s family to find out what happened to their long-lost husband/daddy. The trail could lead to Piam (a descendant of that witch and a cleric of Midranthuul). The oracle could steer them toward the King’s Labyrinth and a fake ax.
And then what . . . ?
21. WASTED DREAMS
Polliker Colony was a cautionary tale about the perils of interstellar colonization and the costs of blind, incessant greed.
The Earth-type planet was on the edge of the Interstellar Union and came with a mature sun and four moons. It was surveyed, approved, given three garrisons, and tagged for long-term colonial development. Word was that Polliker was slated to become a vital supply stop area for IU exploration runs beyond the Rim.
The place was more fun than the typical colony. The climate varied with oceans aplenty. The women were “uncomplicated.” Even the animals were tasty. The only nuisance was the red pollen. It was pervasive and f*cked with the sinuses of anyone with allergies (like myself). Even when I went skiing, high up in the mountains, there was red pollen in the air.
Back when the world was discovered, I heard Congress chatter about a bill to do some low-grade terraforming (for the pollen). It failed in committee because the method was deemed too “time-consuming and expensive.” What no one realized at the time was that this pollen was mutagenic.
Twenty years after colonial construction began, everything went to hell on Polliker. First, twenty percent of the population—the original colonists—couldn’t sleep. A few committed suicide. Autopsies were done. What was in their brains? Traces of that damned pollen, courtesy of a prolonged exposure.
The Interstellar Union was a vast patchwork of worlds with varying means of government. What kept humanity from being extinct were a few common rules. One of them involved possible interstellar pandemics. Anyone from Polliker was instantly quarantined—which saved us all.
In short order, the ones with the prolonged exposure went crazy, then crazy-strong. The third and final phase of the so-called “Pollen Rage” plague was that it was severely contagious. Anyone who’d never been to Polliker could turn within a matter of days.
All three colonies' garrisons quickly fell to swarms of rabid colonists. A lucky few made it to the spaceports and fled. The governor was smart enough to blow every spaceworthy ship on the way out. They were met by a relief fleet and immediately quarantined. A few were beyond saving and got “put down.”
Everyone thought that a cure was probably years away. As it turned out, it already existed in the form of an expensive serum that utterly shut down emotional responses. In essence, it made the user heartless for a month. Whenever the combat nightmares got bad, I dosed on it and balanced out fine when it wore off. It counteracted the initial symptoms of Pollen Rage. Combined with some outpatient brain surgery, the ones who got away were cured and cleared. Good for them.
Back on Polliker, IU eggheads sent in spy satellites and conducted a tactical survey of the situation. The afflicted didn’t turn on each other (except over mates and food). Yet, they unanimously turned on anyone who wasn’t fully “turned” by the Pollen Rage. Somehow, they could just tell.
They broke down into savage little tribes. Some kept to the cities while others moved into the wild. They could outrun most four-legged creatures with ease, regenerate (within seconds) from physical injuries, and never slept. A few were even smart enough to handle modern weaponry.
That stalled terraforming bill sailed through Congress. Fancy that. The argument? Polliker was too large to just abandon—even with the “afflicted” colonists still there. In other words, they’d send us jarheads in to clean up their mess (yet again). Then they’d clear away the bodies and lure in the next generation of colonists. The problem was that the surviving “Ragers” of Polliker numbered in the millions and were annoyed when shot below the head.
Some tool suggested that we simply cure them. For that to work, they’d have to be tranqed with dragonfly drones and then routinely dosed. If not, the colonists’ fast-burning metabolisms would grant them an immunity to the serum. Within seventy-two hours, they’d revert to viral killing machines. Costs and logistics aside, it was just too risky.
Nukes were ruled out because of the trillions invested in the colony (what was left of it). Nerve gas was nixed by the environmentalists (losers). Besides, Congress did the math and realized that dead colonists were cheaper than cured ones—who’d likely sue them for this Grade-A clusterf*ck.
That meant we had to go in there and bleed. Marines would lead the assault, backed by armor jocks and close air support. If any of the colonists were taken alive, they’d get the serum. The rest would become target practice. It might take years to get ‘em all.
What a waste of dreams.
NEWSLETTER RANT #105 – 04/23/24
22. R2-D2’s WRATH
In Star Wars: A New Hope, Princess Leia tried to deliver the Death Star plans to the Rebel Alliance. Before Darth Vader captured her, she slipped the plans on R2-D2. Leia sent the feisty little droid to Tatooine, with instructions to deliver the Death Star plans to Obi-Wan Kenobi.
After a roundabout string of messed-up choices, the heroes ended up on the Death Star. They “wandered” around the massive space station, rescued Princess Leia, and yadda yadda. At one point, R2-D2 hacked the Death Star’s garbage compactor system and saved them: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6u3QInIMVME.
Then it hit me. R2-D2 had the F*CKING Death Star plans in its processor for most of the film . . . like a thumb drive. What if it located the Death Star’s weak spot, gave C-3PO a copy of the plans, and then remained behind?
The heroes fled with a planted Imperial homing device on the Millennium Falcon. They led the enemy right to Rebel Alliance HQ. The Death Star’s sent in to destroy it. An overlooked R2-D2 found a quiet, empty room and feverishly hacked. Even if the latest access codes weren’t in the Death Star plans, that little droid had physical access to the station. With enough time it could’ve hacked through anything.
The Rebels scrambled every fighter they had. The Death Star’s sensors picked them . . . right before they “malfunctioned.” None of the alarms went off. The elevators cut off too. TIE fighter pilots hopped into their fighters but the fighter hangar systems didn’t activate and line them up for launch. In fact, the hangar bays inexplicably decompressed and sucked the flight crews into space? Then the outer defense turrets powered off for a routine diagnostic. Gee, I wonder why?
The Rebels hit the Death Star, virtually unopposed. Any fighters that happened to be on patrol were easily shot down. Then they found the exhaust port and dropped a torpedo down the shaft on the first try. Over a million stormtroopers, a bunch of high-ranking Imperial officers, and Darth Vader could’ve gone “BOOM” without a single Rebel casualty.
In this alternate reality, the little droid earned itself a statue for single-handedly crippling the Death Star for five minutes or so. [Sniffle]. No, I’m not crying. [Sob] Rest easy, stout fellow!
23. THE BIOGRAPHER
It’s a tricky job that I have.
Technically, Mom was my first client. According to her journals, the clinical psychopath had a wild youth. Rather than spread her legs for a rich guy (and live the easy life), Mom left a trail of male victims across ten states. Then a “fling” brought me into the world. She gave up serial murder, buried her past, and raised me like an overindulgent suburban mom. The spoils of her well-to-do victims were laundered, invested, and became our sole source of income.
Mom researched her targets like a forensic shrink. It enhanced the thrill of the hunt for her to know the victim better than he knew himself. Mom’s journals never explained why or how she picked her kills. If anything looked amiss, she’d cancel an “appointment” and wait for better conditions. She was never arrested or even questioned by the authorities.
Only one victim, Dad, ever saw her coming.
The retired hitman spotted her days prior. He must’ve figured that she was sent by one of his enemies. He planned to go to bed with a loaded gun and set up a Q-11 Shockwire at the door. She’d trip over it, eat some volts, and end up helpless. Then, after some Q&A, he’d blow her head off.
His plan actually worked. Mom tripped, got tased, and fell. But Dad couldn’t take advantage, because she had spiked his bourbon earlier that day. The first glass of it put him on the floor. A few hours later, Mom landed right on top of him.
And that’s how they met.
Her journal was vague on what happened after that. Three days later, Dad was dead and she was pregnant. A week later, his corpse was discovered—beaten to death. The cops called it a robbery gone wrong. His private safe was emptied and some antiques were stolen. They never realized that he was a hitman because Mom covered his tracks. Case closed.
Nine months later, she put his name on my birth certificate. Then she hid the document from me until her death. I was in college at the time of her fatal heart attack. That piece of paper and her journals were the darker side of my inheritance. Mom wanted me to follow in her footsteps. She hoped and prayed that I’d see the world through her eyes.
Thankfully, I couldn’t. Still, I wrote a biography on Mom and made a ton of money . . . only to lose it in court. Lawsuits galore came at me, from the relatives of her many victims. Then things got weird. I was approached to do biographies . . . by other serial killers.
Some were active. Others were in jail. A rare few were “kinda” retired. Mom even mentored a few of them, back in her day. They liked my writing style. I liked their cash.
My rules were simple enough. There’d be no in-person contact. All interviews would be done on encrypted phones. The biography would only go out on the dark web, in the guise of fictional works. Aliases would always be used.
The risks were interesting. Bootlegged copies of my work kept ending up in the hands of law enforcement. More than one cop or fed wondered how my “fiction” so closely resembled actual serial murders. Well, I hired better lawyers this time and they kept me out of jail (for now). Sooner or later, I’d probably end up under surveillance and/or targeted by a federal sting operation.
On top of that, the occasional murderous client was dissatisfied with the quality of my work—sometimes to the point of death threats. Thanks to Mom, I knew how serial killers stalked. Like Dad, I took the appropriate precautions.
Was all of this worth it? Yep. It was 2184 and a damned yacht cost less than the interest on my student loan debt. A few million more and my Journalism degree will be worth a damn.
NEWSLETTER RANT #104 – 04/16/24
24. THE LAZARUS PIT
Superman vs. Doomsday turned into a vicious slog of a fight. In the end, they both killed each other and left billions in property damage. Eventually, of course, Superman returned to life and yadda yadda. Time to play with this a bit . . .
What if Batman, being the paranoid S.O.B. that he was, had a tracker implanted in Superman’s body (prior to burial)? The coffin was layered in sensors and a cloaked Justice League satellite kept a twenty-four-seven vigil from high orbit . . . and still Lex Luthor managed to steal the body!
About three days after the funeral, Superman’s corpse was delivered to Ra's al Ghul. The Lazarus Pit they chose was prepped just for the Man of Steel. It was surrounded by red sunlight emitters, to negate his powers. Minions stood ready (with kryptonite batons and tranq rifles). Superman was lowered in. Out came a resurrected Kryptonian with a bout of temporary insanity. The minions tranqed Superman and locked him down. Then Luthor brought in the very expensive telepaths . . .
Meanwhile, Batman ran a routine check on Superman’s grave site and noticed a discrepancy. He rushed to the site, confirmed the missing body, and then called in the Justice League. Heavy hitters showed up and waited for him to figure out where to go and whose arms to break. Unfortunately, their investigation began about a month too late.
By then, Luthor’s telepaths flipped Superman’s psyche from the inside out. They pulled every secret from his head and turned him into a polite, ruthless sociopath. An amoral threat with surprising humility. Someone capable of saving the Earth, only because he liked the food.
Then Ra’s al Ghul brought in the mystics. They squeezed out every shred of goodness in Superman’s soul. Then they erased his loyalties to anyone who ever mattered to him (even his dog). Did they shred or alter his memories? Nope. Did they put in fail-safes, to keep him in line? Of course. Then they gave Superman the name of a good divorce lawyer and simply let him loose . . .
Could this bizarre brainwashing be reversed? Probably not.
