Matt Snee's Blog, page 54

a brief examination of my american fathers, chapter 1 (VISUAL EDITION)

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2

Belated Friday Mp3s…

Oops! I’m sorry everybody! I totally spaced on this.

Evil Summer audio poems6 The MusicDownload7 Why Not MeDownload8 StaircaseDownload

Sorry!

–Matt

The VISUAL He-Thing – Chapter 4

He-Thing and War Dog recover from their battle with the foul lizard men.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5

a brief examination of my American fathers

The Searchers done got photoshopped, pilgrim.“Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.” — John Wayne

John sat at a cheap linoleum kitchen table going over his lines for the scene. He was cooped up in a cramped apartment on Barber Street, the set for his new movie, ‘To Catch an Angel.’ Usually his movies were shot on a soundstage, but the director wanted “realism” — whatever that meant. While the set designer and cinematographer argued about the lights, John stared dumbly at the refrigerator, curious as to why it wasn’t making a sound.

It was 1962. John was fifty-five years old.

“Ah, Mr. Wayne, sir,” the director’s assistant piped in his ear, “Mr. Ford asked me to ask you to take a little break, while these two make up their minds.”

“A break?”

“Yeah, maybe for a smoke, or perhaps a bite to eat or something.” The director’s assistant looked over his shoulder and added, “this may take a while.”

John was glad for the break. I know what I’ll have a bite out of, he thought, patting the bulge of his bourbon flask in his pants’ pocket. “Well, okay partner, sure!”

John gathered up his things and headed down the stairs to the back alley of the apartment building. Once he hit the street, he dug into his pants and pulled out the little flask. John was a big man — over six foot four inches tall, and thick — he tended to saunter sideways when he walked. He sucked on the flask for a good five seconds before letting out a loud, “Ah!”

As he lit his smoke, he felt the urge to urinate. Taking a quick glance around, he pulled down his zipper and relieved himself behind a dumpster. Relief flooded through him. Once finished, he zipped up his pants. Just as he was about to walk away, a small sound caught his ear — it was a gurgle followed by a muted cough. He looked around. The soft noise came again. It seemed to be coming from inside the dumpster. John kicked some debris to the side and lifted the lid. Shocked, he saw a tiny black baby, not more than a month old. It was dirty and dressed only in a filthy diaper, lying with all the garbage in the dumpster. The baby took tiny wheezes, happy for the fresh air. John could not tell if it was a boy or a girl — all he knew for certain was that it was in distress. Its eyes were bloodshot. It had a glaze of black hair. Its skin was flaky.

As soon the baby saw him, it let out a wail.

“Well now!” John exclaimed drunkenly. “That won’t do! Let’s get you out of there!”

John reached in to the dumpster and pulled out the baby. It screamed loudly. John looked into the dumpster to see if there was anything else — a note, a blanket, a bottle or a stuffed toy perhaps — there was nothing.

How could something so small make so much noise? John dipped his pinky finger into his bourbon and let the baby suck his finger. He remembered his mother doing the exact same thing when his younger sister was teething. The baby fell silent, staring up at him with its dark eyes.

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” John said softly. “It’s a tough world out here.” He smiled as the tiny infant fell asleep in his arms and his heart burst. “I’m calling you Bobbie!”

John Wayne was arguably one of the most famous movie stars on Earth. His genre was Westerns and war movies, although he did stretch his wings occasionally. In almost all of his movies he is never wrong and never loses. In real life, he was enormously rich, enormously popular, a legendary personality who pretty much played a fairytale version of himself in his films.

He was married. In fact, he was so good at getting married, he had done it three times. He and his third wife had just had a son. John felt the need to be away from them often, since being a dad and a doting husband grated on him. He didn’t have a wandering eye as such, he just liked to be alone sometimes. He was also a nonstop drunk. He did love his wife, he just loved her more when they spent time apart.

John considered what to do with the baby. The thought of submitting it to the government, to be cared for by heartless bureaucrats, made him shiver in disgust. The baby would be lost in the system and destined for laziness and a life of crime. He was a staunch conservative and his imagination was filled with the horrors of the government “trying to help.”

He decided instead, right then and there, to adopt the child. He could afford it. John knew in order to convince his wife he was going to have to make adoption seem a bit more fitting to her tastes. He would need clean the infant up, make it look lovable, and that would hopefully have his wife fall in love with it as he had done. That way the baby could have a shot at a wonderful life and never remember that it started out in a dumpster. The baby could grow up and become anything it wanted.

Determined, John placed the baby on the passenger seat of his big powder blue Cadillac with ivory-colored leather upholstery and set off in the direction of the supermarket.

