R.J. Plant's Blog: Breaking Through Reality, page 10

Cover Reveal: Part II

I promised you extras and now I’m delivering!

First up, the the original short story that brought to life some of the characters you’ll find in Rise and Run. This is the very first imagining of Felix Quinn and his alter ego, Jack. Jack would later become Conor and the story would take a sci-fi bent. This short story? It’s purely thriller.

Of course, it wouldn’t be Part II of the cover reveal if I didn’t, I dunno, give you a peek. At the bottom of the post you’ll find another snippet of the cover for Rise and Run. So, without further ado, I present …

Pressure: A Short Story

Amber street lights, pale in the pre-dawn cold, marked our progression, never a straight stretch of road in sight. Shaina saw it first, the mattress stretched across the center of the two lanes. She braked, steered around it. A box-spring had landed about fifteen feet from the mattress, clothes scattered alongside the road, boxes. I told Shaina to pull over. Only after did she protest.

“This isn’t your concern, Jack.” She grabbed my elbow as I opened the car door. The name sounded wrong, emphasized. I looked at her. “Just hurry up.” She released my elbow, almost with a push, attention going to the dirty windshield.

I followed the trail of debris. Glass from a picture frame crunched under foot. I didn’t look at the picture. I pulled the collar of my coat up. Five steps, a slash of fluid. Four steps, another wet spot pooling. Smelled like transmission fluid. The road made a sharp turn. I kept going straight, to the nest of trees that cradled the broken truck. Not a bad wreck, not by a long shot. There were no cords, tie downs, no straps of any kind in or around the long bed of the truck. Explained the mess for such a delicate landing.

The first two digits on the license plate suggested the truck’s driver came from Marionette. Or the owner did. I’d like to say that I walked to the passenger’s side door cautiously, but I’d be lying. The driver had long since gone, window down. The cab reeked of tobacco. I could go for a Winston about now, myself. A wallet lay deserted in the passenger seat. I grabbed it, flipped it open, looked at the name. Fantastic. I stuck the wallet in my coat pocket and headed back to Shaina and the warm car.

“We’re going to have to call Rian,” I said. Rian Connell ran Five Points. The man behind the politicians, behind the law. He’d raised me from age three, finding in me something adequate enough to be his enforcer. He made the rules, I made sure the rules were followed. The downfall to being raised for a job like that? Gave me a tendency to go overboard. The first time I went too far Rian decided it necessary to induce a solution. The result created a kind of second personality. He even gave us separate names.

“You mean, you’re going to have to call Rian.”

True. After all, Rian hadn’t cut Shaina off from the family. He’d cut me off. So why the elaborate theatrics? Not for his own benefit, surely. Rian must have heard rumors about my recreational activities outside of the Five Points district. Not that I’d done anything wrong, yet. Just been getting harder to play by the rules lately.

Shaina glanced at me, looked back at the windshield, dropped her voice. “You don’t owe him anything. You’re out, remember?” Her voice hitched.

“Yeah, well, he owes me an explanation.” I took the wallet from my coat pocket and handed it to her. “Besides, I didn’t choose to leave.”

She opened the wallet, let out a low whistle.

“Felix.” Hearing her say that name felt like a blow. More comfortable, familiar, the name rang truer than Jack ever had. Reminded me of what I’d lost when Rian had told me to take some time off. She tossed the wallet back to me, turned over the engine. As she shifted into first gear I watched her denim-clad legs, the twitch of thigh muscle as she lifted her left foot, easing off the clutch, right pressing the gas. Smooth transition.

“What do you think, kid?”

“I think it’s a joke,” I said.

“You haven’t been Felix for two years.”

“I’m aware of that.” Sounded bitter, even to my own ears. I hadn’t volunteered to leave the family, hadn’t volunteered to live as Jack.

“Think he wants you to come back in?”

“I don‘t know.”

“Could you even pick up where you left off?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“Go to Marionette. I’m going to see Rian. Figure out what this is about. What else can I do?” Slight pressure built between my eyes. Shaina pushed me for answers I didn‘t have. Trying to get me to think on broader terms, maybe. Why? Because she worked for Rian. Making me answer for my own sake, not hers.

“What else can you do?” She pitched her voice, mimicking Rian’s lilt. A son of Ireland, he ran the Five Points district like a piece of the homeland.

********

Sitting in a leather chair in the office Rian Connell owned in Marionette—the city that made up the western border of the Five Points district—I tried to figure out what to say, the right questions to ask to get the answers I needed. Not something I considered a good time. Open blinds covering the wall of windows from floor to ceiling showed the sun falling behind towering buildings. Made for a pretty picture. Still … My palms were a little damp, stomach didn’t sit right.

Rian, always the professional in a three piece suit, sat behind his desk, jacket draped over his chair, hands placed in front of him. His sandy hair never seemed to gray, green eyes never dimmed. The pressure of the job never seemed to bothered him, though the fine lines spreading from his eyes spoke of tension.

For all intents and purposes Rian ran a chain of pubs throughout the Five Points district. Best way to keep up with what went on in his cities. A jack-of-all-trades, Rian dabbled in everything from racketeering and gambling to illegal dock trades that allowed distribution of hard to come by medications for the less fortunate. A crook and a saint. More than anything else, Rian and the family kept the cities safe. He ran the district efficiently and came across, for the most part, as a decent guy. Didn’t make me want to strangle him any less.

