Branded

The searing white heat I felt on the nape of my neck was excruciating. The smell of burning flesh filled my nostrils. It's sweet putrid stench triggered my urge to gag, but the burning sensation overrode all. I kept trying to move away, but many hands forced me in place while I envisioned my skin burning away like paper from a fresh lit match.

I tried to gather some sense, some reasoning for this.

"Mom? Dad!", was what I managed to sputter out before the pain subsided and a coolness blew over my wound. "Why is this' happening?", is what kept repeating in my head. I could barely focus my eyes. My vision was foggy at best due to my clenching them shut for pain's sake.

"It looks like he's gonna pass out.", I heard a sweet dove like voice speak. It was Miranda, my girlfriend. My childhood sweetheart. She was in the room. She was watching these people torture me. Why?

I began to weep.

"If he hasn't passed out yet, this'll do the job. G'night son.", I heard my dad say. I tried my best to lift my head and find his voice but I'm met with hard pressure on the back of my head and a flash of light.

The haze begins to lift and I look around. Things that I see aren't making sense. It's my house from I was seven, and I'm staring at my G.I Joes. My trip though nostalgia lane is broken up by my dad walking in my bedroom door and my mom introducing him for the first time. He had been away to what I thought was army stuff. I get up to hug him and I'm snapped back into the fog.

When I can see again, I'm in church. But not as a parishioner, more like a patron at a movie cinema and I'm viewing sermons and services that fly by me at super speed. It feels like my mind is going to pop with all the holy images and words that are being absorbed in my head.

King Nebakenezur stays in mind. His story of wandering the wild for seven years because of his pride. Daniel chapter four if I'm not mistaken. More fog rolls in.

Now I'm at my parents house at our "after church" finger foods buffet. All the halved pigs in blankets and pop you can handle. Happens every other Sunday and sometimes half the church comes. By that I mean Father Lycus, and the Saskens, my parents neighbors, and Miranda. Some times with but most times without her parents. Perks of a small logging town in upper Washington state, I guess.

But this is tonight I remembering. My dad and Father Lycus are discussing the Book of Daniel again. My mom and Mrs. Saskens are cleaning up the blanketed pigs feast. Miranda's brothers, Cain and Saul are here as well. In town on leave from the reserves. They themselves consumed the lion's share of the food tonight. I can tell by the way Miranda looks at them, exactly how important to her they are. This is something I have to make sure stays the same after her and I wed. Keeping her happy, is like my dad say, job numero uno.

I do love her.

I catch myself staring at her. I can't help it. She has been my best friend my whole life. Coupled with the fact that she is drop dead beautiful, me being a lucky man goes way without saying.

We announced our engagement just last week and still can't believe that she agreed. Again, lucky man.

The lovely moment seems to slowly rip apart when I notice the look in my mom's face. She is clearing off the coffee table, but the look of severe concern and fear on her face is inescapable. I hear my words, "What's wrong Mom?", try to leave my mouth as I'm tackled from behind.

Cain and Saul are dragging me to the coffee table. They force me down and secure my shoulders. Military training at it's finest I suppose. I feel someone climb atop my back and the feel of cold metal on my skin as it slices through my shirt. The room is spinning just like the moment and I can't halt its cycle.

I hear, what I think is prayers from on top of me. This is not happening. Father Lycus is mumbling prayers from on my back, while Miranda's brothers play Gestapo with my arms.

"Mom! Dad! Make 'em stop! What'd I do?", I cry out.

"It's your time son.", my dad replies. He adds, "Don't fight it, just hold still and be the man I know are and can be. Your branding will mark the entry to your next chapter of life."

"Why?", I ask.

From above I hear Father Lycus, "Daniel chapter four son. You know it Anthony, you've always known it. Seven years of trails you'll face. Just as your father faced, and as his father faced. Seven years alone, to return with God's favor! Seven years alone to taste humility's flavor.", he almost seemed to chant.

I noticed Miranda bringing in, what looks like a poker for the fireplace. I can't help notice her tears. She mouths the words "I'm sorry.", as she hands the poker, which I see now is glowing white hot, to Lycus above me.

I feel Lycus' hand grab my hair and pull my head up to where I can see my fiancée in full view. Before I can say anything, searing white heat is blazing into my skin at the nape of my neck. I clench my eyes shut soo hard, I feel that they might break.

Fog.