John parked the car and looked over towards the baby. It was fast asleep in the front seat. John felt his heart ache in compassion. He reached into the back seat and grabbed a shirt and wrapped it around Bobbie. He gently lifted the baby into his arms, careful not to wake it up.

John closed and locked the car door without making a sound. He grabbed a shopping cart and pushed it slowly into the store, trying to muffle its one erratic, noisy wheel.

The aisles were so wide he could shop riding horseback. He looked up at the signs and did his best to navigate the wide corridors of products. He had chased cow pokes in places less cavernous than this. The truth was he hadn’t been in a market for years, as he was privileged enough to have employees shop for him.

He found the baby aisle, which had everything he needed. He grabbed formula, bottles, rubber nipples, diapers, creams and a whole selection of baby soap. He unpacked his cart at the register. After he dug his wallet out of his pocket, he gave the cashier crisp large denomination bills. “And add a bottle of the old bourbon you got back there,” he told the clerk, nodding to the shelf behind her. The clerk eyed him and the baby strangely.

After making his purchases, he loaded up the car and put the sleeping baby back on the front seat. John cracked open the bottle of bourbon and took a swig. He drove the last two miles to his mansion in a drunken blur. He parked his ostentatious car in the driveway.

“Lupita!” He called out to his housekeeper. “Lupita, get out here and help me with the groceries!”

John stumbled around to the passenger side to get Bobbie, leaving the purchases for Lupita to manage. He picked up the baby and carried it into the house. It jolted awake and started wheezing again.

Lupita came out of the house and noticed the baby in his arms. “What on earth are you doing with that?”

“The groceries are on the backseat, Lu!” He passed by her. “Bring them into the kitchen!”

John carried Bobbie into the house and directly into the kitchen. He thought the kitchen sink would be the best place to wash the tiny baby. John turned his attention to Bobbie and started to undo the grimy diaper while the baby began to wail. The stench overwhelmed John; the diaper was caked in excrement and poor Bobbie’s skin was red raw and even burst open in some places. John did his best not to breathe in while he cleaned the poor baby as best he could. One mystery was solved — it was a boy!

Lupita brought in the groceries and put them on the kitchen table.

“Mr.Wayne…” she began, seeing him, “What are you doing? Where did you get that baby?”

“I found him, Lu, in a damn dumpster for Christ’s sake.” John turned on the faucet and lifted the baby into the sink. John started rinsing Bobbie and wiped him gently with a cloth. The baby screamed when John touched his aggravated skin.

Lupita, who had raised three children of her own, watched John as he did his best with the wriggly baby. “Mr. Wayne, I’m sorry, but you got to get in there more…”

“I am getting in there!” he said, scrubbing and holding his breath.

“And… be gentle!” she soothed.

“I am being gentle!” he told her.

“Mr. Wayne..?” Lupita began, “You can’t just take him home with you…”

“I’m gonna adopt him,” said John, matter-of-factly. “Gonna take him home once he’s better. My wife wouldn’t want to see him like this!”

“But… what about the proper authorities?” Lupita asked.

“Well, I’ll contact them… Eventually! First, I need to get him better.”

“Mr. Wayne?” Lupita asked. “Are you drunk?”

“Well, no more drunk than usual, Lu!” John bellowed.

Lupita sighed. “I don’t know, Mr. Wayne. I just don’t know…”

“Ah, quit your bellyaching and hand me a towel, Lu.”

John took the towel and dried the baby carefully. He opened the box of diapers and pulled one out. John rotated the diaper back and forth and tried to figure out how to use the damn thing. He laid it on the counter and placed Bobbie on top, trying his best to make it stay on the little body. Lupita gave him pointers. Bobbie continued to cry, wheezing and coughing.

“That doesn’t sound good,” said Lupita. “I think he’s really sick.”

“He just needs a warm blanket and some milk in him,” said John. “Heat up some of that formula, will you?”

Lupita did as she was asked. John held Bobbie close as the tiny human whimpered and huffed. Once the formula was ready, John tried to feed Bobbie. At first, the baby wasn’t interested — the wheezing made it impossible for him to latch onto the nipple. After a small struggle, Bobbie affixed his lips to the rubber nipple and sucked.

“There we go!” laughed John. “Told you, Lupita!”

She shook her head.

Despite the strong latch, Bobbie didn’t eat much. He began whimpering and breathing heavily again, trying to catch his breath.

“I think he may need a nap,” said John. “I’ll make a bed out of the living room pillows.”

“I’ll clean up while you do that,” said Lupita, sighing.

Bobbie wouldn’t sleep in the pillow bed. John took to rocking him as best he could as he watched news on the TV. Reverend Billy Graham had just paid Martin Luther King Jr.’s bail, and the black pastor was being released from jail. It was apparently a big deal. John wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know what to think of the black agitators. Sure, they got the wrong end of the deal. What could anybody do about it?