I took out the wallet weighing my coat down and threw it on Rian’s desk, took another wallet from the back pocket of my jeans and it landed with a thud next to the first. I leaned back in my chair and watched as Rian pulled the wallets to him, opened each, looked at me. I spread my hands, palms out and facing him.

“You can’t push me around, expect me to play along. Not without telling me what’s going on. Pick an identity. Who am I?” I had to hear him say it.

The clock mounted on the wall above a poster that read LOYALTY counted out the seconds, oozing lazily along. Tick. Tick. Tick. I wanted to slam closed fists on the desk, demand answers. When it came to Rian, forceful persuasion wouldn’t get me anywhere. Not my style, anyway. Most of the time.

“Rian,” I said. I wanted a name. He‘d given me two. He had to choose one. “What are you doing?”

“It won’t work, boyo.” He always knew.

“Why am I here, then, huh? What is it you’re wanting me to do? He’s dead.” I poked the smaller wallet harder than I meant to. “No more.” My hand was still close enough to the wallet that picking it up and chucking it against the wall behind Rian took no thought, no time, no effort. “Bye-bye, see ya, no more Felix. You made sure of that after the last assignment. And him?” I grabbed the thicker wallet between two fingers, waved it around, dropped it back onto the desk. I sat back in the chair and tapped a finger against my chin. Decided to start again. Start over. Small questions Rian would answer.

“Do you have a new assignment for me?”

“Yes”

“Permanent?” No answer. “You said I was done.” I resisted telling him that he’d alienated me from the family. Resisted showing any type of abandonment.

“I did.”

“Which makes this a choice.”

Another smile. I hadn’t noticed leaning forward.

“You need Felix again.” His pleasant smile continued. I didn’t need to ask whether he’d made the necessary arrangements. “Just … give me the assignment.”

Rian handed me a folder about two inches thick. At the door, I had my hand on the knob, when he spoke. “It was never my choice.”

My fingers seized around the handle. I left.

*******

I spread the contents of the file before me on the coffee table in my apartment. I expected an assignment. Instead, a detailed file on Felix is what spread across the table. I didn’t need the background information. I’d lived it. Felix isn’t some cover to adopt and throw away. Neither is Jack. So why give me the file?

Because details of Roy Henderson’s murder headlined Felix’s file, and Roy’s death had caused Rian to create Jack. Because I’d killed Roy. An accident. I’d gotten caught up. Couldn’t remember the details, yet here they lay spread in front of me. I’d almost forgotten, almost blocked it from my mind.

Rian’s way of reminding me. Reminding me what could happen without Jack’s presence to stay my hand. Jack, calm, ordinary. Don’t get me wrong, Jack’s a cool guy, the person I’ve been for the past two years and the closest I’ve come to an actual, single identity in the past twenty. It’s just … Rian saddled me with an ordinary life when he took Felix from me.

Felix got things done when people couldn’t. While Jack may have been the one who lived in society—had the job, the car, the home, the capability of having the family, the career—Felix had the contacts, the information, the developed skill set, the ability to persuade and enforce. Felix who had ability to take care of the problems that arose in the Five Points district, Felix who Rian would call when an issue needed handling. Felix who had all the fun.

At first the two identities were gloves to be slipped on and off, something I controlled, had awareness of. Eventually they became something more. Any given situation brought forward the necessary persona with no conscious effort. Always a flow of changes that had me never really knowing who’d surface until someone would say a name. Always me, never me.

Two years ago, when Rian freed me to leave his employ and said I, in fact, should really “take an extended vacation,” he’d said a name. Jack. So that’s who I’ve been. Jack, the law abiding citizen who drank Starbucks coffee and always paid his parking tickets. Now he throws Felix in my face. I can’t look to Rian for answers, he’s already shown me that. There were only two other people I could turn to, one being Shaina. And since she played a hand in the setup of re-enrolling me in family affairs, maybe she could be useful and spare a few answers.

********

I pulled up the collar on my coat, walked to the door, tapped once. She’d hear the soft thud. The door opened and Shaina leaned against it giving me a once over. She looked different at home than in the car. She fit here. Tall and lean, her skin the color of heavily creamed coffee. She moved back to let me inside. I followed her to the kitchen. Her hair seemed longer now that it fell loose, the track lighting emphasizing the red tint peeking through the dominant near-black shade. I sat at the island and she handed me a glass of water, looked at me. Her blue eyes gave her face an exotic look. Eyes that could always unnerve me, though today they seemed less searching, less demanding.

“Wondered when you’d make your way here,” she said.

“You’re getting lenient with your entrance fee.”

“You’re right. You didn’t bring me food or anything.” She smiled. “Of course, I can always lead you out and we can try this again. Only this time, if you don’t have a bag full of Chinese take-out I’ll happily deny you entrance.”