Superman retreated to his Fortress of Solitude and began designing Kryptonian tech. One of his first inventions was a black-and-red costume that could dissipate kryptonite and red sun radiations. Layered with gadgets, it even protected him from psychic energies. In the evenings, he studied magic—courtesy of the mystics who worked on his soul. They were more than happy to share their secrets.
By the by, if you’re interested in a warped retelling of the “Death of Superman,” try this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0PlwDbSYicM. If this reality’s resurrected Superman was no longer a hero, what would he do to those four wannabes? Something epic, most likely.
25. THE SCULPTRESS
At last week’s Fan Expo event, I finished my final review of The Antagonists’ Cookbook, Vol. 3. One of those character “Recipes” intrigued me. What if a lady could make any non-mystical metal melt with but a thought? Her power was a psychic cousin of the magnetism ability that didn’t fit into any neat, descriptive box.
With physical contact, she could make her melted metals wrap around her (like armor). Then her organs would turn into that very same material. In the absence of metal, this “armor” power couldn’t work.
Made me wonder what she’d do with it. A gold thief would’ve been a bit tacky. Same for an overly destructive super villainess in a mask and tight spandex. Then it hit me.
Her super power manifested during a stressful plane crash. Everyone else died—including her parents. The gal instinctively turned bits of the falling plane into liquid metal and armored up, just before impact. Huh. What if an intense fear of flying made her subconsciously liquefy the plane and cause the crash? Either way, she figured out how to turn human again before anyone found her. Covered in bruises, her survival was called a “miracle.”
Her estranged grandpa (a retired super villain) shipped her off to boarding school. Did she tell him about her powers? Nope. She mastered her abilities in secret. Once grown, the clever gal killed him and inherited a fortune. She then used the money to track down her late grandpa’s active criminal contacts and offered her services.
Fast-forward a decade. Folks called her “The Sculptress” and did so in frightened whispers. That metalshaping power of hers came with an extreme range. While she couldn’t liquefy an entire building, Sculptress could turn an armored car into liquid metal—from up to 121.8 miles away. If a SWAT team annoyed a client, she could liquefy their weapons and vehicles without being in the same county.
Scarier still, Sculptress could project her senses through any metal that she manipulated. Thus, she could turn a penny into wet copper and eavesdrop. Or she could reform that penny and turn it into a rolling drone. That’s right. She learned how to morph melted metals into solid, fast-moving constructs.
Some of her “sculptures” were merely a few inches tall, stronger than they looked, and were useful for discreet sabotage. Other times, she wasn’t so subtle. Sculptress once melted a main battle tank, shifted it into a copy of Bruce Lee (complete with nunchucks), and then crushed a low-grade hero team like they were kittens. When the fight was over, she left the metal construct behind . . . covered in hero’s blood.
In case you’re interested, the core powers for this idea came from Recipe #581 (“Technomorphic Outlaw Smoothie”) of The Antagonists’ Cookbook, Vol. 3. I used other Recipes for the secondary stuff.
NEWSLETTER RANT #103 – 04/09/24
26. THE LITTLE HUMAN BOY
In the Star Trek universe, a Klingon trade ship heads home. Along the way, it gets a distress signal on a non-Klingon frequency. The captain grudgingly investigates. After all, there might be something worthy of salvage. By the time they arrive, the distressed ship is destroyed by some kind of spatial anomaly. They scan the debris for survivors and find an escape pod. Inside are a human female and her son, a boy of three.
The mother begs them to save her son and then dies from her injuries. The crew wants to abandon the boy to the mercies of space. The captain, however, has no sons of his own. He adopts the boy and raises him as a Klingon—alongside his four daughters.
Fast-forward through some very rough decades and the kid’s now an engineer on a Bird of Prey. He’s seen action against both the Federation and the Dominion. He’s on a par with top-flight Starfleet engineers. Even better, he’s psychotic (possibly a result of his upbringing). Despite the obvious, this guy sees himself as a Klingon. Dispute the claim and expect to be challenged to a duel on the spot (and lose).
He’s well-versed in human culture, so that he may better understand (and kill) them. Does he ever look up his relatives? Of course. He kills them (for closure) and makes it look like an accident.
Then, one day, the Klingon High Command summons him with a most unique mission: to assassinate [insert famous Star Trek character]. While they don’t tell him why, he’s up for the challenge. Imagine this as a novel or episode. Especially if the guy is savvy enough to infiltrate DS-9 or the Enterprise.
Who’s the target? Picard? Worf? Sisko? Or maybe all three . . .
27. “JUST MARRIED”
It was the perfect crime with noble intent.
All of us had legitimate beefs with the police, City Hall, and especially the D.A. Turned out that all of them were corrupt as sh*t. The cops and courts were routinely paid to ignore certain players—or anyone with a big enough bribe.
I didn’t really care . . . until they killed Andrea. She stumbled across a rumor that a municipal credit union was being used to launder their illicit funds. An ambitious freelance reporter, she didn’t come to me for help because she thought I’d ruin her story. While I was a two-strike felon, I could’ve kept my ex-girlfriend safe.
When they fished her out of the river, I waited for the cops to close the unsolved case. Then I opened my own. Most of Andrea’s files got “lost” on the way to the evidence room. A few of her braver sources opened up to me. Within a month, I knew what had to be done.
I pulled a crew together. They all grew up with Andrea and saw what I saw in her—a crusader who was too good for our ‘hood but never left or stopped caring. This wasn’t about money. We wanted payback.
The bank’s branch manager had a hidden safety deposit box built into his desk. The key to it was around his neck. Inside it was a storage device with the “dirty” files we needed. I knew people who could crack the files and leak ‘em just right.
On the chosen day, I went in under the pretense of a car loan meeting. The branch manager was in his office, about to wrap up an appointment. I was next on his schedule. When the action started, my guys would do the heist and deal with the surveillance. I’d K.O. the manager, steal the files, put a mask on, and get the f*ck out.
I had two getaway drivers, two switch cars, three safe houses, and enough alibis to confuse God. The rest was in the execution. So I waited. With three minutes to go, a red Honda screeched to a halt in the parking lot. It had long strings attached to a buncha empty cans, and “Just Married” painted on the back.
Out rushed the groom. The red high-top Nikes clashed with his gray rental tux. Maybe twenty-three, the sweaty brutha looked more pissed than anxious. The security guard (a black ex-cop) profiled him within seconds and unfastened his gun holster. Dirty as dirt, he was kicked off the force and earned triple his old salary at this job.
I wasn’t worried. My guys would wait until I hit “Like” on a harmless Facebook post. That was their cue to come in.
The kid waited impatiently in line. Fortunately, the tellers here weren’t slow. He stepped up and we all overheard his dilemma. The kid was about to get married in an hour. His brother’s check for the reception hall bounced. The groom wanted to dip into his savings and get a cashier’s check. It was an easy fix. The guard seemed to relax. The teller began to oblige him.
The manager showed his appointment out and started to greet me, when a different crew of bank robbers rushed in! What. The. F*ck?!
I counted four masked thugs with automatics. The security guard drew his piece. Did he shoot at the robbers? No. He angrily shot the groom right in the back. Then he jammed his gun to the kid’s head and told the robbers to drop their guns—or he’d finish their friend.
Unamused, one of the robbers lit him up—but didn’t hit the groom. Then they resumed their heist. All we could do was watch the poor kid bleed out while the robbers did what they came to do. They ignored the surveillance and made off with a nice haul in a couple of minutes.
Their getaway driver pulled up in a rusty black SUV (probably stolen). My guys were smart enough to let ‘em go. If they didn’t hear from me in an hour, they’d assume I was capped and act accordingly.
I had pressure on the wound . . . not that it mattered. The dying groom unlocked his phone and begged us to call his fiancée. He wanted to die married so that she’d have his bennies. The branch manager dialed up. When the bride’s cute face appeared on the screen, she screamed at the sight.
I relayed the kid’s dying wish. Their pastor rushed over and skipped the pre-vow B.S. The young couple swapped vows over a smartphone, just before the groom (Omar) died. Over her sobs, I could practically hear the wheels turn in the branch manager’s head. He had a ton of evidence to hide and destroy—including whatever was in his desk—before the feds began to dig into his bank’s dealings.
A minute after poor Omar’s eyes went lifeless, cops swarmed the bank. They realized that there was nothing useful to do but wait for the detectives and forensics. Then one of the cops recognized the dead groom. It turned out that Omar was a first-year cop. No wonder he wanted his missus to get the bennies.
I’d have laughed if it wasn’t so tragic. There was literal blood on my hands. This wasn’t my fault. It just felt that way. Like Andrea, the poor guy was just another victim.
News vans rolled up as a crowd began to form. Our original plan was busted. Still, I could salvage this. An innocent black cop was shot in the back and taken hostage by a security guard. Even without the vow footage, this story would go viral like lightning.
The reporters and camera crews rushed out. I glared down at my bloody hands. Yeah, I could bring these bastards down. All I had to do was get in front of a camera with genuine outrage and the right words . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #102 – 04/02/24
28. THE REAL CARTER BURKE
The things you find on Facebook: https://www.marvel.com/articles/comics/alien-what-if-series-paul-reiser
I think the blurb was: “What if Carter Burke (from Aliens II) didn’t die?” Personally, I can’t see how he’d possibly survive a mushroom cloud the size of Nebraska. Still, anything’s possible in sci-fi (just ask Ripley’s character). Still, that’s some weird-hanging plot fruit, yeah?
Here’s a more challenging idea (in my opinion): “What if Carter Burke wasn’t a villain?” I don’t mean misunderstood or anything like that. What if he was a good guy?
Now, if you haven’t seen Aliens, then just buy it. It belongs in your collection and “backsplaining” it wouldn’t work here.
After Ripley's unpleasant Company hearing (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkBhLjwuq20), Carter Burke went out for some much-needed drinks. His booze was spiked and a Company grab team took him away. Their sinister plan was for the Hadley’s Hope Colony to become a xeno breeding ground. A synthetic copy of Carter Burke was already created and programmed to bring a specimen back to the Company labs.
The plan started off well enough. Fake Carter Burke ordered the colonists to have someone scout the location of the crashed ship (full of alien eggs). He inserted a virus to screw with the colony dish, so they couldn’t call for help. The real Burke was locked in a stasis pod—in a safe house—in case they needed a patsy.
When Earth lost contact with the colony, the Company didn’t mind. They’d love to see Colonial Marines engage these critters, take casualties, and bring home an infected host. Via colony security feeds, the Company could even monitor the action and assess the effectiveness of “their” new bioweapon.
Before the Sulaco got to its destination, that safe house was raided. By whom? A squad of Colonial Marines. Why? Because the Sulaco’s original Lt. was bribed to help the Burke synthetic bring back a xeno, oversee the slaughter of his team, and beam combat footage back to the Company for analysis.
While handsomely paid, the Lt. had a last-minute change of heart. When he tried to report it, the Company had him murdered. Lt. Gorman (a green OCS idiot) was picked to replace him. Fake Carter Burke figured he could still bring back a specimen.
Fortunately, a draft of the dead lieutenant’s confession letter was found. Once verified, Colonial Command got involved. Fourteen hours later, two fast-attack destroyers were sent after the Sulaco. The real Carter Burke demanded to tag along. Ripley was his responsibility and he wanted to get her back home in one piece.
