Vaughn R. Demont's Blog, page 3

Excerpt: Community Service

Never forget what you are.

Broken Mirrors, Book 3

The King is dead, long live the King. And, uh, could you float him a couple bucks?

Life as the only human sorcerer isn’t all it’s cracked up to be for James Black, the Lightning Rod. Between gremlins in the closet, paladins crashing through skylights and working spells in a storage locker, hunting a body-hopping spirit is a welcome distraction. If only he didn’t have to partner with a Coyote.

After being punted to the curb by his roommate (with benefits), things are looking dire for trickster Spencer Crain, until an old friend offers him a shot at a big score scamming the best of marks: a vampire. Thing is, he’ll have to work with his worst enemy to pull it off.

With lives in the balance, James is learning the hard way what being a sorcerer really means—and that he picked a hell of a time to quit smoking. Spencer is faced with the choice between his future and his friends. Yeah, like he’s never seen that movie before…

Currently Available as a PWYW in the City Bundle

Chapter One

James

“Jimmy?” The voice is small and frightened.

On the TV, The Late Show is only halfway into the opening monologue. I yawn, stretch and look over at the source of my broken reverie. She’s short, dark-complexioned; has black hair tightly braided, dark eyes; is wearing pajamas with a big pink pony surrounded by cupcakes on the front.

“Yeah, sweetie, what is it?” It doesn’t take much effort to not sound annoyed. Sharon’s daughter isn’t difficult to babysit. I only have to remind her a couple times to brush her teeth and eat the dinner her mother left. Then it’s an hour and a half of cartoons and bed at eight thirty. Easy money, really.

“There’s a monster in my closet.”

I should have expected this. She’s only seven, and I remember being terrified by any number of things when I was her age. With her dad deployed overseas and her mom at work, it falls to me to deal with the monster problem. This is my first experience with this from the other side though, so I have two options: handle it like my mother did and tell her stories from Irish folklore and the innumerable rules of the Fair Folk until she falls asleep, or handle it like my father and “chase the monster away”. Only one of these options will get me back to The Late Show before the special guest comes on.

I get up off the couch and smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Tessa, I’ll make it go away.” I offer her my hand, but she elects to stay behind me while I head into her room. It’s dark, obviously, but even her nightlight’s out, so I can guess why she panicked. I flick the switch on and off several times. Nothing.

Crap, bulb must’ve burned out.

Well, to be honest, I didn’t believe my dad when he turned on the lights to show me that my closet was empty and there was nothing under my bed. The monsters only came out when it was dark, after all, and I wasn’t about to listen to Dad’s silly logic on the matter.

“Okay, sweetie, you get into bed, under the covers all the way, and I’ll make the monster go away, all right?”

She nods, grabbing a purple plush unicorn and hugging it tightly in one arm, while she tugs the covers over her head. Yep, kid logic—if I’m completely under the covers, they can’t get me.

Might as well not stall. I do need her to be asleep when her mother gets home if I want to keep this job, considering Sharon finds me creepy. Most people do. (The white streak in my otherwise red hair doesn’t help matters.) I cross to the closet, the door slightly ajar, and I pull it open, the hinges giving an eerie creak as I’m treated to the view of a rack of hangers with clothes and pajamas, a backpack hanging on a door hook…

…and a three-foot-tall, implike creature—grayish-black skin, a long hook nose, longer pointed ears, glowing yellow eyes, bony tail, and clawed hands and feet—sitting in a hunched position on top of Christian-themed board games.

Damn it.

Slowly, deliberately, I kneel, now eye to eye with the creature. It bares its claws, hissing loudly, showing a row of needle teeth. Considering that it didn’t come out of the closet to go after Tessa, I have to assume it can’t leave it. Maybe it needs to be invited? I have no idea. I’m relatively new to my job.

Not babysitting, that’s just moonlighting. I have another job with a specific skill set.

I bring my right hand in front of me, making sure it’s not visible (from the bed), in case Tessa is watching. With a slow exhale, I let my will flow into my fingers, thick jagged arcs of electricity jumping across my palm. “Boy, did you pick the wrong closet.”

Its eyes go wide, and it makes a tiny squeak of fear.

“Do you know who I am?”

It nods very quickly.

“Who am I?”

Its voice is rough, breathy, jagged like broken glass, but it speaks in Sigil, the language of magic, and it hurts my ears. “Keth.” It trembles in terror. “Sorcerer.”

This is why most people find me creepy. Sorcerers aren’t supposed to be real, so normal people tend to see me as someone to generally avoid.

Also, I’m a little relieved that the creature got it wrong. I don’t like advertising the full extent of my title. “Correct. Now, what do you think I’m going to tell you to do?”

I keep the electricity jumping between my fingers, the sound of crackles and pops intensifying to drive the point home. It’s sort of draining to be this showy. I could tap a few things in the room to fuel the working, but then I’d have to explain to Tessa (and her mother) why half of her dresser and three of her toys evaporated, and like I said, I want to keep this job.

It shrieks suddenly, and the darkness of the closet behind it spreads as it attempts to escape into the black. I snatch it by the neck, the creature screaming in pain as the lightning in my hand races through its body. Its voice devolves into a language I can’t understand as it thrashes, attempts to free itself, the electrical current keeping its limbs seized.

“Yield! Yield! Yield!” The pool of darkness vanishes as I drop it onto the Bible version of Scrabble, and it immediately clasps its hands in supplication.

Wasn’t expecting that, honestly.

The yield, not the Bible edition of Scrabble. Since I started babysitting for Sharon, I’ve learned that there are Bible editions of everything.

“I don’t buy it.” I’ve played a certain game before that definitely does not have a Bible edition, and when confronting imps and demons in that game, one of the easiest ways said creatures have of fooling a sorcerer is to make them think they’ve won. “A few jolts of electricity and you want to play Let’s Make a Deal?”

“Utrix tells truth! No want anger Keth!” Its voice is even worse when it attempts English.

“And you’d give up your name to a sorcerer that easily? You’re not very good at this, are you?”

A reason most non-normal people aren’t fond of sorcerers is what we can do with names. If Utrix is really its name, I could change it into whatever else I know the name of, like say, a bunny rabbit or a statue of Merv Griffin carved from Vermont cheddar cheese. Well, I could if I knew the name of such things. Mostly, all I could threaten this creature with is turning it into an order of French fries.

It continues to tremble like a puppy left out in the cold, even whimpering. Fine, we’ll see if it is that inept.

I focus my will and let my tongue shape the words in Sigil. “Utrix, you is go away now. Come back here no time ever or you is hurt long time.”

Utrix tilts its head, confused. “Utrix not understand.”

Perhaps I should mention that just because I’m a sorcerer, it doesn’t mean I’m good at it.

Sigil is a complicated language. It sounds like English coming out, but it’s nothing like it. As a result I have the magical vocabulary of a five-year-old and the grammar of a typical Internet commenter.

“I’ll turn you into a head of Romaine lettuce if you don’t leave and never come back. Understand that?”

Now I have its attention. But instead of vanishing into darkness, it shrieks again and dashes out of the closet and into the living room, where the lights promptly go out.

“Damn it!” I head into the living room and look back at the huddled lump on the bed. “Stay under the covers and don’t open the door until I come back.” I wince. “And, uh, don’t tell your mother I used profanity.”

I shut the door and turn to face the living room, where the TV is still on, glowing softly, The Late Show into the interview, filling the room with inane banter while some movie star hawks a children’s book they wrote. The rest of the apartment is split into the living room with a kitchenette sequestered by a half-wall, the bathroom, and Sharon’s bedroom. A check of the clock makes it worse, considering Sharon’s shift ended five minutes ago, and it should take her fifteen more minutes to get home. I get the feeling if I’m caught demon-hunting in her apartment I won’t be called back to babysit ever again.

I fish out my necklace from inside my shirt, a clear cylindrical stone with six cut sides, all etched with ancient symbols. A screaming diamond, it’s called, a relic of an ancient world, and for me, a nice battery for magic. Activating it causes it to glow, however. Hence why I didn’t use it in Tessa’s room, but I’m alone out here now.

I exhale, focusing my will, and whisper a simple spell. “Light.”

The stone fills the room with its lambent glow and casts shadows. I turn off the TV to diminish the sound to only my movement, the ambient sound of the City beyond the closed windows and, hopefully, the movements of Utrix. No scuttling or scurrying sounds, so I assume it’s hiding. Best go room to room, I guess.

I cross to the bathroom, avoiding the couch and coffee table where it could hide and rake my legs with those claws. I scared it, but that doesn’t mean it’s any safer to deal with. I certainly wouldn’t want to be turned into salad ingredients, after all.

The bathroom is minimalist, a sink, a toilet and a shower stall. I check the ceiling first, because I’ve seen the occasional horror movie, then the rest. All good. Rather than lift the toilet lid, I press down hard on it and flush, the sound of rushing water normal, uninterrupted. Bathroom’s clear. I close the door behind me and head on to the master bedroom.

Sharon’s room is simple, narrow aisles around the double bed, a closet with three doors lines the wall opposite the door. The decorations are Spartan, only a crucifix hanging over the headboard. A test of the light switch reveals the power’s not on in here either.

“Y’know, I don’t really want to hurt you. I just want you to leave.” I take a deep breath and kneel, checking under the bed, the light from my necklace revealing a vast array of plastic storage bins. “Isn’t there someone else you could traumatize by hiding in their closet? Like a pedophile or a serial killer or that guy who overuses ‘ironic’ even though he clearly has no idea what it means?”

I have pet peeves, I’ll admit. At least I didn’t mention people who constantly use air quotes or talk at the theater.