“Where’s the wolf?” The first time I had met Seth—who I’d been calling the wolf for the duration of the seven years I’d known him—he’d made a peculiar monosyllabic noise that sounded like a distorted growl. I’d realized it was his laugh. The kind of sound that had startled me at first, but grew to be something expected and almost comforting. Seth and Shaina were the closest thing I’d come to having a family, like a brother and a sister. Seth, the person I’d turn to if Shaina had no information for me, also worked for Rian.

“Grocery shopping.”

I nodded. Best not to ask about the details. She leaned over the counter to stick her face in mine, elbows propped on the counter, chin resting on long-fingered hands. She sniffed.

“Spit it out, kid. You saw Rian and …”

“Nothing.” I spun the glass of water round and round. “Just gave me this.” I handed her the file.

“An assignment?” She looked at it, looked at me. She pursed her lips. “So you’re no longer on hiatus.” Not a statement, not a question. The words came out like molasses. She set teeth against her bottom lip, opened the file, shook her head. “There’s no assignment.” She didn’t sound surprised.

“No.”

“Who are you then?”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

She set the file down in front of me, folded her arms across her chest.

“He’s playing with me.” I said.

A slight lift and drop of her shoulder. “He has a motive—”

“Doesn’t he always?”

“Whether it’s clear or not. Have you talked to him since you got this?” She tapped a fingernail against the file. I shook my head. “I haven’t heard anything.”

My stomach dropped. Time to find the wolf. I thanked Shaina, asked if Seth would be working later. She confirmed.

“Let me know what you find?” she said. I nodded.

*******

            I walked the streets of downtown Marionette, an ensemble of towering modern structures and decades old houses-turned-businesses. The wind had kicked up and the temperature fell with the sun. The shop windows were plastered with Halloween decorations. A green witch in black robes with a purple stripe adorning her pointed hat rode a broom across the front of Finnegan’s Apothecary. Orange pumpkins with yellow eyes and mouths and a scarecrow in a flannel shirt kept guard over a vintage clothing store.

I neared Faolan’s Pub and a man in a latex mask caught somewhere between human and monster jogged past, howling something unintelligible. I slowed my pace, letting a particularly strong gust of wind pass. Stopped. Turned. The man in the mask stood facing me in front of the pub door. Faolan’s Pub means … Wolf’s Pub.

I called out to the man. He turned and ran. The slam of my feet against the sidewalk informed me of my pursuit before my mind had time to register a conscious decision. He turned right. I followed. He headed for the docks of the little river the populace of Marionette seemed so fond of. My pulse quickened, stomach tickled. The man started to slow. He looked over his shoulder at me, let out a growl. A laugh. Confirmation that my masked man and Seth were the same. I pumped my legs harder to pick up speed. Called out to him again using his name. Docks were getting close. Could see the water, feel the weight of downtown falling behind. Realized just how cold this October had gotten.

The cadence of Seth’s steps changed when he hit one of the piers, a hollow thunk with every footfall. He stopped at the end of the pier. I still ran, closing in. He knew something, didn’t he? Had to.

The pier was icy, slush crunching under foot. Seth, still in the mask, held his hand out. To slow me? By his stance, I doubted it. I tried to slow. Couldn’t. I got too close. He grabbed my coat, using my own momentum to throw me into the water. I landed hard, breath knocked away on the impact before I sank.

I had two choices, sink or swim. Seems obvious. I thought about the way Jack would react. He’d waste needed time wondering what happened, why Seth threw him in a freezing river. After all, the wolf’s a friend. Isn’t he? Jack would be angry and confused. Yet even as the thoughts surfaced I treaded water to get to air.

I knew if I opened my mouth the freezing water slamming against my lips as I swam would rush into lungs already burning for air. I could feel the water seeping past my lips, through the spaces between clenched teeth, freezing in my throat and threatening to choke me. Needles poked my legs, my sides. A few more feet, the surface couldn’t have been beyond a few more feet.

The too-cold water prevented me from opening my eyes. It didn’t matter. My body instinctively knew when I broke the surface. The dropping temperature of the air had my eyelashes freezing together. I knew not to take a deep breath even though my lungs were crying for it. Took ten shallow breaths. My pulse started to slow to a reasonable rate. Now I could worry about opening my eyes.

The trick to opening your eyes when your lids and lashes are a mess of ice is simple. Don’t care about the pain. Don’t care about aesthetics. The sloppy wet gurgle? That might have been a slew of unsavory words. I waited for my sight to return, the dark turning into a mass and blur of watercolor images trying to take form. Blinked. Twice more.

Rian stood silhouetted against downtown, Seth behind him, mask in hand. Had a feeling Rian would be around when I surfaced. I swam to the pier, arms shaking as I pulled myself up and landed face down to catch my breath. Rian crouched in front of me. Feeling half frozen, spitting ice, lungs still on fire, I spoke to his knees.

“A little dramatic, even for you.” Numb lips tried to eat the words as I spoke them. Rian shifted his feet to better balance his weight. He snorted. A hand appeared in front of my face, work worn, well manicured, strong. I raised my face enough to look at Rian.

“Felix …” The name took root in the silence. “This was never a choice that could be made for you. I chose Jack thinking he was a person that could contain you, make your life simple. I was wrong. You’re not that simple, boyo, you never have been. Sometimes you never truly know who you are—”

“Until the pressure is on?” I grabbed his hand. He helped me up, smiled, nodded.

