tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22532357656905447232015-10-05T12:13:02.635-07:00Flyover City!: A Post-Modern SUPERHERO NOVEL"Flyover City" is a work of kick-ass SUPERHERO PROSE FICTION, cooked up from a heaping helping of leftovers, featuring ingredients from "Soon I Will Be Invincible", "Wild Cards", "High Fidelity", and just a dash of "Hitchhiker's Guide" for extra flava. No, no, I'll stir - you just sit down and enjoy...joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-45386274102461577592010-12-27T09:02:00.000-08:002010-12-27T12:31:32.514-08:00About the Author<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TRjFE--espI/AAAAAAAAAQw/jwuCXx7J83U/s1600/lunapic_129346954233728_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TRjFE--espI/AAAAAAAAAQw/jwuCXx7J83U/s200/lunapic_129346954233728_7.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><strong>Ted Campbell</strong> is a freelance writer, blogger, corporate drone, parent to two wonderful children, and ex-slacker from <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Denver</city>, <state w:st="on">Colorado who would totally be your friend on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/settings/?tab=privacy&ref=mb#!/profile.php?id=1073182032">Facebook</a>.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">If <em><a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2008/11/1-in-beginning.html"><place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Flyover</placename> <placetype w:st="on">City</placetype></place>!</a></em> was a movie, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C66yhRwpt7s">this song</a> would be playing over the end credits right now. </span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span></state></place></span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Please send all correspondence, million-dollar book deal offers, and bids for film rights to <a href="mailto:caffeinator_x@yahoo.com">caffeinator_x@yahoo.com</a></span></span></div></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-13187211390553584052010-12-26T13:28:00.000-08:002012-09-10T13:05:34.424-07:0041. The End (dot dot dot, Question Mark)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TFgR-Ys-hiI/AAAAAAAAAO4/yV-CHd5QbN0/s1600/fuzzy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="225" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TFgR-Ys-hiI/AAAAAAAAAO4/yV-CHd5QbN0/s400/fuzzy.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>I got a hair up my ass on the way into work today. I swung by <a href="http://www.pabloscoffee.com/">Pablo's</a> Coffee to try out their new "<a href="http://www.pabloscoffee.com/coffee/danger-monkey">Danger Monkey Blend</a>". <br /><br />(Of everyone involved, I guess it's not that surprising that he's the one the hipsters have all embraced.)<br /><br />I was bent over, unlocking my bike, when somebody asked me if I had any spare change. <br /><br />That glint of emerald was long gone. There wasn't a hint of recognition in his eyes - just the yellow that comes from nicotine and too much moonlight. <br /><br />I asked what happened to him, after the explosion. Had he followed me in, or did he know about the tunnels, himself?<br /><br />He just stared at me, impatiently. <em>"You got any change, or not?"</em><br /><br />I asked him about the war, the <em>Allied Force</em>, about his time in the monastery. He turned away from me, mumbling. <br /><br />As I rode off, I heard him calling out behind me: "Crazy fucker! I don't believe in <em>ghosts</em>, either!"<br /><br />I guess some people's "ultimate sacrifice" is more ultimate than others.<br /><br />----------------------------<br /><br />The new job is going pretty well - writing press releases is a pretty sweet gig. I could do without the calls from the media, though. Answering questions about Alton Vaig's whereabouts is almost as much fun as explaining to somebody why their cable's been shut off, even though they <em>swear</em> they sent the check last week. <br /><br />But you know those late night infomercials? For The Greyraven Diet Plan and Workout DVDs? I got my copy today - <em>gratis. </em>(minus the shipping and handling, of course)<br /><br />I'm even getting along better with AVI. Put a couple Pez dispensers on his hard-drive, to give him a little flair. Still no good for happy hours, though. That's what I've got Spliff for, I suppose. I don't mind floating him 'til he gets a new job and all - but seriously, he's gotta stop with the questions.<br /><br />Not that they let me in on any of the <em>real </em>important stuff. Who's the new Greyraven? <em>Please</em>. I will say, however - and this is strictly my own speculation, mind you - he <em>does</em> seem to have an abundance of archery-themed weapons in his arsenal, lately. Just sayin'. <br /><br />I did find this pretty interesting, though: after Darkstreak took that sword to the spine, a few years back? Apparently, Greyraven injected him with <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/07/25-adventures-of-night-ranger.html">Dr. Fang</a>'s meta-genetic <strong><em>SimStem </em></strong>compound, to help him heal. The <em>same</em> highly illegal substance the mad doctor used to create the Manitou Springs kaiju, <em>and</em> grow Deacon Struck to even more improbable proportions.<br /><br />Which would explain the new, metamorphic-superhero who's been showing up on the news. Maybe. <br /><br />Or maybe it's just like he <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/11/29-showdown-at-last-call.html">told me once</a>: "Dumb luck". Which isn't such a bad superpower to have, if you think about it.<br /><br />--------------------------<br /><br />On the home front, Gwen picked out a dress today. She won't tell me how much it was, but she <em>swears</em> she didn't put it on a card - so the argument wasn't too bad. <br /><br />We're cool, though. Really, really, good. I can't explain it... but it just feels right, you know? The way I see it, "alternate realities" and "<a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/06/23-note-to-self.html">possible futures</a>" are just that.<br /><br />But hey, who knows? <br /><br />Ask me again in ten years.<br /><br />joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-29770516689036743292010-12-24T09:27:00.000-08:002010-12-26T19:13:25.552-08:0040. One Week Later...<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TQB-YllztxI/AAAAAAAAAQc/tUuE8Pgxy7A/s1600/129173730818887.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 207px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 152px;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TQB-YllztxI/AAAAAAAAAQc/tUuE8Pgxy7A/s200/129173730818887.png" width="131" /></a><strong>Questions Remain in Destruction of Hyperconverter</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>From the <strong>Associated Press</strong>:</em></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Issued just one week after the destruction of the Vaig Hyperconverter, the official Agency report released on Wednesday is bringing up more questions than it answers.</span></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At issue is whether the explosive arrow that was fired by the superhero known as Sureshot would have been able to cause the level of damage that the multi-billion dollar device sustained. </span></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, an engineer who was involved in the creation of the device has issued a statement which challenges the official account. </span></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In an interview with ABC News on Thursday, Dr. Richard Patel said, "With the amount of radiation that was released (from the Hyperconverter), anything that came within ten feet would've been disintegrated in a matter of seconds." Patel went on to say that he had no knowledge of any malicious intent on the part of Vaig Communications founder and CEO, Alton Vaig. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Agency officials have gone on record, saying that the arrow's effectiveness just illustrates the strange, random nature of malphysics overall. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Asked about reports of the "Green Man", a mysterious figure which several witnesses claim to have seen jumping into the Hyperconverter's energy conductor, Patel added, "It's no less likely than a guy destroying seven billion dollars worth of high tech equipment with a bow and arrow. I don't care how much cyber-armor he was wearing."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em><strong>Next Ish:</strong> <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/12/41-end-dot-dot-dot-question-mark.html">The End (dot dot dot, Question Mark)!</a></em></span></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-76980134749891730292010-12-23T13:26:00.000-08:002011-02-10T13:14:43.375-08:0039. Showdown at 5280 Feet (Part 3)<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TQDzzl1YnTI/AAAAAAAAAQo/mC5inRupxbk/s1600/lunapic_129190673156111_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TQDzzl1YnTI/AAAAAAAAAQo/mC5inRupxbk/s200/lunapic_129190673156111_3.jpg" width="127" /></a>I squirmed out from under Gwen, supporting myself against the sofa that had tipped over when she threw herself on top of me. I could hear her and Spliff both, shouting for me to <em>"get down"</em>, <em>"take cover"</em>... but of course I couldn't. Any more than I could close my eyes in a dream. <br /><br />For a moment they seemed to just hang there: five silhouettes floating among the twinkling shards of glass, like pieces of a mobile above an infant's crib. <br /><br />Then, with a thunderclap of boots slamming against the floor - the offices at 1700 Lincoln erupted into a war zone. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Like charmed snakes, <b>Lilywatt</b>'s whips lashed out from her hands, wrapping tight coils around their prey. With a snap of her wrists, the sniper's rifles were thrown off their mark, sending a violent stutter of gunfire into the rafters. <br /><br />The other guards took aim, but they were distracted by the stocky, hairy figure that was walking directly <i>over</i> them, gripping their heads with disturbingly large, prehensile toes. Realizing that <b>Danger Monkey</b> was intending to draw their fire <i>up</i>, two of the guards scoured the room for other targets - but the half-simian avenger leaped at them, drawing their heads together with a dull <i>thud</i>.<br /><br />The left-flank sniper kept a tenuous grasp on his weapon, struggling against Lilywatt in a game of tug-of-war. She kicked her leg high, catching the middle of her whip with a boot heel. When she brought it down again, the gunman was yanked directly into the path of her fist, his gun flying out of his grasp...<br /><br />With all the urgency of man waving to a neighbor on the way to his car, <b>Greyraven</b> raised his arm, snatching the rifle from the air. It spun around in his hand only once - but something he did caused the magazine to slide out and drop to the floor. He caught the muzzle-end and charged toward the reinforcements who were bursting out of the stairwell.<br /><br />The Deacon caught a few stray bullets in the chest, but he kept obidiently to his post. From the console behind him, Vaig shouted, "<i>Control Room...?!</i>" <br /><br />"<i>The Hyperconverter is now online, Mr. Vaig...</i>" came the response.<br /><br />Just then, an unconscious guard dropped onto the control panel, tossed there by the Deacon after Danger Monkey had thrown the body at him. DM climbed over the Deacon's body, swinging around his limbs like a jungle gym. He sceeched madly, punching and scratching his face.<br /><br />Attempting to shove the body aside, Vaig yelled, "Pick up that gun, you idiot!"<br /><br />From the base of the console - where he had presumably been curled up in the fetal position - Tim stood up, dangling the fallen guard's firearm from his finger. <br /><br />"Now <em>shoot</em> somebody!" Vaig yelled. <br /><br />Tim blanched, dropping the gun like it was something that could be used to kill somebody.<br /><br />Stray bullets were flying just overhead, but I couldn't turn away from the spectacle: Greyraven and Lilywatt, battling against the fresh onslaught of guards; Danger Monkey, his fur matted with blood, tossed aside by the scruff of his neck; Vaig <i>pushing the body from the console</i>. Gwen and Spliff were still shouting at me from under the coffee table, but I wouldn't move until that last voice roared from behind me...<br /><br /><em>"</em>Joel!<em> Duck!"</em><br /><br />I dove to my side, narrowly avoiding the low-flying object that was darting through the room like a predatory bird. It cut a sharp turn around the Deacon - only a second before it would've clocked him in the jaw. When it landed, sinking one of its arms into the top panel of the console - I realized that it hadn't come from a wild throw. The explosion threw Vaig back against his desk...<br /><br />Spliff crawled out from under the table. "Fuck yeah... I knew he'd come back!" <br /><br />Have you ever looked at those domino masks, that little strip of cloth that so many heroes have worn over the years, and thought to yourself - <i>Seriously?</i> I mean, this is somebody's brother, or mother, or <i>dentist</i> - and <i>nobody</i> has ever recognized them? <i>That's </i>what's protecting their family from retribution? <br /><br />But watching him there, standing not ten feet away from me - I understood. That was <b><i>Darkstreak</i></b> - no one else. Everything we had ever known was hidden away behind that mask.<br /><br />He ran to where we were huddled on the floor. "Are you all okay?" <br /><br />Spliff was the first to answer. "Yeah, we're alright. But how did you...?" <br /><br />Darkstreak followed his gaze to the "live" speech airing on a TV across the room. "We've got a man downstairs... he told us Vaig was nowhere to be found."<br /><br />"<i>Darkstreak! </i>Get those civilians out of here!" - Greyraven.<br /><br />"<i>Yes, please..."</i> called another voice. <br /><br />The cables that had lowered them in were still hanging through the roof. The injured Danger Monkey pried Tim from Greyraven's boot, and the two of them were reeled up into the hovering Argojet.<br /><br />Greyraven and Lilywatt stepped over the bodies of the unconscious security guards, approaching Deacon Struck. The massive preacher ignored them, moving slowly - almost casually - away from his post. Towards <i>us</i>...<br /><br />"<i>Darkstreak-er</i>," he chuckled, "haven't seen you on the TV lately. Thought you might'a seen the light. Moved away from this life'a sin..."<br /><br />Suddenly, at the far edge of the room, an orange-and-gold android stepped out from the shadows. <br /><br />"<b><i><span style="color: #e69138; font-size: large;">Vsshrt! Strrrth shhhl MRRRAAAT!</span></i></b>" it coughed, sounding like it was repeating an order at <a href="http://www.jackinthebox.com/">Jack in the Box</a>.<br /><br />Not looking especially confident, Darkstreak turned back to us. "Alright. Just follow me, close to the ground. I'll get you to the ship." <br /><br />In an impressive display of speed (granted), <b>Sureshot</b> - modeling his brand-new, taxpayer-funded <strong>Cyber-Armor</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">®</span> - unsheathed his bow, and fired off three of his trick arrows. The first two - tipped with explosive boxing gloves - were laying on the ground by the time the <em>third</em> blew a sad-looking net out its ass - five full seconds after the Deacon grabbed it from the air. The Deacon threw it like a javelin, back at Sureshot, tangling the archer in its sticky mesh.<br /><br />Lilywatt sprung into action, snapping her whips at the Deacon. The end of one spun around his wrist; the other he caught in his hand. Except for the smoke rising from his jacket, the curls of electricity licking across her weapons didn't seem to bother him at all. <br /><br />"You... stupid... <em><strong>redneck</strong></em>! Get back to your post!" Vaig had managed to crawl back to the console, and was furiously punching at the controls in order to tame the sparks. <br /><br />Realizing he left an open path to Vaig, the Deacon jerked his arms, lifting Lilywatt into the air. Before she could think to let go, he brought her crashing down on top of Greyraven.