The relief ships tried to make contact but the Sulaco’s long-range comms were sabotaged (for obvious reasons). As the marines touched down on Hadley’s Hope, both destroyers arrived on scene. Their crews were awakened three days early. They were rested, geared up, and chomping at the bit to kick some heavyweight a$$.
Were these guys Colonial Marines? Of course not.
For a nightmare of this caliber, Colonial SEALs were deployed. Each SEAL was a synthetic. Unlike Bishop, their programming allowed them to kill just fine. Best of all, they were immune to alien impregnation.
The first destroyer dumped its dropships and then headed for that derelict alien ship (with orders to carpet bomb its egg payload). The second ship synced orbits with the Sulaco.
A total of six dropships descended. Out rushed twelve squads of Colonial SEALs. One of them, a colonel, assumed command of the mission and told the marines to withdraw.
Each synthetic’s got superhuman attributes and the accumulated combat experience of 5,188 missions crammed into “his” or “her” head. They’ve done bug hunts before. This one’s just another for the logs.
Orders? Save anyone they can. Carter Burke’s synthetic was to be killed on sight—along with any impregnated victims. Under no circumstances were any xenos to make it off-world. Everyone and every ship would be quarantined and thoroughly examined, before being allowed to return to Earth.
Once any colonists and marines were cleared out, the SEALs were to cleanse the entire site—either by gun or by nuke. Period.
29. ‘FRO HAMMER
I told Manny to go for the quick kill.
One shot, to the back of the head, would’ve gotten the job done. Too bad my ace trigger had a grudge. Oscar Herkins put Manny’s grandfather on death row, some fifty years ago. The kid’s father fell from a life of criminal luxury to that of struggle, addiction, and then suicide. Thus, Manny grew up in the projects and stumbled into a life of crime with an axe to grind. That deep-rooted hatred made Manny put his first slug into the back of Penny Herkins.
I grinned as the plump, teenaged chess geek slumped into her grandpa’s lap and breathed her last. She wasn’t part of the contract. Nor was she the point. Witnesses screamed and bailed, including the softball players below. In this ‘hood, the police response time was about six minutes—more than long enough for a show.
With a shocked wail, Oscar cradled the corpse of his sole surviving descendant. Then he looked up into the barrel of Manny’s gun with terrified disbelief. My guy grinned through his goatee and rattled off some sort of prepared B.S. speech. To him, this was better than therapy. What Manny didn’t know was that I had his Glock loaded with one live round.
The rest were blanks.
With a grin, I kept filming and told the others to close in. Without question, the mercs did what I paid ‘em to do. They weren’t scared. Oscar Herkins was seventy-two years old with a knee replacement, arthritis, diabetes, and glaucoma. He wasn’t a retired cop, soldier, or fed.
He was, however, a retired super hero.
Most died in the line of duty. The few who tried to leave the life were often tracked down and killed by their many, many enemies. In the social media age, it was all too easy to peel away most heroes’ secret identities. Herkins survived all of that because he didn’t know he was a super hero. It took Analytics nineteen years to track him down.
Back in the day, he was ‘Fro Hammer. How’d he get his powers? If I knew, I’d have sold the process and bought an island chain with the profits.
Analytics theorized that Herkins was someone’s pet science project. Take a janitor, subject him to a super soldier process, and brainwash him. Part of the process was a number of triggers (verbal, visual, etc.). Without them, Oscar Herkins was a harmless father of one. If triggered, then ‘Fro Hammer became a black Sherlock Holmes with elite karate skills and super powers. It wasn’t the police who cleaned up New York in the ‘70s—it was him.
Manny finished his speech and popped off two blanks. Analytics figured that a heightened fight-or-flight scenario might trigger a transformation . . . G@dd@mn! They were right.
One moment, Oscar Herkins was a skinny old man with a bald head. Then an eight-inch Afro popped out of his scalp (with only a touch of gray). Then came a pair of neatly trimmed sideburns to go with that beard. Manny desperately emptied the useless mag while Herkin’s clothes ripped from the expanding musculature. Out went the retired janitor. In came the vigilante.
Within seconds, a perfectly ripped ‘Fro Hammer was back. He snatched the Glock away so fast and hard that Manny’s trigger finger came off with it. ‘Fro Hammer caved my screaming guy’s left knee with a perfect side kick, then leaped through a volley of gunfire. The bullets flattened against him like spit wads.
‘Fro Hammer tossed the Glock and cut loose with his eye beams. Their kinetic punch was how the guy got his name. Glaucoma or no, he blasted my guys like skeet—but didn’t kill them. Analytics figured that some kind of “mercy” parameter was added to the ‘Fro Hammer personality.
Would ‘Fro Hammer even recognize the dead girl as his own? And if he did, would he lose his sh*t and go on a killing spree? Analytics were chomping at the bit the find out (as was I).
I continued to film the poor guy. The data was live-streamed to Analytics. As the last merc dropped, I picked up the radio and told our telepaths to bring him down and to delay the police response. Once ‘Fro Hammer dropped, we’d whisk him off to a black site. Then he’d be my employer’s pet science project—and I’d get the rest of my fee.
Thank you for the show, Manny.
NEWSLETTER RANT #101 – 03/26/24
30. THE MONEY MEME
I found an interesting Facebook meme this week: https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=325821737170009&set=gm.1383082218856581&idorvanity=854444368387038
You grab the wrong carry bag from the airport, go home, and find this. From the look of it, the bag’s got nothing but Benjamins. Based on the size of the case . . . I’m guessing a bit south of a million in there.
What would you do? On the surface, it’s the classic choice of honesty vs. greed. Do you turn the money in? Or do you keep it? Too bad this choice isn’t that simple anymore.
The reason? Airports are chock-full of security cameras, so assume that you’re on film. Also assume that someone (with means) can review that film, ID you, and come a-knockin’. That could mean a pair of polite DEA/FBI/CIA/Treasury/Customs agents. It could also mean a half-dozen tattooed gunmen.
Even worse, that much cash is probably dirty. Why? Because it’s over ten grand and wasn’t wired to a bank. Here are the regs for transporting cash (in the U.S.): https://airtravelquestions.com/how-much-money-can-you-bring-on-a-plane/. Move around with more than $10,000 and you have to report it to Customs. Then again, maybe it was. Still, wouldn’t you want someone to secure that much green? Since you walked off with it, is there a dead security courier out there? Even worse, is there an annoyed killer with your bag? And are you gonna get framed or simply hunted down?
Now, it’s not millions of dollars in this case, right? Turn it in to the police and a big cartel might not have you killed. Seizures and other kinds of losses happen, right? It’s the price of doing business.
However, if this money belongs to a local drug gang or a terror cell, they can’t afford to just let this go. Giving it to the cops might not save you. Even if you return the money to its rightful owners with a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates, they still might kill you. After all, you’re a loose end.
Hopefully, you didn’t walk off with a ransom payment. That’d be funny, because I’m wrong in the head. Anyhow, your mistake might get some innocent hostage killed. Grieving (possibly dangerous) relatives might bury the victim . . . and then come after you.
Or maybe it’s money for an old-school freelance killer. Someone who doesn’t trust cryptocurrencies. Instead of his cash, the hitter ends up with your bag. He (or she) rifles through your stuff and tracks you down with relative ease. Expect a bullet for that mistake—whether you keep the money or turn it in. Was that money the deposit on the hit? Or the balance? Maybe your mistake ruined the timing on a contract hit.
Also, is that money already “clean?” Paper money comes with pesky serial numbers that can be tracked by any number of agencies—or a grizzled cartel hacker. This cash, if you mean to keep it, needs to be swapped out with money that no one’s looking for, preferably in smaller denominations or in an easy-to-access account. There are so many ways this could go wrong, even if you hire honest (competent) talent.
Lastly . . . what if the money’s fake? That would explain how it got past security. Maybe this junk cash was to be tossed around in a rap video called: “In Pimp We Trust” (or something less tacky). Some ugly rapper’s face could be on the back of every bill. How much possible bloodshed takes place before anyone notices that this pile of “money” is worthless?
31. FANGED JOKER
I saw a pic of the Joker with a pointy smile . . . and the wheels began to turn.
Sadly, I doubt Dracula would ever be stupid enough to turn the clown. If he forced the Joker to be his Renfeld, that would’ve been an interesting scenario. Why? Because, in the Joker’s case, I’d see lunacy as a super power—one that might (eventually) override Dracula’s influence. On top of that, Batman might save the clown along the way.
We couldn’t have the Joker as an actual vampire—unless he kidnapped Dracula and stole the vampirism. If anyone could . . . Then Batman would have to kill him, on general principle. Otherwise, the clown might start a vampire apocalypse all on his own (just because).
Monster hunters would descend upon him. Recklessly turned minions might betray him. Rival vampires might have to stop him—simply in the name of the status quo. Or, what if Joker targeted all of Batman’s minions and managed to turn a few? Tragedy abounds.
Then it hit me. What if Dracula chose Harley to be his new bride? The Joker tried to save her his way but lost his minions (and hyenas) in the process. Fresh out of alternatives, the Joker turned on the Bat Signal.
Imagine the absurdity of playing “keep away” from Count Dracula and his trigger-happy minions (both living and fanged). Batman and Joker on a team-up? Oh, the dialogue! They set their differences aside and take on Dracula with every nasty trick at their disposal. Because it’s Harley, the Suicide Squad might even get involved.
In the end, Dracula’s barely defeated. Batman’s beaten to a pulp and helpless. With Harley safe and sound, Joker gave his caped adversary a break (just this once).
NEWSLETTER RANT #100 – 03/19/24
32. THE SEED BLADE
An ancient temple was discovered in some remote jungle, where few dared to tread. The structure was thousands of years old and uniquely built. The walls, ceilings, and flooring were covered with a surprisingly advanced gibberish with no link to any known language. Without a “Rosetta Stone,” it might never be deciphered.
The archaeologists looked through the modest ruins and found a secret entrance. It led to a basement, wherein they found a sword. The non-metallic hilt was made from a material not found on Earth with a barely visible thumb button. The wide, razor-sharp blade was measured at 26.4 inches long. The blade itself was crafted from some kind of ultra-alloy . . . and easily 20,000 years old.
As they studied the blade, it self-activated and quietly released a nanovirus from within the blade itself. In minutes, the entire team blacked out, while the “infection” did its thing.
I came up with two possible plotlines here:
Door #1 – It’s a plague weapon.
If allowed to awaken, the archaeologists would each have the personality of a fanatic alien super spy with ultratech skill sets. Incurable? Of course.
By now, the nanovirus had evolved enough to go airborne. If allowed to spread, billions of people would be turned within a matter of months. Once the world was sufficiently infected, they’d build a massive interstellar radio. Its purpose? To contact some carnivorous alien empire and beg to be harvested.
Yummers!
Wouldn’t it be cool if the once-evil aliens showed up and saved the day? They could end the nanovirus with the press of a . . . Nah. Too easy.
Door #2 – The blade’s our only hope.
Some benign alien explorers found us, did the math, and figured that we’d never explore the stars on our own. That we were too stupid, warlike, and unadventurous. Without help, we’d likely see extinction via asteroid(s), environmental collapse, or some other (preventable) means.