“Something like that.”

Seth joined us. Hugged me. Good to have you back, he’d said.

“It’s good to finally be someone,” I said.

Without Jack, controlling myself would be harder. And yet, in his absence, I felt there would be one less hand holding me back.

 

Welcome back! I hope you enjoyed the short story that would eventually spawn Rise and Run. If you cheated and just skipped to the end of the post for another piece of the cover, shame on you. But also, I understand. Well, here it is. Another snippet of the cover. Tune in tomorrow for the final piece.

And, of course, you can see the full cover on Wednesday, the 14th.

 

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Cover Reveal

Hallo, dears!

I’ve got some exciting news. Leading up to the release of Rise and Run on Feb 14, I’ll be putting out blogs with extras and/or little tidbits of information about the book. Each of these posts will have a piece of the cover. The final post will reveal the cover in full.

Are you excited? I know I am!

 

Cover Reveal: Part II

Cover Reveal: Part III

Cover Reveal: The Finale

 

Villain Series: Part IV

Forward: Welcome welcome welcome! This is the final part in the villain series. I really hope everyone has enjoyed it so far. Now, part four is a little different from the rest. It’s written in 1st person POV instead of 3rd to allow a better in-depth look at Chernobog. It’s also shorter than the others, because this section has only one purpose: to define Chernabog as a villain, whereas up until this point he toed the line of anti-hero. Well, I’m ready, so if you’re ready too, then let’s get to our villainous conclusion! Muah-ha. Muah-haha! MUAHAHAHAHAHA!

 

I have wondered at times why some men choose to pick off their prey from a distance. But here is Beatrice, lined up slightly low and right of the center crosshairs, and I now know one reason why long-range killing appeals to some.

I don’t want her to know.

It’s never been a problem before. Killing, I mean, never a problem, but this isn’t the same and there is this… sick twisting in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t something I want to do—it just needs doing.

I slide the bolt back to chamber a round. As the wind picks up, I adjust my aim to compensate—a half centimeter to the left should put the bullet right between brainstem and spinal cord. Quick and painless.

“What are you doing, brother?” Belobog. His light is muted, dim. I look over my shoulder and see him standing there like some goddamn lost puppy. He doesn’t look at me. I don’t blame him.

“I asked her to marry me earlier tonight,” I tell him, turning back to look through the scope. “She said yes. Practically spilled over with delight.”

“Then why…”

“Why blow her brains out?” The words come out low, grunted speech. “You made a mistake, brother. You made a mistake, bringing her to me, and now I’m correcting it.”

And this woman is a mistake. She is affecting some kind of change in me and that can’t happen. That I want her to die happy is unnatural. That I don’t want her to see it coming or know by whose hand she dies is pathetic. That I want her to love me in death is weak. And I know even this favor to her is selfish and self serving, but it matters. That’s more than I can say about much of anything these days. Beatrice matters, her happiness matters.

That’s not who I am.

I won’t let her change me, but neither can she continue. And while I might be pulling the trigger, it is Belobog that put her in my crosshairs. It is Belobog’s actions that necessitate her death.

“You say you want to set me free, brother, but I know better. You want to change me.” I look over my shoulder at him again, and this time he meets my eyes. “I will not change. I will not lose myself to you or her or anyone. What you did, brother, was give me another reason to be angry, another reason to hate this goddamn ball of dirt and everyone on it.”

Even as I tell him these things, I’m experiencing what must be regret. I have been in this borrowed body too long. The skin I’m in itches and burns and I can hear it tearing even though I can’t feel it like I can my own.

Through the scope I see Beatrice shift in her chair, showing her ring off to her friends as they sit in front of the café. She leans back again, torso toward the road. Only 200 yards. It’ll be a clean shot. I make one more wind-based adjustment and slow my breathing. My heart rate slows.

Pump, exhale, pump, exhale.

One more heartbeat and on the tail end of my exhalation I pull easily on the trigger. I immediately pull the bolt back, discarding the shell and pulling another into the chamber. Just in case. But I hear the screams, so I know it’s a hit. Looking through the scope, I can see the impact wound.

A clean shot.

I stand and turn to face Belobog. My back and face are sweating. Regret and anger fester as my borrowed human form melts away. My brother watches the scene below play out in silence.

The mistake having been taken care of, I leave.

 

 

Villain Series: Part III

Chernabog looks in the mirror he’s been standing in front of for the past quarter hour. He looks human, but beyond that he has difficulty differentiating this body from that of every other human on the planet. He doesn’t poke or prod at the human jumpsuit. There is just too much of him in it. Chernabog feels the whole of him might burst from the fleshy restraints. Gods and demons weren’t meant for such insignificant casings.

“Well?” Belobog asks.

Chernabog busies himself tightening his tie and straightening his suit jacket. He focuses on as much nothing as he can. “This body is…” he indicates himself with a sweep of his hand, finally settling on, “weak.”

“How so?”

“Small, overfull, boiling. It’s too limited.”

Belobog nods. He grabs Chernabog’s face between his hands and pushes some his light into the body. Chernabog grunts and pushes Belobog away with a muttered, “Better.” Chernabog isn’t sure what his brother has done, but the body now seems more able and less suffocating.