<br /><br />Seconds passed, with neither of the them moving. It took a few more for Vaig to register his triumph. "The fools! Did they honestly think -"<br /><br />Just then, the console whirred back to life, illuminating his face like a camp counselor telling a ghost story. With an almost erotic relish, he slapped his open palm against the glowing red button...<br /><br />Nothing happened. I opened my eyes. <br /><br />Spliff turned to Darkstreak. "What the hell? Did it not work?"<br /><br />Just as I realized that my phone - or something deep <em>inside</em> my phone - was <em>pulsating</em> - the room shook from a series of explosions. Sureshot was back in action, firing an endless array of arrows at the Deacon, one after another. At long last, the giant dropped to the ground. <br /><br />From behind a thick veil of smoke, Vaig called, "You're too late. The Hyperconverter is already re-configuring the network... mapping the <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/07/33-info-dump.html">temporal fault</a>..."<br /><br />A look of grim determination washed over Darkstreak's face. "I have to get downstairs..." he said hitting a button on his belt. <br /><br />I was about to ask him what he could do, when the metal rescue platform lowered in through the ceiling. <br /><br />We loaded everyone on as quickly as possible. Sureshot climbed up to where the platform met the cable, to ensure that the connection was secure. After we got him on, I saw Spliff run a fingertip over Greyraven's utility belt; he snapped his hand back when Darkstreak shot him a look. He had probably been trained to look out for that sort of thing.<br /><br />Wrapping her arms around me, Gwen asked, "Are you okay?"<br /><br />No. "Yes. Yeah, I think so..."<br /><br />The phone in my pocket kept throbbing, like a nasty bruise. "Network re-configuration", apparently. It didn't hurt at all, it was just... distracting.<br /><br />"Hold on, everyone," Darkstreak called, as the platform lurched upwards.<br /><br />We were ten feet in the air when the massive, grey-tinged hand reached out of the smoke, swatting the side of the platform.<br /><br />It occurred to me, even then: Deacon Struck is <em>big</em>, but...<br /><br />"C'mon, 'Streaker," his voice bellowed, "let's you and me have a little have a little 'come to Jesus'..."<br /><br />The hand reached and grabbed, reached and grabbed - until finally, he caught a hold of Darkstreak's leg.<br /><br />He hung from the edge of the platform. With every yank, we nearly fell off the side.<br /><br />Realizing the danger, Darkstreak yelled up to Sureshot, "Just go! Get those people to safety!"<br /><br />When he let go, the platform jerked, swinging wildly. <br /><br /><em>"Joel!"</em><br /><br />Gwen had lost her footing, and was rolling toward the edge of the platform. I dove onto my stomach, catching her wrist right as she fell off the side. <br /><br />The Argojet bobbed for a second, its autopilot compensating for any further resistance. "Just hold on," I called to Gwen, "I've got you!"<br /><br />And I did, too. Another couple of seconds, and I would have pulled her to safety. But that's when the bullets pinged off the side of the platform...<br /><br />The Mullet, aiming directly for me... I think don't think she even cared who else was on there, much less why she was assigned the job of stopping us in the first place.<br /><br />The Argojet was ascending quickly. If I hadn't jumped when I had, I never would've made it without breaking my legs. <br /><br />------------------------<br /><br />I grabbed Gwen, tackling her back behind the same couch that we had just escaped from. Bullets skimmed the edge, tearing through the upholstery. The Mullet was a pretty fair shot, considering the smoke, and the fact that she had Greyraven and the Deacon as obstacles. <br /><br />The Deacon hovered above him. He flexed his muscles, sending a ripple of fresh, hard mass rolling across his body, ripping his suit like Kleenex. All along his neck and torso, his veins bulged like thick purple lightning bolts. He was <em>growing</em>, right before our very eyes.<br /><br />"Never understand why a nice, normal boy like you goes and gets himself all mixed up with these sinners..." <br /><br />"I don't have time for this, Struck..."<br /><br />"Awww... now 'Streaker, you turn away from redemption, you gonna have to pay the price. Just like your little girlfriend did..."<br /><br />He waited for a response, but Darkstreak kept his rage buried. Deep. Behind the mask...<br /><br />The Deacon roared, a strand of saliva clinging from the top to the bottom of his cavernous mouth.<br /><br />Darkstreak rolled to his feet, seconds before the Deacon's fists smashed into the floor. He faked punches, only to pull back, kicking the giant's shins and throat, instead. But the Deacon had gone against the likes of Ultraphenomenon, even Alphamale himself. When Darkstreak planted his heel in the Deacon's solar plexus, using the momentum to launch himself out of reach - the Deacon grabbed his calf right out of the air. <br /><br />Gwen screamed when he crashed into Vaig's console.<br /><br />Two more bullets sent shock waves through the couch. Thing must have cost a fortune. <br /><br />The Deacon was laughing, stalking towards his motionless opponent - when suddenly, Darkstreak sprung to his feet. He was bloodied, but I couldn't see a sign of any actual wounds. <br /><br />He ripped the console from the ground, throwing it at the Deacon. Then, punctuating his words with fists slamming against the floor, he yelled -<br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><em>"<span style="font-size: small;">I - don't - have - time - for -</span> THIS!"</em></strong></span><br /><br />The ground beneath him collapsed, dropping him and the Deacon to the next floor.<br /><br />Gwen looked at me, confused. "He can do that...?"<br /><br />I was about to answer when I heard the distinct sound of clip sliding from the butt of a gun.<br /><br />"Go! <em>Quick!</em>"<br /><br />As we ran for the stairwell, a heavy sense of vertigo draped over my body, sinking into my bones with every pulse of my phone... <br /><br />The Mullet was close enough now that when she raised her gun, I could make out the tattoo peeking from the tear in her shirt. Something like a flaming skull, probably carved there with a burning-hot ballpoint pen. I thought of my own tattoo: a telephone headset with devil-horns coming out the top. Stupid twenty year-old Joel...<br /><br />"I don't understand," I called out to her, "what do you have against me? Why...?"<br /><br />"Because, you little prick -" she shouted as she finished loading her weapon, "it my job. And <em>I</em> take <em>my</em> job <em>seriously</em>..."<br /><br />More shots rang out. I grabbed Gwen by the forearm and took cover behind a pillar. Bullets cut through the plaster, just inches away from my left ear. And then - just like I'd always heard about - my life began to flash before my eyes. <br /><br />But I realized - this cluster of memories running through my head... they were things that I had never actually experienced...<br />The throbbing from my phone was getting faster - turning into a smooth, steady hum. <br /><br />And then... something weird happened. <br /><br />I mean, it was <em>all</em> weird... but this was different. This was <i>personal</i>... <br /><br />-------------<br /><br /><em>...I was sitting on a couch, watching television with a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream in my lap. Across the room, Gwen was curled up in a chair with her laptop. Normally, that much distance would have indicated there had been a fight - but the space was more like a vacuum... one we'd been in for a long time. </em><br /><br /><em>On the television, a battle was being waged between the forces of good and evil. Something not entirely unlike the last nine or so minutes of my life. But a movie. Play-acting. Fiction. </em><br /><br /><em>I called out to Gwen, indicating the screen. She grunted in agreement, without looking up. When I insisted, she watched for only a second before rolling her eyes.</em> <br /><br /><em>As the show went on, it occurred to me how absurd it really was. Ridiculous. </em>Comical<em>, even.</em><br /><br /><em>I broke into a fit of hysterical laughter...</em><br /><br />------------<br /><br />The ground shook violently, jolting me back into the room. I barely had time to focus, before squeezing my eyes shut, awaiting the kill-shot...<br /><br />Off in the distance, Deacon Struck roared. Not rage. <em>Pain.</em><br /><br />Something burst through the floor; something that looked, for all the world, like a giant <em>pincer</em>...<br /><br />The room shook again - harder this time. Gwen slipped away from me, out from behind the pillar. I scurried out after her, but she had already sprung at the Mullet, who had lost her footing when the building rattled.<br /><br />Gwen pinned her down with her knees, and smashed the side of her fist against her ear. She punched like a girl, but it was enough to knock the Mullet out cold. <br /><br />I wasn't sure whether I was really back, or if this was just a peek at some <em>other</em> alternate universe. When I pulled the phone out of my pocket, I realized that it had stopped throbbing. On the screen, it read: "<em>Searching for Service...</em>"<br /><br />Panting, Gwen asked me "What's happening?"<br /><br />I shrugged. Then it occurred to me that I should probably say something more.<br /><br />"Hey... uh, thanks." I nodded towards the Mullet.<br /><br />"Thank <em>you</em> for coming to save me."<br /><br />"Sure."<br /><br />With tears welling up in her eyes, she smiled at me. "I guess we make a pretty good team, huh?"</div><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><i><b>Next Ish:</b> <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/12/40-one-week-later.html">One Week Later!</a></i></div></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-55900709613028220422010-12-08T17:52:00.000-08:002010-12-23T14:00:33.291-08:0038. Showdown at 5280 Feet (Part 2)<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TQDvS0OpYGI/AAAAAAAAAQg/ko61h5_aMiI/s1600/885164_cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TQDvS0OpYGI/AAAAAAAAAQg/ko61h5_aMiI/s320/885164_cartoon.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>Like Spliff, the guards downstairs were all newbies. Cannon fodder, more or less. The last line of defense, in case anyone made it through the front entrance - where the <em>big </em>guns were stationed. <br /><br />Spliff told them that my call had come from the Mullet, so they didn't question it when he told them they were being reassigned to the second floor, even though the second floor has been vacant for the last year and a half, awaiting remodel. The lab coats, for their part, were too absorbed in running the final tests on the converter to notice one more security guard stepping out of the shadows.<br /><br />Once we were on the elevator, Spliff told me, "Luckily, we still had your retina on file. Dude, did you know about this 'optical scrambler' we've got? It can fry an intruder's synapses right inside their brain pan..."<br /><br />"How's that, now?" I coughed.<br /><br />"No, you're cool, man... I swapped our profile stats with a couple of bigwigs who're on a plane to Atlanta as we speak. We've got access anywhere in the building."<br /><br />"So I'm trusting my synapses to your data entry skills," I mused, "well, that’s okay, I guess. Did you find anything out about Gwen?"<br /><br />"Check it out: I was looking through the security logs for last night: no assignments for the top floor. Pretty weird, seeing as that's Vaig's executive suite, right?"<br /><br />"We're going to his <em>office</em>? Are you sure that's where...?"<br /><br />"Makes sense, doesn't it?"<br /><br />No. But what does, these days? "What about Vaig?"<br /><br />"Won't be here 'til eight. And he's going straight downstairs to make a statement to the press before activating the converter, himself." he said, rubbing the palm of his hand against his holster. Maybe it comforted <em>him</em>. "What do you wanna bet she's conscious, too. You know how Vaig likes his witnesses. Everybody's off the phones to watch the closed-circuit feed they're sending out to the news stations."<br /><br />Innocent bystanders; added insurance, in case the Agency actually sent someone to try and stop Vaig. All those people, oblivious to the fact that history was about to change -<em> retroactively</em>. <br /><br />But not Spliff and me. We knew exactly what was at stake. And we had convinced ourselves that somehow, that made us different from the rest of them. <br /><br />--------------<br /><br />Vaig's lair was a cross between a luxury hotel suite, and the lobby for a hotel that offered nothing <em>but</em> luxury suites. The top three floors of building had been gutted to make a single, open space. Mirrored windows curved elegantly into the high ceiling, creating a half-cylinder of one-way glass that looked out onto the Denver skyline. The view was wasted on Vaig: throughout the room, membrane-thin monitors hung from the ceiling. <br /><br />In the far corner, above a well used wet bar, the largest screen was completely horizontal, pointing at the ground. On couch beneath it, we found Gwen bound-and-gagged with duct tape.<br /><br />It maybe wouldn't have been the worst idea if we removed the tape from her mouth last. It was hard enough, just cutting her loose with a paring knife and corkscrew.<br /><br />"Are you guys crazy? When will the Agency be -" <br /><br />Admittedly, this probably wasn't the most opportune moment for me to plant a passionate, chock-full-of-tongue kiss on her mouth, but I was just so relieved to find her unharmed. Plus, I had sort of failed to mention to Spliff about my less than helpful conversation with <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/07/35-meanwhile.html">AVI</a>.<br /><br />When her arms were finally free, she shoved me off the arm of the couch. "Wait! What's happening?"<br /><br />Spliff pulled a clump of lint-y tape from her skirt. "We're going to pull the fire alarm, and get everybody out of here before the Agency strike force shows up." <br /><br />"They better get here soon. I found an email from Vaig saying he's going to activate the Hyperconverter <em>today</em>."<br /><br />"Yeah, we know," Spliff said, "they announced it on the news last night."<br /><br />My hands were on her shoulders, directing her toward the elevator... but she wouldn't budge. "Wait, though... that doesn't make any sense. If the Agency knows what's going on, why aren't they already here?"<br /><br />Spliff turned his head to me, tilting his head like a cocker spaniel. Busted.<br /><br />I threw my arms up. "Okay, look - they'll be here, all right? I contacted them. I'm just not entirely sure whether or not they believed me." I said, looking at Gwen. "I just - even if they don't come - I couldn't leave you here."<br /><br />The day before, she learned that not only was the hypercollider completed, but that Vaig was actually planning to <em>use</em> it, as well. And here I am, telling her that I'm the last thing she's gonna see before the end of the world. Honestly, <em>that's</em> the reason for the glaze over her eyes, regardless of what she says.<br /><br />Spliff broke in, "Lets just hope they <em>do</em> show, and get this place cleared out."<br /><br />"Exactly," I said, looking up at one of the news reports. Vaig was expected to arrive at any minute. "That's exactly what you need to do. Get down to one of the lower floors, somewhere there won't be too many guards, and... wait a few minutes before you pull the alarm."<br /><br />"<em>Joel...?</em>" I had never noticed how much she could sound like my mother.<br /><br />"I'm going to find Vaig." I answered, moving behind a lounge chair, so it would maybe block my way, if they managed to change my mind. "Confront him, man to man. Not fight. At least I hope not. I think I can reason with him. I think I <em>understand</em> him." <br /><br />They started to protest, but I pushed my way to the elevator. "Just go, all right? I know what I'm doing..."<br /><br />It seemed to be taking a long time, but then I realized that the doors had already opened, and I was facing a barrier within. A living, breathing slab of concrete that smelled like Old Spice and brimstone. <br /><br />Gwen screamed as Deacon Struck ducked through the door.