It’s silent out in the living room, no panicked screams from Tessa, so I’ve got that going for me. Maybe it just found a dark place to hide and escaped? With any luck, I intimidated it enough that it won’t return.

I open the first door of Sharon’s closet—storage bins, winter clothes, a few textbooks on restaurant management. Sharon’s been going to night school. Good for her. Good for me, too, since she’ll need a sitter more often, provided I don’t let her daughter get eaten by an imp. I move on to the next door, just clothes, nothing else. I pull open the last, more storage bins and…

The imp shrieks in fear as it dashes past me toward the living room. I roll across the bed to keep up with it, my necklace swinging and bouncing about from all the quick movement. The light shines everywhere but where I’m going, and I stub my toe on the corner of the couch and fall flat on my face just as the front door opens.

“Close the door! Close the—”

Too late, Utrix slips by and out into the hall, screeching the whole while.

“Damn it.” I bang my head against the floor in frustration before looking up at the front door as the lights come back on.

Standing there is a man at five foot six – only a couple of inches shorter than me – slim build, wearing a tailored suit all in black, even the shirt and tie. His skin is pale, eyes gray, hair ebon and cut stylishly short. Just his presence makes me feel cold, but considering he’s the god of the underworld, it’s to be expected.

“There’s a legal matter I need you to look into.”

He’s also my attorney.

Hades glances into the hall, and then at me where I’m still on the floor. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“I was chasing a… I have no idea.” I find my way to my feet, grumbling. “Had it cornered until you showed up.”

He nods curtly. “Yes, that appeared to be the case.” He reaches into his jacket and produces a manila folder. “Please be certain to mark down any time you’re working on this. Billing is quite strict.”

I take the folder. “I’m getting paid for this?”

“No, I’m getting paid for this. This is getting written up toward your sentence.” He flashes a million-dollar smile. Dick.

I was sentenced by Hades to two hundred hours of community service for breaking into a secure facility and ending the world. I don’t see the big deal. I only went to the roof and didn’t see or steal anything. And the new world is still pretty shiny. I’m surprised he’s bringing it up, actually. It hasn’t been mentioned since I was sentenced eighteen months ago. I figured he’d forgotten about it.

“And the…thing that just got away?”

Hades leans back into the hallway for a second. “Mister Cerberus is currently fighting with himself over it.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “Gremlins are high in protein.”

“That was a gremlin?” I process the rest of the sentence. “Oh God. He’s not… Is he?”

One of the upsides is that as far as humanity is concerned, sorcerers, gods, gremlins, dragons, vampires, werewolves, what have you, none of it exists to them. So, when confronted with the sight of something that shouldn’t exist, like say, a three-headed man eating a creature alive, they’ll just see it as something else, like an obese man tearing into a bucket of fried chicken.

Hades nods. “Of course. It’s in his job description. Speaking of jobs…” He points at the folder in my hand. “I’d like this matter settled, so feel free to bring in help if you’d like.”

Well, Spencer will likely be up for it as long as it doesn’t involve the walking dead.

The god reaches into his pocket and takes out a cigarette, lighting it. “I’d recommend against the Coyote.”

I quirk a brow. “How’d you know I was going to—”

“I know everything.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette and exhales the smoke into the air, smiling as he does. He knows I’m trying to quit. For the ninth time. Asshole.

“Fine, great, whatever. Would you two mind leaving? Sharon will be back any minute.” I thumb through the thick file, but it’s all in Sigil and will likely take a couple hours to understand.

“Babysitting.” He sighs in disappointment. “The Ra’keth is watching over children for five bucks an hour.”

“Six.” I shrug. “Plus I can raid the fridge.”

He shakes his head and turns to the door.

“Wait, tonight’s still on, right?”

The summer solstice starts at midnight. One of the reasons I agreed to babysit (in addition to money) is that I needed an easy way to kill time so I wouldn’t spend the evening watching the clock. But it’s worth it. Long-distance relationships take a lot of work, especially when the distance covers the space between the land of the living and the underworld.

“Has a visit ever been cancelled? That’s part of the deal and I always uphold my agreements.” He looks back at me. “Some free advice: get a better job, James. Perhaps outside the service industry?”

Hades closes the door behind him, and I grumble, but he’s right. Washing dishes and watching someone’s kid while they study their way to a better career isn’t going to get me into my own apartment.

Sure, I could conjure up a few stacks of hundred-dollar bills, but magic’s kind of a bitch in that regard. Anything I conjure is constructed

from memory, and while I do have a lovely memory of getting a fifty-dollar bill for Christmas one year, I would be conjuring the exact same bill. Right down to the serial number. Eventually I’d end up in jail for counterfeiting. Besides, making phony money would be a sin, and I’m not keen on going to hell.

I return to Tessa’s room and try to put on a convincing smile. “You can come out, it’s safe. The monster’s gone. It won’t scare you anymore.”

She peeks out from under the covers, clutching the purple unicorn as she looks around, and then squeals, diving back under the covers.

“What?”

“It’s still there!” She whimpers, muffled by the comforter over her head, but she slips a hand out to point at the closet.

Did Utrix escape? I inspect the closet closely, but there’s nothing there. Can it become invisible? I know there are spells to see through illusions, but I’d have to crib them from that certain game I’ve been known to play. “Where is it? I don’t see it.”

She peeks out and points more specifically. I follow her finger to find…

“This?” I blink several times and try not to chuckle. “Tessa, sweetie, this is your coat.” I smooth it out and push it back into the closet, where it had been sticking out at an odd angle. “It’s nothing to be scared of.”

“Oh.” Now she’s embarrassed, but I’m more relieved she didn’t see the gremlin that was actually in her closet. Kid doesn’t need any nightmare fuel.

“Okay, your mommy should be home any minute and you’re supposed to be asleep. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She nods readily, and I tuck her in before leaving, her nightlight glowing on the wall. Outside her room, I hear the door open, Sharon’s voice coming through the doorway. “I’m home. Jimmy?”

I head into the living room. “Just checking on her. She’s asleep.”

Sharon is in her mid thirties, Mediterranean complexion, bleached hair tied back in a tight bun, for efficiency more than anything, dark eyes. She’s still in her waitress uniform and looks exhausted, frankly. Between waitressing at the same diner where I wash dishes, doing final count-outs on the drawer, and now night school, I’m amazed she’s still mobile. She fishes a few bills out of her pocket, peeling off singles from her daily tips before handing them to me. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow, all right?”

I nod. “Not a problem, really. Thanks for letting me do this.”

She shrugs. “She likes you, Jimmy, and I’m grateful for the help. I’ll see you tomorrow at work, okay?” She yawns, stretching before heading toward Tessa’s room. She stops, sniffing the air, and turns to give me a mother’s glare.

“James Black, were you smoking?”

Shit.

1987 and LGBT Character Portrayal, Part 2: Mannequin

Mannequin (1987)

We didn’t see many movies in 1987, mostly because my parents had leveraged my sister and I’s college fund to buy a satellite dish for the backyard so we could watch TV stations from all over the country, particularly a local station out of Denver that was one of the scant few places in the US that still showed reruns of Rawhide, a western that gave Clint Eastwood his start, though my mom was borderline obsessed with the lead. A few hundred extra got my parents a descrambler box from Canada, and suddenly, we had “free” (my sister and I didn’t understand that it was all kinds of illegal) access to the dozens of pay-per-view channels. Because of this I saw Revenge of the Nerds at the age of 7 and was desensitized to full frontal nudity to the point you’d assume I grew up in Europe, as well as being desensitized to punishment-free voyeurism, class-based humiliation, and rape-by-deception to the point you’d assume I was a legacy student at an Ivy League college.

Because of this, actually going to the movies was a treat, because it meant popcorn and seeing a film we’d actually exchanged money to see without breaking any laws. Mannequin was another film that my sister saw twice before, claiming that I couldn’t go along because it was too adult for me. Refer to the paragraph above, then look up the plot summary of Mannequin and make the determination for yourself if my parents agreed.

Mannequin was one my first exposures to romantic-comedy, and that it opened with an animated credit sequence didn’t hurt my chances of seeing it either. I was only nine when I saw it, but the plot was simple enough to follow, the characters were likeable and funny, and the very 80s music montages of playing around with all the stuff in a large department store after closing was linked to fantasies of the Super Toy Run that every 80s/90s kid dreamed of winning. As time went on, I got older, and eventually was able to see more in the movie, like, for example, that one character my parents referred to as “funny”, and not just that he was humorous.

I speak, of course, of:

It was years before I’d meet anyone as flamboyant as him in real life (Growing up in New York does not necessarily mean you grew up in New York City), but whenever anyone remarked on a flamboyant person, my mind immediately went to Hollywood. When he’s referred to as a “fairy”, as a nine year old who watched cartoons and read fantasy books, I assumed that meant he was a magical creature, there to keep an eye on Jonathan and Emmy and make sure they could end up together.

It hit me later on, especially when I began to realize that I wasn’t straight, that Hollywood was one of the influencing LGBT figures of my childhood, aside from Lamar Latrell from Revenge of the Nerds (so both black, out-and-proud gay characters), serving as a counter to the white gay characters I’d seen in film thus far, who ended up jealous murderers (Burglar), or traitorous murderers (No Way Out). There was a time that I honestly believed that black gay people had it easier than white gay people, based solely off what I saw in the movies. (Remember, I was under the age of ten. And remember to stop to breathe, because I would likely laugh myself into passing out if I read that too.)