I'm awake now. I can smell fresh made onion rings from Harry's Burgers but the odd thing is that I'm in the woods and no where near Harry's. I also notice that I don't feel like me. I feel, I don't know, in tune ... is the closest I can describe it. The bird's thoughts are in my head, as the same with the trees and their roots. It's like a cacophony of nature's will inside my body.

I try to call out, and notice the sounds coming out of my mouth are not words and not my voice. Instead something deeper in tone unleashes in the air.

Fear sinks it's claws into my spine and for the first time since I was a child, I desperately want my mom. Her snicker doodles and a hug would feel soo great right now. What's happened to me?

I look around to gather my bearings and see a carving in a tree. It's mine and Miranda's from our fourth grade trip. I'm in Hodge's Clearing. I'm near home, a few miles out. Then it hit's me, Miranda!

I make way towards town. The fear in my heart is swelling and tears are falling like warm rain. I've run the whole way in, but I'm not exhausted or tired. I can see Harry's Burgers just up ahead out of the brush. The smell of boiling grease is nauseating.

There she is, standing outside of Harry's. She is looking in my direction. My god she's beautiful. I start towards her, but she whispers., "Stay hidden. Don't come to me. I know you can hear me.". Even when she whispers, she sounds like a dove. She points to her ring finger and says, "Seven years Anthony. I'll will be here when you come back. I love you baby. Go. Be safe and come back to me.", she coos before turning away and walking back into town.

"What the hell is that!?", I hear from my right. A telephone repair up on the pole is staring at me and yelling, "I told you, sweet Jesus, I told you all there was Big Feets up here!".

I run as fast as I can towards the woods and I don't look back. Miranda's last words stay lingering in my head as I run. "Seven years ... ".


Epilogue:

Three weeks later ...

Miranda grabbed her brushed aluminum travel mug from the counter and scraped her change from the counter into her purse. "Thanks Ronnie.", she called to the young enamored convenience store attendant.

She bundled up and braved the cold outside. The inside of her Jeep feels like a comfy blanket compared to Northwestern December morning. She pulls out onto the road and adjust the stereo.

"... WKBF in the morning, WE'RE GRIZZLY! Hey morning commuters, weather and traffic on the fives. You listeners keep going nuts with the Sasquatch sightings. We all know he's out there, but please quit tying up the GRIZZ lines with Big Foot peek a boos! In other traffic news, a log hauler jack knifed on the ..."

Miranda smiles to herself, and rubs her engagement ring.

Captured 1.2

Water. A relatively simple thing. We all need it to survive. Most things we eat have some in it. Heck, our bodies are made up mostly of the stuff. But out here in space, aboard this modified war cruiser, I find my self craving water the most. Oh, don't get me wrong, the Einherjar's water gen-replicators produce enough of it, but it's just not the same. Got a tin like tinge to it and it makes my skin itch. Anyways, I'll post more soon Dad. My departure for planetside is in a few days and I've got to start researching the data logs on the indigenous life forms there. They assigned me to observe negotiations with the Skefs and I've got to brush up on the "do's and don'ts" of dealing with phermonial reptilian flying things. Hope to be home soon. Miss you.

ISMQ : Session closed
Pather : Jackson, Ertimus
Status : Citizen Active Register
Option : SEND
Postage : 525 e.creds

Sometimes the mailQue is my own little private therapy time. Takes my mind away from this twenty foot by thirty foot cell they call a civi-nook. Can't wait to see the accommodations planetside.

A beeping at my door quickly ends today's session.

"Come on in".

Colonel Ramses dips his way through the door way. For a man in his mid seventies, the Colonel is in Olympian form. At least six and half feet tall and coconuts for shoulders. I would guess his weight near two hundred and thirty with at least five pounds coming from his moustache alone.

"How's Earth finest keeping you son?", he bellows. His voice can't help but boom.

"I could use mayb ..."

"Good, good. Now, Ert my boy ..."

I absolutely loathe being called boy. Almost as much as being interrupted. The sidearm he carries, along with the fact that he could snap me in two, quickly calms the loathing.

" - there's a small side mission, that I would like for you to oversee."

"Sir?"

"One of my top men has gone M.I.A. and I would like for you to cross lines and go looking for him.", his tone was a little bit more tense, if that were possible.

"The Skef contact is one of their local big shots, name of Fennick. You can familiarize yourself with customs and the like on the transport down."