<br /><br />"Lookee here... we got us a sheep that's lost its way," he grunted, the words dripping with a deep, southern drawl.<br /><br />"What's going on?" From out of the man-mountain's shadow, Alton Vaig stepped into the room. It took him a second to recognize me, with the figures draped over my head. "Joel! Very nice," he was smiling, nodding his head, as if he was listening to a brand new U2 song on <a href="http://www.kbco.com/main.html">KBCO</a>, "I am impressed, my friend. Please, have a seat. All of you."<br /><br />When Vaig had crossed to his desk, the Deacon shoved me face-first into the ottoman that went with the couch that caught Gwen and Spliff when their knees buckled. <br /><br />"Looks as though I'll have an audience, after all. All this acting in secret - it's not me. Know what I'm saying?" He called across the room. "<em>Tim! Get your tubby ass in here and make me a drink!</em>"<br /><br />A few seconds later, Tim skulked into the room, white as a sheet. He walked to the bar, looking as shocked to see us as we were to see him.<br /><br />"Yes sir," he stuttered, "you want...?"<br /><br />"Scotch, neat," -then, before Tim could ask - "with <em>no</em> ice."<br /><br />"But..." Gwen said, staring at the monitor overhead. <a href="http://www.thedenverchannel.com/index.html">7news</a>; showing an image of Vaig stepping behind the console downstairs.<br /><br />"Pre-recorded. Alas. There'll be no revealing of my master plan this time. No speech." he sighed. Then he bounced his head a little, remembering something. "No chance of a last minute rescue. I'm <em>learning</em>."<br /><br />"Did you kill him," Gwen asked, "<a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/07/26-dream-sequence.html">Macguffin?</a>"<br /><br />"Of course not!" Vaig answered, clearly offended. "What I did was offer him a job. I learned of his unique employment history after acquiring a collection of Tesla's papers on the black market last year. Of course, human resources handles all the interviewing and that."<br /><br />The Deacon didn't notice - or didn't care - that he was being talked about.<br /><br />He stepped around his desk and touched something underneath. The floor opened, allowing a sleek console to rise up into the room, like the drum platform at a <a href="http://www.kissonline.com/">KISS</a> concert. It was identical to the one on-screen.<br /><br />Tim nervously handed Vaig his drink. He poured the contents of the glass down his throat, then called out, "Is everything ready?"<br /><br />"We'll need another five minutes to calibrate the particle harmonics," a disembodied voice answered back.<br /><br />"Fine. Loop the footage until then." He admired his image as it turned dials and pressed buttons. Then he looked over at us, as if remembering we were there. <br /><br />"Oh, what the hell..." Walking around the console, he called out again, "Send a team of guards to my office, code red," With a wink to us, he added, "Just for old time's sake. My gift to you, Joel, for your effort here today. Pointless as it may be. But you put up a good show, and you deserve one in return."<br /><br />I stood up out of my chair, surprised as anyone else in the room that I did so.<br /><br />The Deacon looked to Vaig cautiously... but he was just watching me, an amused expression on his face.<br /><br />"Wait," I said, "you can't do this. Look at what you've created here. There's no denying that you're one of - I mean, you're probably <em>the</em> greatest scientist of all time. If Alphamale or anyone else has kept you from achieving your goals in the past... <em>whatever</em>. Nobody can take what you have accomplished away from you. I know what it's like to feel like you're just some insignificant cluster of DNA, while gods are flying around overhead. But I'm learning to live with it. I'm learning to do what I can, when I can. You know, we really aren't so different, you and I."<br /><br />The room was silent. Spliff and Gwen - maybe even the Deacon - they just watched me. <br /><br />Vaig held his chin for a long time, deep in thought.<br />"Us, I mean." I added, helpfully.<br /><br />Finally, he roared with explosive laughter. "Are you fucking <em>kidding</em> me? I am one of the ten wealthiest men in the world. I have an IQ of 286 - the same amount, in pounds, that I can curl, by the way. I've made love to 14 different women in a single night, their screams of ecstasy resulting in 14 separate calls to the authorities. <em>And</em> I am the greatest scientist of all time. If the cosmic fart that brought you into existence actually happens again, in my new timeline, you'll probably just... work for me! If you've learned nothing else in your pathetic life, know this: we are absolutely, positively nothing alike. The only thing I've ever failed at in my life is ridding the world of the ridiculous 'heroes' who continue, over and over again, to overshadow the one who truly deserves the glory..."<br /><br />"<em>Amen</em>." <br /><br />Across the room, the Deacon looked solemn, his head bowed. <br /><br />"Amen, indeed." Vaig responded, rolling his eyes for my benefit.<br /><br />Just then, a team of fifteen security gaurds burst out of the elevator, surrounding us in a practiced formation. They kept their firearms close, except for the two men at either end of the line, who were poised on one knee, their rifles trained directly on us.<br /><br />At the rear of the troops stood the commanding officer, her face the color of a bruised plum. The Mullet's burning glare was for me alone.<br /><br />Vaig sighed. "Can you believe it? Nobody's <em>coming</em>. No Alphamale. No Ultraphenomenon. Not that I can blame them. I mean, this is <em>flyover</em> country. Nothing ever happens in <em>Denver</em>..." he called out to the ceiling again. "Control Room... go ahead and roll the speech. Everyone! Watch!"<br /><br />The guards did as they were told, watching the monitors like they were guests at a Super Bowl party. Everyone except the Mullet; I could feel her eyes burrowing into me, as I watched Vaig's hand hover over a glowing red button, ready to drop...<br /><br />And then: the sound of glass, shattering into a million pieces... and the entire world went horizontal.<br /><br /><em><strong>Next Ish:</strong> <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/12/39-showdown-at-5280-feet-part-3.html">Part 3!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-43903765378339080772010-12-07T09:00:00.000-08:002010-12-08T19:05:58.686-08:0037. Showdown at 5280 Feet (Part 1)<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TP6dEpGYj1I/AAAAAAAAAQU/4-Cx5P9EGwY/s1600/2010-08-16_rcjc7_cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TP6dEpGYj1I/AAAAAAAAAQU/4-Cx5P9EGwY/s320/2010-08-16_rcjc7_cartoon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So everyone knows what happened next. At least, everyone seems to think that they do. But if I've learned one thing over the last couple of months, it's that you can't believe half the shit you read on those powerazzi sites.<br /><br />If you want to hear the <em>real</em> story, you're only gonna get it from the people who were there. And not the players, either - the movers and shakers who've got an angle on the story and a horse in the race. You've got to talk to the <em>regular</em> people. The man on the street, who was just minding his own business, going about his day, when - <strong><em>POW! BIFF! BAM!</em></strong> - the whole world changed before his very eyes.<br /><br />And if it seems like it's taking longer than it should for him to get to the point, with all the tangents and personal anecdotes? Well suck it up, baby - that's just what history <em>is</em>.<br /><br />-------------------------------<br /><br />There was no way I was just gonna stroll on through the front door. Not with all those hired guns on duty, every last one of them desperate to prove themselves worthy of "permanent placement". Not in this economy.<br /><br />I was sucking down my ninth cup of coffee, listening to Spliff detail a plan that would've involved bribing a window washer and somehow breaking through the glass on one of the upper floors, when it finally came to me...<br /><br />A couple of days before, there was a story on the news about the history of the Hyperconverter project; how the technology evolved from Tesla's original death ray, to the construction of the actual unit itself. Mostly just free publicity for Vaig Hyperspeed TV and Internet- but at one point, the attractive, Vaig-approved spokeswoman explained that they were so far ahead of schedule because a lot of the digging had already been done for them - over a <em>century</em> ago. <br /><br />I knew a little bit about it, thanks to a sixth grade field trip to the Colorado History Museum. When were down on the lower level, our tour guide told us all about the intersecting <a href="http://www.uer.ca/forum_showthread_archive.asp?fid=3&threadid=27527">network of tunnels</a> that run beneath the city. Originally meant for transporting coal and wood when the snow was too deep on the roads, they were eventually utilized for more nefarious purposes: running booze during the prohibition, as a passageway for horny politicians who wanted to get from the <a href="http://www.brownpalace.com/">Brown Palace</a> to the brothel across the street. According to our guide, one of those tunnels was <em>directly beneath</em> our feet. Right there, under the museum. <br /><br />The <em>same</em> Colorado History Museum that was leveled, just a few weeks earlier, so the city could build a brand <em>new</em> history museum not two blocks away. Because that's how we roll in Denver; always throwing a few more cranes up into the skyline, in order to make everything shiny and new again -- even our 'history'.<br /><br />Maybe it's just the Freudian love affair for gaping, dark holes that's shared by all grown man-children, but I had been by that construction site a dozen times, to look through the fence at the giant crater where the building used to be. And there, along the sides of the sinkhole - burrowing into the earth, and even deeper, into the depths of my subconscious -was what remained of one of those old tunnels. <br /><br />So I got to thinking: the construction site wasn't particularly secure... I could sneak into the tunnel first thing in the morning and make my way north. It was <em>possible</em> that they would've blocked off access to the converter itself, but I was working off the assumption that they <em>may</em> not have even bothered, considering most of the entrances were either already secured or forgotten a long time ago. And no matter what, it was better than sitting there, doing nothing at all to help Gwen. I would wear Spliff's spare uniform, and if I could at least get close enough - I'd call from my phone and have him help me find away in. <br /><br />As he listened to my plan, Spliff's eyebrows started rolling across his forehead, like caterpillars on acid, the way they way they always do when he's deep in thought. "I don't know, man... those things are supposed to be a freakin' maze. Besides, you'd never be able to get a signal from down -" he stopped short, the caterpillar on the right making a sharp, inverted <em>V</em>, like it was yanked up by a fish hook. "Wait... you've got a <em>company</em> phone... right?"<br /><br />Yeah, like I'm gonna pay for that shit when I can put it on the company dime.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />My spelunking gear consisted of a cheap Walmart flashlight, a compass (acquired during my two month stint as the World's Worst Boy Scout as a kid), and my cell phone. <br /><br />The flashlight wasn't much of a help (the dusty grey walls were pretty much a given) and I think the compass was busted. The display on my phone showed the endlessly rolling <em>dot dot dot..."Searching for Service"</em>.<br /><br />Barely three blocks from the old museum site to the Vaig offices - but it took over an hour of wading through the blackness before I finally hit something. My first thought was that it was a dead end... but actually, the tunnel had veered, intersecting with another in a narrow X - which meant I had to make a choice.<br /><br />I held my phone in front of me at arms length and walked down each passageways in turn: a few feet down and back, then the same thing with the other. Back and forth, going a little further each time.<br /><br />According to Spliff, Hypeport-enhanced phone would be able to get some sort of signal (something about the standard cell signal being transmitted via "hyperspatial channels") - <em>especially</em> as I got closer to the mother-of-all cell towers. Which meant that I could use the signal strength to figure out just how close I was getting. "<em>like looking for Easter baskets when you were a kid. You know, 'warmer... colder... coooolder... warmer...</em>hotter<em>...</em>"<br /><br />The display on my phone jumped. One bar. Two. Then back to just one...<br /><br />It rang.<br /><br />"Spliff...?"<br /><br />"Where---? --- hurry --- we don't have m---"<br /><br />"What? Are you there? Can you hear me?"<br /><br />(dot dot dot...)<br /><br />Fighting the urge to run, I moved carefully down the tunnel that the signal was coming from, navigating my way through two more forks-in-the-road and three more intersections - until finally, I had four full bars on my display. <br /><br />When I tasted the hint of extra oxygen in the air, I was able to keep my cool - but when I finally saw a pin-prick of light hovering in the distance, I broke into a sprint.<br /><br />Next thing I knew, I was face down in a pile of dirt - the proverbial "light at the end of the tunnel" was in fact a small opening at the top of a pile of rubble blocking my way. <br /><br />I clawed at the loose rock and dirt, each handful allowing more light to pour into the room, until the opening was just wide enough for me to squeeze through.<br /><br />On the other side, the paved floor I had been walking along grew uneven, as the mouth of the tunnel widened. Cracked tiles led me to where the old corridor had been ripped away altogether....<br /><br />I found myself standing at the far corner of a massive chamber, solid ground a good 50 feet below me. Just a cave, really, with steel beams to keep the earth from falling in on itself. <br /><br />I haven't picked up a copy of Popular Mechanics lately, but I'm guessing that Tesla coil technology has evolved quite a bit in the last hundred years: four enormous steel columns, the circumference of oak trees, reached up from the ground to a point just ten feet below me. <br /><br />Without warning, the pillars roared to life, spitting violent arcs of lightning between them, throwing a searing wave of heat against my face. At first, I could see the stuttering light through my eyelids - but after a minute, the crackling din mellowed to a hum.<br /><br />When I opened my eyes, the blinding zigzags had synchronized with with one another - straightened, like ends of a string pulled taught. Inside the glowing, silver frame, I thought I saw an image start to form, sort of like clouds floating together to make a bunny - but my sense of it sort of inverted after a minute... like <em>I </em>was the cloud, slowly breaking apart, to form something else...<br /><br />Releasing another wall of heat, the sides of the square ripped away into their component parts, then vanished completely.<br /><br />---------------------------------------------<br /><br />It occurred to me that we had never actually discussed how it was that I would get past the people in the chamber; a fact which, in and of itself, gave me the willies. The truth is, I don't think either one of us thought I'd make it as far as I did.<br /><br />The chamber was lit by halogen lamps hovering a few feet above the work floor - which would at least keep me hidden in the shadows. My only option was to scramble down the jagged walls, onto the network of scaffolding that the construction crew had left behind. While I wasn't exactly happy about it, I have had some experience on a rock wall before. Though, at the gym they've got ropes, and personal trainers, and all these little pulley things. And nobody's going to try and shoot you in the back when you're splayed up against the wall.