So let’s get it out of the way first that Hollywood is a blatant effeminate stereotype played by a straight man. That’s a given, but let’s also remarked that you only need to watch one episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race to see there are people who are like that. The focus, rather, is on how the character is treated, what they do, and how they affect the plot. Hollywood takes the role of the “funny (read: humorous) best friend” to romantic lead Jonathan Switcher, with his own lines and implied subplots of his own. He’s dramatic, willing to threaten public suicide if his friend is fired for expressing his art, crying openly at the drop of a hat, and scheming to stalk his it’s-complicated Albert, and openly supportive of Jonathan’s artistic and romantic pursuits, even when it appears that his friend is romantically involved with a mannequin. “You are an artiste” is his brush-away of any concerns about Jonathan’s weirdness.

Homophobia is seen from Felix, the night security guard, referring to Hollywood as a “Mary”, to which Jonathan responds by calling him out, subtly, as a bigoted jerk. Aside from several seconds of awkwardness on their first meeting, Jonathan just rolls with Hollywood’s personality, even promising him job security once he gets promoted. It’s notable that Hollywood isn’t present for this scene, but he brushes off Felix’s comments when told of it the scene after as Felix simply being too invested in his job and the “authority” it allows him, but it’s Hollywood’s tone that implies that it’s not the first time he’s dealt with Felix’s homophobia before, and likely from outside the store as well.



That Hollywood lives his life openly and unapologetically was what stuck for me, that even though Felix was a “bigoted jerk” with “a serious case of Miami Vice”, he didn’t tone himself down in the slightest. In the final scenes, when he drives Jonathan to Illustra to save what Hollywood believes is a kidnapped mannequin, he still doesn’t question or hesitate, because to him, Jonathan is an artist that fell in love with his creation, and sought to rescue it from destruction, and Jonathan is his friend. Still, while Jonathan rushes in, Hollywood still takes the time to cover his car, which seems ridiculous until you realize that car that classic with a paint that vibrant needs protection from sun damage, and it’s worth 22 seconds delay.

However, a potent scene occurs when Jonathan runs on ahead in a hallway to the trash disposal, with Hollywood staying behind to delay the multitude of security guards in hot pursuit, and grabbing a nearby hose to spray the floor and guards to push them back, while laughing and having the time of his life, taunting that there are two things he loves to do:

[image error]

It’s important to note that this is a scene where a black gay man is turning a fire hose on the store’s equivalent of the police. This is Hollywood’s “hero moment”, that’s played for comedy, and to give Jonathan the time to rescue the damsel in distress, but, it’s still a scene where a black man turns a fire hose on the police, and a simple Google of “fire hoses civil rights movement” will show the significance, even if it’s in a fantastical romantic comedy where the black man is gay and only doing it to help the two pretty white people get together.

Still, the film ends with a wedding, but with Hollywood as best man/maid of honor, cheering on that love won and catching the bouquet. And he’d only have to wait eighteen more years to have that same kind of special day for himself.

1987 and LGBT Character Portrayal, Part 1: Burglar

Burglar (1987)

Burglar has some importance for me. It’s a 1980s movie, one of Whoopi Goldberg’s assorted comedy-esque films, with the general guideline of the 1980s movie ratings and what could and couldn’t be said, you could still show people smoking weed, occasional frontal nudity if it was only breasts, and F-bombs were plentiful. A black woman could be the lead in a movie without it raising too many eyebrows, even if she was the only POC in the entire movie, and played a criminal with a facial tattoo that implied she was either raped in prison, murdered a prison guard, or both (though it’s never addressed).

This, however, meant nothing to me when I first saw it, because I was 9 years old in 1987 and didn’t get half of the things that were being talked about. All I understood at the time was that Whoopi’s character, Bernie, was accused of killing someone, but didn’t do it, and was trying to track down the person who did so. And it had something to do with Johnny Carson, and she catches the bad guy in the end.

It wasn’t until years later that it worked its way into my “sick day” movie rotation that I started to get more of the plot, and understand what was being talked about, and then when I finally did research on it to write an essay on it to nose-thumb at my priggish first advisor at grad school, who wanted me to only consume the works of Cormac McCarthy and avoid anything meant for a wider audience. I went looking for an easy paper, I instead found something else.

Editing is common, especially when a book is adapted to film. Adapted from Lawrence Block’s The Burglar in the Closet, the film changes the setting from New York’s Upper East Side to San Francisco, and the lead character Bernard Rhodenbarr, a white, Jewish man, into Bernice Rhodenbarr, a black woman. Critics and the author did not approve. However, that isn’t what I’m going into. Rather, I’m going into what else was edited and filtered out, particularly regarding the times.

The 1980s were not, obviously, a good time for the LGBTIQAP+ community, largely because they were only generally known as the Gay and Lesbian community and the specter of AIDS was prevalent, all of the other letters might have been known of, but weren’t spoken of, and definitely not shown in popular media. When they were, they were shown in strict stereotypes, or shown as depraved or self-loathing. In the case of The Burglar in the Closet, one LGBT character is Carolyn Kaiser, Bernie’s “lesbian soulmate”, the friend who knows of his thievery and cooperates, and by sole virtue of her homosexuality is the only woman Bernie doesn’t sleep with in the series. In Burglar, Carolyn is erased and edited into Carl Helfer, Bernie’s supportive friend, played by Bobcat Goldthwait, who played the “Bobcat Goldthwait” type of the 1980s, and was definitely straight given the character is shown hitting on multiple women during a bar crawl.

The murder victim is altered as well, from a dentist’s ex-wife in the book to a philandering ex-husband in the film. While the murder-mystery follows the general beats of a mystery novel (kill or alibi the suspects until the random character from Act I is revealed as the killer), it’s the editing of the victim that still comes to mind when I think of the portrayal of LGBT characters in the 1980s. The victim, Christopher, is stabbed to death with a dental elevator, and during Bernie’s investigation is implied to be bisexual, and other than being murdered, isn’t mourned or grieved save by one of his occasional hook-ups that provides Bernie with her only real leads.

The killer, Carson, is revealed to either be a self-loathing homosexual, or a self-loathing bisexual, who brutally murdered Christopher for…? Jealousy, and nothing more. Not greed, or wanting to not be left out of a counterfeiting scheme, or potential blackmail regarding Carson’s illicit affair, just jealousy that his occasional lover was taking someone different home every night, and then proceeds to murder two other people simply for the sake of… why? Again, it wasn’t a good adaptation, but it was a plotline that was inserted into the screenplay for the sake of providing a killer, so they went with a Depraved Homosexual and a Bury Your Gays.

What effect does this have in the 1980s for young LGBT kids? If you’re not straight, you’ll either go on a killing spree, or be impaled by dental equipment. This wasn’t the first example of mainstream film in the 1980s killing the LGBT character, nor was it the last, but it was the first time I had seen this, keeping my feelings and attractions to myself because it was another reason of what society thought of me.

However, that wasn’t the only movie with an LGBT character that I saw in 1987.

House of Leaves (Saturday Book Club)

House of Leaves (2-Color Edition) by Mark Danieliewski

 

I’ve read House of Leaves several times, and every time when I reach the end, stumbling through the “Three Attic Whalestoe Letters” and “Pelican Poems”, I am reminded of “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll, or more accurately, Alice’s reaction to it in Through The Looking Glass, “Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas – only I don’t exactly know what they are!”

I will admit that I like some of his stylistic choices. I like the double-frame of the story, how at times he’ll use six pages to convey one sentences to show the severity of the event. There are beautiful images within, such as Navidson trapped on a small platform in an infinite void, reading a book and burning pages he’d read to see the words, eventually burning the page he’s reading, forcing him to read faster and faster. Yet at the end of the book, at the end of the day, I am still one of the readers who will never “get it”.

One of the things I learned about writing when I was going to SUNY Oswego is that a writer makes a contract with the reader, a series of promises about the format, what will be revealed, what the general plot of the story will be. When you present the idea of a monster, eventually you have to have a final confrontation with the monster, or at least learn who or what it is. The persistent monster in all three of the stories in House of Leaves is the Minotaur, which never appears, only leaving traces of itself in a “wolf-at-the-door” sort of way (Which did work for “The Blair Witch Project”, though the film concentrated more on the breakdown of a group than voluntary isolation).

In short, the book feels more like a collection of scenes with avant-garde ideas rather than a cohesive story. This is why I’ll never “get it”, and why, to my detriment, I’ll never understand experimental fiction. I can appreciate the parallels between the book and the album Haunted by Poe (the author’s sister), and that both people are very open about discussing the book’s meaning with questioning fans, but shouldn’t a reader be able to understand the book without the author’s help? Should a book require more than one attempt to understand it, or at least understand the plot?

While I want my readers to read my books more than once, I don’t want them to do such because they have to in order to discover my artistic vision that was tucked in cryptically in the slogan of some coffee company on page 926-F that only becomes clear after seven to eight read-throughs. But then I suppose this is why I’m writing genre fiction instead of experimenting with the form.

If anything, the book makes me a better writer because I know I need to be aware of my audience and what exactly they’ll be expecting out my book. I’ll need to know what I can get away with, and which conventions I can twist and tweak to my purposes, but most importantly, I need to be aware of the line that I should not cross with them.

Excerpt: Lightning Rod

Always stand. Never fall.

Broken Mirrors, Book 2

If I could offer one piece of advice now, as I fall past the eighty-fourth floor of Victory Tower, with the sky above me the swirling eye of a crimson hurricane, the blade of a goddess stuck in my thigh, and a man I used to love preparing to end the world, it would be this: Magic is not the answer to your problems.

Sorcerers have always been feared in the City, their origins as unknown as the nature and extent of their power. When James Black, a young man fleeing an abusive lover, becomes a sorcerer, his old life is erased from existence, and his new life is indebted to powerful entities.

Escaping the man who abused him was supposed to be the end, but the very magic that freed him has put him on a collision course with the gods and the Sorcerer King himself.