To save us, the explorers left a seed blade behind and built a temple over it. Once the archaeologists were “turned” by the nanovirus, they carried out a unique mission: to passively infect the rest of the world. Then, when the time was right, they were to press the button on the hilt.
Somehow, word leaked out. Militaries were mobilized to contain the symptomless outbreak. While medical science could detect the nanovirus, it was too advanced to negate.
Within weeks, the last of the original archaeologists triggered the Seed Blade—right before a sniper put him down. A signal went out. Everyone who was infected (and worthy) developed random super powers.
It was a one-time gift to the world that couldn’t be passed on to their descendants. For one generation, the human race was capable of easily reaching the stars. Anyone with sufficient character would have super powers, once infected. Everyone else would crap dead nanoviral particles after their next meal.
The U.N. took over the world within months and became relevant. There was a period of rapid technological advancement, unlike any other in human history. Wars ended because the super heroes said so. Droughts were reversed and diseases cured. There were more than enough geniuses left over to help humanity become a space-faring race.
The worthy toiled. The unworthy simply watched and calculated. Within a few generations, most of these supers would be dead from old age . . . then the world would be returned to more “familiar” stewardship. What mattered was that this research be properly steered. That way, superhumans could be bioengineered (without nanites). Lucrative areas of science could be greatly advanced and stabilized (like weapons design and stardrives).
In the end, would humanity become enlightened explorers or interstellar conquerors? Heck! Why not both?
33. LUKE & LEIA HUTT
Stop laughing, dear readers! It could’ve happened.
In an alternate Star Wars reality, during the Clone Wars, the Hutts made brisk money doing “odd jobs” for the Trade Federation. One fateful day, a freighter arrived at a volcanic base with a bunch of merc muscle. They were diverted from a juicy kill-for-hire gig. Why? The heads of the Trade Federation were expecting some guy named “Darth Vader” and wanted some extra security—just in case. For triple pay, no further questions were asked.
The Hutt muscle arrived to find their Trade Federation clients slaughtered—via lightsaber. Then they spotted Obi-Wan and Anakin in an epic lightsaber duel. Their sensors also detected a Republic ship worth stealing.
Most of the mercs left in their freighter. The rest went after the ship. Nearby, they found a very pregnant Padmé Amidala Naberrie. They scooped her up, stole the ship, and got out of there. Obi-Wan Kenobi won the duel, then barely escaped before the Emperor arrived (and saved Vader).
Both ships headed for Tattooine, just as a flood of news poured in. The Clone Wars were essentially over, a new “Empire” had arisen, and the Jedi had fallen. Shortly after the trip, Padme went into labor and died. Delirious, she begged them to return the babies to their father—Anakin Skywalker.
They had Anakin Skywalker’s Force-sensitive kids?! Oh my . . .
Ransom was ruled out, as was the idea of a black market auction. No, the Hutts found some fallen Jedi to train the wee ones. And naturally, the interstellar gangsters groomed the kids to be ruthless minions. Obi-Wan thought they were dead, until he hid out on Tattooine and sensed their collective power. Both were teenagers, who wielded the Dark Side with an intuitive mastery.
Anyhow, Obi-Wan ran into Leia and things got testy. One epic lightsaber duel later, the Jedi Master was dead on the street. Leia turned to leave, only to “bump” into Obi-Wan’s Force ghost. He (again) pleaded with her to come with him to Master Yoda. With his help, she could find redemption and confront Vader.
Then Luke rushed in.
The paired twins approached Obi-Wan with lightsabers drawn. Could they “kill” a Force ghost? Well, these two were about to find out . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #99 – 03/12/24
34. DEAD BLOODS
They read me into the “zombie apocalypse” after it started. While human civilization hadn’t noticed yet, that was about to change. Intelligence agencies (the world over) had called in their top assassins—myself included.
The mission? To kill every zombie on the planet. Needless to say, I had questions. The geeks who briefed me had plenty of answers, none of them encouraging.
About two years ago, in a Chinese lab, Patient Zero broke out of his cell and ate everyone he could get his hands on. The former death row inmate (and lab rat) didn’t eat their whole bodies—just the vital bits. The neck-down organs slowed his rate of decay and even sped up his regenerative abilities. Seeing as security riddled him with bullets (even headshots), that wasn’t good.
Even worse, consumed brains appeared to make Patient Zero smarter. After a quick six-victim meal, he busted out, stole the only chopper, and flew away—without any prior flight training. And, of course, the world’s first known zombie made a clean getaway.
The site was so remote that it took the Chinese hours to secure the scene. All of Patient Zero’s victims weren’t properly clipped in the head. Thus, anyone he fed on should’ve gotten up—except they didn’t. Having lived through too many seasons of The Walking Dead, that bothered me. A few of the technicians escaped Patient Zero’s wrath with mere bites . . . then died within minutes. None of them turned because his bite was more venomous than infectious.
It took Beijing’s finest some five months to corner and kill Patient Zero, who made it to Marseilles. What was a Chinese zombie doing in France? Building an evil organization, of course. His estimated IQ was a bit under 400 and he spoke twelve languages that weren’t on his file. Only his top lieutenants knew his endgame and none were taken alive. Why would humans knowingly serve a zombie gangster? The rewards must’ve been juicy.
Even worse, according to Beijing’s intel, his bite inflicted normal death 99.2% of the time. The rest got up as “super” zombies with an utter loyalty to him. Worse, when they bit someone, 89.118% of their victims remained dead. That wasn’t good. Each “generation” of zombies came with a slightly more infectious bite. If allowed to evolve, the zombie bite could turn anyone.
Were these genius-level zombies trying to outbreed us? There wasn’t enough intel to be certain. Well, whatever Patient Zero began, his minions would die to see it happen. Maybe the human lieutenants were so loyal because each generation of super zombies brought them closer to a safer bite. Then they too could be safely turned and reap the genetic benefits.
It had to be a weird birthing process for these guys. If a “meal” woke up, mid-feed, then he/she would be welcomed into the family and given someone to nibble on. Each generation of undead was a physical and mental match to the others. At least they weren’t getting more dangerous with time.
How many were there? Fewer than a thousand. The recommended way to kill one would be overwhelming damage. If supplied with an adequate supply of organs, a zombie could easily pass for a human and even rock a suntan. When ravenous, they’ve been known to plow through brick walls to get to their next victim.
Damn it.
35. THE KIRK PROTOCOL
I’m referencing the first J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek movie here. About the point where the U.S.S. Kelvin was mauled by a Romulan ship from the future. On that fateful day, James T. Kirk was born. His dad stayed behind (and rammed the Kelvin) because the ship’s auto-pilot failed to engage.
Well, what if the systems didn’t fail? What if Kirk’s dad escaped with the survivors—only to become an alcoholic, traumatized officer? One who ultimately got divorced, kicked out of Starfleet, and drove his Corvette Stingray off a cliff.
James T. Kirk went to Starfleet Academy, excelled at his studies, and earned the captain’s chair of the Enterprise. But this wasn’t the immature “man slut” version from the movies. Granted, he bent the rules but relied less on luck and more on intense preparation.
He also beat the Kobayashi Maru simulation, on the first try. Here’s how it was done in the movie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBS51qz0uYg
In this reality, the way Kirk did it was so controversial that it was banned by Starfleet Command. In other words, no captain was ever to use this tactic in live combat—under threat of court-martial. Still, it was the reason Kirk graduated from the Academy a year early. Quick promotions and lots of medals were heaped upon him. His record was pristine. Everyone assumed that he’d someday end up an admiral.
Then, on his first mission as captain, Kirk realized that the Enterprise was warping into a trap. A Federation fleet was en route to Vulcan. The planet was experiencing some sort of unspecified emergency. During the mission brief, Chekov mentioned “a lightning storm in space.” The description triggered Kirk, who ordered a full-stop, mid-warp—without argument or explanation. He knew what needed to be done and every second was vital.
In the movie, Kirk had to persuade the captain that they were heading into a trap: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wpLe91qsNg
Only now, the crew had to obey their new captain. Kirk ordered a red alert and then hurried to his quarters. Minutes later, he sent a file spec to the Transporter room. He ordered Spock to assume command and get to Vulcan—but away from the fleet’s rendezvous coordinates. Lastly, if they encountered any hostile ships, Spock was to keep the Enterprise out of extreme tractor beam range. Sulu was to prepare a string of in-system warp jumps. If the enemy opened fire, the jumps would begin on Spock’s order.
For those unfamiliar with this film, a massive Romulan ship came out of a black hole (from the future). Inside was a much smaller ship—also from the future—with something called “Red Matter.” A little dab of this stuff could create an artificial black hole. They had enough of it to wipe out hundreds of planets. The Romulan captain meant to exterminate the Federation planet by planet. Vulcan was the first target.
The Romulan ship had a long, tethered energy drill that could bore into Vulcan’s planetary core. Then they’d dump in some Red Matter and create a singularity from inside the planet. When deployed, the drill emitted a field that blocked both communications and transporters.
Well, the rest of the Federation fleet arrived before Kirk could warn them and were blown to bits. Still, the Enterprise arrived away from the debris field. The bridge crew was rightfully freaked, especially when they spotted the monstrous ship—right before it fired torpedoes. On Spock’s order, Sulu began his evasive warp jumps.
Spock reported on the drill and the jamming field. From the Transporter Room, Kirk ordered him to destroy that drill with photon torpedoes. The Romulans launched spread after spread of torpedoes. The Enterprise warped away, again and again. Chekov destroyed the drill with a gamer’s grin and fried the torpedoes (from range) with phasers.
Then Sulu looked up from his controls and announced that the enemy had been destroyed. Spock frowned at the absurd claim because the massive ship was still on visual. Sulu magnified the image. Spock’s jaw dropped . . . then he understood what happened.
The Kirk Protocol was engaged.
Spock was there when it was first used to beat the Kobayashi Maru. He wanted Kirk to be expelled for cheating. During a closed-door hearing, the cadet calmly argued that any captain stationed near the Klingon Neutral Zone would’ve been an idiot not to study his enemy. He would’ve seized upon any and every possible advantage. A wise captain would’ve learned their language, customs, attack patterns, and shield harmonics.
After the Kelvin was destroyed, Kirk’s dad managed to get sensor scans of the Romulan shield harmonics and tried to crack them. He couldn’t but his son picked up the ball, certain that the ship would someday reappear. Capt. Kirk became something of an expert in the field. One of the Starfleet engineers (“Scotty”) helped him crack the harmonics riddle about a year prior. Kirk kept the specs, which were only tested in simulations.
To save his ship, Kirk plugged the harmonics file into the Enterprise’s transporters and (on the fifth try) beamed the entire crew of the Romulan ship into space. During the Kobayashi Maru, Kirk did the same thing to the bridge crews of all five Klingon ships. Would the rest of the Klingon crew members even know what was going on? Not for a while.
During the simulation, Kirk rushed in, tractor-beamed the damaged ship, and fled during the confusion. Without helm control, two of the enemy ships even collided. Afraid that the tactic would be used against Federation ships, the “Kirk Protocol” was banned.