<br /><br />From the platform, I made out two people in lab coats standing at a sleek computer console. Other than that, there was only three security guards standing around. They seemed to be avoiding eye contact with each other, as if their assault rifles would fire at whatever they looked at for too long. They all looked nervous, "green" - one of them in particular just kept fidgeting with his cell phone. <br /><br />It nearly flew out of this hand when I dialed him.<br /><br /><em><strong>Tomorrow:</strong> <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/12/38-showdown-at-5280-feet-part-2.html">Part Two!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-60389939758540032962010-08-16T14:04:00.000-07:002011-01-25T11:53:43.943-08:0036. Help Wanted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TFcZ9YE6PaI/AAAAAAAAAOw/eu235aV0x9s/s1600/128076818347764.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TFcZ9YE6PaI/AAAAAAAAAOw/eu235aV0x9s/s200/128076818347764.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>It's three in the morning. In just a few more hours, the sun will rise on the most important day of my entire life. I have to be at my best. <i>Better</i> than that, better than I've ever been before. I'm searching for an analog; something out of my own life that I can compare it to - however remotely. <br /><br />Last year, on an otherwise completely uneventful evening, I bowled the first, the <i>only</i>, 300 of my life. Spliff was late, because he agreed to help these two underage girls look for a rave that they ultimately never found. So it was just me and the early-rush drunks, who wouldn't have cared, even if I unzipped my pants to mow the pins down with a laser-precise stream of urine. No matter - and no 'mind' (see what I did there? The 'Lama - he'd appreciate that). The ball, the pins, the <i>Joel</i> - a unified symphony, calling one-perfect note into existence, as if...<br /><br />(...)<br /><br />Alright, <i>yes</i>. Yes, that really is all I could come up with. <br /><br />I am So. Fucked.<br /><br />------------------<br /><br />Twelve hours, six vodka tonics and one-whole lifetime ago, I found Tim in his office, clutching his hands to the edge of his desk, the way you would a toilet seat at the end of a long, sad night.<br /><br />"Oh - you're here already. Little early...." he squinted hard at his watch, like he was trying to stop the flow of time.<br /><br />"Maybe a hundred and twenty seconds, I guess. Can I close this?" <br /><br />"No!" he yelped, snapping up from his chair, "No, really busy today. Not a lot of time. To talk." He approached, edging me away from door. He glanced outside, then threw in another "Busy" for good measure.<br /><br />"Alright, but there's some things I wanted to talk about, too."<br /><br />"Well. Yes, we do have some things to talk about," He was cordial, but curt. Stern but apologetic. And staring out the door the whole time. "your sick day a couple weeks ago..."<br /><br />"My <i>vacation</i> day. Yeah?"<br /><br />"Your vacation day was Thursday... you called in sick on Friday."<br /><br />"Yeah, right. Whew. Goin' around. Call centers, man... one big giant petri dish." Stupid <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/07/34-plot-thickens.html">Buddhist ritual that can only be performed with the rising sun</a>. "Maybe I should start taking some vitamin C." I nodded at the pharmacy's-worth of bottles filling the cabinet above his monitor. <br /><br />"Alright, " he said, hopping over my transparent segue, "the thing is, that's considered a 'no-call, no-show'. Plus a tardy last month. Together with your write-up..."<br /><br />"Write-up? But that was <i><a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2008/12/9-no-good-very-bad-day.html">forever</a></i> ago -"<br /><br />"I know," he said sympathetically, "I know it was. And you've been doing really well on your calls lately..."<br /><br />"Thanks. I promise I'll - "<br /><br />"...but I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go."<br /><br />I was halfway through my next apology before it registered. "Wait, hold on... you're firing me?"<br /><br />"I know. I'm really sorry, but it's not my decision..."<br /><br />"Oh, really? Well who's 'decision' is it then? Huh? Let me guess... <i>straight from the top</i>?" I said, using my middle finger to indicate 'upstairs'.<br /><br />There was a friendly knock - <i>shave-and-a-haircut</i> - from behind me. "Are we all set here?" <br /><br /><a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/03/30-heroes-just-for-one-day.html">The Mullet</a> leaned casually against the frame, a self-satisfied grin stretching across her jowls.<br /><br />I was mere seconds from a display of full-on belligerence and righteous indignation, but I noticed her adjusting the newest feature of her uniform: a not-small holster, velcroed to her belt. The sight of it brought our meeting to an abrupt, unquestionable end.<br /><br />------------------<br /><br />I yanked a fistful of bic pens out of a coffee cup as I was marched to the elevator - 'clearing out your desk' being the corporate equivalent of a last meal. The baited breaths, being held for when I was out of ear-shot, were vacuumed from the room when the silver doors split open.There, with head bowed, eyes peeking out from beneath that craggy brow - stood Alton Vaig.<br /><br />I watched my shoes. Then the Mullet's holster. Then my shoes again. But I could tell he was looking at me from the directness of his voice. "Taking an early day?"<br /><br />"Yeah, sorta..." I stammered. Then we all just stood there in that box: a diorama of class warfare in contemporary society. Me, the downtrodden 'have not', beside Vaig, the all-powerful 'have'. I'm not sure what the Mullet represented. Something real bad.<br /><br />"Ah, I see..." he said, getting it (assuming, that is, that he wasn't already aware of my fate). "Joel, did you go to your high school reunion? You really ought to, some day. As far as 'reality checks' go, it's pretty painless. Though, if you've only seen them in the movies, you're in for a shock: captain of the basketball team? Just as fit as he's ever been. Oh, the prom queen? Contrary to the gossip, she <i>isn't,</i> in fact, an alcoholic who had a kid right after graduation. And if anything, she's an even bigger bitch since she retired from modeling to finish her PhD in medieval literature." - the doors split open with a <i>ding</i>, but he was on a roll, now - "Not everyone in this world has a destiny. But the <i>truly</i> great men? Nothing the world throws at them can keep them from reaching their station in life." he considered this for a moment, then added, "of course, those <i>other</i> kids... drama club set-painters, and the school newspaper reporters - "<br /><br />The elevator began buzzing impatiently, as the doors bounced repeatedly against the Mullet's forearm. <br /><br />"Well," Vaig digressed, "just something for you to think about." <br /><br />He didn't get off with us. He wasn't quite where he wanted to be. <br /><br />Yet.<br />-----------------<br /><br /><span style="color: yellow;">Where u at? COME DOWN HERE!! when you have a break. You won't BELIEVE the size of the gat there giving me! - <i>Spliff</i></span><br /><br />Sitting at the bar of the <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/the-lancer-lounge-denver">Lancer</a>, I pecked out a response on my phone.<br /><br />--------------------<br /><br />"Dude, I can't believe they actually escorted you out. I<i> hate</i> that bitch. Hey, you know what? We're still lookin' for..." he caught my expression over the rim of my glass "...oh, yeah. Right. Sorry."<br /><br />I glanced at my phone, annoyed. A call from Gwen's mom's house. I was supposed to go there for dinner tonight. I couldn't even face Gwen after my day today - much less her family.<br /><br />Spliff continued on, raving about his firearm - and I was actually <i>listening</i> to it. Or at least, I didn't stop him. Because, what else is there? Girls, Guns, music. Tall tales of drunken exploits past. It's not like this is the first time that Vaig would hold the world hostage. In the end, some hero always rises up to save the day.<br /><br /><i>The </i>truly<i> great men... nothing the world throws at them can keep them from reaching their station in life - </i>On some level, I thought maybe even <i>Vaig</i> knows it.<br /><br />"-we had a crash course today in shooting. They've got a firing range and everything, right down by the 'collider."<br /><br />"Wait," I interrupted, "the '<i>hypercollider</i>', collider?"<br /><br />He nodded.<br /><br />"Seriously - you've actually <i>seen</i> it. And all you want to talk about is your stupid gun? Tell me! What does it look like?"<br /><br />"Huh. Not like much. Totally old-school. <i>Ancient</i>. Glass beakers and tubes, zig-zagging around two huge <i>tesla coils</i>, if you can believe it. Arcs of energy crossing each other. Obviously, there <i>is </i>an alloy plated corridor circling the parameter under the building, or they'd never be able to isolate the particles that have been causing the anomalies."<br /><br />I stared at him, amazed. "Dude, what do you do for a living?"<br /><br />"Uh, hello?" he made gun with his hand, cocking his thumb up-and-down. "Anyway, they want us to feel confident with our weapons, at Vaig's news-thing tomorrow."<br /><br />Press conference? <i>That's</i> new. And with a full-guard to protect the prize.<br /><br />Sometimes - pretty much<i> all</i> the time - I think Spliff is full of shit on the whole 'knowledge of science' thing. But every now and then, it seems like he actually knows what it is he's going on about.<br />"So - let me ask you: you know the whole wormhole-theory of malphysics?"<br /><br />"A'yup," he said, taking a swig of beer.<br /><br />"Okay, well, let's say that there was another event, another wormhole created, with the same conditions of the -"<br /><br />"<i>Reboot metaphysics</i>," he said, anticipating the rest of my question.<br /><br />New one on me. "Like, another Big Bang, or what?" I shrugged.<br /><br />He rolled his eyes at my ignorance. "No, man... a <i>reboot... </i>of the entire space-time continuum, starting from <i>precisely</i> the point of the original malphysical event. A do-over. Back to the 'original system configuration'. But the <i>original</i>, original... it would cancel out the first wormhole. No warping of the laws of physics."<br /><br />"No more superheroes..." I mused - not a question.<br /><br />"A'nope."<br /><br />"But, is that the accepted theory? Like, the <i>Theory of Relativity</i>, or Macguffin's <i>8 Known Forces</i>? Does everyone pretty much know it?"<br /><br />He shrugged, "Everybody but you, looks like."<br /><br />I focused, collapsing the double-image-Spliff back to a shaky almost-normal. "Wait, though. Wait -- why would anybody even <i>want</i> to do that?"<br /><br />"Who says anybody did? But, whatever, its not like you can go to <a href="http://www.homedepot.com/">Home Depot</a> and pick up everything you need to build a wormhole. And even if you could, nobody knows the specs of the original. Besides, it's not time travel, where you know what you're trying to change. It's right back to the start. I mean, if you were conceived after the original wormhole - well, who knows if you would be again, in the new timeline."<br /><br />Slowly but surely, <i>my</i> universe was shifting back to normal again; meaning, <i>I</i> had the answer that <i>Spliff </i>was ignorant of.<br /><br /><i>- nothing the world throws at them can keep them from reaching their station in life -</i><br /><br />Can that really be right, though? And how can he be so confident that his very existence is such a sure shot?<br /><br />But then I realized - his statement wasn't some testable hypothesis. This was something that runs way deeper than that -<br /><br />The gall. The <i>balls</i>. The grade-A, uncut megalomania. <br /><br />Pure Alton Vaig. <br /><br />----------------<br /><br />When we left the bar, all I wanted was to sleep it off. Hell, first morning after getting fired? Most people wouldn't blink if they found out you slept right through to the next day. Wake me up when they save the world. Or <i>don't</i>, if its gonna end.<br /><br />Spliff and I were just about to go our separate ways when I checked the time on my phone. One new voicemail.<br /><br />It was Gwen's mom in an absolute panic. Gwen never made it there for dinner. I was about to call her myself, when I noticed a text from earlier that I missed.<br /><br /><span style="color: yellow;">J, will pick you up late. Think i'm getting really close to something here -- <3, G.</span><br /><br />-------------------<br /><br />Yeah - <i>close</i>.<br /><br />Seriously, I don't know what I was thinking. I should have yanked her out of IT the second I found her. Or stayed with her. Or at least called her after I was out of the building to make sure she was okay. But now, I'm left watching the clock until go-time, wondering: if she <i>was</i> caught snooping around, would Vaig keep her on hand, to witness the execution of his master plan? Or would he not even bother, just-<br /><br />-no. Nope. Not <i>even</i> gonna go there.<br /><br />Twenty-four hours before the police will file a missing persons report. And they seem really annoyed when you ask, like you should have known better, for how many times it's been mentioned in the movies.<br /><br />Spliff and I headed back to my place, where I filled him in - at long last - on <i>everything</i>. It took a couple of hours, but - we've come up with a plan. And we've got it down pat. And the plan is... good. I mean, its not one of those plans that's all based on 'split-second timing', or anything like that. We don't even know all the details of the press conference tomorrow. <br /><br />But I do know this: Vaig won't do <i>anything</i> without the requisite speechifying. And threats. And the standard declaration of 'I've got the upper hand, all the cards, <i>and</i> the biggest wiener'.<br /><br />So yeah. The plan makes sense to us, anyway.<br /><br />Though, it <i>is</i> 4:30 in the morning.<br /><br /><br /><i><b>Next Ish:</b> <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/12/37-showdown-at-5280-feet-part-1.html">Showdown at 5280 Feet!</a></i>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-24281114902527939422010-07-14T11:54:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:49:22.139-07:0035. Meanwhile...<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TD3ge34CziI/AAAAAAAAAOY/_xFcBNzdItg/s1600/lunapic_127912346732821_6.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TD3ge34CziI/AAAAAAAAAOY/_xFcBNzdItg/s200/lunapic_127912346732821_6.gif" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">From <span style="color: lime;">SecretID.net</span>: </div><br />- <strong>Ultraphenomenon</strong> is off on one of his "cosmic crusades", battling a world-devouring entity that's threatening to annihilate dimension Q.9 (your tax-dollars at work!)<br /><br />- <strong>Alphamale</strong>, <strong>Yellowjacket</strong>, and most of the other A-listers are serving as a peacekeeping force in Asia, due to Seatopia's protests against Japan's oil drilling operations. The report seems to suggest that <strong>Tsunami Warrior K</strong> is sympathetic to the plight of his homeland. <br /><br />So <em>that</em> should go well.<br /><br />- closer to home, <strong>Danger Monkey</strong> is fighting "The Voodoo Syndicate" in New Orleans.<br /><br />But Denver? Nothing. Absolute zip. Construction on the Hypercollider continues, uninterrupted.<br /><br /><em>Somebody</em> has to do something...<br /><br />--------------<br /><br /><em>Thank you for calling the <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/06/24-life-on-hold.html">Agency's 24 hour, International Emergency Hotline!</a> You are hearby advised that any knowingly fraudulent calls or claims made to...</em><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"Whoa, stop, hold on - this is Joel Wyatt in Denver, Colorado..."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The phone tree pauses; a few barely audible clicks tick in the background before continuing: <em>Thank you! Please state your nine-digit claim number.</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I swear I heard a sneer in that automated voice. I list off the convoluted digits. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Our records indicate that your case has been closed. The Agency's research unit has determined that the minor rifts in the space/time continuum are being effectively dealt with by the private sector. Vaig Industries is currently -</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">" - building a giant bomb that could rip apart the entire dimension!" I snarl. "Look, this is an emergency - I need to talk to Lilywatt. Now!"</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Lilywatt is on a new assignment and is unavailable at this time. Can you please describe the nature of your concern? Are you calling about: a natural disaster? A crime in progress? A UFO sighting?...</em></div>------------<br /><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I told it what I knew, losing probably half the details and definitely all the nuance in my frustration. In return, I got an orange-level "<a href="http://superfriends.wikia.com/wiki/Trouble_Alert">Troubalert</a>", a new claim number, and <em>is-there-anything-else-I-can-help-you-with-today?</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So, pretty much a normal day for me. Until - something big happened. Something AMAZING...<br /><br />--------------<br /><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To: </span><a href="mailto:jwyatt@vaigcommunications.com"><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">jwyatt@vaigcommunications.com</span></a><br /><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From: </span><a href="mailto:smacguffin@vaigsecure.com"><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">smacguffin@vaigsecure.com</span></a><br /><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Subject: New Job!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dude check the email addy! Looks like were BOTH working for the EVIL EMPIRE!! <span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;"><em> </em></span>I called to tell you about my interview but I never got through. CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE IT!!?? I heard from this guy I used to work with that they were just looking for warm bodies. THATS ME BABY! </span></span><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial;">Check it out that chick that you were telling me about <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/03/30-heroes-just-for-one-day.html">The Mullet</a> is TRAINING ME! From what I hear she used to be a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackwater_Worldwide">blackwater</a> contracter..........but was fired for being too HARDCORE! or some shit</span><br /><br /><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial;">Still doing overnights (suck) but 9 to 5 in training so lets do something?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: yellow; font-family: Arial;">P.S. have you heard from Kyle?</span><br /><br />-------------<br /><br /><em>(No, Spliff. No I have not. Not since our mind-meld, a week-and-a-half ago.)</em><br /><br />See, now this is just too much. A guy can only be pushed so far. Maybe - maybe - I can accept the idea of wormholes tearing through the fabric of the universe and warping the laws of physics - but there's absolutely no reasonable explanation for Spliff passing a pre-employment drug screening. Something is definitely up - and I want to know what it is.<br /><br />-------------<br /><br />Steve from corporate communications told me Gwen was down in IT. When I got there, the door was shut, a dim light glowing from the cracks...<br /><br />"Jesus Christ, don't scare me like that. Get in here and shut the door!" she hissed.<br /><br />"Uh, sorry. What's going on?"<br /><br />"Look at these -" she picked up some sheets from the printer alongside her, continuing before I could read "-I managed to pull these from the server: emails from shareholders to Vaig, Vaig to accounts payable, all asking when the construction crews can be relieved. Joel, the Hypercollider is <em>already finished</em>. Vaig just doesn't want anyone to know, yet..."<br /><br />It took a second to sink in, for the implications to really hit me. I was about to ask if she was sure, but, the extra security. It all made sense. "Well... shit. But... alright, I guess that's okay."<br /><br />"What are you talking about?" she shouted.<br /><br />"It's not good, obviously, but... look, this means he knows what he's got his hands on. He's not just gonna turn it on and destroy the whole universe... right? I mean, just because he has the most powerful, deadly weapon in the world, that doesn't mean he's..." I stopped short, realizing that I sounded like an idiot.<br /><br />"You have to get a hold of Lilywatt!"<br /><br />Yeah. Right. No problem. I stood there, stupidly, trying to decide whether I should tell her that I already tried, or just assure her that I <em>would</em>, and tell her everything is going to be okay. I was saved from having to decide by the buzzing of my phone. Tim, telling me he wanted to have a one-on-one in his office in thirty minutes.<br /><br />I hugged her - tight - before returning to my desk.<br /><br /><em><strong>Next Ish</strong>: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/08/36-help-wanted.html">Help Wanted!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-54442095193686410112010-07-06T10:32:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:48:45.376-07:0034. The Plot Thickens...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TDOWtOlXTrI/AAAAAAAAAOM/ZllV4DXukMI/s1600/untitled.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TDOWtOlXTrI/AAAAAAAAAOM/ZllV4DXukMI/s320/untitled.JPG" /></a></div>I was floating, immaterial, in a perfect, fitful sleep. The sharp aches that were twisting their way through my muscles were anchored to my body, somewhere far below. <br /><br /><br />Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a voice whipped me back into existence: <br /><br /><i>"It's time."</i> <br /><br />My eyes snapped open. I was about to yell at him for waking me up so early, ritual be damned, but I wasn't so sure this wasn't just more dreaming. His face hovered above mine, upside down from where my head was hanging out from Gwen's trunk. I couldn't make out his matted grey hair beneath the hood, or the dirt caked in his cheekbones. All I remember now is the glint of emerald in his eyes.<br /><br />I crawled out from the back of the car, feeling like I was eleven years old again, getting woken up for a family vacation. The world had that same air of potential, like it was just waiting to be filled with something other than whatever constituted daily life out here in the middle of nowhere, in this abandoned trailer park. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, to witness a faint orange glow out to the east.<br /><br />"Our friend is a heavy sleeper," he mused. I turned and saw Gwen stirring, but then I realized who he was talking about. <br /><br />"Yeah, well, I guess a couple shots of Jack a night will do that to a guy." I said, surveying the candles set up around the mandala.<br /><br />He grunted in agreement. "The dreaming will be richest in just a few minutes."<br /><br />Great... no coffee, then. I sat down, mirroring his posture: criss-cross applesauce. "So, what's the dealy-o, anyway? Is Kyle, like, the reincarnation of some great lama? The Super-Buddha?"<br /><br />"Hmph. He's dealing with enough as it is; lets not saddle him with that particular stigma. He is, shall we say, <i>gifted</i>, with far greater abilities than he realizes. A few years ago, Darkstreak sustained a near-fatal injury." - <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/17-personal-entry.html">Mistress Katana's blade</a>, I remembered - "While meditating in a deep trance, traveling through another plane of existence, I came across his unconscious self, balanced on the border of life and death. In that pure state, his unburdened mind was able to mend his physical body. But as of yet, he hasn't been able to use those abilities while awake. I've called out to him, only to find a spirit polluted by self doubt and regret."<br /><br />"Yeah, that sounds about right. But where do I come in?"<br /><br />"You are his friend. I am hoping that makes a difference."<br /><br />"Huh. Well, <i>I'm</i> hoping he still thinks so. You know, if I found you a few weeks ago, we could have just swung by his apartment."<br /><br />"We can only make the call," he said, "it's up to him to answer. Our window is closing, we must begin..."<br /><br />I shifted my ass-cheeks to try and get a little more comfortable. "I'm pretty new to this whole meditation thing. Do I need to focus on something? Or keep a happy thought, or..."<br /><br />I felt a hand on my shoulder. Behind me, Gwen whispered, "Joel, I think the first rule is 'shut up'."<br /><br />"Hmm. You know, she <i>is</i> useful." he said, with a wary smile on his lips. "Just close your eyes, I'll do the rest..."<br /><br />I tried to do the whole 'empty vessel' thing, but the flickering of the candles still registered through my eyelids, keeping me firmly situated in the time and place. And then, he began to chant: "<i><span style="color: lime;">Om Mani Padme Hum... Om Mani Padme Hum...</span></i>" Of <i>course</i> I was trying to take it seriously, but I couldn't help but feel like a kid messing around with a Ouija board. <br /><br />But then, there was a subtle shift. The chant began to sound more natural - not even like a voice, anymore; it was ambient noise, in whatever strange place I was being led to. <br /><br />The splotches of light projected onto my eyelids began to dance, stretching into shapes. The dark spots, the negative space, moved also, like shadow puppets, until they gradually peeled off the wall, into three dimensions - <br /><br />- until suddenly, I was there. I mean, still "<i>there</i>", sitting outside the barely livable trailer. But its weird, I was there <i>completely</i>, not just sitting in the dirt, surrounded by candles. I was within it, between the cracks of the molecules in the air. I saw the world, as it appears when your eyes are closed to blink. I was traveling along a rainbow-colored conveyor belt, along a vast sea of stars, silver points on a midnight black canvas... except for the swatches where the sky was silver, and the stars, black. Entire worlds, hovering before my very eyes, every planet in the Galaxy, an infinite number of times. One for every second of eternity. There's a moment where I try to take it all in, but I realize that trying to absorb all that complexity would probably just make my head explode. And nobody wants to see that.<br /><br />- the Earth hovers in front of me, just within my reach. Tiny, like a globe in a classroom. Tangible, <i>manageable</i>... and I remember why I'm here. I reach out to grasp it, and - <br /><br />- I'm tethered, once again, to the real world. Or at least the world that I'm familiar with. The air is wet, dirty. City streets and buildings... but its all abandoned. In places, the blacktop has folded in on itself. I hear screams in the distance. I scramble to the top of a pile of rubble to find the source - <br /><br />- there, in a twisted heap at the base of the rubble: the Argojet! A hundred feet in front of that, a semi trailer sits on it's side. Smoke clears to reveal two human figures - Darkstreak, and Psia! - moving closer to embrace one another between the ruined vehicles...<br /><br />I don't remember this. I wasn't here. Still... I know <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/04/31-heroes-just-for-one-day.html">what happens next</a>. As I'm touching this world now, I understand the regret; I feel the helplessness...<br /><br />With a slight, metallic creak, the semi launches, high up into the air... <br /><br />Kyle throws his arms around Psia, tackling her down to the ground. The giant steel box crashes down after sending a dense cloud of dust up into the air.<br /><br />Picking himself up from where the semi once sat, Deacon Struck dusts off his shark skin suit, then paces back and forth, surveying the heap. Suddenly, he fills the air with his deep, bitter laughter.<br /><br />Then, perched atop the semi, looking just like he does in publicity stills - Darkstreak stares down at his prey.<br /><br />"Not this time, Deacon!" He leaps to the ground, using the two seconds of hang time to produce a retractable club from his utility belt, which he proceeds to smash across the Deacon's jaw. <br /><br />This is wrong... I know it. But at the same time, I know <i>this guy</i> - I can <i>relate</i> to this guy. The streetwise, devil-may-care sidekick: the one and only <i><b>Teen Terror</b>!</i><br /><br />He spins, his leg swooping out in front of him, to plant a heel square in the middle of the Deacon's face - but the villain catches his boot midair. Undaunted, Darkstreak uses the momentum from his opponent's block to launch himself into the sky, turning the movement into a back flip - landing him right alongside me. <br /><br />My presence doesn't faze him. Let's face it - this kind of thing happens to him all the time.<br /><br />"Night Ranger! Am I glad to see you," he says, raising his arm for a 'soul brother' handshake, "Don't worry, Psia's okay! Now come on... lets take this sucker down!"<br /><br />Well. Okay, then. I mean, as long as Psia's alright. Besides, I am wearing my uniform: charcoal grey, with dark purple accents. On my chest, I notice something <i>glowing</i>. I can't really see it - but I know just what it is: the silvery, full moon insignia that I always imagined.<br /><br />Together, like a single, brutal storm, we leap from the rubble to ground zero. Diving right into a series of attacks. But we move on him one at a time - even he deserves a sporting chance.<br /><br />"It appears the tables have turned, eh, Deacon?" Darkstreak asks, before jumping feet first into the villain's stomach.<br /><br />The Deacon is stunned, but his injuries are bloodless. Excellent - now its my turn. A haymaker to the chin, a sidekick to the chest. I laugh, easily dodging his return blows. "How do you feel about affordable health care now?" I taunt, smashing my fist into his face.<br /><br />Finally, he drops down to the earth, his back rising and falling with labored breaths. It was the most natural thing in the world, for me to just <i>sink</i> my fingertips into the metal of the semi, and roll it over on top of him.<br /><br />"Yeah!" Darkstreak cheered, "<i>That's</i> how we do it!"<br /><br />Its exactly how I always imagined it. I'm invincible. There's nothing in the whole world that can hold me back: enemies, friends, my job...<br /><br />Gwen...<br /><br />"You make sure he stays pinned," Darkstreak says, "I'm gonna check on Psia."<br /><br />"Wait," I stop him, "we're... not done yet."<br /><br />He laughs, "Yeah, a hero's work is never done. That doesn't mean we don't get happy hour though, right, buddy?"<br /><br />"No. Darkstreak... Kyle. This is over, now... but you're not done." Its hard to form the words, like trying to analyze a dream while you're still in it. <br /><br />Creaking steel from the trailer draws his attention away from me. "We have to move!"<br /><br />"Its too late," I tell him, "but you're not finished..."<br /><br />Above us, the sky flickers to night. Stars on black velvet... shifting to black on white.<br /><br />Kyle feels around his eyes, where his mask was seconds before. The trailer shudders. He points a finger at me. "You can't stop me! You can't stop me!"<br /><br />I know.<br /><br />The creaking metal grows louder, until it crescendos with an echoing roar. I sound shakes him somewhere deep within - and without - the image of him that I'm looking at. <br /><br />All around him, the world becomes a void. The anger in his eyes changes into something infinitely sadder as he drops to his knees...<br />--------------<br /><br />I don't remember waking up, but by all reports, I was something a mess. Lets just say it took me a little while to get my mundane, earthly ego fitted back into place how I like it. <br /><br />As we were getting in the car to leave, the Lama ran towards us, clutching a foil packet. "Here. These always cheer me up after a nasty trance. You'll have to share with your lady friend..."<br /><br />"Uh, thanks." I said, taking the open packet containing a single, stale Pop Tart, "So, is that it? Do you think he'll come?"<br /><br />"We did our best... and we got his attention. If I have to try again tomorrow, maybe he'll listen this time."