But Bobbie was special. It wasn’t a fluke that John found him when he did — it was Providence. Under John’s care, Bobbie could be anything he wanted when he grew up — a lawyer, a doctor, or a movie star — it didn’t matter. The color of his skin would not prevent him from achieving greatness.

Lupita came into the living room and asked him what he was watching. He replied with a drunken mumble.

“Look, Mr. Wayne,” she began. “I don’t want to speak out of place, but… you’ve got children of your own. You can’t take this boy in like this. He belongs to someone. You should contact the authorities…”

“Ah, I know what I’m doing, Lu. Don’t worry. Once I get my wife involved, we’ll do things right.” He thought about calling his wife and telling her the situation, but he drunkenly reckoned that might not be such a good idea yet. She hated when he drank. It was one of the main reason they spent so much time apart.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I am worried. That boy has parents out there, and even if they don’t want him or deserve him, it’s not your place to take him.”

John became angry. “You can leave and go home now, Lupita,” he said.

“OK,” she replied. “Your dinner is in the oven.” She turned on her heel and left.

Bobbie continued to breathe with difficulty. John watched as the little guy struggled. He wished there was something he could do but knew that sometimes illnesses just needed to be waited out. As awful as it was to let the baby cry, John knew he needed to let the little bug pass through Bobbie’s system. The baby started to cry loudly again; John decided to give him another lick of his bourbon-soaked finger. Bobbie quieted down immediately.

With Bobbie fast asleep in his arms, John passed out. It had been a long day, what with being woken up early to be at the movie set, and then the chaos surrounding Bobbie.

John woke up abruptly to Bobbie crying forcefully again. The sun had lowered in the sky. It was late in the afternoon. He looked down at the baby struggling in his arms. Bobbie’s nostrils flared as he breathed; his little mouth gobbled at the air but he just couldn’t swallowed any. His incessant wailing worried John.

He realized, with a crushing sadness, that since he had found the baby, he had not seen him smile once. Babies were supposed to smile.

John realized Bobbie was really sick.

The baby made a particularly heart-wrenching noise. Fear ran through John; he decided he needed to do something. There was a hospital just down the road. He realized that he was not capable of dealing with Bobbie on his own. He loaded up Bobbie in the Cadillac and headed to the emergency room.

John did not give the baby any more bourbon. That didn’t mean that he didn’t need a nip or two himself. He refilled his flask and took a long, long sip.

“Ah!”

In the car, Bobbie screamed and wheezed louder and louder. “Okay, pilgrim, just hang on, I’m working on it,” promised John.

John parked the car and walked into the emergency room with the screeching baby. People in the waiting room immediately turned their heads to the ruckus. Some recognized him and gave him a familiar nod as if they were friends.

John came up to the desk and spoke to the nurse. “This baby is sick,” he said.

“I see,” said the nurse. “I’ll get the doctor.”

They escorted John and Bobbie into an examination room. The doctor asked John to lie the baby on the table. The doctor listened to his chest, checked his mouth and eyes. The doctor ordered a slew of x-rays and other tests. John agreed to all the tests, despite the cost.

A nurse took the baby away while another nurse asked John the baby’s date of birth and blood type.

“Well, ah, I don’t know,” he said. He didn’t want to tell them where he found the baby. “I’m just a friend of the family. I’m babysitting.” He hoped his famous stature would keep them from asking too many questions.

John sat for a long while, waiting. A few times he got up and asked the nurse what was going on, but no one would tell him anything. His impatience made him sip from his flask. The doctor came out into the waiting room and approached him quietly.

“Mr. Wayne?” he asked.

“That’s me,” said John in a drunken haze.

“You’re the one who brought in the negro infant…?”

“Bobbie?”

“Was that his name?”

“Was?”

The doctor took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne. The boy — Bobbie — he had a serious lung infection. We did everything we could, but… he passed about three minutes ago.”

“He what?”

“I’m sorry. He expired. He’s gone, Mr. Wayne.”

John felt wetness fall from his eyes. “But,” he said. “That’s impossible! He was just a little sick!”

“I’m afraid he was very sick, Mr. Wayne. It’s amazing he survived as long as he did.”

“Well,” said John. “I… uh…I don’t know. Are you sure?”

The doctor looked sympathetic. “I’m sure, Mr. Wayne.”

John thought to himself for a moment. “Hey, doc… did… anytime when he was with you…did you see him smile?”

The doctor shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, sorry.”

I never got to see him smile. Maybe he never smiled his whole darn life, thought John.

“Well, thanks for telling me, doc.” He turned to leave.

“Ah, one more thing, Mr. Wayne?”

“Yeah?” John turned back around.

“Who is Bobbie’s next of kin?”