I didn't like where this was heading. "But sir, I'm Citizen Registered. An observer. I'm not qualified for this sort of mission."

"Ert, if you weren't qualified, you wouldn't be on the Einherjar. Now, take a look at this BioGen disk copy. It's the last transmission Archie made before falling off the grid.", he said before exited my civi-nook.

I inserted the mini-disk into my mobile terminal and information began to light up all my screens. I select Datalog and a voice begins:

Datalog open:
I.D. : Lance Corporal, Krundle Archibald A.
Vessel: Einherjar
BioGen Scan: Complete

Day Six, and still no orders on whether or not we engage these prehistoric, bat bug things. The higher ups are under scrutiny to put together a classic meet and great party to present the "human" peace hand shake. It does not bode well with the ole Archibald meter. The Skefs seem well enough, but they're not the only -

The transmission ends with crackling static.

iAl 4.2

Please forgive my absence from blogging for a bit. I've been taking a hard look at some things in my little micro-verse. I'm starting to really get a sense of what it means to be me. Apparently it involves leaving all my distractions behind, all the while making leaps in making something creative and stellar happen.
I've left my precious World of Warcraft and the time sync called Mafia Wars behind to try to better reach my goals. My goals of bringing the world a new "make believe" hero. I've also found this to be more work than what it seems. I have embraced the cold mistress called research and now feel the electric pain of actual brainstorming.
The thing is, I am absolutely loving every minute of it. Everything is a new challenge, a new experience and lastly, a new me. It's fun now, thinking up new things to share with you, or how we humans fight off demonic ferrets who belch pubonic plague mist bubbles.


Kudos to all of you!

A Cleansing of sorts ...

I have to tell you, if I don't release some of this steam, I will begin a rampage of shooting people in the face with a bazooka. (Thank you Mister Cosby.)

People that are all around me have breached my defenses and I can't seem to plug the hole. Have manners totally left Earth, or did I miss the global message that it is now okay to be rude in every social setting?

Interrupting someone when they are speaking. Since when did that become en vogue? "Imma let you finish.", was the coup de grace. Thanks Mister Kanye. Now even in the most smallest work settings, I have co workers who just cannot live life to it's fullest extent unless they have interrupted me at least six times a day. Sometimes that number has been reached in a single conversation. Tasty!

How about the person who asks a question and talks over your answer? I love them. I want all of them over for a steak dinner.

I'm sorry, just needed a public venue to vent. Carry on with your normal internet surfing and searching for HTML's of cats firing machine guns and the like.

Well well well, mobile blogging.

Captured

Day six of the infestation from the stars. The growing numbers of outanders seems to grow by the day with no end in sight. Local government says to stay calm and when applicable, be courteous and hospitable. I doubt that this "invasion" sized army of "explorers" is anything but searching. The technology they posses seems rugged and deathly. One could surmise that our flesh could withstand an attack, but I doubt our wings could.

"Surgeon Witsu?" a soft, deep voice calls from just outside my study chambers.

End journal entry:
Psionic encrypt code : Luna Skall
Path : Ballistic
Vessel: Wistu Fennick

"Medna, please do not call me that. Witsu, Fenn Wits, or even Wit-nnick is better than "surgeon". It has been two tri lunar cycles since that title has been soo erroneously placed on my brow. It is soo ... alien."

Medna's strong build trying to maneuver through all the glass tubatures in my chambers is still amusing to me, though I never willingly tease an old friend. Let alone the next in line for Warrior Expona. Medna's prowess on the battle realms is legend. Legend enough to carry the mantle of the elite battle tasker of all the Soompa Territories. More than that, he is my friend. My life long brother mate.

"Alien?", he offers. "An odd choice of description considering the current affairs. You know, this meeting between us and ... what do they call themselves again? Hulam Eens?".

"Human Beings. From -"

He quickly scoffs,"Not important Surgeon Expona. What is of most paramount importance brother mate, is that we do not, by NO means allow for this open negotiations to continue. They do not come in peaceful tones. Their scent reeks of deceit, anger, greed and violence. They are the harbingers from the young ones tales. They are makers of death Witsu and we are their hosts!"

He plates his words with a warning scent that singes my nasal cavities.

I place my hand on his large shoulder and try my best to calm him and myself down. It doesn't seem to work. I am scared, and for the first time that I can remember, so is he. My wings sends out a high pitched shudder.