<br /><br />He leaned in the door, saying his goodbyes to Gwen. As she started the car, before I climbed in, I told him, "For what it's worth... it's really real. Wherever you showed me, I mean. And I don't think I could just get there. Like, in a rocket, or whatever."<br /><br />He looked dubious. "Did you see them? The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hungry_ghost">hungry ghosts</a>? The gods...?"<br /><br />He took notice of my discomfort. "Hmph. I suppose not. This may surprise you to know, but I went a little crazy, when I thought that Macguffin took it all away from me. I lost my fortune, wasted my life, hiding away in seclusion, searching for some deep insight that would prove him wrong." Something about this seemed to amuse him. He nodded to himself, "After all these years, I think I'm starting to learn how to live with the ambiguity."<br /><br />I looked over his shoulder, at the decrepit trailer, and the refuse littering his yard. I was about to ask: <i>how's that working out for you?</i> But I decided to just let it go.<br /><br /><i><b>Next Ish:</b> <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/07/35-meanwhile.html">Meanwhile...!</a></i></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-20029882938495819412010-07-01T18:00:00.000-07:002010-09-21T13:45:30.315-07:0033. The Info-Dump!<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TBjw3eIZCiI/AAAAAAAAANk/qeDYCzT5OZo/s1600/mandala.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" qu="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TBjw3eIZCiI/AAAAAAAAANk/qeDYCzT5OZo/s200/mandala.jpg" width="195" /></a></div>I guess it <em>was</em> naive of me to think that my tryst with Gwen on the stairwell would lead to an evening of non-stop marathon sex. Even so, I didn't think I'd be spending the entire night accounting for last few months of my life. She was able to cross-reference every recent hero sighting and giant monster attack with my general unavailability, so she wasn't so much asking questions as giving me details, which I was then expected to either confirm or deny. It continued into the next day, all the way through our drive into Boulder. I finally started an argument about the best place to park, just to change the subject.<br /><br />Gwen grabbed our burritos while I kept watch out front. This particular link in the Chipotle chain is located in a glorified strip mall. with a gated patio connected to identical patios outside the two storefronts - all lined up, like chicken coops. I considered it a minor victory when I found an empty bench near the street, which prevented us from having to sit between the women discussing their yoga class and the guy peeking out from behind his copy of the <em>Tao Te Ching</em> to see if anyone was impressed.<br /><br />As it turned out, there was no need to rush: we sat there waiting, with the sun beating down on us, for the next four hours.<br /><br />"Amazing," I said, pressing a cup of ice against my forehead "the highest real estate prices in Colorado, yet none of these people seem to have a job."<br /><br />A look of disgust crossed Gwen's face. "Maybe it's all the money they save from not buying deodorant."<br /><br />I caught it, too: a particularly noxious smell, twisting it's way into my nostrils. But this wasn't just the usual Boulder <em>funk</em>, of rock climber dipped in patchouli; this was a deadly cocktail, mixed from bodily excretions and waste products, like a whiff of Satan's own sweet armpit.<br /><br />Neither one of us remember seeing him walking up - he was suddenly just <em>there, </em>rifling through a garbage can not fifteen feet away from us, the offending odor emanating from him like so much loving kindness.<br /><br />It's weird - he must be well over a hundred years old by now, but he doesn't look a day over 80. I guess if you think about it, that's still pretty fucking old. <br /><br />"Oh, look... that is so sad," Gwen whispered as she started digging through her bag.<br /><br />"Holy shit. Just hold on a sec...."<br /><br />She looked him over in disbelief, eyes squinting - then aimed that same expression directly at me.<br /><br />"Just look, beneath all that grime -"<br /><br />"- the grime on his <em>track suit</em>, you mean? Joel, come on, we knew coming here that this might not be our guy."<br /><br />I actually mumbled the word <em>green</em>, which sounds stupid, I know - but it was an understatement. His clothes were the vivid, perfect hue that you would see if you were to close your eyes and picture the color in your mind. I sat there, mesmerized. It took a second before it registered that Gwen was walking right up to him.<br /><br />"Sir? Here, take this," she said with the purest sincerity, pushing a couple of bills into his palm. "Now you take care of yourself." When he moved on to the next trash can, she returned. "Let's go. Maybe we can talk to some other people around town."<br /><br />I stood up to follow him, but Gwen clutched on to my elbow. "Hey, I know this is important to you, but that's <em>not</em> who you're looking for."<br /><br />I ignored her, pulling her with me along the sidewalk.<br /><br />"Alright, just stop it. What are you going to do - have him prove who he is by picking through some trinkets he owned in a past life? Because Joel," she nodded at him as he dug through more refuse, "<em>he's gonna say they're all his</em>." She softened a little then, tilting her face at me. "Just let him be, okay?"<br /><br />I'm still fifty-fifty on whether he was listening in on our conversation, or if he noticed me for the first time just then - but he shuffled towards us, to fix his eyes on mine.<br /><br />Realizing I had no idea how to address him (<em>Doctor? Mr. Lama?</em>) - I introduced myself.<br /><br />He let out a heavy breath, and said, "Well. You're thinner in your subconscious mind, you do know that? No, I don't suppose you do: self consciousness is poor substitute for self awareness." He chuckled at this, until a monster loogie lodged itself in his throat. He spat it out, then proceeded to look around behind me. At first I thought maybe he was examining Gwen... but a second later, we found ourselves trying to follow his gaze. "Where is he? The young man known as 'Darkstreak'?" <br /><br />Oh yeah. Right. "Kyle? He's... not here. I don't know. I couldn't convince him that you had contacted me."<br /><br />He straightened up to his full height, eyeing me suspiciously. "Then what are you doing here?"<br /><br />"I'm here to..." I know. You'd really think I'd be used to the question by now. I <em>did</em> practice an answer this time, but I went in to it knowing full well what his reaction would be. "...alright, I know I'm not super human, I'm not even in what you'd call 'peak physical condition'. But I'm <em>here</em>. I'm here to help you. If you'll have me."<br /><br />I thought I lost him when his shoulders slouched back toward the ground- but then, under his breath: "Maybe. <em>Maybe</em>. Come on." He spun away from us, making his way up the street.<br /><br />I looked to Gwen, who just shrugged. <br /><br />"Wait a minute," I called out, "where are we going?"<br /><br />"To 7-11, to pick up a liter of Coke with the money that nice young lady gave me." he seemed to notice suddenly that Gwen was still there, adding "Thank you. -- And then, Joel Wyatt, we've got work to do."<br /><br />"Uh, that's fine," Gwen said, having decided that we weren't being taken to see an abandoned refrigerator filled with women's assorted body parts, "but my car is back over here."<br /><br />He looked at me, then at Gwen, then back to me.<br /><br />"Oh... this is Gwen. My girlfriend. Gwen Carmichael, the... uh, the Green Lama."<br /><br />He surprised me with his display of politeness, as he took her hand into his own. "Gwen, the pleasure is mine. I only wish it could have been under better circumstances." His expression darkened. "The world as we now know it hangs in the balance. I don't have the time to adequately prepare him for the ritual we're about to conduct... but you have my word, I will do everything in my power to ensure his safe return. Thank you." <br /><br />The Green Lama stood for a moment, leaving her an opening where she could express her gratitude. But then even he, who had been living without human interaction for probably the last thirty years, was able to read the look on her face.<br /><br />"I see. Surely you understand, the ritual that we will be performing is deeply mired in tradition, never before witnessed by women."<br /><br />"And there it is." She threw her arms in the air. "Really? You know, this is why I stopped going to Sunday school..." she whipped around, heading for her car. <br /><br />He started yelling something at her about "<em>2500 years of tradition"</em>, but I cut him off.<br /><br />"Alright, stop already. Gwen, hold on."<br /><br />She turned around and shrugged. "It's alright. I understand."<br /><br />"Just wait one second. Please." - I turned to face the 'Lama - "Look, I came here to help you, and I'll do... whatever it is we're going to do. And if it can <em>only</em> be done by somebody with a penis, well..." I paused, to give a little thought to what it was I was agreeing to before continuing, "...okay. But Gwen has been right there with me through all of this. At least, she's always tried to be. And when I let her, everything... everything just seems to go better."<br /><br />I can barely look at her when she blushes like that; maybe the Lama felt the same way. Twenty-five hundred years of tradition, out the window. Who would've figured him for an old softy? <br /><br />Good thing, too - she was my ride home. <br />--------<br /><br />I was expecting a tent. Or maybe one of those <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yurt">yurt</a> things; something spartan, but with a pure, efficient dignity. <br /><br />What we got was next week's episode of <a href="http://www.aetv.com/hoarders/index.jsp">Horders</a>. <br /><br />The secret sanctuary of the Green Lama is located in a trailer park on the edge of Boulder; a rusting metal squat, beneath a thick, drooping net of telephone wires (though to be fair, it probably cost him a cool half-million - location, location, location). I know, I shouldn't divulge the location of a superhero's hideout: it could endanger their secret identity, put their loved ones at risk, <em>blah blah blah</em>. But hey, you know what? If you're a supervillian who's managed to hack your way into my blog, and you're reading this right now... go ahead, gimme a ring. Because you may think you want to know - but trust me - you <em>don't</em>. <br /><br />Gwen looked relieved when the Lama asked us to walk around his hovel to the backyard. It didn't look like we'd all fit in there, anyway. After five minutes of clatter, he emerged with three folding chairs, which he set up around a mandala, spray painted in the center of the yard.<br /><br />He sat down, taking a swig from the bottle of Coke. "Excuse the mess - I'm not accustomed to guests. If our friend understood what it is that's at stake, I doubt any of this would be necessary."<br /><br />"Yeah, like that's an excuse," I said "we've got no idea what's going on, and <em>we're</em> here. So how about it already; is somebody finally gonna tell me what this is all about?"<br /><br />He froze mid-gulp, realizing that I wasn't about to take "no" for an answer. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right. Tell me: what do you know about Professor Hugh Macguffin?"<br /><br />"Controversial scientist," Gwen offered, "<a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/07/26-dream-sequence.html">died last week, under mysterious circumstances</a>."<br /><br />"Yeah," I added, "he practically created the entire field of malphysics..."<br /><br />He let out a grim chuckle. "Interesting choice of words. And more true than you know." Overhead, electrical wires cut the sky into a series of never ending right angles, all converging on a point just behind his head, like they were sprouting directly from his brain. Somewhere in the distance, a dull orange streetlamp sputtered, lighting the sky like an electrical storm.<br /><br />"He was also my friend. Mostly.We first met in 1960, at a conference at the University of Southern California. <em>'Altered States and the Varieties of Religious Experience'</em>. It was meant to be a friendly debate, exploring mystical experiences, whether they were actually 'metaphysical' in nature - or simply a bi-product of the human mind. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Hofmann">Albert Hofmann</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timothy_Leary">Timothy Leary</a> - all the proponents of psychedelic drug use were there. And of course, many people believed that my own abilities were proof positive that I had achieved Enlightenment. <em>True</em> Enlightenment, mind you, not the humanistic, Zen variety."<br /><br />"Among the hippies and academics and holy men, was this pathetic young man, without a single letter after his name. He had come to tout his theory to anyone who would listen. Both camps were wrong, he claimed: mystical states <em>weren't </em>the result of altered states of consciousness, but they didn't originate from the "spiritual" realm, either. Rather, their source was within the material world - just out along the far edges far of it."<br /><br />I cut him off. "Hold on. I know he believed that the existence of super humans offered <em>possible</em> proof for the existence of the metaphysical... but that was hardly at the center of his theory."<br /><br />The Lama scoffed at this. "Certainly not as he presented it to the <em>scientific</em> community. They may have been struggling for years to explain the rise of super humans, but they weren't about to accept anything that expressed sympathy for the <em>spiritual</em>. I could sympathize, in a way. After all my hard work in the monastery, experiencing - with my own senses - the realms detailed in Buddhist cosmology - and here was this brazen little asshole, asking me to accept that these places were simply 'alternate dimensions' that could just as well have been reached by some sort of rocket ship."<br /><br />"Not a rocket ship," I said, "but, like, a hyper-dimensional transport could. I mean, in theory... right?"<br /><br />He looked pissed, but then he just shrugged his shoulders, sarcastically. <em>Who knows?</em><br /><br />"That's just it though," Gwen jumped in, "no one knows how malphysical phenomena really occurs, where it comes from."<br /><br />"How? No. But <em>why,</em> how it <em>started</em>..." he held our gazes, making sure we were paying attention. "This little man, with his bow tie and thick glasses, he invited me back to his laboratory, to try and convince me. He showed me his scrapbook full of photos and newspaper clippings, detailing his apprenticeship with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikola_Tesla">Nikola Tesla</a>."<br /><br />I stopped him, "Wait a minute, Macguffin was like <em>seventy</em> <em>years old</em> when he died..."<br /><br />"Definitely not old enough to serve as Telsa's assistant when he arrived in <em>Colorado Springs,</em> to conduct the experiments that would lead to the creation of the first <a href="http://corrosion-doctors.org/Biographies/TeslaBio-2.htm">death ray</a>. Exactly what I thought, too. But he was there, in the fall of of <a href="http://www.electroherbalism.com/Bioelectronics/Tesla/IntroductiontoTesla.htm">1899</a>, for Tesla's attempts to tame the energy field he called 'Teleforce'."<br /><br />He handed us a plastic bag he had brought from inside the trailer, containing a yellowing newspaper article, which Gwen and I each read in turn. <br /><br />It read like something out of a scandal sheet, or posted on <em><strong>secretID</strong></em>: massive, man-made lightning bolts, blasting out from a 200 foot pole on Tesla's property. The resulting thunder could be heard all the way in Cripple Creek. The enormous surge of energy caused the generator at the Colorado Springs Electric Company to be destroyed. <br /><br />And then it got <em>really</em> weird - <a href="http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:wSyMm7Vc8ToJ:www.electroherbalism.com/Bioelectronics/Tesla/IntroductiontoTesla.htm+tesla+energy+weapon+colorado+springs&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=7&gl=us">quotes from farmers who had witnessed insects on their property <em><strong>glowing</strong>;</em> butterflies with arcs of blue energy rising off their wings</a>.