John returned to his mansion a broken man. For a long moment he considered calling his wife and telling her everything but decided he couldn’t bear to see or talk to anyone. He went to his bar and looked for something strong enough to numb the pain. He found a 100-proof bottle of moonshine someone had given him long ago. He couldn’t stand himself. He missed Bobbie.

After he drank the moonshine he punched at the walls. In his drunken stupor, he remembered Lupita’s roast. He opened the oven; it was burnt. He ate it anyway, starved as he was.

He climbed up the tall stairs and collapsed into his bed. He lay a long time without stirring, unable to fall asleep. He thought about the long day and where it had taken him.

Eventually, he drifted off, and dreamt –

In his dream, Bobbie was a grown man. The two of them were riding horses in Monument Valley, Utah. Their steeds stepped their hooves through the rushing waters of a creek as the brisk summer wind blew. Scratches of clouds floated high in the blue sky. The sun was blazing and let off a warm, soft, reassuring heat.

They both wore cowboy hats and dungarees. They braced their boots in their stirrups and held their leather reins loosely as they trusted their horses. The grasses around them blew gently in the breeze.

After they crossed the creek, they stopped because they found the perfect place to make camp for the night. They dismounted, gathered firewood and unsaddled their horses.

Their evening meal consisted of beans and biscuits. After filling their bellies, they rolled cigarettes and watched as pictures played in the flames of the fire. Neither of them spoke; there was no need.

When the sun set, Bobbie and John unrolled their bed mats and settled in for the night. John broke the silence.

“Good night, Bobbie,” he said.

The boy smiled.

The next day on the set John physically grieved over the loss of Bobbie. He felt sick to his stomach and his head thumped. He almost called in sick to work, but John Wayne didn’t call in sick.

He sat in the kitchen as the set designer and cinematographer argued about the lighting again. John’s head was full of thoughts that had little to do with the movie they were filming.

“Mr. Wayne,” the director’s assistant piped in his ear, “Maybe you could possibly take a break. Perhaps like yesterday?”

“No,” said John firmly. “No, I think I’ll just sit right here.”

THE END

Doc Masterson and the Prisoner of Time, Chapter 8

Doc Masterson’s been in the superhero game for most of his life. But his powers are more dependable than his mental health. Lured out of retirement by his old friend, the telepath Paul Drake and the mysterious organization The Apparatus, Masterson ventures out into upstate New York to see his old friend, Harry Park...Chapter 8: CRUSH

It all seemed too predictable – the heroes returning just when they were needed most. Nevertheless, the next day I got my car out of the garage and headed Northwest out of the city.  I was going to see Harry Park.  I did not tell him I was coming. 

It was good for my mind to stare at the road for a few hours.  The driving and the music clear me out. I avoided the news.  All anyone could talk about these days were The Ship, Isabel, and me.  Every media outlet had a different take on the fact that something out there that just simply hadn’t existed before certainly existed now, and it was insanely dangerous.  The Apparatus was not longer writing the future. The future was writing itself. 

But mostly, I was nervous about seeing Harry.  Sure, we messaged each other occasionally, but we hadn’t met face-to-face since Jenny’s “funeral.”  I really liked Harry,  he was a great guy.  I felt sorry for him though because he didn’t like having his powers – he got them by making a dreadful mistake, and he has never been the same – or quite human – since. 

Harry had been a scientist working for the Apparatus – specifically nano-weapons, managed by advanced, autonomous artificial intelligences.  He had typed a miscalculation into his computer, and suddenly the A.I.’s attacked him. 

First, they had burned through his skin, incinerating nerves like a laser incinerating ants; then through his muscle and fat (using both for fuel); before settling deeply, and permanently, in his bones.  He had been able to hear this terror. They had talked to him.  The legend goes, a deal was made between Harry and the nano-weapons so that they could both coexist as one being.  The nano-weapon A.I.s and Harry became a collective personality, and they even had a name:  CRUSH.

CRUSH became one of America’s (i.e. the Apparatus’s) most powerful weapons in the various proxy wars – between the West and rogue states, arch-supervillains, and various other nefarious organizations and actors that had flourished since the Mirror Man had vaporized the Twin Towers in all-destroying, living radiation back on 9/11.  They had been sent into hell zones all across the world, fighting terrorists, fighting M.A.N.T.I.S.,  killing everything in sight.  CRUSH had been deadly on a massive scale.

CRUSH may have been killers, but Harry Park wasn’t. And he was still, sort of, human. He had a nervous breakdown. He quit. Like a lot of us (temporarily) do.

But Harry would never be free of CRUSH. A second compromise was made – Harry told the Apparatus that if they left him alone, he would leave them alone. Take it or leave it. 

All parties accepted the deal. 