And only one of them can survive.

Warning: This is a work of urban fantasy featuring a gay male protagonist, with a romantic subplot and focus on magic, dragons, tricksters, sorcerers, and survival of domestic abuse. Please adjust expectations accordingly.

Chapter One

May

I have two modes reserved for post-sex. Conversational and scared rabbit.

When Heath finished with a grunt and an almost laugh of relief mixed with bliss, I let him fall asleep and focused my eyes on the bedroom door until his breathing grew rhythmic and I could hear the rough snerk of a snore.

Scared rabbit.

He was quiet this time, every other time he’s vocal. I’m not exhausted, another change. Usually I’m out, drained by the time he’s finished, but tonight I can’t sleep. I’m wide awake, aware, and I don’t want to spend the next couple hours in his arms while I wait to fade out.

There’s a definite art to slipping out of bed. I have to move slowly, keep my muscles flexed, use the nightstand to support myself and prevent any excess noise. You would think that the most efficient method would be feet first, but it’s not. Eventually you have to literally move your arse (sorry, ass) and that causes a lot of creaking unless it’s a really nice mattress, and we don’t have one of those. So it’s face-first for me.

I use my hands to ease myself down and forward, trying not to squirm at the dusty, dingy feel of the floor, until I’m able to swing my right leg over and touch the cold hardwood. After that it’s a simple matter of getting my other leg over, standing up, stepping lightly, and retrieving my clothes from the pile near the door.

As I stop in the doorway, the frame littered with red markings Heath painted when we first moved in, I look back at the bed, seeing him sleeping there, a few inches taller than I, brown hair shorn close to his skull. He took most of the blankets in his sleep, but I can handle it, since the mid-May weather is keeping the flat warm.

Apartment. Not flat. Apartment. He’s talked to you about this.

The apartment is a shoebox, to put it lightly. The main room consists of a small table with two chairs next to a window that could only be opened with a brick. There’s also a combination sink/stove with a few Tupperware containers in a stack next to it, all of them holding dry goods. Heath says if I gave him more we’d be living in a condo in Allora by now, but I don’t know what else I can do. I’m living on ramen, I quit smoking, I even started hopping turnstiles to save on subway tokens. I don’t know what else I can shave back.

I exit the apartment as softly and carefully as I can, leave the door unlocked behind me because I can hardly redo the chain from the other side. Once out the door, I trot down the dimly lit hallway to the communal bathroom at the end of it, still naked, my T-shirt, hoodie, jeans and underwear bundled under one arm and my beat-up Chuck Taylors, the socks stuffed deep in my shoes and probably stiff from sweat, under the other. My St. Jude medallion is around my neck. I don’t take that off. He lost his St. Anthony medal. I’m not allowed to think that’s ironic or funny. I haven’t been to Mass since we met. Heath’s been playing around with atheism, but I think he’s more comfortable with just hating God. Sometimes I envy him for that.

I just wish things could be like they were in the beginning.

Once in the bathroom, I close the door behind me, pull the chain attached to the dangling light bulb overhead, and set to getting dressed. The floor is dirty, cream-colored tile, the toilet’s seat is barely attached, there’s a sink with a cracked mirror over it and a shower stall with plenty of mold inside.

After getting dressed, I look in the mirror, smooth out my hair and brush back some stringy red locks. Irish red, that’s the shade he calls it, it’s one of his little jokes, the other being that I see dead people due to the white streak in my bangs. I don’t. I also don’t have an accent. Well, I do occasionally, but it’s more Oxford than Dublin. I only slip into it by accident and he’s never really liked when I—

What’s wrong with my face?

That…

That can’t be me.

But the guy in the mirror, his right eye is nearly closed, puffy, the skin mottled with dark colors, his lips are fat, cracked, teeth stained with dried blood.

I mean, he’s… But he’s never…

Not that hard…

It was just a stupid fight, and it was my fault anyway. I mean, I snuck one of his smokes (one of the ones he rolls himself) but I was having a rough day but I knew they were his and I should’ve bought my own but my legs were sore and…

And I just shouldn’t have pissed him off. I know he has a temper and he can get a little…

I stare into the mirror, meet my dirty green eyes, see the bruises on my cheek visible under the dusting of stubble. I look at my forearms, weak and lanky, at the dark finger-shaped marks there.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.”

If I run, though, he’ll…

But if I don’t come back, he can’t. He’ll be mad, but he’s always angry about money, and if I’m gone he won’t be spending as much.

I slip back into the room, stepping slow and easy. He’s still asleep, but I’m trembling. I’d wake him up if I slid back into bed, and he might be mad, he might…

My eyes adjust quickly to the dark room, the only light indirect from streetlamps. I need something to protect myself, if he…

Keep it together. Just get something sharp.

The silverware would be too noisy, that would wake him up. He has a small blade though, for opening the post, I mean the mail. It’s on the counter, half of a broken set of scissors, something he picked up before we met. It’s junk, so he won’t miss it. I slip it into the large front pocket of my hoodie.

If I’m going to do this, I have to go.

Now.

I pull up my hood and leave the flat, walking as slow as I can down the hallway toward the stairs, prefacing every step with a silent prayer, my thumb and index finger gently rubbing my medallion. No creaks. First part’s over. The walls

are yellowed, chipped paint, trash on the steps. It’s a slum just barely inside the Benedict on 82nd and M. We’re on the fourth floor, I mean fifth. Walk-up. Cheaper than the dorms.

Dad will understand, right? Shit, I’m going to have to tell him. I doubt he’ll start quoting Leviticus, he’s not as Catholic as Mom is. Still, should I call?

No, no, get out of the building first, that’s the priority. Heath could wake up at any moment and notice I’m gone. Get some distance.

I descend the stairs, picking up speed with every flight until I leap the last six steps, the landing echoing in the ground-floor lobby, but I’m out the door before I have time to wince. I’m sore, hot, aching, but not tired. It’s a cool May night, but my hoodie is stained with sweat. I reach the 80th and R station, my palms slapping the top of the turnstile as I vault over. There’s a train pulling in, the Blue Line, heading for all points west.

Oh fuck, what am I doing? I can get back before he’s noticed I’m gone, right?

What if someone saw me jump over? I’ll get picked up and they’ll call the flat and he’ll know and I’ll have to explain and there’ll be a fine and we can’t afford a fine—he’ll get so pissed…

I get on the train, take a seat in the corner, away from the few scattered people here and there. I probably stink. I haven’t washed these clothes in a while. I thrust my hands into the hoodie’s pocket, mostly so people won’t see me wringing them together over the broken scissor.

As the train pulls away from the station, I swear I see him there on the platform—a chill runs through my hands—but when I check again, it’s empty. It’s a sign, that’s what it is. I’ll just ride to the next station, get off, go home, and if he’s awake, I’ll say I went for a little walk because it was a nice night, or something like that. That’s okay, right? Yeah, he shouldn’t be too mad.

The train jostles slightly on the tracks, enough to make me brace against the wall, and see the sleeve of my hoodie and a metal glint in the frayed threads of the cuff. Something’s tangled in there. I pull it free slowly, delicately. It’s a chain, silver, a small medallion attached to…

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

St. Anthony of Padua. Patron saint of missing things. His medallion, he was so pissed when he lost it, even though he never goes to Mass and…

And it was stuck on my clothes and…

I can’t go home now.

No one pays me much mind, but I keep my hood pulled forward, my gaze cast toward the floor. Every time the train makes a stop I tense, knowing I should check the doors to see if he’s there, but if he does get on, he’ll see me if I look up, so hell with that. What am I going to do?

What am I going to do?

This is how it goes for several more stops, until I feel a hand nudge my shoulder, a male voice telling me we’ve reached the end of the line. It’s not him, but when I look up the man has already moved down the aisle toward the door. I only see the back of his head, but his hair looks dyed, badly, in brown, black, blond and gray. I want to ask him where we are, but a glance out the window answers the question.

Victory Station.

It’s a hub for the United Transit Authority, or UTA, as well as the bus station, built under Victory Tower, tallest building in the state. If I’m going to carry this all the way, this is the place to do it. I can buy a bus ticket going, well, anywhere but here.

It takes an hour of wandering around to work up the nerve to get in queue for the ticket booth. I keep my eyes on my feet, shuffling forward when I see the feet in front of me move. Before long I’m in front of the window, the woman behind the glass taking a look at me and immediately casting her eyes downward. I start to speak, patting my jeans for my wallet as I see the small sticker on the window reading Identification Required for All Ticket Purchases. Would they take my student ID? Would they…

I took the wrong jeans. My wallet’s back at the apartment.

Wordlessly, I exit the queue and head toward the array of chairs in the waiting area. I can feel my throat tightening, panic creeping across my skin.

Just give it up. Time to go home and take my licks and hope it won’t be too bad. Maybe things will be different if he knows I’m willing to leave. Maybe he’ll treat me better. I walk to the bank of pay phones and realize that I’m still without money, and I doubt he’d take a collect call from me.

I do see a familiar face, or at least hairstyle. The man from the train is seated on the floor under the pay phones, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I take a deep breath and walk over to him.

“Hey, you got any quarters?” On closer examination I can see that his face is bruised, some dried blood in his eyebrow, but he doesn’t seem all that concerned about it.

“Just used my last one, honestly. Nine-one-one’s a free call, though. What, you get mugged?” I look away, closing my eyes, my throat feeling tight again. Damn it, don’t start the waterworks, he’ll hate you if you do. No one likes a crybaby. I hear him speak up. “You okay?”

After a few seconds, I shake my head, sniffling again.