<br /><br />- and there, in a photo taken outside the courthouse, way down at the far edge of the frame - Hugh Macguffin. Young, to be sure, but looking pretty much the exact same age as he did on the back cover of "Foundations of Malphysics".<br /><br />When Gwen finished reading, the Lama continued. "That incredible experiment had far more consequences than what's detailed there. On that night, a wormhole was opened, creating a fault line not 100 miles away from from where we are currently sitting- a fault line in the very <em>fabric</em> of the space-time continuum!"<br /><br />"The <em>Pill Hypothesis</em>?" I laughed. Gwen stared at me, looking lost: "A localized, microscopic wormhole, causing all these little snags in the fabric of space-time, warping the laws of physics at random. Like the pills that show up on your clothes when you pull them out of the dryer..." I explained, paraphrasing the theory that Spliff was always going on about when he was high.<br /><br />Gwen blinked, like she was trying to wake from a dream. "But I don't understand... if Macguffin knew the cause of all this 'malphysical phenomena', why didn't he just come out with it?"<br /><br />"Because he was worried that someone would try to duplicate the experiment," 'Lama answered, "opening the wormhole so wide that the rift would continue to grow, until it was big enough to swallow up the whole world."<br /><br />"The electric company brought forth suits due to the ruined generator. Tesla was ruined, financially. His lab was closed, and his equipment put into storage. A few years later, his primary financier, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Westinghouse">George Westinghouse</a>, ordered his employees to retrieve Tesla's old experiments, to see if there were any practical applications that would allow him to recoup his losses. Tesla hadn't even begun to understand what he had wrought, but he was smart enough to see that his experiment had dangerous implications. He ordered Macguffin to spirit away the critical pieces and blueprints, to hide them in a cave near <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/03/15-giant-monster-attack.html">Manitou Springs</a>."<br /><br />"<a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/21-personal-entry-lilywatt-returns.html">The Kaiju attack..</a>." I said, under my breath - but no one was paying attention to me.<br /><br />"Macguffin did as he was told, but the equipment malfunctioned as he was storing it in the cave, releasing a super-localized time warp, transporting him to the year 1959 -- where he witnessed the age of super humans in full swing. Just as it had been since the start of World War II."<br /><br />The implications sank in. "And that's when he made the connection, between the super humans... and Tesla's invention."<br /><br />The Lama nodded. "<em>'Tesla's invention'</em>. Or as it's commonly known today: the patented <em><a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/03/13-work-training.html">'Vaig Hypeport converter box'</a>...</em>"<br /><br />I was too lost in everything else for this revelation to impact me right away, but Gwen was on it. "Wait, are you saying the cable boxes sitting on top of TV sets all over the country could open up a giant, universe collapsing wormhole?"<br /><br />"Too small. Even with one the size of the original, it would take time." he said, taking another drink of his soda, "But with the field that's generated by all the boxes, networked together... that's another story."<br /><br />"I don't get it," I said, catching up at last, "why would Vaig want to create a wormhole that would kill everyone, himself included?"<br /><br />The Lama shrugged. " You've got to admit, it makes for one hell of a threat."<br /><br />"You know, he <em>may</em> not even realize what he's got his hands on" Gwen said, "Vaig Industrial has been trying to reverse engineer death ray technology for years. He could have just stumbled across his invention on accident."<br /><br />"But how the hell does <em>he </em>know so much about it?" I barked, jerking my thumb at the Lama. <br /><br />"Macguffin sent me a letter, detailing his suspicions. I received it the day before his body was discovered."<br /><br />His wistful look was shaded with equal parts regret and resolution. It was almost enough to make you forget that he smelled like a broken toilet.<br /><br />"Alright, fine. But why Kyle? Why don't you just call the Agency direct?"<br /><br />For a second there, he looked just as surprised as we were. "I know. I know, it's weird. But they stopped taking my calls years ago." he covered his nasal passage with his cleanest finger, and proceeded to launch a snot rocket to the earth. "Besides, as far as I'm concerned, there's only one man for this job. And we're going to contact him," he polished off the last of the Coke, "tomorrow."<br /><br /><em>Tomorrow</em>?<br /><br />"Our ritual must be performed with the rising sun. Now, let me find you two some sleeping bags and an alarm clock."<br />-------------<br /><br />Freaking idiot. He could have told us a couple hours earlier, and we would have just come back, first thing in the morning.<br /><br />Beside me in the back of the car, Gwen is sleeping as I type this. The Lama's doing the same thing inside, I guess - dozing away, while we're losing precious time.<br /><br />Whatever. This entry was getting a little long, anyway.<br /><br /><br /><em><strong>Next Ish</strong>: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/07/34-plot-thickens.html">The Plot Thickens!</a></em></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-65321037240516251672010-06-21T13:47:00.000-07:002010-06-21T13:50:09.697-07:00Blog Of Note!!! (Issue Zero)<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We interrupt our regularly scheduled (yeah, okay - <em>OCCASIONALLY</em> scheduled) super-hero daring-do for the following moment of non-canon, fourth-wall busting, out-of continuity gloating and self-promotion...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>BLOG OF NOTE!!! </strong>- BooYah!! Wooot!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Seriously - its just ridiculous how happy that makes me...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For readers just tuning in, <em>Flyover City!</em> is a work of superhero themed blog fiction. I'm aiming for "<em>Nick Hornby meets Douglas Adams</em>". At Starbucks. And then they sit down to write some Justice League fan-fic. Kinda. Anyway, that's the destination - your mileage may vary.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm LOVIN' the comments and notches on the ol' sitemeter - stick around... I'm rapidly approaching the exciting conclusion!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In the words of the late, great <strong>Velvet Marauder</strong> (moment of respect, yo) -</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TB_Pg07m35I/AAAAAAAAANs/lOCxIfoE494/s1600/willemfuckyeah_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/TB_Pg07m35I/AAAAAAAAANs/lOCxIfoE494/s320/willemfuckyeah_0.jpg" /></a></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-79758139472883735092010-05-28T13:00:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:47:01.959-07:0032. Better Angels<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S_U0RtphfFI/AAAAAAAAANM/2FfNHBc0i5M/s1600/untitled.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473338401054882898" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S_U0RtphfFI/AAAAAAAAANM/2FfNHBc0i5M/s320/untitled.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 204px;" /></a>Everything was going so well... better than I could even have hoped. My plan, falling exquisitely into place; best guesses and long shots all flowing together, like pieces of an especially accommodating jigsaw puzzle.<br /><br />The other day, after my <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/03/30-heroes-just-for-one-day.html">conversation with Kyle</a>, I dug a couple of his things out from the dumpster behind his building. In particular, a short-stack of yellowing, dog-eared pulp novels dating from the 1940s - featuring none other than the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_Lama">Green Lama</a> himself. The Agency produced <em>dozens</em> of titles like these back in the day, as a way to gauge public opinion about the heroes popping up across the country. I figured maybe I'd advertise them on Craigslist, just to see what somebody would be willing to offer - but then I got around to actually <em>reading</em> them.<br /><br /><em>So</em> - the Green Lama: rich kid Jethro Dumont travels to Tibet to become a Lama, learns the secrets of the various "realms" of Buddhist cosmology, acquires mystical powers, swears to battle evil in all its forms, dons emerald jammies, <em>yada yada yada</em>.<br /><br />The Lama is one of those early ones who never bothered to keep his identity a secret. I've searched for him plenty of times, on Google <em>and</em> the Vaig database, in order to honor his request from <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/07/26-dream-sequence.html">my dream</a>. So far I've come up empty.<br /><br />But wait! According to the April, 1940 issue of Double Detective, Dumont didn't have just one alter ego. If a given situation didn't lend itself to an appearance from either an adventurous playboy or a super-powered mystic, Dumont would adopt the guise of a Buddhist priest called "Dr. Pali".<br /><br />Google - Database - Strike Two.<br /><br />But wait! - Kyle seemed pretty sure that Dumont has been living out his days somewhere just outside of Boulder. On one hand, finding a Buddhist in "The People's Republic" is a little like trying to find a needle in... a swimming pool full of needles. Or - more to the point - like trying to find a needle in a swimming pool full of thumb tacks, while the tacks are all explaining to you that they, in fact, <em>are</em> a needle, and what does it matter anyway (?) because all are one. On the other hand, with all that hot, ego-eviscerating action in town, they've at least got <em>resources</em>.<br /><br />I called around to a couple of different temples and meditation centers, even a college offering doctorates in "Integral Zen Psychology" (but they were all <em>way</em> too baked to answer any questions) Finally, I found a website for a twice-weekly meditation gathering in the basement of a YMCA, and contacted them.<br /><br />No; he had never heard of any Dr. Pali. Yes; he was absolutely sure. But when I asked him about a "penchant for green" he nearly gagged on a mouthful of herbal tea.<br /><br />"Waitaminute... you don't mean the <em>Doc</em>?"<br /><br />-----------<br /><br />So my Lama candidate is a derelict who turns up a few times a day at a downtown <a href="http://www.chipotle.com/">Chipotle</a> for food. (the voice on the phone practically spat the name of the restaurant - a <em>chain</em>. Boulder.)<br /><br />So - now all I have to do is get myself to the foot of the mountains... and wait. No problem. I'll order chips.<br /><br />Feeling sure of my quest, I stood up from my cubicle to face my last obstacle - asking Tim for the day off work. Vacations requests have to be submitted 2 weeks in advance (a lie in and of itself - everybody pretty much had their time off requests in by January first). So I'm playing the corporate equivalent of a "get out of jail free" card: the paid personal day. If this whole wellspring of info had bubbled up a few weeks ago, I would've just called in sick, but that was before the new attendance policy went into effect. If my homeless derelict turns out to be just a homeless derelict, well... it sure would be a shame to lose my stock options.<br /><br />I thought that our little misadventure at the strip club the other night would have put Tim and I on a more even footing, but he's pretty much been ignoring me outright. Even when I showed up to his office, he averted his eyes, like maybe I'd just walk on by.<br /><br />"Hey, Tim - got a sec?"<br /><br />He regarded me from behind his monitor, "Call volume's pretty high... you're not in aftercall, are you?"<br /><br />"Uh, no. Still on lunch," I lied, thinking of the customer that I currently had sitting on hold, "So... my mom ordered a bunch of furniture to be delivered tomorrow, and my dad's sciatica has been acting up. I know this is kinda last minute, but... would it be cool if I took a personal day?"<br /><br />Stupid excuse, but even in an emergency, I've never had the confidence to try and pull a dead grandma.<br /><br />"Yeah, okay" he sighed, giving an annoyed glance over my shoulder to the next intruder to walk in. I turned around to find myself face to face with Gwen.<br /><br />"I was looking for you. You wanna ride home with me tonight?"<br /><br />"Oh. Uh, yeah, for sure. I'll come find you..."<br /><br />As I was leaving, Tim called out "But, Joel... just between us, you might want to think twice about asking for any unscheduled time off, if you know what I mean."<br /><br /><em>Shit.</em> "Totally. Right. Thanks. So... back to the phones." I looked numbly at my bare wrist, giving the universal indicator of <em>'no time to talk'</em>.<br /><br />I walked out, with Gwen right on my heels. "Hey, what's up? You taking tomorrow off?"<br /><br />"Yeah. My mom's got furniture, and my dad's back is all..." see, this is why I don't do 'dead grandma'. Just what the hell is a sciatica, anyway?<br /><br />"Oh, okay," she said innocently, "you know, I could use a mental health day myself. Why don't I call in sick. We can catch a movie. Or maybe just stay in bed all day?"<br /><br />"Yeah. Well, the truth is - between you and me - I'm taking it as a mental day myself. And... there's an article I've been thinking about trying to pitch to the Westword. I was kinda planning on getting started on that..." I was stammering, clawing for the headset on my desk. Why did she have to suggest hot, all-day sex? Now she knew something was up.<br /><br />"You know - what's going on with you?" she glanced back at Tim's office, and I could see the complicated, interpersonal algebra being calculated behind those green eyes. X = "You know, you and Tim <em>both</em> have been acting funny ever since you went to that <em><a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/11/28-midnight-madness.html">strip club</a></em> the other night..."<br /><br />"Wait, whoa. Just hold on. It's not like that at all, okay? I just..."<br /><br />Now, Gwen's pretty professional. I mean, yes, compared to <em>me</em>... but beyond just that. Our interaction at work is strictly platonic. And we aren't one of those obnoxious couples that gets into huge drop-down, drag-out fights out in public - on a restaurant patio, or in the lobby of a multiplex, or whatever. But admittedly, my record's been far from spotless - and I have been acting strange lately, for obvious reasons. Obvious to me, anyway.<br /><br />I watched as the rage in her eyes was swallowed up by her cheeks, puffing them up with impending tears. I signed off my phone, defeated.<br /><br />"All right, come with me."<br /><br />I thought I'd be able to reassure her for the time being, push the conversation off until later, but it was all just too hot. Telling her she had to wait just made her push more - we ended up sitting in the stairwell for... well, let's just say 'longer than expected', and leave it at that.<br /><br />Jesus. It seems like just maintaining a secret identity requires the ability to bend the laws of physics.<br /><br />With no time to prepare, she managed to get every last bit of it out of me. I couldn't tell her about Vaig's alleged evil-doing without mentioning my <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/21-personal-entry-lilywatt-returns.html">misadventure with Lilywatt</a>, and to explain the Green Lama, I had no choice but to tell her about Kyle. (I don't know, I was hoping she would've been a <em>little</em> more surprised about that one) She knows everything except the 'prophecy of doom' regarding our fate as a couple. (my future self may be a dick, but that doesn't mean I have to be)<br /><br />When I finished, it was pretty clear that she was angry. But it was a soft anger. Like, concerned.<br /><br />"So, you just thought you were going to save the world all by yourself?"<br /><br />And then, <em>I </em>was angry. "Oh, right. <em>'Joel? A superhero? What a joke!'