Well, Captain Kirk didn’t see any other choice—and had a score to settle. He ordered Spock to tow the enemy vessel away from Vulcan and then relieved himself of command. Soon after, an older Spock showed up (from an alternate future) and explained what had happened. Captain Kirk had just saved billions of lives without a single casualty on his ship.
Starfleet didn’t care. They court-martialed James T. Kirk, who accepted the decision without protest. He quietly returned to Iowa, got a day job, and started a family. A year later, he learned of the Enterprise’s destruction. Most of the crew managed to escape. Captain Spock valiantly went down with the ship, which was destroyed by a Tribble infestation.
Yeah. That’s how I’d end this tale. Don’t laugh, folks. It could happen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WER34VQ6oRA
NEWSLETTER RANT #98 – 03/05/24
36. THE LADY
Someone just bought one of my paintings for $666,666.66. The gallery didn’t care about the oddity of the number—only its cut of the sales. The buyer asked for me to show up for a quick five-minute photo op.
The client wanted to meet after sunset. I’ll bet she did.
I didn’t bother with much—just the cane sword. If it was Lady Pilamm, no amount of guns would save me. Her assets would’ve reconned the gallery and every surrounding building. Even if I made it outside, I wouldn’t get far.
I guess she went back on her vow to release me (no surprise there). Vampires—amoral bastards that they were—carved the world into multiple fiefdoms. Chicago belonged to Lady Inaferra Pilamm. With my help, she tore these streets from her late father’s hands. The move gave her serious clout and a small army. With that much power came even more headaches, some of them violent.
When faced with unwanted bloodshed, vampires rarely got their manicures dirty. Instead, they found talented schmucks (like me) and gave us a turning bite. On that first night, I felt like a newborn god. As an “asset,” I could move faster, hit harder, and think more efficiently. In essence, I was a vampire . . . for about six months. Then the bite wore off and so did the slavish, addict-style loyalty. Thus, we were bitten every three months or so. Once in a while, a renewal bite became permanent—with all of the traditional strengths and weaknesses of a vampire tossed in.
Assets were immune to daylight, crosses, and holy water. Sufficient bodily harm killed them just fine (assuming one was fast enough to score a hit). Back in the day, I happily threw myself into harm’s way, got f*cked up, fed on human blood to heal, and then went right back out there.
I used to run a dojo on the South Side. Then Pilamm strolled in as I was locking up. Her vampiric seduction cracked my will like an egg. She bit me, had me trained, and unleashed me upon this city’s streets. Back then, I loved her more than the blood rush.
My proudest moment in life was when I delivered Pilamm her father’s head. I swore my undying love and devotion to my Lady. For her, I’d have burned the world to ash. In something of a good mood, the new Lady tore my clothes off. After we made her bed squeak for half the night, she gave me a renewal bite . . . and something went wrong.
I felt pain. Bites never hurt—not even the first one. Yet, my powers instantly faded, as did my loyalties. In the blink of an eye, I tried to kill that bitch. Sadly, I was but an angry puppy in her hands. Pilamm knocked me comatose with three solid slaps.
I came to in a private hospital. Eliott was at my side. Assets couldn’t turn anyone. Still, we had an eye for talent. I picked out Eliott and had him turned. He thanked me profusely for the “honor.” Now, he sadly told me that I had developed an immunity to the bite.
Such things happened on occasion. When they did, afflicted assets were usually killed. The last thing a vampire needed were vengeful ex-minions with an intricate knowledge of their organization. The problem here was that I was Pilamm’s favorite pet. Also, the newly anointed Lady owed me one.
I was given my freedom and my life—on the condition that I never opposed the Vampiric Order in any way, shape, or form. The penalty was a traitorous, torturous death. I took the deal. Eliott patted me on the chest and I was wheeled into surgery. Pilamm paid the medical bills, arranged for my rehab, and even bought me a studio.
During my asset days, over many rounds of pillow talk, I had shared my love of art. She had put me out to pasture, surrounded by paints and canvas, as a reward. I went to work, created paintings, and was greeted with modest acclaim. I was good—but not that good. Lady Pilamm had clearly pulled strings.
At every art show, I recognized a former comrade-in-arms or even a vampire or two. They kept tabs on me and made me kinda famous. They did this to both show respect for my past service and to remind me of my vow.
Now, I awaited my former mistress. Unless she wanted a portrait done, I was useless to her (or them). So what the f*ck did she want of me now?
37. HAWKEYE V. LOKI
Most of us have seen the first Avengers movie. Can’t remember how many times I sat through that masterpiece. Almost twelve years later, a strange question slapped me in the face:
Why did Hawkeye only have a Glock?
He didn’t have Glock in Thor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CpYb3Qdrmc
In Avengers, he wasn’t so lucky: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQKYN-yR2oM
Now, if I recall, Nick Fury called Hawkeye down for a sitrep. The Tesseract was acting up and he wanted to know if Hawkeye had noticed anything suspicious. Well, what if Fury got there three minutes late? And what if Hawkeye was high up, in his perch, with the bow and trick arrows?
Imagine the possibilities: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zK7Eohq-6ow
Thus, Loki popped in with his scepter and killed the main group of guards. Hawkeye still had the high ground and sent three chest shots at the rogue Asgardian. Loki ate the first two shots but caught the third. With a smug grin, he began to aim his scepter upward—
When all three arrows exploded.
Worse, the scepter shattered in the blast. There was shrapnel aplenty and Hawkeye ate some of it—in the form of the Mind Stone. Damned thing caught him right in the left side of his face. It bonded to his mind.
For me, two possibilities came to mind.
Possibility #1: Dark Hawkeye
In Avengers: Rise of Ultron, Tony Stark tried to merge a planetary defense AI with the Mind Stone. The result was a genocidal AI with daddy issues. Well, what if Hawkeye ended dark with ambitions of world domination? And what if he could generate (yellow) psychic arrows? A shot from one would turn anyone he hit into a loyal slave. Even worse, he’d have a target’s memories. Nick Fury arrived, just in time to get tagged first . . .
Out of curiosity, Hawkeye shot Loki and then left him to be crushed under tons of debris. Hawkeye and his psi-slaved minions (some of them S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists) escaped, got to the Helicarrier, and plugged the Tesseract into its core. A few tweaks later, they’re able to open portals to anywhere. Hawkeye’s simple plan’s to collect the other Infinity stones. But first, he has to deal with Thanos. To do that, he “recruits” Earth’s mightiest heroes—one shot at a time.
Possibility #2: Hawkeye the Psi-God
Loki breached. Hawkeye put him down with three delayed bomb arrows, took a face wound, and took a nasty fall. The facility’s about to collapse. Fury rushed in as scientists dragged Hawkeye out with a glowing yellow shard in his face. The one-eyed super spy grabbed the Tesseract and left Loki to die.
Hawkeye’s in a coma. Fury ordered a surgical removal of the Mind Stone. The effort was aborted because it bonded to Hawkeye (like a symbiote). Without it, he’d die. So they covered it up with a patch of synthetic skin.
The Mind Stone evolved Hawkeye’s brain to something strong enough to safely use it. By the time Thanos came to Earth, Hawkeye woke up and joined the fight . . . with every mental power imaginable (and a few that weren’t).
What about Vision? At some point, Hulk lost control and tried to kill Tony Stark (who wasn’t in his armor). Jarvis, stepped up and saved him in the Veronica armor. As a reward, Stark crafted his trusty AI a synthetic body and stuck a tiny Arc reactor in the forehead. Jarvis moved in and fought alongside the Avengers as “Vision.”
NEWSLETTER RANT #97 – 02/27/24
38. THE POACHER’S NEPHEW
A few years ago, you read an article about the extinction of the northern white rhino. The news saddened you a bit, because you’ve always wanted to bag a few of those endangered darlings. There was big money for their bits and pieces.
Still, there were plenty of endangered beasties out there. The job was to bypass their defenders, do the necessaries, make with the cargo, and then sell it on the black market. The trick was to avoid getting ripped off, arrested, and/or killed. The stress of it all gave your uncle ulcers and a smoking habit that killed him a decade too soon.
When he died, his poaching outfit didn’t want to work for you. They struck out on their own or hired out with other poachers. Not offended in the least, you kept tabs on their activities . . . then snitched them out to Interpol (just to be a prick). Then you stepped up to fill the vacuum. The first few years were a bit stressful but your uncle’s hard-learned tricks served you well.
Then, one fateful day, a client came to you with a truly exotic order. She wanted a pair of juvenile ivory tusks from a “genuine” mountain troll. At first, you thought it was code for an elephant. When you requested verification, you realized that she wasn’t kidding.
After eight hundred grand was wired into your account, as a deposit, you arranged a meeting. Once she understood that you didn’t believe in the existence of magic, the client (an alchemist) patiently opened your eyes. She splashed a bit of potion on a not-so-recent picture of your uncle and he stepped out of it. The veteran poacher confirmed her words and apologized for not sharing that part of his business with you.
Why didn’t he? Because of the gruesome risks involved—both from rival poachers and the very creatures themselves. A juvenile mountain troll, for example, could shrug off a RPG and eat a grown man within minutes. The alchemist gave you a choice: refund the deposit or acquire the tusks for eight million.
You greedily demanded to know where he kept his files. Bound by the potion’s magic, the alchemical conjuration complied, even as he begged you to walk away. A number of dangerous individuals kept these creatures as pets, in dimensional game preserves that weren’t on this world. The more trophies you took, the more enemies you’d make.
You didn’t care. The profit potential of mystical poaching far exceeded that of mundane animals. A fortune could be earned here. All it took was the right approach. That’s why you refunded the cash. The “deposit” for this job would be free access to her potion cache. The “balance” of the fee would be paid in alchemical training . . .
39. THE FAVERSHAM CHOICE
I had to rewrite this one, folks. The reason? It morphed into a short story. With luck, you’ll read it someday.
The main character was a film actor, on the brink of real fame, who settled for high-end indie flicks. As he got older, he met an heiress and fell in love. Everyone thought he was faking it but he wasn’t.
The problem was that he ultimately married into the Faversham family. These people were more connected than the Kennedys and avoided the limelight. Their power ran across every hall of power, especially politics. Favershams didn’t bother running for the Senate. They simply told them how to vote.
Brittany didn’t love this actor guy. She just needed a suitable mate and some kids to groom for bigger things. Ten years later, they had a son and daughter. Brittany was a control freak. Her hubby wasn’t meek—just a guy in love with a thick skin.
The actor should’ve read the tea leaves when his first kid (the son) was born. His last name was listed as “Faversham” on the birth certificate (instead of his dad’s). It was done without his knowledge or consent. The same was done for his daughter, because the Faversham name was both a badge and a key. It opened doors and ended arguments. People would kill to be able to say: “I’m a Faversham.”
By now, the kids are almost old enough for boarding school and the long road toward positions of power within the Faversham dynasty. For now, they were more like their dad because he raised them with loving devotion. Brittany was setting the stage for a divorce, though. Then, while on a family vacation, she got kidnapped.
The dad got a ransom call with her bruised face on his phone. The instructions were to access her laptop, check his emails, and open the most recent one. Inside was a malware link. He was to click on it and do nothing else. Noncompliance would get her killed. They gave him ninety seconds to get it done.