Now, I’m not going to sit here and describe CRUSH’s powers.  All I can say is they were noisy, bright, and merciless.  One time CRUSH even had battled against Violet (when her mind had been taken over by a demonic slime mold), and managed to hold her off.  Jenny could have burned him to a crisp in under five seconds, so he certainly wasn’t as powerful as her or her equals.  I always figured I could take him too if I had to. 

Underneath it all, Harry was a simple guy.  He just wanted to live a normal life.  His parents had immigrated from Korea after the war. He had worked in their restaurant. Now he could shoot missiles out of his eyeballs. 

Every so often you heard rumors of CRUSH appearing here or there, saving the day with his smart lasers and living bullets.  Then he would fade back.  He was too ashamed to do nothing.  He saved others, but said nothing.  He became a silent superhero. He became reclusive. He grew tired of the world and his place in it, but still was helpless against his own conscience. 

Harry found a woman to marry and had a child. The child of immigrants was rich, world-famous, and dangerously powerful. He bought a farm upstate of uncountable acres. 

I knew that Harry would say yes to me, despite all of his hangups, despite his wife and his child.  He was more machine-collective than human now, capable of bold feats of heroics and war, but – even though so much of him was machine, there was still some humanity inside him. He had told me two months ago he had cancerous cells – everywhere. 

I knew because of all these things, he would say yes.  He felt responsible.  For who?  For the world.  All of us had it, at one point or another.  But Harry was something more. He was the most honorable man I had ever met.

Four hours of driving, stinking of candy bars, I pulled up to the gate of his farm.  I pressed the button for the intercom and a minute later I could hear his thick, subtly electronic voice.

“Who is it?”

“It’s John. John Masterson.”

“Doc?”  He sounded surprised.  “What are you doing here?”

I took a deep breath.  “I just wanted to come by,” I said. 

“Sure,” he mechanically growled.  “I’ve seen you on the news.  What a darn mess.”

“I didn’t come here alone,” I said.  “I have the Apparatus with me.”

“I know you do.  I knew you’d come.  I knew they would want me to be a part of this.  I can’t believe you are working for them.”

“I’m not,” I argued.  “I’m just helping.  What the hell else should I do?”

“I knew you’d come,” he said again. 

The was a moment of silence.

“Can I come in?” I asked. 

“Yeah, you can.”  He buzzed the gate open. 

I drove through and followed the private road down to his house.  It was a beautiful piece of property. 

He opened the front door as I was walking up the front porch steps.

“Been a long time, Doc.”  He put his hand out.  I reached and gripped it.  Already I could smell the nano-machines, like rotten vegetables and methane.  I knew Harry had lost his sense of smell years ago, so he had no idea how rank the stench was.  I wondered how Jan and his kid could stand it.  He was like a walking refinery, all to provide energy to CRUSH.

“I missed you, Harry.”

“Come in, come in,” he said.

I entered the house.  I had never been inside before.  The walls were colorful.  There were shelves of books and photographs, a dog barking somewhere. A nice family home.

I noticed Jan Park down the hallway, glaring at me. 

“Mommy!” A child’s voice rang out.  Their daughter ran into the room and hugged Jan’s legs. 

I could feel pin pricks on my skin.  I looked towards Harry.  It was the nano-tech, microscopic and communicable — extending from him and now exploring me. 

“I need fresh air,” I gasped.  I stumbled out the front door and down the front steps.  I could feel the nano-tech receding from me; Harry had gotten control of them now.

“I’m so sorry, John,” Harry said, following me out the door.  “CRUSH can be aggressive sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” I repeated.  Oxygen rushed back into me. I could still feel a… residue from the A.I.’s on my skin.  I couldn’t shake the feeling. 

“Please, Harry back off!”

I could feel the last of them pulled from my body and I felt like myself again.  My God, how dangerous he was! And I hadn’t even thought to use my powers – not around Harry.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.  “We haven’t had any strangers around recently.”

“How do you live like this?” I asked him.  “I can’t breathe.”

“It seems natural to us,” Harry replied.  He was speaking about both CRUSH and himself.  Or was he speaking for Jan and his daughter as well?

“I came here because I need your help.”

“I’m not going to work for the Apparatus again.”

“You’ll be working with me.” I smiled. 

“What was in the spaceship, John?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t understand it.”  I looked deep into Harry’s eyes.

Suddenly he was angry, “Don’t lie to me, John.”

“I’m not lying.” He would never believe me.  Did I believe me?

“It doesn’t matter!”  He gestured towards his wife and kid, watching from behind the screen door. “That matters.  Not you, not the Apparatus, not your dead, villainous girlfriend – but every father and mother and child on the planet!”

I was nearly speechless.  I had never seen him so incensed. Something new was happening under the surface.