He pats the floor next to him, trying to put me at ease with a smile. “Getting mugged happens, man. It sucks, I know. Been rolled a few times myself.” He actually laughs. What’s with this guy? “Bit of advice? Never count the day’s take before you skim off the local gang’s cut. You’ll end up with your ass kicked and out two hundred bucks.”

Great, he’s a criminal. I don’t see many options, though. I’ve been wandering around the station for an hour, Heath must’ve noticed that I’m gone by now. I sit on Bad Dyejob’s right and pull my hood forward more. “That what happened to you?”

“Nah, this was my dad. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like this is a regular thing. My brother, every time I see him he hits me, seems like.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe he’s got a pituitary problem or something, whatever kind of hormone imbalance fucks people up in the head.”

Am I overreacting? Am I making a mistake? I mean, this guy is… I turn toward him. “So this happens a lot.”

“Mugging, or getting smacked around? I don’t know, in this city…” He reaches toward me. Fuck, I’m gonna get mugged. All I can do is wince before he touches me.

“Oh damn.” He pauses a second, taking his hand away. “Listen, I didn’t mean to make light of anything. I mean, if your dad is hitting you, then you need to—”

“My father doesn’t hit me.” Dad is a good man, and other than chasing women, God wouldn’t have any problems with him. “My brothers don’t either. My family isn’t like yours.”

And he laughs, what the hell is so funny about that?

“I hope not. I wouldn’t wish my family on anyone. My mom’s snapped, or she’s about to, my grandfather’s got a crazy ex with serious boundary issues. One half-brother belongs in jail and the other will someday be devoured by pubic lice, and hell, I’ll probably end up a third-rate con artist.” He smiles at me again, but this one’s more sincere.

“You’ll say all that to someone you don’t know?”

“Stranger’s confessional. We’ll tell anyone anything if we think we’ll never see them again.”

I whisper under my breath. “There’s only one person I never want to see again.”

“What was that?” He leans toward me with a wink. “It was a crack about my hair, wasn’t it? It’s okay, think of it as a life lesson to never get drunk with a chick who thinks you’ll look hot with highlights and streaks.”

I don’t answer, and he looks under my hood. He takes stock of the bruises and marks on my face. His voice softens. “Listen, uh, I’m sorry if I’m cracking jokes. Just what I do, you know? Be straight with me, you okay?”

What did he call it? Stranger’s confessional. I wish it could be one of those things where it wouldn’t be real until I admitted it, but I still feel the heat in my skin, the blurs in my vision from my swollen eye. It happened, whether I admit it or not. I look down at the floor, and I shake my head to answer him.

“You don’t have to tell me any details, it’s all right. Besides, uh…” I’m guessing he wasn’t expecting this when he dropped into Victory Station to probably pick pockets or smuggle cocaine. “So you’re leaving…her? Him?”

I can feel the tears coming. Damn it. “Him.” I take a few breaths, try to keep it together. “I just… I looked in the mirror and saw…” I touch my face briefly. What am I doing? “God, I was so stupid. He’s gonna be so pissed, he’s—”

“Hey.” He places his hand awkwardly on my forearm. “You’re doing the right thing here. It’s the brave thing.”

Yeah, right.

“I can’t go anywhere. I don’t have any money, I just came here because…” My face feels wet. “I just ran out, I grabbed some clothes and ran. Everything is back there, I don’t have ID, I can’t get a ticket and…”

Dyejob doesn’t laugh though. A few people do look but keep walking. He reaches into his pocket and takes something out.

“What’s that?”

He fans out five cards at me. “Your bus ticket, or well, it will be once I find a couple fish.” He looks at the passing crowd, and I notice that his eyes are golden brown, closer to golden. “I work this right I can get you bus fare to Idaho if you want in fifteen minutes.”

“But what if you lose?”

He stifles a laugh as he pats my forearm gently. “You’re adorable.” He shows me three cards, a queen and two aces, before he starts shuffling. “I don’t lose, okay? It’s not pride, I know how to work the cards. More than that, I know how to work the mark. It’s all about distraction, that’s why we all talk and rhyme and chat up the crowd. If I can get you to take your eyes off the cards for a second, I’ve won.” He flips the cards over, showing the same queen, but two different aces.

“How’d you…”

“Magic.” He grins big, and I’ll admit it’s slightly infectious. He prattles on for a bit more, but I’m having trouble buying it.

“They don’t know it’s obvious that you’re cheating?”

He laughs, good-naturedly. “Man, everyone knows I’m cheating, doesn’t stop them from thinking they can beat the game anyway.” He sighs, looking over at the crowd. “God, pride is a lucrative sin. Greed too. Even if they’re on to you, there’re ways around it. You play it straight to throw them off or you do a turnover or pull a drop…”

He stares off into space for a moment.

“Um…” I wave a hand in front of his face.

“Sorry, I uh…I just realized that I have to get out of here.” He holds up his hand. “Do you know anyone in the Capital?”

“My father, well, kind of close to there, he’s in the Mews.” A nice suburb for the upper middle class.

“All right.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a bus ticket, putting it in my hand. “This is what you’re going to do, okay? You get on the bus, ride it to the Capital, and when you get off, look for a black guy with bleach-blond hair wearing a motorcycle jacket. His name is Bank, tell him the cracker had to give you his exit.” His fingers push my chin up, my eyes lock with his. “What are you telling him?”

“The cracker had to give me his exit?” Oh God, am I agreeing to be a drug mule? “I can’t take your ticket, though—”

“Yeah, you can. Think you need a getaway more than I do.”

“No, they check identification, and I don’t have mine, and—”

“Relax.” He takes his ID out of his wallet. “Just show the driver this when he checks the new passengers. I bought the ticket with that one, and I can always get another.”

He gives it to me, and it looks a little fake, and the photo, well… “I don’t really look like this.”

He exhales hard, biting his lip. “I’d hate to say this, man, but right now? You don’t really look like anybody.” He pats my arm again, that’s as far as he’s willing to go. Am I the intimidating one in this exchange? “Listen, it’s awful that this happened to you, but right now, as bad as this sounds, it actually works in your favor.”

What? “How?”

“No one’s going to pry, or ask twice. Yeah, you don’t look like the picture, but given your condition, they’re going to give that minefield a wide berth and let you slide. And if anyone asks from now until you get home to your dad, your name is the one on the ID, okay? Hey.” He makes me look at him, and his eyes are sincere. He probably practices that, but it’s working. “Hard part’s over. You’re going to be all right.”

For better or worse, I believe him. I nod once. “Thank you. You’re saving my life, you’re my hero.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

He chuckles. “Well, seeing as I’m kinda smuggling you north, just call me a coyote. Only, y’know, without the extortion and shit.” He stands, and helps me up. “Your bus is over that way, might as well get in line.”

Oh my God, I’m getting out of here. I’m going to get away, all thanks to the kindness of strangers. Everything can be okay. This can really be over. I want to cry, but I’m not ashamed to this time. I hug Dyejob, my coyote, as hard as I can. He returns it, patting my back gently. After a few seconds I start across the lobby to the departure gates.

I glance back at him, and he waves, still smiling, his voice echoing across the distance. “Hey, you never told me your name either.”

“It’s…” I look down at the ID before smiling back at him. “James Black.”

(Posting this as new readers of Four on the Floor might not know that AJ’s story takes place in a setting with several other books, all available on the site.

The Last Jedi and the Dark Side of the Fandom

I first saw Star Wars at the age of four. I was at my grandparents’ house, and my uncle had a VHS copy. My sister, two years older, was super excited to see it for the third time, and she was at the age where messing with me wasn’t just a pastime, but part of the natural order of siblings. She turned up the volume loud enough to hear outside, and started it, wanting to recreate that movie theater bombast of sound to blast away the rest of the world and leave only the movie in its place.

When the Stormtroopers first blasted through the hatch onto Leia’s ship, I was hiding behind a chair, afraid of how loud the explosion was because, again, I was four. She still brings it up, even today, if I come close to rivaling her fandom to take me down a peg.

When Return of the Jedi debuted, my uncle saw it five times in one week, and took my sister every time. It was determined that I was too young to go, as it got out three hours past my bedtime. She left every time with a grin on her face, and kept “the big spoiler” secret until I finally saw it myself once it was acquired on VHS.

I loved Star Wars, even if I didn’t get to mainline it like a lot of people. The lone action figure I had was one of the nobodies, the also-rans, and being under the age of ten I wasn’t thinking to keep it mint in box and sell it later to pay for three years of college.

When The Phantom Menace premiered I attended a midnight showing with friends, and we showed up an hour early to get a parking spot. A pizza place stayed open, wisely calling it that early-birds would load up on slices to avoid buying $17 popcorns in cheap plastic collectible bins. I got to join in with the cheers when the Lucasfilm logo appeared, the eruption of applause, hoots, and hollers when that iconic main title started, some people jumping to their feet and waving their plastic lightsabers in the air.

It was a theater full of college kids and high-schoolers, people like me who were too young to have seen the original trilogy in the theaters, but it was okay. This was going to be our trilogy, after all. The prequels we’d share with our friends and eventually our own kids.

So yeah, I was disappointed, but not to the levels that some people were. Jar Jar was kinda lame, but I wasn’t about to grab a torch and pitchfork. Jake Lloyd was… a kid working with not-awesome writing, and made “Yippie!” one of Darth Vader’s immortal lines, but I still cringe at the shit that the “fans” put that poor kid through afterward. It’s also where I learned about toxic fandom.

Sidestepping into education for a moment, as a professor I make it a point to consult Beloit College’s infamous “Mindset List”, an annual release to familiarize educators with what incoming students will be familiar with, and what they won’t be familiar with. It’s often shared as a means to mock people older than us, until we reach the year where the list starts to make us feel old, to imply two words that aren’t just a revived series on Netflix: arrested development.