He could obey and save Brittany’s life. Or he could’ve refused, watched her die, inherited her wealth, and kept the kids without a custody fight. Was the kidnapping a legit crime? Or did Brittany arrange it—both to steal from the family and have grounds for a divorce? Perhaps her family wanted to test him?
While inclined to save the love of his life, the actor realized something else. Brittany’s laptop gave her high-end access to family databases and accounts. Billions of dollars were at stake, as were any number of sensitive materials. His in-laws just might have him killed if he clicked that link.
Whatever was this poor guy to do?
NEWSLETTER RANT #96 – 02/20/24
40. THE RISE OF THING
Not John Carpenter’s Thing. I meant the Addams Family’s Thing. That disembodied hand that ran around on its fingers. Here’s an example of a Thing scene:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDMAbAkvUqI
What a fascinating creature. Where’d it come from? Under what circumstances would a dude’s right hand get severed and then attain above-par sentience? Was the previous owner’s soul dumped into his hand?
What was the motivation for its creation? An act of malice (like a witch’s curse)? Or maybe a botched recreation of the Frankenstein experiment, where only the hand came back to life? Maybe the hand was a serial killer’s trophy that attained sentience, to exact a bitter revenge?
Perhaps, it’s been possessed (like in Evil Dead II). Or was the hand created “as-is” for some odd purpose? Could someone have messed with forces beyond his understanding and ended up reduced to a disembodied hand?
Or maybe, just maybe, some occultist simply wanted a pet. A hand was procured and filled with the essence of . . . something. It learned and maybe even self-evolved. Perhaps, like a witch’s familiar, Thing’s been around for generations. Geez, Thing might even be the runt of a litter of disembodied hands.
When created for the original Addams Family series, I doubt that very much thought was given to Thing’s backstory. It was a gag and nothing more.
A shame.
41. A WIZARDLY BOND
There’s probably some mystical knockoff of James Bond, put into book form. I’d happily read tales of a mystical super spy (gadgets and all). I had a deeper take on the idea. To begin, here’s an old Bond clip:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b15-P12gIf0
On the surface, Bond seemed like a normal, cool-a$$ed spy. However, what if every “00 agent” was also a master-level wizard? In the above clip, Bond wasn’t lucky at cards. He was cheating, via magic.
What if magic didn’t flow around us, like (free) gravity? Instead, it required a source to draw from. The three most common were souls, chaos, and artifacts of power. In the violent life of a 00 Agent, the first two sources were easy to come by. After all, these agents went out and killed bad guys by the dozens.
Each dead hostile’s soul was added to a wizard agent’s spell pool. The same could be said of chaos: the kind found in high-speed car chases and raids on heavily defended lairs. One or two wizard agents might even carry a portable artifact of power (like an amulet or ring) . . . but not Bond.
The longer people hung around James Bond, the better his luck got—at their expense. Others claimed that he was mostly human but part-something else. That, to survive, Bond had to feed on people’s luck (like a carnivore).
Well, whatever the reason, 007 became a dapper wizard spy with a pack-a-day habit. While able to sling fireballs and heavyweight conjurations, he preferred simple spells (to loosen restraints, restore his aging knees after a foot chase, etc.). When the violence broke out, Bond killed everyone the old-fashioned way.
Why was Bond stingy with the magicks? Two reasons. One, he saved the big spells for threats of a mystical nature. If a massive hell gate opened, he wanted a full “tank” of luck on his side. Two, the collection of luck took time and effort.
Think about it. All of those minions he’s judo chopped. Every doomed lover who’s died in his arms, including his late wife. Each brave buddy spy who ended up dead (in Act II). Their luck made Bond stronger—not that he always wanted it that way. Still, on a good day, 007 could turn a ten-megaton mushroom cloud into harmless fog.
Outside of those rare occurrences, Bond relied on bullets, gadgets, and creatively dirty murder tactics. Then he’d waltz off with some dead villain’s lady and a “sexual enhancement” spell . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #95 – 02/13/24
42. DRUNKARD’S TALE
Well, gods be damned! Seems I’ve slain a dragon.
I think this is the . . . fifth one this year. Like the other four, I can’t remember what happened. Never can and never will.
At least I knew how this one died. Poor beast got his neck caught in an avalanche. A true shame, that. A mighty green critter like a dragon shouldn’t die with its winged arse and naughty bits sticking out for all to see.
I stood atop a rocky cliff that overlooked . . . somewhere. My road clothes were replaced by a fine suit of black-and-silver chainmail. It looked good on me. With the sword and shield, one could almost think me a noble knight or some such. A bit singed, I spied a charred wooden beam and three flame-blackened bodies. They must’ve helped me use the beam to start that avalanche.
These feats stopped surprising me long ago. At first, I thought I was god-cursed or something but I wasn’t. I asked around at the temples some years ago. From what the clerics could divine, I hadn’t offended any of the known gods—yet. They were amused by my condition. I’d have laughed too, if this was anyone else’s sad tale.
I’m a mystical drunkard with two sides to my soul, like a beggar’s coin.
I craved drink like a babe craved a milky teet. Especially under the blazing sun of . . . wherever I was. I rose to my feet, feeling ages older than my thirty winters.
Strong drink would ease my thirst and silence that craving (for a time). Also, when I drink, the other side of my soul takes over. He’s bedded queens, toppled kingdoms, and slain dragons.
Me? If I don’t drink, I’m nothing. Even beggars sneer my way because they sense that I’m beneath them. So I beg or steal enough of it to get stumbling drunk. Then I can become Him again.
Hells! I stumbled toward a group of expensive horses. There might be some wine in those saddlebags. Perhaps enough to go away and return Him to his life of glory-seeking.
Being less than dirt, it’s the least I could do.
43. KINGSMAN RANT
Talk about a poorly tapped cinematic gold mine! The Kingsmen were almost wiped out in the second film, courtesy of a targeted missile strike. All of those stodgy-looking British agents (extras) were erased within seconds.
While their prequel tales could’ve made for worthy viewing, sequels made more sense. So many questions needed to be answered. Who replaced those dead Kingsmen? Who became Merlin? Halle Berry would’ve made sense. Who became Arthur? Colin Firth would’ve made sense.
Throw in a threat so challenging that four Kingsman agents had to get involved—from different parts of the world. Each agent investigated, gathered intel, put foot to a$$, and then passed the baton to the next agent. Then, in some climactic gunfight, two Kingsmen agents strolled into the main villain’s HQ and killed everyone. Then we’d have more fight scenes like this one:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mt-ZN5wzLdQ
Last of all, it would be nice to see sequels that adhered to the Galahad style of espionage:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRpoA60UKfQ
That’s how each case should end—under the radar. The first two film threats were VERY public exceptions. The challenge should be for Kingsman agents to continuously disrupt these nefarious plots without media coverage of any kind. Part of the storyline might include efforts by rival intelligence agencies to expose/destroy/subvert Kingsman.
Imagine a talented crop of young British actors/actresses (the best in the game) being cast as the next-gen Kingsman agents. And maybe recruit Channing Tatum around as the “token Yank” and something of a grizzled veteran.
Or maybe Amazon Prime could get the rights and turn this into a series?
Ah well.
NEWSLETTER RANT #94 – 02/06/24
44. THREE INSTANCES
T’was a funny thing, really.
Everyone thought the damned were locked in Hell and bound to eternal torment. Nope. God worked in strange and mysteriously f*cked up ways. The good went to Heaven and enjoyed eternal, vacation-style paradise. The damned fought never-ending intrusions from other dimensions.
We were trained, geared up, and sent out to get slaughtered in all sorts of ways. Once a soul-damned trooper was killed, then he or she ceased to be. With billions of people (plenty of them a**holes), there was no shortage of the damned. A lot of them even earned enough medals to become demons—a true honor in Hell.
There was no anti-Christ. Demonic possessions weren’t real. As for the Apocalypse, it could only happen if Hell lost.
Demons mostly shunned the mortal world, grew the best weed, and were entirely too philosophical for my taste. But whenever the need arose, they stepped up like nightmarish marines and kicked heavyweight a$$. The Devil didn’t rebel against God. He was entrusted with the defense of the mortal world (and something of a kiss-ass).
In only three instances were the damned allowed into the mortal world.
The first occurred whenever someone (or something) from an invading realm broke through the dimensional walls and tried to establish a foothold. Once in a while, things got so bad that Heaven even sent an angel or two to help with the cleanup. The second involved mortals who tried to use magic in a cataclysmic fashion. We usually killed them and dragged their psycho souls to the front lines (where they could do some real good).
The third instance was whenever a mortal tried to skip infernal combat duty by not dying. Most of these idiots didn’t even know what Hell was really like. They were just too scared of death and eternal damnation. Well, that was a big, cosmic no-no—because the Devil took it personal.
That’s when trackers, like me, were activated and sent forth. In my mortal life, I was a Wild West bounty hunter. I scalped Native Americans and brought in outlaws alive (and usually maimed). My sins were so many that I ended up at the end of a noose. Rather than put me on the front lines, I was sent into the mortal world to collect Satan’s strays.
Back in the day, occultists simply made themselves immortal and figured that was enough. Well, my guns killed anything I shot, so they had to adapt. They’ve tried everything from mystical clones to hiding within temporal pocket loops. I loved the challenge. Usually took me a week to resolve the case and deliver the Devil’s prize to his cloven feet. After a quick thrashing by the Boss, would-be deserters got sent to the front lines.
It was a fun gig. I got to kill people, flirt with angels, and save the world. Best of all, I got glimpses of progress. Stagecoaches became minivans. We had rovers on Mars. Telegraphs were replaced by addictive little smartphones.
Someday, I’ll end up killed again. Then my soul will cease to be. Sometimes, I yearned for the idea of a never-ending nap. The thing was, I was fighting for the human race. Besides, I meant to stay in the “dance” long enough to see if humanity went Star Trek or Mad Max . . .
45. THE BOOMER SPHERE
I thought someone slipped me a hyper-complex comic book plot, disguised as a threat analysis. Yet, I couldn’t deny that it was happening. Hero teams the world over were looking for the device. Too bad the idiots were looking in the wrong place. That’s why someone clever knocked on my cell and begged for advice.
Why’d I care? Because we were all aging in the wrong direction, by roughly a year per hour, with no apparent end in sight. Good thing I’m eighty-nine.
“It’s in space, you idiots!” I practically shouted through my containment vault. I told them to expect multiple reverse-aging devices, each placed within a cloaked orbit.
By morning, I stopped aging (roughly around twenty-nine). The warden was teething. Most of my fellow inmates were reduced to drooling toddlers or embryos. Barely old enough to drink (and too young to legally hold office), President Biden signed a pardon for my timely advice. With as many life sentences as I had, that wasn’t a great idea. Still, the clean slate gave me a new lease on life.
The crude estimates were that only a billion of us were left. Great-grannies were now cougars. My arthritis was gone and my super speed was at its peak again. By the time this “Boomer Sphere” contraption was destroyed by a lucky spread of nukes, most of my geriatric contemporaries were aged to death.
