Hmm...

So I didn't work on my novel as much as I had hoped. I was busy with homework, but ultimately, for some reason I had a lot of nervous excitement yesterday which led to being easily distracted.

Curse my love of football too, as that most certainly didn't help quash the distractions today.

Oh well. Homework this week looks to be light, so hopefully 2 things will happen:

1. Get back to my routine workout schedule.
2. Work more on chapter 2, which I have a quick outline and start to.

On another note.. Damn Steelers.. blowing ANOTHER 4th quarter lead.

Guess I should show some respect to the Bengals for not bungling it...

Thanks!

I want to say thank you to those who provided positive/critical/negative feedback to my two introduction. The general consensus is I have a really good idea, and the first section was a good starting point, but with some changes I can have a whopper of an intro as a leaping point for the rest of the work. I'm editing the introduction and should have that done tomorrow. The second chapter is the letter Slaton writes, and after I edit that, I will post that up here, hopefully sometime this weekend.

Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks, and there is a lot more to come for those who are interested!

For now, here's the best office linebacker to ever play.

Gus

Introduction: Oh Shit, Part 2

The man stared at Slaton for what felt like an eternity, the dark eyes boring into Slaton with such intensity that he started to tremble slightly. A new Muse song entered into the fray to break the silence:

Break me in,
Teach us to cheat
And to lie, cover up
What shouldn't be shared?
All the truth unwinding
Scraping away
At my mind
Please stop asking me to describe him

Finally, Slaton managed to speak, despite his unrelenting terror pulsing through his veins.

“What do you want?” he sputtered nervously.

The well-dressed man let out a small chuckle. The tension was gone from his eyes. “Oh, I just happened to be in the neighborhood. You have some funny neighbors. Did you know that Mrs. Jensen down the street is committing adultery with two men at the same time right now, while her 2-year old takes a nap, and her husband is away on a business trip? Three houses down, John Basking has a meth lab in his garage.” He stopped for a moment to pull out a very large hand-wrapped cigar from a jacket pocket, lit it with a sterling silver Zippo lighter, and continued. “Here we are, in a perfect storyboard middle class suburban American neighborhood, and you have horrible things happening everywhere you look! I mean, you can’t make that shit up. It’s classic!” He blew out a ring of smoke at Slaton, and started to laugh in earnest.

“If you came here to have a discussion on middle class American life, you can just leave right now,” Slaton muttered. “I already know the world is blind to its own hypocritical nature when it comes to good and evil.”

“No, you’re wrong,” replied the man as he shook his head. “Humans refuse to confront it. Do you understand the difference, Slaton? The world goes on as it always will since its creation.” Another puff of smoke, and the man smiled. “Men are nothing more than a Godforsaken speck on the universal timeline, a small zit on the universes’ chin.” The man sat up slightly and leaned towards Slaton. “Come closer, I have a secret to tell you.”

Slaton shook his head. “No. You’ve already told me enough. You’ve already broken me down enough at it is, and I don’t care about your philosophi-“

“Come here, you worthless meatsack,” interrupted the man, practically hissing the words as his eyes glinted dangerously. Slaton had no choice, and got out of his chair, trembling as he kneeled down close to the man. The man licked his lips, and placed his mouth inches away from Slaton’s ear. Putrid hot breath, smelling of tobacco and a hint of cloves blended into Slaton’s senses, intoxicating him.

“you, you… humans,” growled the man, “have been abandoned by God. He has left you and your pathetic kind to find your own way through the universe. Do you understand? His greatest mistake was to create humans in His own likeness, and His understanding of that has left Him heartbroken and forlorn. He had such high hopes for your kind. You have killed and raped, pillaged and plundered in His name for thousands of years, and He has finally had enough of it, for it is a mirror of His own mind, and that sickens him. He…is….gone….”

“You lie, Light-Bearer,” whispered Slaton as tears slowly began to trail down his unshaven cheeks. The man laughed again, and stood up.

“Perhaps. I do tend to deceive when it suits my purpose,” the man sardonically replied. “However, this is not one of those times.” The man walked over to a Tool poster Slaton had splayed across his wall. “One of my favorite rock bands, these guys. They get it, the whole kit and caboodle.”

I have to finish, or at least send what I have done before he kills me, Slaton thought to himself. “Í have other posters of theirs in my closet,” he gestured as he wiped away tears and slowly made his way back to his computer desk.

“Hmm. Do you mind if I take a gander?” the man asked.

“Do I have a choice of saying no?” Slaton sarcastically said.

“Ah, Yes,” the man grinned, puffed from his cigar and walked over to Slaton’s closet. “Choice is what caused a large portion of this predicament you humans now find yourselves in.” The man started shuffled through the clothing, shoe boxes and old videogame machines in Slaton’s closet, searching for posters.

Now! Slaton quickly typed some remaining last words on his letter, typed in an email address on his Gmail, and hit send. I wish I had time to explain it all to her, but she’ll have to piece it together on her own. A great sense of relief washed over Slaton as he turned around to see the man holding up a poster of a pig with a fork in it.