He begins to chortle. "Please Mighty Surgeon, do not flutter gas in front of the Hulmian Bens tonight. It makes for bad politics."

"As does your facial hole!", I retort.

We laugh for a short break and than Medna helps me don my Surgeon Robes and sceptre.

The journey towards answers from the Humans starts tonight.

Change of digs!

Well my little slaglings, as do the seasons change such is my blog. The last month or so has brought on monumental changes in my life, on and offline. The embracing of my dreams has become a hunger I can no longer deny.

As a young sapling, I helped my dad on the weekends doing construction, ie: exterior and interior stucco work and the like. Yet this was not and is not the trade I ever wanted to enter. Nineteen years ago, I entered the wheel and tire wholesale business, and never looked back. Smattered betwixt the years, I played congas at a professional level and was considering this as a creative outlet for me. This was not to be.

The one constant in my life from seedling to tree, was my love for the geek arts. I mastered the comic kick from wu dang, the crouching Atari hidden Nintendo system, and I'm proficient in the ancient art of Star Wars foot fist way.

For years I kept this love of Geek-Fu hidden, deep down. But no more! I am fully embracing the tao of my inner fanboy. I have recently started work on a project that will feed my long time love affair with comics, fantasy, anime, on line gaming, and midgets. (Damn! I loves me some midgets!)

You will see the name "Mar.Key Studios" come up more frequently. That's my house of ideas, (along with my pal and awesome artist J.Key) that will pumping out some fantastic works of epic proportions.

I will post updated information of our progress and links to upcoming site. Also, I will post new Blog-Fu short stories here. First up will be a story of a village of the damned and a holy swordsman called, "Boneblade".

Anyhoo, I wanted to keep all my sea monkies of evil informed of the goings on of me and my ... GEEK-FU!

Turning points, off ramps or not ...

Sorry to have shunned you, o' matron saints of the blog world. I have been busy with a new direction in my life. I guess at certain times of ones life, all the planets line up and the heavens sing, the gatekeepers smile and open the long thought forbidden doors. As of lately, I skee-daddled my bulbous tuckus through one of those famed portals and am now four by fouring it on weird and exciting terrain.

I'll have to admit, the uncertainty, albeit exciting, is a bit on the nerve racking side.

I want to scream at you guys on the top of bloggeroo mountain on the details, but until I secure the ins and outs of copyrighting and trademarking and the like, I'm as tight lipped as ... well, you make your damn witty comment.

More likely than not, this will be like command central or a new eblogger site.


Until ... wait, watching Pretty Woman, and Vivian just got the boot out of the snotty shop on Rodeo Drive. Cold.


Until I have a new road map to this new exciting road!


A.

Taco Terrorism and you

Greetings from the outskirts, my fellow purveyors of geekdom. E3 is going down this week, and lots of tasty new swag is being churned out. This is the Mecca of Geekness and the geeks are in full swing, itching on any new tech that will throw them back a few hundred bucks.

The new 360 developments hitting are gonna be pretty nifty. Twitter and Facebook now integrated in your XBox Live experience. Double ownage served up in real time social twi-boxing. Scoring a perfect on some dude with the gamer tag of WampaSlayer, while playing Street Fighter IV, can now be Twitted, to bolster up your geek status amongst the Tweeps.

More to come as the techie goodness flows from the E3 mountain top.


BACK TO THE RANT ***

I found myself in the observation mode this week. Sunday found me in the normal routine, taking my kids home from the "weekend visit". My daughter and I are cruising along, heading to the "Bell" for some quasi-Mexican food. We usually eat at home before we leave, but a viewing of the new Pixar film, "Up" and a bucket of soda pop and a trough of buttered flavored popping corn, filled us up. Dinner was postponed til the last minute run to the border.

We order, fairly quick and make our way to turn number two, (NASCAR STYLE!) Then BAM, stop in our tracks. I wait patiently, until I make my around the corner. With the order window window in my sights, I notice a dark blue Chevy Suburban, just sitting at the check out. At this point, no biggie, maybe a family with a huge bean burrito fixation to feed. I'm cool like December.

Then I see it. The driver extends his hand out, trying to show the Taco Bell employee the wrong food or wrong condiments, or wrong what ever. Seven minutes have passed since my order placing to whats going down in front of me. Two more minutes pass , and the scenario replays itself, out stretched hand, offering a look from a more discerning member of the Taco Team. Three more minutes and the debacle in front of us , is now at an end. New product is being exchanged and the Suburbans brake lights engage, and in gear it goes, off into the distance, to "I gots my tacos, and I'm enjoying me some mild sauce goodness.