“So – will you come?” I had nothing else to say. 

“Give me a day,” he replied.  “And I’ll come to New York.”

I forced a smile.  Harry Park, mechanical death-machine gestalt, was on my side. 

“I knew you would come, John.  I knew it was just a matter of time.”

“I thank you, Harry.  I really do.”

I turned and left, and started the long drive back to the city. 

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 9…

The Festering Wound Comic, Chapter 3

Stephen King recovers from his attack by the Beast…

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4

The VISUAL He-Thing, Chapter 3

AMBUSH!

He-Thing and War Dog climb up the Nameless Mountains…

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4…

Doc Masterson and the Prisoner of Time, Chapter 7

9.9.2021The Plot ThickensDoc Masterson’s been in the superhero game for most of his life. But his powers are more dependable than his mental health. Lured out of retirement by his old friend, the telepath Paul Drake and the mysterious organization The Apparatus, Masterson acclimates to post-Tokyo lifeChapter 7: The Plot Thickens

A week passed.  I didn’t leave my apartment. Every night Emmarita would make me dinner and talk to me about her family.  She talked about the Tokyo incident sometimes and even asked for Isabel’s signature to give to her youngest daughter. I was keeping a pretty low profile. 

And I was doing a great job until someone knocked at my door.  I peered through the peephole. It was Paul, standing there dressed in his full uniform of slacks and polo shirt.  I guess this was an official visit.  I opened the door and let him in. 

“How are you, John?” he asked. 

“Interrupted,” I replied.

“Oh?” he asked. 

“Yeah…” I said, my bluff called.

Paul sighed. “The reason I came here was business.” 

No kidding. We sat down in my living room.

“John, I need to know how committed you are to our program here.”

“You want to know how committed I am?” I pondered it for a second.  “As long as the Earth is in imminent danger, I will help you,” I decided. 

“I need more than help, John.  I need to know if you are in it to the end.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Paul,” I said slowly.  “I’m not going to work for the Apparatus.  I don’t believe in what they’re doing. I’m only helping you. Paul Drake. Telepath. Formerly of the Dysfunctionalists. 

“Can’t you at least try to see what we are doing as good?” Paul asked.  “Don’t you see that we have to do it?”

“You don’t HAVE to do anything,” I countered.  “You people chose this.  The Apparatus is hypocritical, and that’s why I never joined your little secret society.”

“We’re doing the best we can,” Paul said.  He sighed. He seemed to have developed a habit of compulsive, frustrated sighs.   “I understand how you feel.  But really need you, John.”

I couldn’t say no.  “I’ll be there,” I told him.

He smiled, got up, came over to me, and shook my hand.  “Thanks, John.  We all really appreciate it.”

“No worries,” I said. I guess we both knew everything was conditional. 

Paul went to the window and looked out over the city.  “Do you go out these days, John?  Do you hang out with friends?”

“No,” I admitted. 

“Are you taking your medications?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you left the apartment?”

“I don’t know…” I said.  “Not since I got back from Tokyo.”

“Jeez, man.  Come on.  Let’s go for a walk.”

“No, no thanks,” I said.  

“I’m not taking no for an answer, not on this one, John.  You need some air.”

“Ug,” I muttered.  

“We’ll go for a quick drink and that’s all,” Paul said.

“I thought you said a quick walk, Paul? Now it’s a drink? Soon to be dinner, or a trip to Vegas?”  Paul shot me a look that made me acquiesce. “Okay,” I said.

It was a Thursday night and the air was cool, but the streets were busy. It wasn’t so bad.

“You still talk to Harry?” Paul asked.  

“All the time.”

“What is he up to these days?”

“Well,” I said, “Not much.  He has his farm, and he pretty much stays there all the time.  He doesn’t go out in public much.  He’s married now though. Got a kid.”

“What about him?” Paul suggested.  

“What about him?” I asked, confused.

“Do you think he would help us out?”

“Jesus,” I said.  “You always have these little plans everywhere like spider webs. Are you ever not working Paul?”

“I have a difficult job,” Paul argued. 

“Yeah, but you volunteered for it.”

“Someone had to!”  Paul was angry.  “After Jenny died it certainly wasn’t going to be you.  You still haven’t put yourself back together!  Don’t you see that?”

“I’m doing the best I can,” I hissed.  

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know how to live without her, okay?”  I was angry too.  

“You have to let her go,” Paul said.  “I could help you…”

“No telepathy,” I answered.  “I’m going to get through this…  I just haven’t yet.” Jenny immediately flashed into my mind.  It’s as if I can see her: tall and slim, her red hair, those grey eyes. I didn’t realize how empty my life was until she filled it.  She changed my life.  And then she lost her mind.  And I lost her.