“Magnificent,” the man murmured. He turned his attention back to Slaton, and sat back down on Slaton’s bed.

“So now what?” asked Slaton.

“Do you know why I showed you my plan?” the man queried as he drew air into his cigar. “What would be my purpose of showing a human my masterpiece of design and function?”

“I was wondering about that, and as far as I can tell, there really isn’t a good reason.”

“Wrong again, my boy. A plan this magnificent, this perfect and chaotic needs an audience! You just happened to be walking by, and I thought to myself, ‘here’s a slob I can trust to understand his duty once I have given him his direction to go.’” The man moved over to Slaton, and bent down to whisper in Slaton’s ear. “I know what it is you type on your computer. I chose you for this purpose because I know you are weak, and you have done what I had hoped you would do.” The man backed off and grinned at Slaton. “I want the world to know, because humans must know in order for my plan to succeed.”

My God, Slaton thought to himself, this is part of his grand plan. He wanted me to spread the word. I am nothing but this man’s tool to use… As recognition spread throughout Slaton’s thoughts, he started to sob.

“Father, forgive me,” he whispered.

“No, he won’t,” the man responded. “As I said, he no longer cares. The rest of this,” the man gestured spreading his arms, “this world, is now a big playground for whatever the fuck I want to create. And I want Chaos!” The man put out his cigar on Slaton’s bed, and pulled out a handgun with a silencer on his pocket.

I’ve done what I can. I just hope he doesn’t realize who I sent the letter to. A sense of peace, despite the threat of his impending death, flooded over Slaton.

“I am ready,” he said, and closed his eyes. The man laughed again.

“I don’t need to kill you,” the man pompously said. “You humans have done a brilliant job of doing that yourself since you were first created.” The man set the gun next to Slaton, and patted him on his head. “You know what to do.”

Slaton looked at the gun. “Why put a silencer on it?”

The man looked at Slaton with mock indignation. “What, and wake the neighbors? Always selfishly thinking of yourself, aren’t you?” The man then gave a thumbs up to Slaton. “I’ll see you on the other side,” the man said as he walked out of Slaton’s room.

Slaton picked up the gun. I have to do this. It’s too late for me. I have done what I can, he repeated to himself. He put the gun in his mouth, turned off the safety, and put his finger to the trigger. Magdalene, and Mother, forgive me. He closed his eyes again, and pulled the trigger.

The man could hear the thump sound as he walked down the hallway from Slaton’s bedroom. He took off his fedora and placed it on his heart, and muttered a prayer. Down the hallway, Mathew Bellamy could be heard:

it's time we saw a miracle
come on it's time for something biblical
to pull us through
and pull us through
and this is the end
this is the end of the world

The man laughed. “How fitting,” he mused as he put his hat back on and walked out of Slaton’s home, into the darkness of night.

Introduction: Oh Shit!

Here is the prologue to my novel. More coming tomorrow. Or the next day. Enjoy what I have so far, which isn't much.

But I'm getting tired and whiny. Enjoy!

Slaton could smell him. The musty scent of age and decay mixed with something sweet –cloves perhaps- mingled down the hallway into his room, viciously potent and alarming.

It didn’t hit Slaton immediately. He was busy working on something important, something revolutionary. Muse blared loudly through his computer speakers; a cigarette dangled from his chapped lips, ashes falling into his lap and keyboard, stinging his hands slightly; his phone sat next to his keyboard, beeping at him like a cat desperately whining for fresh cat food. Empty Funyon bags and half-empty Mountain Dew cans sat precariously on the edge of his particle board desk, waiting for the slightest shake to spill their contents onto the messy floor. His Oregon Trail “You have died of Dysentery” t-shirt that stuck to his skinny frame was stained with ash and Mountain Dew.

He didn’t care, and in fact, hardly noticed. Time and personal hygiene had become a blur to him as he feverishly typed his letter of warning, of prophecy, and an apology, to the world.

Almost done, Slaton thought to himself as he took a brief moment to rub his green-gray eyes, and pushed his messy blonde hair back from his brow. In the background, Mathew Bellamy swooned:

Is our secret safe tonight
and are we out of sight
Or will our world come tumbling down?
Will they find our hiding place
is this our last embrace
or will the walls start caving in?

Then, at that moment, the potent smell finally broke through his impenetrable wall of motive. Slaton went pale, as pale as Casper.

He is here, Slaton panicked. What the fuck is he doing here? God Dammit, he’ll ruin everything! Slaton stood up quickly, and went to close the door to his room.

A shoe managed to jam its way between the frame and door. A classic British wingtip shoe, made with aged leather that was faded gray with age, jutted its unwanted presence into Slaton’s room.

“Amusing, you little bastard,” growled the voice behind the shoe, “but it won’t do you any good,” Slaton had always thought the voice was a mix of Morgan Freeman and Krusty the Klown from The Simpsons.