That's when my Jerko Bell alarm goes off.

Why do I have to pay for the sins of his inept ordering skills, or the Taco members mistake? The dude in the Suburban, is giving us the UN PC mental finger, by declaring that if his fat butt ain't eating, none of us eat! Screw all of our Enchirito laments, he is in control.

I explain to my daughter, that this is fast food terrorism. Holding other people hostage is wrong. Take your grievance INSIDE, to spare the hungering souls behind you. That's the right play.

Yeah, that's me, Dad extraordinaire. Life lessons even at the local Taco Bell. I don't seek praise, just a nod of remembrance when you get your fast fried McGoodness in an orderly fashion, that could be my kid, taking his burger with no mayo, dripping with extra mayo inside for your dining pleasure.

Well ... until they make Yar's Revenge 2.


Keep yer unit on you!

If that ain't a load of ...

Disappointed today. My homemade reality show pitch, along with demo footage, was horrifically shot down today. Mind you, this was my first attempt at sharing with the world, my video buffet of reality goodness, but a rejection still hurts.

Now, granted, my "series" was a bit avant garde and risque, but at the same time charming and downright lovable. I called it , "From the Throne - A daily peek at the toilet habits of the American male." I was going to cover EVERYTHING, the camera would catch all the nuances, faces and sounds, (of course, not bodily sounds, but rather grunts and any vocals...ie: reading or praying. I wasn't aiming for sophomoric fart jokes. Sickos.) Lotsa important decisions are made in the bathroom, and I was going to capture and chronicle it all. Cameras in famous celebrities restrooms. From Freddie Prinze Jr. to Abe Vigoda. Dane Cook to Vern Troyer, I was going to take this global.

I even envisioned having re-enactments of historical figures like Abraham Lincoln or Napoleon, filmed in sepia tone, squatting and reliving those monumental dumps. Or the post forbidden apple dump session in the Garden of Eden. It was genius.

But alas, it was not meant to be. The powers that be shot me down with words of forged steel and tempered resolve. They issued me an informal rejection wrapped in a manila colored envelope sealed with a death stained kiss.

Well not really, the death kiss is just my way of embellishing the moment. Anyways ... they said no, and for me to seek help, or something of the sort. But get this, in the letter they refer to my idea as a piece of crap.

Wow.


***


Side note:

The Vern Troyer episode, had "From The Throne", been taken to fruition, it would have been called ... "Little Sh*t and Flush tones".



Pure Genius.

Hello. Welcome to my pool. Care for some pie?

Hey campers. What's shaking?

Just thought I'd do my duty to world and enlighten mankind with my observations, rants, and my pithy stories. Granted, I haven't the writing skills of a half eaten banana slug, nor the brain power to match said slug in a game of Uno, (Damn those Wild Draw Fours. Damn them all to HELL!), I still feel the need to express and chronicle my ride on this human experience. (Also should point out, that I'm not responsible for you, the reader, passing out due to my long, add on sentences, and blatant ignorance of the English language.)

Now ... Where do I begin? My mind is being bombarded with such randomness, that I just cyber hurled all over the place from the " " (/does the quotation finger sign in air...) stress, that I missed that slug laying another Draw Two on me. Bastard!

I'm a close to forty something man child who still thinks that the moral tales from Star Wars still holds more water today than the debauchery we see going on in the world as we live and breathe. "I dont belive it.", says Luke. "That is why, failed you did." counters the green master, Yoda. ( Alright Star Wars police... I'm para phrasing. Away with your weapons, I mean Geroge Lucas no harm. Zealots.)

I dont think this will be my opus of any sort, but I think we can have some fun together. Just as that crankey chimp at the zoo flings his poo at the mouth agaped onlookers, I too want fling my mental poo at you. Even as I type, I cringe at the non direction I'm cooking up, but hey, what the hell. Right? I too am reminded that Ol' chimp Flingy McPoo, is no longer with us. Was old age his demise or was it the poo ridden audience that got tired of his sh*t, and took him out ... CAPONE STYLE? We'll never know. Soo ... Please be patient with me, I promise I find direction to this word stew, but until then, I play my Reverse card on you.

UNO!