What a fascinating temporal weapon. The damned thing wasn’t a sat array but one massive (cloaked) construct. Was it alien? From the future, perhaps? Since the device was vaporized in the blast, we may never know.
Inanimate matter and animals (even primates) were unaffected. This attack—or boon—was meant for humanity alone. Surviving eggheads pegged it as a first-strike WMD. Perhaps. Or maybe some mad genius lost control of a very dangerous toy (I’ve seen it happen).
World leaders called for a global alliance, in case this was the beginning of an invasion. To me, it seemed like a new excuse for the powerful to oppress the weak. I decided not to take over the world (for now). Besides, there weren’t heroes around to make it a challenge. I simply zipped from city to city and chronicled the chaos that was destined to follow.
Something told me that youth will be wasted on the old . . . and I wanted a front-row seat.
NEWSLETTER RANT #93 – 01/30/24
46. THE STATUS DRIVER
A friend and I went to see The Beekeeper on opening weekend. This amazing film got me thinking of Jason Statham in his Transporter movies. Then a weird idea popped into my head. Why no one’s done it yet kinda bothered me. Here’s the thought: What if you put an evil spy behind the wheel of an evil spy car?
For those of us familiar with the Knight Rider series (or that recent Green Hornet film), you see where I’m going with this. I’d like to see a muscle car with a snarky AI and an American accent. After all, the lead actor’s gonna be a Brit.
I’d make Scott Adkins the evil spy and Jason Bateman the evil AI’s voice. Here are some clips of their work:
Adkins – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTT5ZF4JLr4&t=2s
Bateman – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_r8cJSI23BY
Throw in a late-model Mustang? Sure. Make it pretty but heavily armored? Absolutely. Layered with next-gen perks and gadgets galore? Duh.
Now for the backstory. Malcolm Draite’s a patriotic British operative with a wife and son. His specialty was high-risk counterterrorism ops. Then some traitor sold detailed files on every agent in Malcolm’s division—and framed him for the crime. Malcolm’s fellow agents were murdered, along with their families.
Malcolm rushed home, only to get arrested in front of his wife and son. Then came the kill team. While in cuffs, he helplessly watched his family die in a vicious shootout—right before three bullets caught him in the chest. The killers got away clean. While poor Malcolm was in surgery, the real traitor was caught trying to flee the country.
After his exoneration, Malcolm ignored the apologies and then went off-grid.
Within a year, a new outfit emerged. Known as “Status,” these white-collar mercenaries specialized in affordable terror-for-hire ops. Someone called them the “DoorDash for Bond villains” because their field operatives were disposable freelancers with next-gen tech.
Status agents were hired online, well-paid, and kitted out with the best gear money could buy. Legal and medical expenses were covered by the company. Teams of freelancers were assembled, provided with detailed plans, and paid extra for success.
With such low prices, how did Status make a profit? Their hackers raided the accounts of their targets as they killed them. While a Finnish billionairess was killed by a Status sniper, her accounts were picked clean. If the hack took months to arrange (before the hit), then so be it.
Maybe the target was a café bombing. Fine. Everyone who died (down to the baristas) ended up with emptied accounts. That was Status’ calling card. Their clients were told never to claim responsibility for a terror act (or they’d get smoked).
Agents who tried to infiltrate Status were never seen or heard from again. The scary part? Sometimes, even governments hired Status to do jobs they couldn’t be seen doing.
Who put this outfit together? Malcolm Draite. How’d he do it? The grieving husband and father called in favors owed and killed anyone who refused him. Aside from vast sums of cash, Malcolm liked the thrill of killing bureaucrats—like the ones whose ineptness got his family killed.
The freelance gigs were a smokescreen for his vengeance. Whenever a client wanted a government official killed, Malcolm often did the op on his own—just because. The other victims were the cost of getting even.
Then Status got a big-name target: the President of the United Status. Malcolm personally planned the op. The hack began right as a kill team was about to shoot the president through six very solid walls. The experimental cannon had a three-mile range with a precision, armor-piercing projectile. A lot of complex math went into the shot.
Then there was an unexpected glitch. The shot was taken two seconds too late . . . and the First Lady was cut in half on international television. Even worse, the client for this op decided to gripe about the botched hit to a friend. The NSA intercepted the text from the client: the head of a domestic terror cell with deep pockets.
The FBI and ATF stepped up for the raid. They hoped to squeeze the client for intel on Status. The problem was that Status had people working for Homeland. Malcolm angrily ordered his spy car to be prepped. Before the arrest warrant was printed up, he was racing down back roads at 289 mph.
CHAD (his spy car’s AI) kept tabs on the arrest warrant and even managed to delay it. It scrambled satellite footage and tracked every living thing on the target premises. CHAD smashed through an armored gate, killed the sentries, and safely delivered Malcolm to the front door.
The Brit slipped out in full combat gear and a metal mask. The building was a three-story ranch home with men, women, and children inside. Malcolm killed everybody. Thanks to CHAD’s sensors and efficient guidance, no one could hide from him. Thus, when the client slipped into his panic room, Malcolm blew in the adjacent wall and lit him up.
Meanwhile, CHAD killed everyone outside. Militia reinforcements drove in with big guns and RPGs. The muscle car killed them all while blaring Blackened (by Metallica) on its loudspeakers. By the end of the song, Malcolm strolled out with a six-pack of beer and drove away.
The feds finally arrived and secured the site. Forensics fed them the terrifying notion that one guy and one car did all of this. Someone reached out to DARPA and the best black ops agents in Homeland’s arsenal. Enter Jason Statham with an elite team of eggheads and shooters to save the day. They even brought gadgets of their own (but no spy car).
Will it be enough to stop Malcolm and CHAD?
47. THE TIME RINGS
After time travel was outlawed, a sort of “Prohibition War” emerged between the world’s largest mobs. They constructed their own time machines, recruited minions, and sent them into the past. Obviously, they did it for the money and a desire to influence historical events—at the expense of their rivals. While these mobs clashed with each other, temporal agents continuously worked to prevent and undo changes to the past.
An AI-controlled temporal mob got “tired” of losing creds and agents on failed operations. It tried a different tactic: twelve time rings. Each nanite-based ring could self-fit neatly on a human finger with a functional AI. Once programmed, the rings were placed in massive time machines . . . and sent to different points in the past.
So, young Nikola Tesla was taking a nap one sunny afternoon. A time ring appeared around his left ring finger. The nanites instantly bonded with him and made their way to his brain. Tesla awakened fully brainwashed. For the rest of his life, that ring never left his finger and guided his every decision.
Originally, Tesla died poor and a bit crazy. In this altered reality, he put Thomas Edison out of business and won multiple Nobel Prizes. Tesla died the richest man in the world with a wife and heirs at his bedside. Since his time ring could self-replicate, everyone in his immediate (brainwashed) family had a matching piece of “AI bling.”
Temporal protection agencies noticed the historical distortion and sent agents to figure out the cause. They didn’t find the usual telltales. Eventually, they realized that Tesla was (somehow) involved and tried to grab him. Sadly, Tesla’s time ring made him well-versed in all manners of violence.
Half the temporal agents died by his hand. The rest were beaten senseless. Their superiors received a distress signal and reeled them into the present (via their central time machine). Six agents appeared, along with a Tesla-designed suitcase nuke with a two-second delay . . . BOOM.
That’s just one of twelve AI-driven dynasties, each with designs on changing history. Where (and when) were the other eleven?
NEWSLETTER RANT #92 – 01/23/24
48. THE VOLUNTEERS
Back in your super hero prime, you considered it goofy to be a Volunteer. Those gray-haired fossils were too old to fight crime but too stupid to just enjoy civilian life. So they put together a non-profit. You giggled at the idea of how pathetic they seemed. Some of these geezers were grandparents, who offered their services to heroes of every caliber.
Eventually, one of their people tracked you down. You politely refused their services and lost their card. Then you resumed your hard-core career as a combat psychic. Twenty years (and three divorces) later, you got suckered into a rigged building. You managed to drop the bad guys and got most of the hostages out.
Then bombs went off.
You woke up from a two-week coma with an ultratech cyber-leg. At your side was a Volunteer named Emma. She covered the expenses. Then she handed you a file. Inside were mug shots of the eight different assassins sent to murder you. Ralphie, a fellow Volunteer, stopped them before they even got close to your hospital bed.
With a sad smile, Emma reached into her purse. She pulled out a small bottle of vodka, a card for a shrink, and a folded Volunteer application. Without a further word, Emma left the room.
You stared at your three choices. The booze was self-destruction. The shrink was to get back into the game and fight crime (for however many years I had left). The third was to leave the active game and do some good elsewhere, as a Volunteer.
My younger self would’ve taken the booze option—complete with a downward spiral. As I flexed my cyber toes, I tapped into the telepathy and “looked” around. I found Ralphie on the hospital’s rooftop, still on guard. The aged ninja master flinched at my psychic intrusion, then allowed me to sift through his memories unchallenged. His past was a goddamned horror show.
Why’d he join the Volunteers? Ralphie Takamura owed a blood debt. Someone hired him to kill a girl. She happened to be his daughter—one he didn’t know he had. The client was an old enemy, who wanted the father to kill his child.
Ralphie had no clue, cornered his daughter, and then ran into Emma—a past-her-prime berserker heroine with a trust fund. She knew about the daughter and tried to talk him down. Ralphie couldn’t. His bosses had taken the client’s money. If he refused the job, his clan would’ve hunted him down. So they fought. Emma kicked his ass—but not before one of Ralphie’s throwing blades killed his only child.
Emma didn’t drag Ralphie to jail. No, she simply gave him the name of the client and limped away. Ralphie buried his child. The panicked client put a hit out on the grieving father—and hired that same ninja clan to do the deed. The grieving father’s shame and rage overcame his fear of his former masters. A few weeks later, there was one less ninja clan in the world. The client died a slow death soon after.
Lost amidst a sea of whores, pills, and drunken brawls, Ralphie was in a slow-motion suicide. Then Emma tracked him down and cleaned him up. In time, he became one of the Volunteers’ most fearsome recruits.
I gingerly stood up. With a smile, I picked up the vodka bottle and the application. Then I psi-asked the reformed killing machine if he had a pen I could borrow . . .
49. A BIT OVERDONE
This is a mild rant, regarding the overdone plot tool of the “funeral sniper” thing. Below is an example of one such hit. It’s from a movie called Assassins (Stallone vs. Banderas):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9XNDhwKT0g
In this film, Banderas has to whack a reclusive billionaire. The guy’s in a wheelchair because folks want him dead (hence the reclusiveness). To draw him out, Banderas killed the billionaire’s brother in an “accident.” The target comes to mourn and takes some silenced shots to the chest.
Stallone’s also hired to kill the billionaire and a conflict ensues.
Here’s another one from Reacher (Season 2), where the bad guy snipers wait for a 21-gun salute (to cover their shots). Things got ugly . . .
Part 1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fwmsYauqi4
Part 2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9G5Ke_p-0Oo
Here’s a commercial for some show called All The Queen’s Men. Someone tries to whack the main character during a funeral:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwkkH1rnM00
See the trend? I’d love to see something with a twist.