“She’s not dead,” I murmured.

“Yes, she is, John.”

“I can still feel her,” I continued.

“She’s gone, she’s gone forever. You have to accept this.”

We said nothing more until we reached the closest bar.  It was dark and crowded inside. 

“Doesn’t being around this many people hurt you mind?” I asked Paul.

“No, that’s not really a problem anymore.  I can better control my telepathy as I get older.  When I was a kid though, yeah, I could never stand a place like this.”

I was silent.  I felt detached, like a ghost.  Paul ordered beers for the both of us, and we found a sliver of the bar to lean against.  Once the bartender handed me the beer I quickly sipped from it.  The taste was reassuring.

Paul drank his beer, silenced for the moment. I slipped into daydreams.  I tried to remember where all this had begun. 

“What are you thinking about?” Paul asked.

“Can’t you see for yourself?”

“I don’t like to invade my friends’ minds.”

“Can you really help it?”

Paul gave out one of his sighs. “I try to be principled.”

“And yet you work for the Apparatus?” I felt a sneer crawl onto my face.

“Just because you don’t believe in our principles doesn’t mean that they are invalid.  You just don’t have any faith.”

“I have faith,” I said.  

“In what?”

I took a long sip of beer.  “I have faith in the future.  I think things are going to get better.”

“Me too,” Paul agreed.  “The Apparatus is working towards that.”

“I don’t trust them,” I said.  “I trust you, Paul, but I don’t trust them.”

“Why? How can you trust me but not them?”

“I don’t know.  They smell bad.”

“Come on, John.”  He was annoyed.  

“I just don’t believe,” I confessed.  “I don’t understand how you people can all share in this insane dream to remake the world.”

“The world needs a guiding hand,” Paul said. 

We ordered more beer.  My head was getting warm.  

“Do you really want me to talk to Harry?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you trying to build a team?”

“You got it.”

“What is it you are frightened of?”  I took more sips of beer.  

“I don’t know,” Paul said.  “I just want to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For anything.  We have no fucking clue here, John.”

“I know,” I said.  “I know…  Who else do you want?”

“Well, Violet of course.”

“That might be impossible.”

“Try it anyway,” he said.  “Violet will help us, I know it.”

“Well, I will talk to Harry.”

“Thank you.”  He stared into me.  “Why are you here, John?”

“This is the only thing I know how to do.”

We ordered chicken fingers.  They were greasy but delicious.  Or maybe I was just drunk.  Either way I had to admit I felt really good.  

Uh-oh.  I was drunk. 

“I don’t think I can stand for very much longer,”  I said.  And the next thing I knew I collapsed to the floor.

“You asshole!  You’re not supposed to drink while on those medications, are you?”  Paul was strikingly angry.  

“Fuck you,” I spat.  

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8

Happy Thursday, everyone! One step closer to that sweet, sweet weekend. A few updates today, but I didn’t get in a new Midnight Man like I wanted. Well, I’ll have one later today for sure. 

The Black Sorcery of Yelena Bulgakova

The conclusion. This story actually has been getting some good retweets on Twitter. Not bad for a story I didn’t think anybody but me would ever enjoy. 

The Black Sorcery of Yelena Bulgakova, Conclusion

The VISUAL Festering Wound of Stephen King

Chapter 2 of this is up on Medium. I don’t think I posted it on WordPress, but I will. I’m really getting into this. It’s nice for me to have varied actives, because I have a short attention span. 

The VISUAL Festering Wound of Stephen King, Chapter 2

The VISUAL He-Thing

In case you missed it, here’s the first chapter. The second chapter is on WordPress, but I forgot about Medium. This is getting confusing. 

The VISUAL He-Thing, Chapter 2

That’s it! See you tomorrow!

–Matt

The VISUAL He-Thing, Chapter 2

He-Thing and War Dog continue their chase after the evil, undead cyborg, Skullatroid…

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3

9/8/2021

Doc Masterson and the Prisoner of Time, Chapter 6 AFTERMATH

Doc Masterson’s been in the superhero game for most of his life. But his powers are more dependable than his mental health. Lured out of retirement by telepath Paul Drake and the mysterious Apparatus, Masterson returns to America after the incident in Tokyo…

Chapter 6: Aftermath

Suddenly everyone in the world knew our names.  The mission and the discovery of the baby had all been recorded in ultra video, and broadcasted to every crevasse of the planet.  

The aftermath of the “Tokyo Trouble”, as it was known at the time, was in the hands of the press.  The Japanese military and Red Cross dealt with the dead and wounded, and the Apparatus secretly secured the site posing as government agencies.

I refused to give interviews, but the press already knew that.  There was Isabel; she was controversial because of her age, but everyone loved her.  Isabel of course had media training and always knew exactly the right thing to say, sometimes being humble and tactful, and sometimes tactfully controversial. 