Belobog slaps a hand on Chernabog’s back. “Try to be… Or, try not to be… Well, try to have fun in any case,” he says. Chernabog shutters, settling in his skin, and heads for the door.

*****

Chernabog taps his fingers on the table as he watches Beatrice walk through the restaurant door. She appears absolutely delightful. Chernabog actually notices her hair—long, dark waves. As she walks toward him she smiles, her unpainted lips only a shade or two darker than her pale skin. She leans slightly to the right and waves uncertainly. He beckons her over and she comes, weaving through the tables.

Chernabog pulls Beatrice’s seat out for her, then takes his seat across from her and bares his teeth in an approximation of a smile.

“This place is wonderful,” Beatrice says, taking in their surroundings as she settles in her chair. “I wonder if there’s anything on the menu I can eat.”

“If you try hard enough, you’ll find there’s almost nothing you can’t eat,” Chernabog says. To his surprise, Beatrice chuckles.

“A sense of humor. I like that,” she says. “I’m vegan.”

“Never heard of it.”

Beatrice waits to see if he’s joking. “No meat,” she says finally. “No dairy… No anything that comes from animals.”

“I think the word you mean is ‘masochist’,” Chernabog says. Why else would someone do that? He doesn’t ask the question aloud, afraid she might go on a tirade about the reason behind it all. She shrugs one shoulder, tilting her head to meet it, the smile still on her face.

“It’s just a choice. That’s one of the things we can rely on in this world, after all. Not saying that’s entirely good,” she says. “Hell, I chose to huff gasoline when I was younger and that wasn’t my best decision.”

Chernabog raises his eyebrows, wanting to hear more about her poor choices.

“Well,” Beatrice says, “I chose to marry a CEO. That turned right around to bite me in the ass. So now I choose to sing karaoke to offset the boredom of being an accountant. One of my better ideas, I think.”

Chernabog laughs, startling himself with the sound.

“And cartography. Can’t forget that,” Beatrice adds.

“I’m starting to be very glad you were able to get a babysitter tonight,” Chernabog says, surprised that he is, in fact, in a positive state of feeling.

“I’m sorry?” Beatrice says, confusion blossoming over her features.

“Your profile said you had a son. He must be very young since you can’t possibly be older than twenty-something. I only assumed…” he says, letting the statement hang in the air. For the briefest moment, he is concerned that he’s done something wrong. A moment is all it takes for Chernabog’s anger to find kindling in his fear.

Beatrice’s eyes lose focus. She looks down, then back at Chernabog. “I’m thirty-seven, actually,” she says and smiles, but it’s missing the previous joviality. She looks a little dizzy, makes a grab for the edges of the table. “He would have been eight this year.”

Chernabog hesitantly places his hand on Beatrice’s wrist. Through the touch, he can feel her pain. It’s so big, he wonders how she can hold it. His anger settles back down, dormant for now. He pulls his hand back and shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words sounding to his own ears more cautious than sincere. “I shouldn’t have said… But why not take it out of your profile?”

“Because I do still have a son. That he isn’t here any longer doesn’t mean he never was.”

 

 

Villain Series: Part II

For the first time in centuries, Chernabog is too surprised to be angry. He digs one long claw around in his right ear before angling toward Belobog

“I thought you said go out. On a date,” Chernabog says. He wrinkles his nose and draws his lips away from his teeth, brow furrowed.

“Yes, yes. I did,” Belobog says, waving away Chernabog’s incredulity. “You spend all year in solitude brooding over the myriad injustices you think have been done you—”

“Injustices you brought about!” Chernabog roars, wings striking out around him. Ignoring the interruption, Belobog continues.

“—and then when you finally do come out of solitary, you spend your time with these… creatures. You need to spend some time away from your precious mountain. And with someone who isn’t a whipped minion.”

“They are whipped minions, brother, because they are weak,” Chernabog explains. The brothers look at one another. Belobog gives a long, slow blink. “I’m going to bring chaos with me if I go out there.” Another long, slow blink from Belobog. “I don’t need a human to be happy.” Blink.

Chernabog’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding as he feels the anger rise back to full force. “Fine!”

Belobog’s face breaks into a smile, the light emanating from it blinding Chernabog before he can react. Chernabog snaps his eyes shut against any further potential damage and waits for the white dots to stop dancing. His forefinger begins the little circles on his thumb pad. His clawed feet no longer press against stone. “Belobog,” he growls.

“Sorry about that. Wasn’t thinking. All ready for you to open your eyes again.”

Chernabog tentatively complies. He looks around, unimpressed by his surroundings. The room he’s in is large, open, and decorated in soft, light colors. Large windows overlook a city Chernabog doesn’t recognize. A glass and chrome table is set under a mutedly artistic chandelier, marking the room’s focal point. On the table is a single item.

Belobog crosses to the table and pulls a chair out, motioning Chernabog to take a seat. Grumbling, Chernabog complies.

“This,” Belobog says, motioning at the item on the table, “is a—”

“It’s a laptop. I’m not that out of touch.”