With that in mind, let’s go back to the Star Wars cinematic universe, a setting that has endured since 1977, over 40 years, a setting that has taught the basic morality of good and evil, Light Side and Dark Side, to Baby Busters, Generation X, Echo Boomers/Generation Y, Millennials, and iGen/Generation Z. It’s not a zeitgeist, it’s considered to be a cultural institution, a common ground for millions to start from. It gave us films, cartoons, TV specials, dozens of books, hundreds of comics, tabletop roleplaying games and countless computer and video games that gave an extra peek, another story, something else to color in the lines.

As a result, some people are protective, some a little too much, some entirely too much, when any change or addition is proposed or inserted or made canon, set in stone. When the new trilogy debuted, there was understandably pushback as it wasn’t being shepherded by George Lucas, meaning that Star Wars would have to survive without his lazy writing, unnecessary angst, and broad-painted stereotypes. (Remember, this is a guy who told Carrie Fisher she couldn’t wear underwear in space because it would strangle her.) But also, the leads changed.

The primary leads of the original trilogy? Luke, Han, Leia. Two white straight guys (one late teens, the other in his 30s), one white straight girl under the age of 21 in a generally supporting role. Prequels? Anakin, Obi-Wan, Padme. Two white straight guys (one late teens, one in his 30s), one white straight girl under the age of 21 in a generally supporting role. The new trilogy? Finn, Poe, Rey. Probably straight black man (early 20s), possibly bi/pansexual Latinx man (early 20s), possibly asexual white girl (early 20s). In the era of the alt-right, Gamergate, and toxic masculinity being called out, the screeching backlash to The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi is by no means justified, but it’s understandable why it’s there.

So let’s go back to two terms mentioned earlier that often go hand in hand: toxic fandom and arrested development. Science-fiction and fantasy were learned and gendered early on from the baby boomers all the way to Generation Y to be white, heterosexual, and male. However, as time passed and the diversity of readers and consumers in American markets increased, diversity of leads and characters emerged from niche markets to establish themselves as feasible choices for publishing, playwriting, and screenwriting. (It doesn’t mean that it’s a given, unfortunately. Writers and artists are often encouraged or given notes to Anglicize names and concepts “to increase marketability”, or they self-censor/edit for fear of rejection from mainstream houses.) The concept of arrested development is that while a person’s body may grow and mature, emotional growth and maturity is not a given, hence some feeling even on a good day to think like they’re still fifteen, even if in their forties. Popular culture has been assigned some of the blame, providing validation for arrested development by marketing subjects typical aimed at adolescents and those in their twenties to those who aren’t that age but still think like they are.

As a result, this section of the fandom often has more time invested by virtue of age, and therefore equates that time invested to degree of entitlement over the direction of a specific franchise, and discounting new targets of marketing. If the concept seems off-putting regarding Star Wars, it can easily be applied to the backlash to making Doctor Who a woman, even if it was established in the canon that the titular Doctor could regenerate as anything, he always returned as a pasty white Englishman. (Articles have been written to describe that the Doctor would always return as a white male to ensure privilege would allow and forgive his shenanigans, and only with the recent social progress would the Doctor return as a woman to ensure they’re be taken seriously in a crisis.)

However, the same arguments return with Star Wars when the Force Sensitive lead is written as a woman. “Mary Sue” is the most common insult thrown out regarding Rey, the term often meaning a self-based character with zero to very few flaws who is immediately an expert at everything they do, and serendipity follows them about like an attention-starved puppy, and the veracity of that charge is a whole ‘nother essay unto itself, but it does beg the question of why the same label was never applied to Luke. If the response is that Mary Sue is only applied to women, it must be asked why the term was freely applied to Wesley Crusher on Star Trek: TNG. Luke is not charged with being a Mary Sue by the more toxic wings of the fandom being 1) he’s a white, implied to be straight” male, and 2) he’s the hero that they grew up with, that they wanted to be like, and applying that trait to him would be in a sense applying it to themselves.

The Last Jedi received much of the “fan”-rage for shutting the door on Rey being connected to any of the major bloodlines in the SWU: the Skywalkers… and that’s pretty much it. By connecting her to the Skywalkers, she would share blood with Anakin, Luke, and Kylo (Leia, too, but we all saw how the toxic wing took Leia having the gall to use the Force to save her own life.), and therefore, her strength and power would be tied to, and owed to, powerful men, instead of coming from nothing.

The film also complicated the rather simple morality that had existed in Star Wars and most traditional fantasy. Rebellion good, Sith/Empire/First Order bad, and that was all there was to it. The scene on Canto Bight (the casino planet) was to establish that the only real winners were the arms dealers, selling to both sides, glutting themselves off a war that had been raging for years. While the First Order was still clearly evil, the Rebellion’s luster was tarnished slightly, introducing moral questions that typically aren’t expected in a Star Wars movie, but questions that 15-30 year-olds have to handle in 2018 that they didn’t have to handle in 1977. Until The Last Jedi the most vicious Star Wars morality debate was about whether or not Han shot first.

Returning to arrested development, part of the complexities of the new Star Wars trilogy lies both in a more established canon (which now includes two animated series, which brought a disavowed villain out of the cold of the former Expanded Universe, the most sinister art history major ever), and in its marketing, in that it’s no longer targeted at aging white men, but a wider, more diverse audience to reflect a wider and more diverse fandom. One only has to look at the box office to tell the tale. The key is that as the fandom expands, more diverse and younger voices will be the basis of that expansion, who not only want stories that feature them too, but also have the disposable income to support it.

If Disney is, as planned, going to keep releasing Star Wars movies until long after the fans of the original trilogy are dead, then the older factions of the fandom must accept that, as the new trilogy has shown, Star Wars isn’t just for them anymore, that POC and LGBTIQAP+ people are fans too, and would like to see people like them being the hero and saving the galaxy. They need to see that other people can have their stories in the Star Wars universe as well, to not fear it. Because, well, fear has led to anger. That anger has led to hatred. That hatred has led to suffering. And suffering… well… I think Star Wars fans know what that leads to.

The Truth Hurts (Transmetropolitan Critique)

 

Science fiction is not often optimistic. Even within the lush utopias where the population lives in perfect equilibrium with its environment, there’s always a catch that most people would find morally reprehensible. A common plot device in the writing of science-fiction is to take some current social criticism or aspect of a society that is thought to hold some fault, fast forward a period of time, and take the concerns to their “logical” end. The purpose of this essay is to show how Warren Ellis’ Transmetropolitan takes the “instant gratification” aspects of Western culture and shows how instant gratification brings about a corrupt and failing society.

At once, Ellis’ City (which is never referred to as anything more than “The City”, with its location only assumed to be on the east coast of the United States) is quite apparently hypersexual, with the first encounter with a denizen of the City being a tollbooth operator with an antenna implanted behind his ear in order to intercept pornographic radio transmissions. When the City is properly entered by the protagonist, “outlaw journalist” Spider Jerusalem, it can be observed that the old advertising maxim of “sex sells” has been taken quite to heart in the hypercommercialization of sex and pornography, with sex even being inserted into the news and children’s programming (as seen with the television show “The Sex Puppets”). Sex (which is handled in Transmetropolitan as purely a means of instant gratification) and the pursuit of it permeates every aspect of the City’s culture.

The negative to the hypercommercialization of sexual instant gratification in Ellis’ City is that it leaves the public open to manipulation by their government. While their instant gratification culture affords them almost instant reporting of events both catastrophic, scandalous, and mundane (such as people hired to wander the streets of the City to listen to the goings-on about them for news networks), the overwhelming glut of information causes events to be forgotten or dismissed almost immediately as new events are already happening. Instant gratification relates to news consumption as well. As a result, governmental abuses are forgotten within days of their occurrence as the public has already moved on to the next sexual scandal or what-have-you.

The focus on instant gratification in Transmetropolitan‘s society has even eroded their sense of history. With the constant glut of sensations, sex, drugs, and information, it leaves society with very little time to “catch its breath”, which Spider Jerusalem comments on when he remarks: The problem with no one knowing what year it is, is that we have to define backwards, as it were. We can’t say “that year”; we have to say “ten years ago.” Or “the year that boyband exploded on stage when their bodysculpt implants overloaded their skin’s surface tension.” Therefore, because it’s difficult to refer back to the past, we tend to live in the present moment a lot more than we used to. Or, at least, a lot more than we presume we used to… …So we reuse and reinvent and revamp and lose track of time because we’re so busy trying to inhabit this single second of now as fully as we can. The past is in the way of the present. Kick it down and make way for right-the-fuck-now. (Ellis, Vol. 7, 127, 137) This sort of societal thinking leads the public to define their timeframes and timelines by events rather than simple calendars or numbers. With society having such a short memory and distorted sense of history, it leaves the government able to pass restrictions on freedoms and civil rights (which it often does later in the series) with the public doing very very little in the way of outrage as it remains lost in its own smokescreen of instant gratification.