The Apparatus stayed invisible.   Isabel and I were “vigilantes” who had simply been in the right place at the right time.  The public at large had no idea the Apparatus existed or that it controlled their lives.  

 Isabel and I were flown back to the U.S by U.S. military aircraft. Our arrival was greeted by a cheering crowd.  

“Isn’t this amazing, Doctor M?” Isabel asked me.

“Be careful with it, kid,” I told her.

She pouted.  “I can take care of myself, sir.  Do you have any idea how much training I have?  I have worked my whole life to do this.  So what if this happened a couple years early?  I’m ready for all of this.”

“I know you’re ready, Isabel,” I replied.  “I just want you to be cautious.  The world is fickle when it comes to heroes.”

“I don’t give a shit about the world,” she stated, defiant.  “I’m a soldier.  This is my job.”

I had read her file.  Isabel Agnes Rhodes, born May 5th of 2002, in Ragsansket, Pennsylvania, to parents David and Francis Rhodes.  It had not taken long for her parents to discover that she was not a normal child, as by the age of four Isabel had already started to signs of superhuman strength and dexterity – by the age of seven, she could lift a small car while standing on one leg.   Doctors had been dumbfounded after examining her. The local media  started talking about Isabel; once that happened, the Apparatus discovered her.  After that, she disappears off the record real quick.

The Rhodes no longer technically existed. This was what the Apparatus did.  It took the whole family into its pillars of shadow.  

The Apparatus had spared nothing in training her — I’m sure she knew kung-fu, could hack into a computer, could kill someone with a sniper rifle from 100 yards while she fell from a helicopter.  She was smart and eager to learn, and a true believer from the start.  The Apparatus was Isabel’s most dominating parent; it loved her the best it could, and she loved it back.

The Apparatus groomed a lot of kids with powers, but they seldom made it out in the light of day. They would be taken from their lives when they were children or teens (and in rare cases, as adults). Usually the kids would live the rest of their lives in a secure, Apparatus facility that was basically just a prison. The Apparatus though the world had to be vigilant for humans with incredible power. Natural super humans were very rare;  most super humans were made, not born. Isabel was the whole package.  No one could explain why she was born with her powers.  It was simply a fact.  

            Isabel was prepared technically for that day in Tokyo.  It was exactly what she had been trained to do – deal with the impossible.   After such a horrible disaster, and people were looking for a hero; Isabel was it.  

Isabel’s image was plastered everywhere.  As soon as we arrived on the ground in Tokyo, Isabel had “brave and noble stature, and an honest courage we can all be proud of.” The media overlooked the horrid reality of the thousands of lives lost. Instead there was light. It was Isabel.  “The superheroes have returned,” the headlines boasted. 
     The true catastrophe for the Apparatus, as well as the Earth, wasn’t the thousands of lives lost (people die every day, and what are thousands of lives compared to the billions the Apparatus considered itself responsible for?), the true catastrophe was the ending of whatever illusions of certainty people had about the universe and their place in it.  Where had the ship come from?  Why had it come?  

The only people who knew what was inside the ship were myself, Isabel, and the Apparatus.  Everyone else assumed it was aliens, monsters; sadly,  the truth was scarier.  There were so many unanswered questions: Had the ship come from somewhere on Earth?  Were we dealing with a human life force? Where did the technological know-how exist? Had it come from the future?  No one was sure.  With every question that was asked, another three would pop up before the first one could be answered.  

Both Isabel and I were told to tell everyone the ship was empty of life, which it almost had been. When pressed, we smiled, and said we weren’t at liberty to go further into it — we had promised the governments that we would keep silent, until a time in the near future when all would be revealed to the world. 

I didn’t have confidence that the Apparatus really planned on revealing the truth.  Until they were forced into a position where they had to reveal everything, I knew they would keep everything tightly sealed.  I knew there would be a time when their hand would be forced again, like it had on that day in Tokyo.  

For now, they would stay in the shadows, and so would the truth.  

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 79/8/2021

Happy Wednesday. Okay, getting back to schedule here. I hope all of you are well. 

The Black Sorcery of Yelena Bulgakova

Two new chapters since the weekend. Only two more chapters left, I think. 

The Black Sorcery of Yelena Bulgakova, Chapter 6

The Black Sorcery of Yelena Bulgakova, Chapter 7

The Festering Wound of Stephen King (COMIC VERSION)

This is an experiment, but unlike the comic He-Thing, this story isn’t long. 

Festering Wound Comic

Midnight Man: Darker Than the Darkness

Chapter 4 is up. 

Midnight Man: Darker Than the Darkness, Chapter 4

And I…think….that’s it???

—Matt