Belobog purses his lips and nods. He takes a seat across from Chernabog and opens the laptop, pulling up the website he saw in an ad several days ago. The page loads a little more slowly than he’d like. Once it’s finished, he spins the laptop toward Chernabog.

Chernabog voices frustration in strangled noises as he looks at the screen. Second Chances, it says. “Finding love for the disadvantaged?” Chernabog is unable to keep the outrage from his voice. “I am not disadvantaged, brother, I am unjustly abused!”

Belobog leans across the table, catching Chernabog’s fist mere centimeters from connecting with the glass. Even so, the force behind the blow causes spiderweb cracks in the table’s surface. “Calm down,” Belobog demands, shaking his brother by the wrist. “Calm down. It’s just marketing. They aren’t the most sensitive lot. This isn’t a dig at you.”

Chernabog pulls his hand back—Belobog lets him. Chernabog sits and studies the website. He tries to scroll but the touch pad doesn’t recognize his finger as touching it. He tries to use the keyboard, but his claws glance off uselessly. He looks over the laptop at his brother as a soft keening begins in the back of his throat. Belobog snatches the laptop away and smiles at his brother.

“Hadn’t thought about that. So sorry,” he says, letting out just enough of his light to distract his brother before the keening becomes another mountain crumbling roar. “I’ll just do the typing, shall I?”

Chernabog listens to the soft clicking as Belobog begins to register an account.

“You need a name,” Belobog says. “Something less… you.”

Chernabog looks around as though he might find inspiration from inside Belobog’s apartment. “Scott,” he says finally, spotting the word on some packaging in a partially hidden room to his left. Belobog follows his brother’s gaze.

“Yes. Scott. Very fitting. Very abrasive, Scott. Perfect,” Belobog says, the words tumbling out to hide his mirth. Belobog types the name in and moves on. “Age and ethnicity are next.” Chernabog opens his mouth to answer, but Belobog interrupts. “You know what? 35-year-old native sounds perfect.”

Chernabog folds his arms across his chest and scowls, but nods for Belobog to continue.

“Looking for…” Belobog looks up and studies his brother for a moment. “Long-term relationship.”

Chernabog growls.

“Children?” Belobog mentally kicks himself for even reading the question aloud.

“I was wondering if you had anything to eat here,” Chernabog says. Belobog gives him another slow blink. He clicks “undecided.”

“Body type…” murmurs Belobog as he reads off the next question. Chernabog knocks a hand against his chest, the sound like two boulders rubbing. Rock solid. “I’ll just mark bodybuilder. Let’s see… Religious preference, political preference… I’ll just leave those blank. Sexual preference?”

“Alive,” Chernabog says eagerly.

 

 

 

Villain Series: Part I

Mount Triglav gives an earth-rumbling heave before the world falls silent. There is no light here. There is no life. It is Walpurgisnacht—a night the pagans once celebrated with bonfires and dancing.

Thunder breaks the silence and in the following stillness there begins a gentle shutter through the earth, the air, a shimmering of heat waves. The heat waves bend and fold in special displacement as one by one the demons come. The shapes and sizes are infinite, this one with a cleft pallet, that one with a leather hide, another with a featureless face, clawed, beaked, razor-toothed, scarred, smooth, beautiful, wretched, they come in all forms. And they are all weak.

Deep inside Mount Triglav, an energy comes alive—noises pour forth, screams of rage and frustrated keening. The demons take a collective breath. The mountain peak wavers and broadens. It bends forward. The keening crescendos, then stops. A bloated silence consumes the world. The demons stretch necks against the air, scratch feet against the ground, curl themselves small, and hold themselves tight and not a sound breaks that heavy silent barrier. The world is deaf.

Panic creeps up spines, grips hearts, and whispers deep, deep in the mind.

A wing splits from the mountain peak. Another. A body rises up, undulating snake-like to free itself. Chernabog is free. His body shutters, then stills.

One heartbeat.

Two.

A tide is rising in him, the force so swollen it must be released. His mouth is barely open before the sound begins spilling out—a sound that ruptures eardrums for miles. Blood begins to seep from the demons’ ears. The demons nearest the mountain are crushed under the weight of that enraged sound. Chernabog raises his arms, beckons with long, claw-tipped fingers and the demons come. Up the mountain they stumble, crawl, maimed by deafness and bone-shattering pressure and moved by Chernabog’s will.

This is Walpurgisnacht now. None danced willingly.

Chernabog calls the fire imps. They slither and crackle in his palm. They dance naked before his dispassionate gaze. He forces them into new shapes—pig and wolf and goat—and a hint of something like satisfaction crosses his face. He moves his free hand above and over the misshapen imps and they bend and writhe unnaturally, unable to do anything else. The great demon turns his hand this way and that, watching the imps scramble along his hand, clawing for purchase at his fingers. The humiliation doesn’t last long. With a hard flick of the wrist, Chernabog dislodges the imps into the core of Mount Triglav.

Chernabog looks down on his minions, watches them cower. His lip curls back, sneering, disgusted. He sweeps a hand forward, beckoning. His harpies descend. He looks on as the harpies grab at the little demons and then soar back into the air, higher and higher. They let go. Little demons producing little, distorted screams.