No, no no no no! Dejected, Slaton opened the door, allowing his full vision of the person behind the shoe.

A large man, around 6 ft 3 inches tall, filled out the entirety of his suit with a muscular frame. The suit was a classic woolen suit that, like the shoes, was faded gray with age. It was almost impossible to gauge how old the suit was with just one look. Slaton got the image of a tailor in England, in the late 1800’s, working on the fabric, sewing on the three buttons for the jacket with delicate skill.

An impeccable white button up shirt was match with a blood red tie. Slaton could swear that in the right light, or right environment, he could see a smiley face shimmer on the tie. A white handkerchief, folded neatly into the breast pocket, managed to show the tip of a symbol, but it was too tucked in to see it all.

The last detail on the suit were the New York Yankees cufflinks, aged like the rest of the suit, an old gold and pearl-white.

The man wore a fedora, with a red ribbon. Under the hat, long brown hair was neatly pulled back into a braid.

His eyes, those eyes, are what scared Slaton the most, black as night, as black as they get, with constantly angry, arched eyebrows that sheared away any thoughts of ever pissing off this man.

His nose was slightly forked, with nostrils that flared when he spoke, lips that always seemed to be on the edge of sneering.

And the scar! Running thinly from one small ear to the next, along his cheekbones, right under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose, it startled Slaton with its brilliant, violent red sheen. It looked like a fresh wound days ago when Slaton met him, and it looked that way still.

Today he was clean shaven, Slaton noticed, and shuddered as the man walked into his room. The man contemptuously sighed as he looked around the filthy room, and sat down on Slaton’s full size bed that had no bottom sheet on it. Slaton took a seat in his computer chair, and prepared for the worst.

Fairly quiet week

Been a fairly quiet/busy/tiring week. I really haven't had time to work on much of anything, and then when I do have time I've been too tired to write.

Hopefully that should change this weekend. I hope to have the start to my novel this weekend.

Anyways, more happenings going on in a few days. Until then, Go Steelers!

Gus

Here comes the Brain: Rebels are attacking the base!

Hey Gus...

What's happenin', Brain?

Oh, you know, listening to Muse, trying to decide whether I want another cup of coffee.. contemplating the fact that tomorrow we will be thirty years old. That's old, foshizzle.

No it's not. You're overreacting. And whining. You're also complaining about an arbitrary date.

Huh? How so?

Birthdays are just made up. I mean, look at dog years. How many years would we be in dog years?

Umm..133 years old.

Holy Hell! Time to collect Social Security, Bitches!
You idiot. First, you're not a dog, and secondly, you're not 133 years old.

Why do you have to piss on my parade?

I think the term is raining on your parade.

No, cause God like to pee all over my parades.

...That's disturbing. Anyways, what are you doing?

Playing Bejewled Blitz on Facebook.

...So you're procrastinating.

No, I'm playing a game. Duh.

Don't you have stuff to do today?

Eventually. It's not even 12:30 yet.

What does that have to do with anything? If you have stuff that needs doing, now's the time.

I'm not ready. Besides, you're over there, contemplating again. Contemplate this, drink that, shove this up.. whoops.. said to much.

You, sir, are disgusting.

Oh, come on. I'm just kidding.

Are you?

......

That's what I thought. Well, instead of farting around on Facebook, why don't we work on that story idea you have floating around in the ether?

Speaking of ether, I saw Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas on Hulu last night. Man, that is one screwed up movie.

Yeah, I was there. I had flashbacks, flashbacks of pure evil...

Bah. Our pot-smoking days were all in good fun.

You practically killed me.

No, I just made you less effective for a while. Now look at you! You can comprehend full sentences again, and even contemplate the universal properties of glue sticks.

Like gluing someone's buttcheeks together?

Exactly! See, that's knowledge you can use!

I'll make sure to put that on my resume. Anyways, let's make more coffee, and write a bit.

You're the boss.

If I'm the boss, how come I don't get a comfy chair?

Umm.. Rebel forces attacking our base! They stole our chair.

...Rebel Scum...

Pat Buchanan is an Assbag.

Good God..
Pat Buchanan, who is of course officially an asshat of epic proportions, decides to write an awful article about Hitler, and how Hitler really didn't want war.

Click here to read it.

Hey Pat, try reading up on history sometime. Here's what I know, without any current knowledge of WWII beyond what I have learned in basic college classes:

1. Hitler believed in war, and was planning his triumph of Eastern Europe in 1937, 2 years before Poland would collapse under the Blitzkrieg.

2. Hitler was a known liar. Time and time again he fell back on his word. His agreement with Russia to not attack as long as they stayed out of the European war is just one of many examples.

3. Hitler deserves absolutely no sympathy. History should NEVER look on his rise to power with any sympathetic light. History should learn from him, and try to never let history repeat itself.

Hitler never wanted peace. He wanted an empire like Rome, a German-led, 1000 year reich which would preserve the Perfect Race.

You, Pat, are an assbag of epic proportions.