A money man’s hired to arrange an “open kill” contract for a high-profile target. It’s open to all comers—with one restriction: the hit has to happen at a funeral. On that special day, the target goes to the funeral, grieves, and leaves. His/her security are present and vigilant.
Nothing happens. Nothing at all. Completely boring. The money man is pissed and wants to know why the job isn’t done. Then there’s a montage of clips, where would-be assassins are getting picked off right and left. In other words, the target hires freelancers to kill the other freelancers.
When a sniper shows up at the cemetery and assembles her rifle, she takes one through the back of her head (from 400 yards). Guys in groundskeeper outfits collect her corpse and stack it next to two other would-be shooters.
The night before the funeral, some clever prick slips into the funeral home and puts eight pounds of C-4 in the coffin (under the corpse). His plan’s to erase everyone present with the press of a button. With a grin, he makes it to his car before he’s killed by a hit-and-run driver. Two other guys roll up in a van and collect the body. Then they head inside to deal with the explosives.
The post-funeral meal is moved (last-minute) to another location. Apparently, there’s a fire at the original venue. Three people die (all close-quarter hitters, whose bodies are left near a leaky gas main).
Days later, the money man’s doing laps in his pool, when a silenced shot catches him through the heart.
I might have to write this out someday.
NEWSLETTER RANT #91 – 01/16/24
50. RIPPLE BET
My old man was into history. He savored the string of not-so-predictable events. Of how “minor” choices and acts of God changed the world forever.
Me? I only liked the wars. Violence was my muse and I was very good at it. Just before I left the Colonial SEALs, my old man passed. A few years later, some madmen figured out how to travel into the past.
No one gave a f*ck, for two reasons. It was already established that the past couldn’t be changed. It self-corrected anything done to it. Terror cells and other nutjob factions, of course, tried to jump into the past and rewrite history. Their meddling would ripple out for a few decades, then reset on their own. All they managed to prove was that altering the past was impossible.
Because of the costs involved, governments didn’t create temporal policing agencies. They simply charged historians fat fees to snoop into the past. Anything they messed up didn’t matter, so why not? Historians brought back nude pics of Cleopatra, footage of the Battle of Agincourt, and so forth. Rather than wonder about the histories of the past, holo networks simply sent historians back to find the answers.
Well, a few years into my time as a freelance merc, I was approached by an old client. Jessup Remes III was a fixer who did favors for all sorts of old money types. He was an utter fan of my work, even before I left the service.
Mr. Remes needed talent for a job. He wanted me to kill a newborn French girl in 2029. I told him it wouldn’t matter because the past couldn’t be changed. According to Mr. Remes, that wasn’t the point. He currently represented a temporal gaming concern where the members bet on “what if” scenarios. That baby girl, for example, eventually became the first female Pope. If she took a bullet (while in diapers), how would that have impacted the papacy?
Pope Mary I was sainted for her service. Killing her would’ve been like whacking Taylor Swift’s fourth clone or President Oprah. Halfway through my refusal, Mr. Remes tapped his palm implant. A second later, fifty million creds landed in one of my accounts as a signing bonus.
Okay then.
Pope Mary was my first temporal hit. Folks bet on the outcome and billions changed hands. Then I was sent back to make sure FDR didn’t die in 1945. The bet was whether or not he’d have nuked the Japanese. My dad would’ve been ashamed of me. I, on the other hand, was kind of addicted to the possibilities.
As long as the timestream bounced back, what was the harm?
51. THE TARDY FLEET
One of the amazing things about Rogue One was how quickly the Rebel fleet showed up. I considered it a plot hole, but a fun one. We got to see Rebels versus Imperials without any Ewoks to offend the eye.
Well, what if the Rebel fleet didn’t get there in time?
So, the Rogue One squad sneaks onto Scarif. The shooters plant their explosives and draw out the garrison. The intrepid trio slips in and gets the Death Star plans. Since there’s no Rebel fleet, the shooters got shot. The planet’s shield generator never goes up because it’s unnecessary.
Word spreads of a breach in the archive room. Stormtroopers get there and kill the last three Rebel scum. There’s just one problem: they’ve managed to transmit the Death Star plans.
Meanwhile, the Rebel fleet’s roaring through hyperspace when Rogue One’s message hits them. They the Death Star plans, in transit, and find its design flaw. That clever Admiral Raddus puts himself in the shoes of the Imperial Grand Moff Tarkin. If he fragged Jeddah with the Death Star, it was on the way here—to neutralize Scarif.
Sure enough, when Tarkin learns of the attack, he orders the Death Star to jump to Scarif. He assumes that a fleet’s inbound (to back up the ground forces) and orders Vader to destroy them. Tarkin would rather slag the base than risk the plans ending up in enemy hands.
The Imperials get to the planet FIRST. The garrison’s standing down because every Rebel intruder’s been killed. Tarkin wonders what the f*ck’s going on—
When every Rebel fighter pops out of hyperspace.
Sadly, Rebel capital ships aren’t known for their guns, so they turn around and leave. Still, Raddus has a simple plan and three attack squadrons. Red Squadron goes after the Death Star. Gold Squadron dumps torpedoes on the Star Destroyers. Blue Squadron targets Scarif’s launch bay—the one built into the planetary shield grid—then backs up Red Squadron.
Long story short, Scarif’s TIE fighters get shredded before they can launch. One Star Destroyer’s disabled by fighters. The Rebels lose two-thirds of their pilots . . . but Red Five dumps a torpedo into the Death Star’s exhaust port. When the station’s reactor explodes, the blast cripples Lord Vader’s Star Destroyer.
Word (and proof) spread about the destruction of the Imperial planet killer and everyone loses their sh*t. Once-spineless members of the Rebellion pour money and other resources into the war effort. Within a month, an all-out galactic rebellion is in the works.
Without Skywalker and Co., can the Rebels win? Sure. As long as they keep brilliantly ruthless talent amongst their ranks.
NEWSLETTER RANT #90 – 01/09/24
52. ROTTEN CHOICES
We f*cked up. Plain simple.
Stone Vice could turn himself into any mineral form. It made him featureless, tougher, and stronger. Smokeblade could conjure up temporary blades of pure psi-smoke. Sharp as her wit, they could cut through steel.
“Thind” was my name—as in thought and mind. Since astral possession was my primary power, I never did gigs in my own body. Instead, I used scumbags to do my dirty work. Most of my “hosts” either died or ended up in jail, with no memory of what happened. Thanks to me, folks thought we ran a small crew of freelance mercs.
Stone Vice busted into crime scenes, shrugged off the gunfire, and made with the carnage. Smokeblade protected any innocents and had the big man’s back. I provided tactical overwatch and made sure no one got away. Also, before we hit a target, I possessed anyone in the know (to gather the necessary intel).
Why’d we fight crime? To pay for college.
We mostly targeted stash houses. Once Stone Vice got a line on a street dealer, he’d knock the f*cker out. Then I’d astral travel to the target and do a possession. Once I was in someone’s head, I had a perma-copy of his/her memories. Then I’d return to my birthday suit and relay the necessary details.
After a while, we knew where most of the drug cash in town was kept. If we hit them all too quickly, the bad guys would’ve gotten wise and shuffled their cash to other locales. Then we’d have to start all over.
For this work, it had to look natural. First, we beat up small fry scum. Then Smokeblade played “bad cop.” After a few stinging cuts, the smart ones talked. Then we burned the drugs, shut down some operations, and gave the cops some bad guys.
Whenever we “stumbled” across some cash, we walked off with a few heavy bags of it. Then we’d launder it all and vanish for a semester. When our funds ran out, we’d come back. The papers vilified us as “tourist vigilantes.” The cops wanted us behind bars.
And naturally, our motives clashed.
Whatever Stone Vice didn’t spend on his tuition went straight home to his family, in West Virginia. Heh! They thought he was dealing drugs. Utterly dirt poor, they took his money and asked no questions.
I possessed every teacher I’ve ever had (in their sleep, of course), so I aced my classes. I also jumped into the sleeping minds of everyone who mattered in this town. Their secrets were intoxicating and priceless. What’d I want? Money and power. There were so many roads to it. All of them were accessible—but which one to take?
Smokeblade, bless her silly heart, actually wanted to be a full-time crimefighter. When she wasn’t getting C’s in every class, the kid was off training. Granted, one of the hero teams might take her in—but she wasn’t smart enough to run solo and live.
Well, our money was running thin again. Smokeblade was itching to prowl the streets and kick ass. Stone Vice wasn’t as eager, although he didn’t mind saving the occasional life. Me? I had my psychic ear to the rumor mill . . . and the news wasn’t good.
The local mobs and gangs had pooled their resources and hired two four-villain teams to take us out. They were freelance scum. According to those in the know, each team had a full-on telepath. Guess they figured we had one too.
Smokeblade was resistant to psychics but Stone Vice wasn’t. While I had the strongest mind on the team, that wasn’t the point. Our edge was that no one else knew about my possession ability. If it came out that there were only three of us, we’d be hunted to the ends of the Earth.
Even worse, they planned to go on a crime spree—just to draw us out. They hadn’t yet figured out our money-grubbing vigilante pattern, or they’d have simply waited. If we did nothing or ran away, innocent people would die. Could we foil this nefarious crap on our own? Nope. Not a chance.
Then it hit me. The only way to “win” this fight was to fake our deaths. If we did it right, we could leave the game with millions in drug money and no one out to kill us. Smokeblade would have to give up her crimefighting dream. And our margin for error would be needle-thin . . . but it was the best (rotten) choice.
53. THE PINOCCHIOM
Stop laughing, you fools! They aren’t a myth!
Ignore the name, because it’s misleading beyond belief. Calling a tiger a “sheep” doesn’t make it any less lethal. Nor does a ridiculous Disney title. The Pinocchiom are not fictional. They’re forest demons from another realm. No one knows how they got here. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.
Like weeds in a fertile field, the Pinocchiom will breed. They’re subtle and prefer to avoid direct conflict. Why? Because they’re not the strongest monsters in our reality.
These demons can become almost anyone or anything. The older they get, the bigger they can grow. These demons feed on jealousy, greed, despair, and every other dark emotion. Any of these corruptive paths infect the human soul (their main food source).
A Pinocchiom can read your life memories with a glance and become anyone you’ve ever met. Its voice, mannerisms, and actions would allay whatever suspicions you might have. Then it would tell you a story. Does it have to be true? Of course not.
Listen for too long and a dark emotion will arise and drive you toward a self-destructive act. While under a Pinnochiom’s influence, everyone you kill feeds them. If you die, then your soul’s on the menu as well.
Can we fight them? Not easily. Pinocchiom can plow through a dozen men with ease and make cats seem slow by comparison. When angered, they become a solid mass of infernal wood that’s only vulnerable to fire or magic.
Why the silly moniker? Aside from being accomplished deceivers, Pinocchiom have nasal stingers. That’s right. Their noses can stretch out (like yo-yos or frog tongues) and punch through bone with ease.
The tip is both barbed and venomous. Anyone they sting dies within minutes, as their organs turn into wood. It’s their infernal calling card.
Not laughing now, are you, heroes? Because you will have to find and kill every Pinocchiom on this island, no matter the cost. They must be stopped . . . or we’ll all be dead in a matter of weeks.