Chernabog sits back, wings hitching close to his body as his shoulders sag. He waves a hand and the demons fight amongst themselves. He stares blindly at the little fighting demons. He senses his brother. Chernabog clenches his fists as the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten. One fist relaxes enough for the claw of his forefinger to scratch at the pad of his thumb. Little circles full of angry, nervous energy. Chernabog closes his eyes and waits.

Even through the relative safety of his closed lids, Chernabog can see the brightness as his brother approaches. Belobog. As bright as shiny as a goddamn beacon. The little demons cower from the light. Chernabog grunts.

“Brother,” Belobog says, his voice surrounding Chernabog as completely as the light.

“You came early,” Chernabog says, his voice rubbing like stones, an almost petulant quality to the words.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m always angry,” Chernabog tries to snap, but his tone is anguished, the words drawn out in a painful moan.

“Perhaps change is in order,” Belobog says gently.

Chernabog’s surprise almost has his eyes snapping open, but he squeezes the lids harder, white spots dancing behind his eyes with the effort.

“What does that mean, brother?”

When Belobog is hesitant to answer, Chernabog stiffens, face contorting between a scowl and frown. Chernabog can feel the light fading, drawing in around its source.

“Open your eyes,” Belobog says. His voice is coaxing. Chernabog obeys, warily parting his lids until he is squinting at his brother. That he has obeyed Belobog angers him, as everything in this world angers him. A strangled sob passes Chernabog’s throat. Belobog pulls his light in tighter, mistaking the source of his brother’s pain.

“What do you want?” Chernabog growls.

“To offer you peace.”

Chernabog laughs, the sound a rolling thunder causing rocks to slide down the mountain. But there is fear in that laugh. The only peace is in death.

“You’ve come to kill me,” Chernabog says.

“No, brother. I’ve come to free you.”

 

 

On Creating a Villain

Hey. Hi. Yeah… it’s me. Look, I know it’s been a while, but that’s why my bio doesn’t include “responsible adult” in it anywhere. But I’m back now. Oh, and Dave is here, too. Say hi, Dave. Dave? Hmm, must be his nap time. Well, that’s all right. I’m here. And today, I’d like to talk to you about villains.

Villains can be some of the most fun characters to read and write about. A proper villain is as compelling—and occasionally more so—as the protagonist. When writing, often so much focus is put on the protagonist that the villain can fall by the wayside. A villain just can’t be a villain if he (or she) is underdeveloped. A good way to fully render a villain to completion it to loosely base the character on someone real. Want an example? I’ve got the perfect one.

 

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Not this guy.

 

 

The Personification of Hate and Rage

On September 5, 1930, Carl Panzram was hanged by the neck until dead at U.S. Penitentiary, Leavenworth, Kansas. To say the very least, Panzram was not a good man.

In my life I have murdered 21 human beings, I have committed thousands of burglaries, robberies, larcenies, arsons and last but not least I have committed sodomy on more than 1,000 male human beings. For all of these things I am not the least bit sorry […] I hate the whole damned human race including myself.

That excerpt is penned by none other than the man himself and published in Panzram: A Journal of Murder. All quotes included in this entry are credited to that book. I highly recommend you read it. However, if you want an alternative, look no further than Last Podcast on the Left’s three-part series on Panzram.

So, what makes Panzram so appealing in terms of creating a villain? Everything. But I’m going to try to keep this short…ish. Panzram is simultaneously like and unlike the average serial killer. Well, maybe average isn’t the right word, but you catch my meaning. Of the unholy serial killer trifecta—bed wetting, animal cruelty, and arson—Panzram is known to have at least dabbled in two: arson and animal cruelty. However, Panzram regretted his cruelty toward animals. A bit unusual for a serial killer. Furthermore, he specifically used arson as a form of punishment. Arson wasn’t about pleasure or destruction, rather it was about revenge against someone who’d done him harm.

 

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Note: Psychological torture.

 

 

The Blissful Formative Years

Looking at Panzram’s childhood and encounters with authority—he was in and out of lock-up since age 11—it’s not hard to understand how his mentality could be so dark. So fucking angry. At 11, Panzram was sent to a reform school for stealing apples, a piece of cake, and a pistol from a neighbor. At this school, they would use punishment in the form torture:

They used to have a large wooden block which we were bent over and tied face downward after first being stripped naked. Then a large towel was soaked in salt water and spread on our backs from the shoulders to the knees. Then the man who was doing the whipping took a large strap about ¼ of an inch thick by 4 inches and about two feet long. This strap had a lot of little round holes punched through it. Every time that whip came down on the body the skin would come up through these little holes in the strap and after 25 or 30 times of this, little blisters would form and then burst, and right there and then, hell began. The salt water would do the rest.

That was happening to 11-year-olds by reformers trying to beat religion into them. But it gets worse. After his release, around age 13-14, Panzram was gangraped by hobos on a train. He says:

I told them no. But my wishes didn’t make any difference to them. What they couldn’t get by moral persuasion the proceeded to get by force. I cried, begged and pleaded for mercy, pity and sympathy, but nothing I could say or do could sway them from their purpose. I left that box car a sadder, sicker but wiser boy than I was when I entered it.