Instant gratification, however, is not just limited to sex, drugs, and information in Ellis’ City, it also applies to religion. The amount of religions are staggering, especially when the statistic is given that a new religion is created in The City every hour. While many of the religions exist to provide humour for the reader (such as a religion devoted to the idea that the secrets of the universe are encoded in old reruns of The Nanny, a sitcom from the mid-1990s), the sheer amount of religions exist to not provide a moral framework, but rather provide the public with justifications for their various excesses and means of gratification as either acceptable behavior or even sacrament. An example would be the character Channon’s (one of Spider’s assistants) boyfriend Ziang (who has replaced much of his body with cybernetics), who Channon professes to be a “Gaian-Biased Buddhist”. Spider is quick to point out that: One: Gaian-Bias is a West-side sect tailored for people who want to feel environmentally sound about filling their bodies with non-biodegradable machinery. Two: Gaian-Bias teaches that all is one, so you can fuck anyone you like and technically remain faithful to your girlfriend. (Vol. 2, 55) There are other examples, such as the Breatharians, who believe that they can derive all the sustenance they require from the air, and that in return, Jesus Christ will reward them with special prizes. This feat, however, is made rather simple by freely-available genetic modifications. Essentially, the instant gratification culture of The City has rendered religion a means of relieving any guilt over one’s excesses, rather than a framework of morality or providing answers to questions that science is still unable to solve.

Genetic modification is also a large part of the instant gratification culture of The City. From pills that contain anti-cancer traits to biological cellular phones to traits that replace the human stomach with sacks of bacteria to provide sustenance for six months to the ability to change appearance from hair color to species, genetic modification provides the public with whatever they want to do with their bodies. Free cloning also allows the production of human beings with minimal intelligence for sexual use, to humans raised primarily as a food source for people who prefer “long pig”. Genetic modification allows the public to engage in all of its vices often with very little consequence. Spider himself is smoking in almost every panel, though thanks to pills he’s taken, he’ll never have to worry about cancer or emphysema or any other negative side-effects to smoking. The downside, of course, is that with genetic modification comes greater possibilities and expectations. With drugs and genetic modification available, certain things are taken for granted. If one can replace one’s stomach with a sack of bacteria, why worry about feeding the poor? If there exist highly effective stimulants and medications for increasing one’s brain activity, why not demand a higher standard from workers? Also, with all the constant haze of drug use and genetic modification, it distracts the public from the worsening conditions of their society, and the oppression heaped upon them by their government. After all, why fight it, when means of escape are so much easier, and much more available?

Politics itself is also subject to the instant gratification culture of The City. A large portion of the series is devoted to the presidential election and a study of its candidates. Issues are never really discussed by the candidates (mostly because the culture has, as discussed above, a relatively short memory). Rather, they use slogans and soundbites and pictures of them smiling in front of the American flag. Patriotism is used as a method of instant gratification, a way to feel superior, for the public to be told by the men in power that their society is still perfect and the best society on Earth. Political parties have virtually no difference between them anymore, being simply known as The Party in Power and The Party in Opposition, leaving the identities of the political parties to switch every other election. As the election draws nearer, the patriotism increases. The election itself is also changed to suit the public’s needs, with the voting time across the country reduced to a simultaneous window of two hours in order to make for better entertainment, and to see results as the votes are cast. Understandably, the flaw in this is that it leaves an instant gratification culture with little reason to actually go out and vote, when they can instead go to a lavish party and watch the results on a large screen television. As a result, the voter turnout in this society is quite low, usually under ten percent, and the results of the election are determined by voting trends (voting out an incumbent) rather than actual campaign strength. Because of these trends, a president is voted in who is obviously quite disturbed, severely limits civil rights, arranges political assassinations, and is relatively ignored by the public, who is still swept up in its search for instant gratification, until his insanity and sadism are revealed and proven by Spider.

Though Spider does at some points defend his society, showing scenes of people finding love and happiness, and positing that life as he knows it improves incrementally every year, his defenses are of those people who have risen above the socially ingrained behavior of seeking pleasure above all else and avoiding pain. Everyone else earns his ire and hatred, which would probably insult them, if they were ever paying attention in the first place.

 

Works Cited

Ellis, Warren. Transmetropolitan Vol. 2: Lust For Life. DC/Vertigo Comics. New York, NY. 1998.

Ellis, Warren. Transmetropolitan Vol. 7: Spider’s Thrash. DC/Vertigo Comics. New York, NY. 2002

The Gospel According to Jesus Christ (Saturday Book Club)

The Gospel According to Jesus Christ

by Jose Saramago

Buy on Amazon

My exposure to the Bible was limited to the cursory glances often reserved for a lapsed practitioner, but one of the things that came to the forefront was this: The God of the Old Testament is jealous and vengeful, and the God of the New Testament is loving and forgiving. I always wondered what caused the shift, and when I read The Gospel According To Jesus Christ, I was presented with another option: God didn’t change at all.

The Old Testament is where the Ten Commandments are laid out, and Commandments numbers one and two are rather straightforward: God is the only true God, and he had better be at the top of your dance card if you have other gods in your life. God was quick to punish those who worshipped other gods or idols. It could cause God to be viewed as a rather jealous god, wanting his people, the Israelites, to offer their prayers and devotion to no one other than him. In the New Testament, God appears to be more forgiving and accepting, sending his only son to Earth to spread his new message of good news, and even suggest that those of other fates would be welcome in Heaven (as in with the incident with the Roman centurion). But there is no explanation for this shift. Since God is supposedly eternal, it’s a stretch to assume that he simply grew up and matured his attitude. But Saramago’s book presents a vision that shows that God hasn’t “matured” out of his jealousy, but rather grown more subtle about it.

The God of Saramago’s work still wants exactly what he wanted in the Old Testament, namely being the favorite and the supreme deity, except in this case he’s no longer content with just the Israelites, he wants all of humanity. He sends his son to Earth not as a messiah, but rather as a pawn, or worse yet, a tool to sway the hearts and minds of humanity by so “selflessly” sacrificing his child for the good of all, with his son only realizing it at the bitter end as he’s crucified.

Even the Devil, the epitome of Evil seems to go along with God’s plan, perhaps for the same reasons as God: to become the tempter for not just the Israelites, but for everyone. He tempts and tests Jesus, but it seems more like mocking, or gentle nudges to keep him on the path that God has laid out for him, to keep the pawn moving into checkmate. In the instances where God and the Devil appear together, it sometimes is difficult to distinguish who is who, leading to a theory that God and the Devil may be one and the same in Saramago’s work.

Being an atheist made this book an easier read, primarily because it’s easy not to be offended by the constant mocking and nose-thumbing at God when you don’t believe that he exists. Despite that Saramago himself is a skeptic, and that the work could be seen as a satire of apocryphal reading, I believe that it serves as more of a prodding to question about the gaps in the Bible, such as God’s sudden personality change, or providing a theoretical history of Jesus when eighteen years of his life are gone from the Bible (he goes from age twelve to age thirty in the blink of an eye). While the book isn’t pushing atheism, it does seem to advance the idea of faith with open eyes.

Four on the Floor: Part Twenty

[image error]

First||Previous

Part Twenty

The world goes dark. Inky. I don’t feel the water. Fuck, fuck, what’s happening…

I hear Shan behind me, roaring, sinking. I… run? I’m on water, how am I running toward him? And I’m moving fast. It’s cold, so cold, so cold.

The world is wispy, gray, so many shades of gray, lifeless, keening in my ears that I am not wanted, that-

My hand touches Shan, still a dragon and sinking into murky water, the rocky bottom fast approaching.

I can’t lift a dragon!

No, he’s a dragon. I’m a sorcerer. They have to do what I tell them.

The words escape in bubbles in the water, screamed to keep the water out of my mouth, out of my lungs, “Human!”

A flash of light, and the shadows dissipate, and a tall, well-dressed black man, sinks down, unconscious, but I know what to do. I put my arm around his neck, and start kicking upward. Upward. My legs are momentarily refreshed by the panic of adrenaline, the will to live. I will not die. I will not let Shan die.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Can’t stop kicking. Upward, toward the light, toward air. Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

Fuck, I don’t want to die.

Up, up, up.

Legs are tired. I barely feel them moving. Am I still kicking? I have to be. I can’t stop. Can’t drown.

Can’t die.

Not like this.

Not like-

I hear a splash, my arm splashing the water. Were my eyes closed? How would I find the surface if I weren’t-

I open my eyes, and fill my lungs, coughing, spitting, pulling Shan and I toward the shore. He’s unconscious, but I hear his breathing. It’s weak, but he’s getting air.

We reach the shore, and I use up the rest of my strength to pull him onto his back. I join him, looking to the sky and never enjoying the simple act of breathing as much as I am now. The silver seems to be gone, maybe assuming we died. That would be nice, but I doubt the other necromancer would believe it. He’d probably want to see a body.

Multiple coughs snap me out of it, and I roll Shan onto his side so he doesn’t choke. He spits a few times, several rocks hissing as they’re splashed with acid. “Thank you.”

“I’m the one who climbed on your back.”

“I’m the one who dropped you.”

I rest my head on the shore. “Fine. Split the difference. We’re both terrible at this.”

“I’m surprised you saved me.”

“Are you kidding?” I turn on my side to properly admonish him. “I get that sorcerers are hated, and yeah, you tried to kill me earlier today, and I fell several thousand feet and I’m going to need a fuckton of therapy, plus money to pay for it, to work through everything that’s happened in the last two days, and that’s without bringing up magic and dragons and fairies and all of this shit.

But do you honestly believe I’d let you drown? Do you think you’re that disposable, that I would just cast you aside because some sorcerer was an asshole? You have no idea, no idea how much I want to tell you to fuck off right now. Seriously. Just…” I fold my arms and look away.

“I weigh over two tons as a dragon.” He turns my head toward him. “Two tons. I am surprised that you were able to save me, not that you were capable of the mercy or pragmatic enough to know you’ll fare better with me at your side instead of lifeless on a lake bottom. Now, shall we leave this place, or would her majesty prefer an additional moment’s indulgence of her righteous indignation?”

He lets go, and gets up. I know the clothes are probably magic or an illusion, but I’m a little angry that he looks cover model ready while I resemble a drowned sea hag. “You still owe me a shoe.”

“That I do.”

A flash of light, and again he’s an ebon dragon, and he raises a foreleg and extends a dagger claw, wedges it under one of his larger scales, and growls as he pries it off. His teeth are gritted as he resumes human form, one of the buttons missing on his suitcoat, and picks up his scale. “Take off your other shoe.”

“Why?”

He exhales, forces a genial smile. “I destroyed your other shoe and dropped you from the sky while I was distracted by a blood duel. This is the least I can do to make amends to a sorcerer. Take off your other shoe. Please.”

I’d rely on manners but I have no idea what the etiquette is when someone literally peels off some of their skin to make you a new pair of shoes, which is odd because I did go through a body horror phase in my teen years. The procedure he’d use will likely be stomach turning, but out of morbid curiosity I untie my remaining Doc Marten.

He picks it up, appraises it, and works his fingers into the large scale, forming it into two shapes. The black dragon takes my foot in his hands like a death metal redux of Cinderella, then the other, and when he’s done, I’m wearing Doc Martens in a much truer shade of black, with a deep scale pattern.

Black dragonscale Doc Martens.

I am wearing the most Goth footwear imaginable, at least to me.

Excerpt: Coyote’s Creed

Always have an ace up your sleeve.

Broken Mirrors, Book 1

If con games were taught in high school, Spencer Crain would be on the honor roll. As it is, he’ll be riding the edge of failure to graduation next month. Then Spence gets the news that his long-gone father is not only dead, but was a Coyote, one of three clans of tricksters in the City.

With a near-catatonic mother on his hands, Spence couldn’t care less about the Coyotes’ ongoing feud with the Phouka and the Kitsune—until it lands on his doorstep. Suddenly he’s thrown headfirst into a dangerous world he knows next-to-nothing about. His only guide is Rourke, dashing King of the Phouka, plus a growing pack of half-siblings, a god, and Fate herself.

As Spence embarks on a journey to learn the Coyote’s creed, the truth about his heritage, and how to handle his growing attraction to Rourke, he wonders when his life turned from TV sitcom to real-life danger zone. And what price must he pay to survive the next roll of the dice…

(Original cover art by Angela Waters)

Buy the City Bundle

Chapter One

Cold Open

“Deal the cards, count to ten while you’re doing it. When you reach ten, stop.”

I watch her hands move, arthritis slowing her pace, but the cards slide along the surface of the desk well enough, forming a ramshackle pile. Her lips move, and at ten she looks at me expectantly. I take out my wallet from my pocket and put it on top of the pile.

“Would you pick up my wallet and look inside, please?”

She arches a brow, but opens it up, finding it empty save my student ID and a slip of paper. Taking the hint, she unfolds the note and reads it aloud. I had my mom write it, as my penmanship has been described as an “atrocious chicken scratch”.

“You will stop dealing on the Ace of Clubs.” She smirks gently at me. “Moment of truth, Mr. Crain.”

With a winning smile, I flip over the top card, revealing the ace.

“You’re not going to tell me how you did that, are you?”

My smile widens into a grin. “Sorry, that’s the first rule. Never reveal your secrets. Well, I could be convinced if you let me out of detention a few minutes early.”

“This isn’t detention, Mr. Crain. You’re here because you skipped detention for three weeks. And you have ten unexcused absences. You have over two months’ worth of assignments to make up if you want to graduate.”

I take out my cards and shuffle them again.

“You better not let him deal, miss, lest you find yourself owing more than you can afford.”

I look up at the door, smiling already in spite of myself, as I see an older man leaning against the doorframe. He’s in his early fifties, just under six feet, well-tanned with white-streaked coal-black hair tied in a simple braid, a well-groomed ebon beard that’s held off traces of gray. He’s wearing snug blue jeans and a black Harley Davidson shirt that

emphasizes his cut musculature. An easy smile crosses his face, and my tutor is already under his spell.

“Uncle Rourke!” My grin is about as big as it can be, and then my smile fades quickly. “Oh God, what’s wrong?”

I call him Uncle Rourke, but his actual name is Robert Rourke, and he owns a used-car lot. (“Have bad credit? No credit? No problem! Just come in for a test drive and Bob’s your uncle!”) He’s not even my uncle, just a friend of my father who’s been around since I was born, but he doesn’t have a problem with the title. I go to see him at least once a week to pick up new card tricks.

Uncle Rourke has only come to see me five times in my life, and four out of those five times did not end well. The second time was to tell me my father had walked out. The third time was last year, to tell me my mother had gone to the hospital (the special hospital) for trying to hurt herself, and that I’d be staying with him until she got better. The fifth time was on my birthday a couple months ago. He gave me a deck of cards. That was pretty much it, but considering the previous precedent, I was happy with it.

Previous precedent… Huh. And here my English teacher thinks I’m an idiot underachiever. Shows what she knows. Idiot, my ass.

Still though, Uncle Rourke hasn’t spoken yet. This can’t be good.

He enters the room, takes Miss Scott’s hand and kisses it gently, making her blush. I’ll admit I’m relieved he’s macking on my tutor, because if something dire is truly going on he’d open with telling me.

“I’m afraid I need Spence to come with me, there’s some family business that needs to be attended to.” He leans in close, a playful gleam in his eye. “You wouldn’t mind, of course?” For anyone else, that would come across as smarmy, but Uncle Rourke is smooth enough to pull off “So, come here often?” He even did once on a bet.

Though the Irish brogue likely goes a long way in selling it.

Regardless, Miss Scott is helpless against him, and she manages a jumble of words that sound similar to “I don’t see why not.”

I pocket my cards, letting Uncle Rourke lead me out the door. He doesn’t say a word as we follow the stairs down to the lobby, which is empty at the moment. He pulls me into a tight embrace, and now I’m worried. As he pulls back, he tousles my hair, working his charming smile.

“C’mon, Uncle Rourke, is it good news or bad news?”

He nods once and steps backward, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “Both, though I wouldn’t take a bet on which you’ll say is the good or the bad.”

My throat tightens. “Is Mom okay?”

“She’s fine, I checked in on her while I was looking for you. She still hates me, I’ll have you know.”

“She doesn’t hate you, she just sees through that act of yours.” I manage a smile of my own, half-relieved, and Uncle Rourke nods in reply, a little too knowingly.

“I’m afraid she’s been seeing through your act as well, Spence.”

“Huh?” Despite all my troublemaking escapades (See, Mrs. Handel? I do have a vocabulary!) I don’t put on an act around my mom. She knows everything I get into, though she doesn’t approve of it. (My fair share of groundings and curfews has shown that.) “What are you here to tell me, Uncle Rourke?”

“Your father—”

“The asshole who walked out on me and Mom, and played dead for ten years to avoid any responsibility.” Yeah, it’s an issue. Wouldn’t you be pissed?

“He died this morning.”

I fold my arms and turn away from him. “Good.” I fight off the heat behind my eyes, the clench of my throat, the flood of memories of good times, and then the rare weekend visits, and then the afternoons of waiting by the phone that never rang and staring at a door he never knocked on. “The only thing that would ruin this would be having to give the eulogy.”

There’s a silence, and I turn to look at him. He’s standing there, wordless, but I can read his face well enough. I let the moment stew, wait for him to say it’s something else, like he was actually murdered and the killer’s after me, or that I have a long-lost brother who will now compete with me for the inheritance by any means necessary, or…

Or anything but this.

“Rourke, I was joking.”

“It was his last request.”

“Then he can spend his time in hell with one more disappointment.”

Rourke puts an arm around me, leading me toward the door. “You look like you could use a drink.”

I don’t push him away. “I’m only eighteen.”

He opens the door where his black Lexus is waiting about fifty feet away. “You’re old enough in my country, and your father just died. Besides, we need to toughen up that liver for the wake tomorrow night.”

I look up at him. “Dad wasn’t Irish. Or Catholic. How did he… You know.”

“I don’t have many details. I’ll try to explain everything, but that will require a few drinks. Luckily I’ve been saving a bottle for when this day would come.”

I get into his car and buckle up, look at him incredulously as he gets into the driver’s seat. “You’ve been saving a bottle of liquor for the day Dad—”

“No!” He shakes his head quickly. “I should have, but no. I once could respect the man, but we had a falling out, which is why I’m not invited to the wake. I suppose the best way to put it is that I’ve been…misleading you about something for a few years now.”

I don’t stop staring. “Oh God, you’re not my real father, are you?”

He starts laughing at that and takes a moment to wipe a tear from his eye as he starts the car. “Certainly not, I’m not the fathering kind. Tried it once and it brought me nothing but trouble. Besides, if you were the fruit of my loins, you’d have talked yourself out of your troubles instead of running to me. You’d be better looking too.” He reaches over to tousle my hair again.

“Ugh!” I smooth my hair back out. “I hate when you do that. For God’s sake, Uncle Rourke, I’ve had sex, smoked a couple times, I’m apparently going to get drunk, will you stop messing up my hair?” I give him a fake glare of indignation. “It’s not like I’m ten.”

He nods once solemnly. “Indeed you’re not. It’s something I’ve had to get used to. I’m not accustomed to the people I care for growing up so quickly.”

I shrug in reply. “I blame all the hormones in the school lunches, honestly.”

A few moments pass, the drive continuing on. I expect that he’s waiting for me to say something.

“So what, Dad a criminal? I already knew that.”

“Your father was a lot of things, Spencer, but it’s what he wasn’t that makes the tale.”

I arch a brow in confusion. “What wasn’t he?”

Uncle Rourke sighs softly. “Human.”

 

(Posting this as new readers of Four on the Floor might not know that AJ’s story takes place in a setting with several other books, all available on the site.