And that shit happened again not too long after! Panzram’s only education was in the form of the strong physical brutalizing the weak. Through his encounters with everyone from hobos to law enforcement, he learned that “might makes right.” From his early encounters with men, Panzram learned that sodomy was a display of strength. It wasn’t about pleasure, it was about power.

During one particularly lengthy prison stay—he was constantly breaking out early—Panzram had to carry the 50-lb iron ball shackled to him three miles to the rock quarry, work eight and a half hours busting rocks, then carry the ball the three miles back to prison. This lasted for six months. You better believe that motha’ fucker was jacked after that.

So began Panzram’s reign of terror.

 

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Watch out, the rage is going to spew!

 

 

Writing a Villain

By looking at Panzram’s own account of his life, we get to see a great deal of his thinking, his beliefs, his motivations, and so on. Combine that with others’ view of the man—many of whom stated that his very presence was larger than life—and we start to get a complete picture. This man, whose motto was “rob them all, rape them all, and kill them all” is definitely not one-dimensional. And neither should fictional villains be.

When creating a villain, start from the beginning. Look at the formative years of some of the world’s most prolific serial killers and use that psychology to help you form a background for your character. Think of how you want your villain to be seen by other characters, and by readers. I picked Panzram as an example because he’s both charismatic and terrifying, manipulative and driven by unadulterated hate, uneducated and intelligent. He’s the basis from which you could create the sociopathic villain that everyone likes and trusts until it’s too late or the seeming monster who seeks power and revenge. Either of those choices could build a striking, engaging villain that captivates readers.

Over the course of the next few days, I’ll be posting a four-part fiction series focusing on a villain. This particular series came about in a creative writing class from years ago, and sees a Disney villain going on a blind date. My villain is Chernabog. I’ve revisited the original series to incorporate elements of Panzram. I look forward to sharing it with you.

 

Villain Series: Part I

Villain Series: Part II

Villain Series: Part III

Villain Series: Part IV

 

 

Autonomous Vehicles: Convenience or All-time Thief of Fun?

Autonomous vehicles (AVs) are in the news a lot lately. From Tesla’s Autopilot to Uber’s driverless cars, we’re really starting to see an upswing in the credibility of this tech. I can see how this technology would greatly benefit the trucking industry—if not necessarily truckers. And, I can definitely get behind Uber’s use of the tech, as well. My only (and horrible) Uber ride in Birmingham convinced me never to use Uber in Birmingham again. Plus, some Uber drivers like to talk and I’m just not into that level of human interaction sometimes. If I wanted that in my life, I’d take more trips to the hair salon. So, from a business/commercial standpoint—aside from a decrease in jobs—AVs are a pretty smart investment.

In the consumer market, however, will AVs be beneficial? Probably. Will they be wanted? That’s seriously up for debate. Will they be needed? I imagine sometime in the future, the answer to that will be yes.

 

Benefits of Autonomous Consumer Vehicles

It seems likely that AVs will provide pretty significant benefits for consumers. No human error means—on paper, at least—fewer accidents. And, with all the incredible road rage stories in the news lately (my cure for road rage is Tenacious D and The Lonely Island, personally) taking humans out of the driver’s seat may reduce violence. Of course, increased fuel economy and reduced emissions make AVs friendly to both wallet and earth.

 

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That’s why you don’t cut off a cosplayer in traffic, Dave!

 

 

You should realize by now that I always look for the health benefits in tech and, likewise, I see a big one in AVs: stress reduction. AVs—once perfected—have the ability to reduce the stresses that come with driving. The aforementioned road rage, for instance. Commuters will no longer have to worry about navigating traffic. Even better, they won’t have to worry about navigating areas they don’t know well. We know from numerous studies that stress is a factor in weight gain, depression, anxiety, poor sleep, high blood pressure, and other negative health issues.

AVs will also give you back your commute time. Instead of spending your commute driving, you can safely handle those emergency work situations, get in last minute studying for a final exam or, hell, even meditate if you want. Feeling less pressed for time is another stress alleviator.

 

One of the Biggest Concerns

For some people, driving isn’t stressful. In fact, it’s fun and freeing. It’s a hobby done in spare time to help relax during beautiful summer days. For some people, AVs are the enemy. This article in The Guardian points out that new automobile tech often rouses unhappiness—the airbag, anti-lock brakes, power steering, automatic transmissions, etc.—with the main complaint being that all the fun of driving will be taken away. Sometimes, that’s true. Driving a manual is much more fun and rewarding than driving an automatic. Driving an automatic, however, is much more practical.

 

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There’s really no point in buying it if you’re not going to drive it.

 

We’re a long way from AVs taking over, but it seems inevitable that AVs will dominate sometime down the road. We’re in the introduction and perfecting time of the tech right now. After that, it’ll be consumer’s choice. Eventually, it’ll become a government mandated thing. I think that’s the big fear. AVs are very cool, very impressive, but like anything else, it’s only cool because it’s offered. It’s cool because we can choose to partake in this tech, or we can choose to drive ourselves. Once that choice is taken away, AVs become much less impressive. Of course, by the time citizens are forced to give up the skill that is driving, driving lovers will probably be long dead.

Happy Friday!