</em> Is that it? You know, once - just once - it would be nice if somebody in my life would actually take me seriously. Is it so wrong that I'd like to do something with my life, beyond just rotting in this place for the rest of it?"<br /><br />"All right, just stop it. Just once, I'd like <em>you</em> to have enough faith in <em>me</em> to get that I don't look at you like that. I wouldn't be with you if I thought you were just the cynical slacker persona that you wear all day at work. I think you can do whatever you want, whatever you put your mind to. But if its something that could potentially get you killed, I'd at least like to know about it."<br /><br />Huh. Yeah, I wasn't expecting that. It was sorta weird, taking the direct approach for a change, but it felt good. I kneeled down on the steps where she was sitting, so I was looking right in her eyes.<br /><br />"So. Okay, then. You understand. You see why I have to go tomorrow. I need to. It's bigger than me. Right?"<br /><br />She kissed me. And then... um, some other stuff happened, too. It just sort of flowed into it. I mean, nobody ever uses those stairs, and she was just charged, or something. Like she was matching my directness. But not like it was a power struggle or anything, more like...<br /><br />Alright, I'm not gonna go there. But it's important to mention, if just to explain where my head was at later. After (ahem). She looked really intense for a second, there, like maybe she was going to get mad again. And then she breathed in my ear: <em>"Joel?"</em><br /><br />"Yeah?"<br /><br />"I am totally going with you tomorrow."<br /><br />And my plan was going <em>so</em> well.<br /><br /><br /><em>Next Ish: </em><a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/07/33-info-dump.html"><em>The Info-Dump!</em></a>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-74882738102537112972010-04-19T11:58:00.000-07:002011-02-17T10:04:11.509-08:0031. Heroes, Just for One Day...<span style="color: yellow; font-family: arial;">To: </span><a href="mailto:joelnwyatt@gmail.com"><span style="color: yellow; font-family: arial;">joelnwyatt@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span style="color: yellow;">From: </span></span><a href="mailto:mattmilsap@secretID.net"><span style="color: yellow; font-family: arial;">mattmilsap@secretID.net</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span style="color: yellow;">Subject: Potential Hot Tip</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: #ffff66;">Our current pay scale can be found on the FAQ section of our website. All payments are made after your tip has been corroborated by our research team. SecretID.net is always ESPECIALLY interested in any tips which include PHOTOGRAPHIC and / or VIDEO evidence (for which payment is doubled)<br /><br />Keep in mind that we receive hundreds of email tips every day -- most of which never get past our fact checkers. Without providing us with at least the NAME of the "top-tier" hero you're referring to, there's no way to say how interested we may be in the information you claim to have. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #ffff66;">Regardless, our content is written entirely by our staff bloggers. There's no talk at this time of accepting submissions from freelance writers.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: yellow;">mm</span><br /><br />-------<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S_Q-yPUCevI/AAAAAAAAAM8/LfyuTlNPqgM/s1600/lunapic_126883992158443_3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473068479986957042" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S_Q-yPUCevI/AAAAAAAAAM8/LfyuTlNPqgM/s320/lunapic_126883992158443_3.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 211px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 312px;" /></a>Yeah, I know what it looks like: like I'm just another lecherous powerazzi-wannabe, without a hint conscience, or the slightest regard for national security, or for anything else that doesn't fold neatly into his wallet. But its not like that. Really.<br /><br />The thing is, I <em>do </em>consider Kyle to be a friend (the last 72 hours or so not withstanding, anyway). I know what happened - believe me, I keep going over and over it in my head. I <em>understand</em> that it can't be easy for him.<br /><br />I remember those first reports, about the impending quake in San Francisco. I knew it was going to be a Big Deal when the Agency showed up on all the news channels to comment. I've been following this stuff for long enough to know that, at it's heart, super-heroics are a covert activity, almost always performed on-the-fly and by the seat of the tights. If the Agency starts to show it's hand, it always reveals that the cards are no good.<br /><br />This wasn't the result of some mad scientist's invention, or a massive kaiju, raging its way toward the Pacific coastline. This was a natural disaster, the sort of thing that the Agency can only just begin to anticipate, but is powerless to do anything about... until the inevitable comes to pass.<br /><br />Just hours after they announced their "best of bad options" plan, the entire world sat down in front of our TV sets and laptops to watch history play out before our very eyes - a preemptive strike against the forces of nature... maybe even God Him (Her- It- That-) self. Even now, no matter how many times the footage gets replayed, I stop whatever I'm doing the second it comes on, to watch that familiar red and silver blur crash down against the surf; the fists slamming against the ocean floor, redirecting whole tectonic plates. With his super-speed tempered by all that pressure, its still some of the best footage ever captured of the Alphamale in action. Seriously, I still have it on my DVR.<br /><br />Going mano-e-mountain with the earth's crust released a wave of smaller, less-potent tremors throughout the city. With no time for a large scale evacuation, Greyraven and Darkstreak were deployed in the Argojet to help with search and rescue efforts.<br /><br />All that, of course, is well known. With all eyes on Alphamale, what <em>wasn't</em> so well known (until the release of <em>Greyraven: The Unauthorized Biography</em>) was that the intrepid duo were joined by another hero: <strong>Psia</strong>. As in "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pounds_per_square_inch">Pound-force Per Square Inch Absolute</a>". Psia was a relative unknown - twenty years old, still in training at the time of the disaster - but the Agency had high expectations for her, due to her off-the-charts Power Index Rating, for her ability to generate force-fields that could "ricochet" the force and velocity of any attack.<br /><br />At approximately 12:08 pm, a minor wave rolled beneath San Francisco's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Castro,_San_Francisco">Castro district</a> - little more than a seismic fart, by all accounts - but a ruptured gas line caused an old three story building to explode into flame. The Argojet arrived on the scene, so Greyraven could climb down a reinforced rope ladder to rescue a woman trapped on the second floor.<br /><br />Greyraven kept a few rungs beneath her, in case she slipped while making the treacherous climb - but the rescue was going according to plan. The woman had just managed to make it inside when the giant craft <em>lurched</em> suddenly, it's wing smashing down on the roof of the building, causing it to crumble down to the earth.<br /><br />The ladder appeared to be caught in the rubble, but the Argojet wasn't just tethered. The ladder was getting sucked into the ground, like a wayward strand of linguine. The 'jet continued to lose altitude, until it hovered just above the street.<br /><br />Finally, the mass of bricks that were swallowing up the ship were shoved aside to reveal the true threat - <strong>Deacon Struck</strong>.<br /><br />The hulking preacher was in the city "spreading the word of God", casting judgement on the citizens of the modern-day Sodom - as he was wont to do, back before he revealed himself to be a bonifide supervillian (though in retrospect, it's entirely possible that he was just looking for someone to "<a href="http://bluewavecanada.blogspot.com/2010/05/embattled-george-rekers-resigns-from.html">lift his luggage</a>" for the remainder of his tour). All kidding aside, the Deacon is no lightweight: all wrapped up in his cheap suit, with his neck straining against his trademark bolo tie, he's like a whole tea party's worth of body-builders. On meth. But this was back before appeals to libertarianism and "self-determination" were all the rage, so the news called his tantrum out for exactly what it was - straight-up religious persecution.<br /><br />Darkstreak, Psia, and the woman they helped rescue just barely escaped the Argojet before the Deacon tore the wings from the frame, like so much tinfoil.<br /><br />The Greyraven biography doesn't sugar coat the fact that the more experienced heroes were a less-than-ideal first line of defense. High tech weaponry can only go so far against that sort of sheer power. Greyraven and Darkstreak were outclassed; the show belonged to Psia.<br /><br />The few pictures I've found reveal a short, slight heroine - maybe 5'5", a hundred pounds and some change; always standing off to the far edge of a group photo. Green enough to still be wearing the playful smile of the happy-go-lucky mascot. Even so, she held her own in the ensuing battle, reflecting every last bit of force from the Deacon's stikes, right back at him. Greyraven and Darkstreak were relegated to little more than trying to curve the extensive collateral damage.<br /><br />With the fight rapidly escalating, Greyraven swung down though the cracked windshield of the Argojet and climbed into the cockpit, in a desperate attempt to train the craft's missles onto the rampaging Deacon.<br /><br />And then... victory. Deacon Struck lay prone on his back, pinned beneath the gigantic semi that was deflected by Psia's force field. Darkstreak joined her in front of the 'jet, ready to pounce. He'd been around long enough be cautiously anticipating round two - but the truck remained still.<br /><br />The so-called superhero code against killing is a sticky subject; a thin, threadbare line that's routinely ignored in all manner of situations. Debated by pundits, the Agency's legal team, and more than once, among the heroes themselves. Sometimes right there, with their skin still burning from the heat of battle.<br /><br />The hydrolics on the Argojet hissed as they moved into line of sight with their target. According to bystanders, Psia was distracted by Darkstreak's shouting at Greyraven to stop. That was all the time it took for the Deacon free himself from the underneath the semi... to bear down on Psia, breaking her neck before she could generate another force field.<br /><br />Minutes later, Alphamale arrived to make the capture of Deacon Struck his second victory of the day, locking him away in a maximum security prison, <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2008/11/so-aside-from.html">where he remained until his escape</a> a few months ago. Once again, the world's greatest hero saves the day.<br /><br />For everyone but Psia. And Kyle.<br /><br />So I get it. I get it <em>now</em> in a way that I never could have before. But the more I think about it, the more his ambivalence just pisses me off. I mean, here he is, with all these ways that he could make a real change to all the Very Bad Things going on out there - and he just turns his back to the world. Where does that leave us? Where does it leave <em>me</em>? - just one more asshole going about his dead end job - headed for a marriage that may very well be destined to fail. If Kyle's just throwing in the towel, cashing in his chips, what hope is there for a guy like me?<br /><br />Well... I've agonized over this long and hard. Searched what I guess some people would call "my soul". And I've come to a decision: I'm <em>not</em> going to keep pursuing SecretID. Something's come up today that's given me an idea. It's not much, probably just a dead end... but at least it's something.<br /><br />And no, it's not just because "mm" was such a dick in his email.<br /><br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/05/32-better-angels.html">Better Angels!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-14598747932822960002010-03-15T07:36:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:45:02.261-07:0030. Back to Work...<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S5qg0nqvU-I/AAAAAAAAAMg/16ANr_Bitfg/s1600-h/retinal_scan.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447843525119923170" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S5qg0nqvU-I/AAAAAAAAAMg/16ANr_Bitfg/s320/retinal_scan.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 181px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 262px;" /></a><br />This morning was a historic occasion in my life; maybe not the sort of thing they keep a card for at the <a href="http://www.hallmark.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/home%7c10001%7c10051%7c-1">Hallmark</a> store (though if they do, I'm sure I've got one from my mom waiting in my mailbox at home) - but historic, nonetheless. For once, I was actually looking <em>forward</em> to coming back in to work, for a return to normalcy, devoid of any turbulence: an uninterrupted eight-and-a-half hours that I could navigate entirely on autopilot.<br /><br />Instead, I got a fleet of trucks parked outside the office, and a scene of sheer, unbridled cluster-fuckery in the front lobby. Construction crews were loading huge boxes of equipment through the front entrance, moving right past the security desk, paying us 9-to-fivers all the attention that a worker bee gives to a common house fly - while we, on the other hand, were subjected to waiting in line in order to "sign in" - but only <em>after</em> our badges were inspected by a real live human being.<br /><br />At least, I <em>think</em> they're human. Judging by the stoic glares, the crisp, no-nonsense uniforms, and the way they just stood there, like they were struggling to maintain their balance under the weight of their hulking shoulders - they could've been androids, for all I know. I wonder what they did with Leroy, the elderly guard who used to take time out from his rounds to tell dirty jokes to all the women on staff.<br /><br />My badge thoroughly scrutinized, I was instructed, along with my fellow phone-jockeys, to wait outside an unmarked door beyond the service elevator, where we were left to exchange nervous looks, and theories about <em>layoffs </em>and <em>severance packages</em>, until we were called in, one by one.<br /><br />When the list of names had dwindled down to the ass-end of the alphabet, a stocky woman poked her head from behind the door. She raised her eyebrows at me, causing the mullet-perm atop her head to slide back an inch or so on her skull. "<em>Wyatt, Joel</em>" -- a statement as opposed to a question, letting me know I shouldn't expect much in the way of interpersonal communication.<br /><br />"Badge, please," she said when the heavy door shut behind me. She glanced at it for only a few seconds, before tossing it unceremoniously into a waste basket. "Congratulations, Joel. It looks like you'll be continuing your employment here at Vaig Communications. Come with me..." She walked through a door behind her desk, leading down an unfinished hallway.<br /><br />"Wait, where are we going?" I asked, with no other choice but to follow her.<br /><br />"New security precautions," she said. She stopped short at the room she was about to enter to nod to yet <em>another</em> door at the end of the hall. "Unless you'd <em>like</em> to go and discuss 'outplacement opportunities' with HR..."<br /><br />If the whole scenario hadn't just dropped out of the sky, first thing on a cold Monday morning, I might have had the presence of mind to do the old Jack Benny bit: hand-on-chin -- <em>'I'm thinking, I'm thinking'</em>. She's probably not the type to appreciate classic comedy, anyway.<br /><br />Sitting at the center of the room was what looked like an optometrist's exam chair. The Mullet stepped behind a console and said "I'll be mapping your retina this morning. New security provisions, since there's going to be so many new people moving in and out of the building for the next few weeks. Go ahead and have a seat, please."<br /><br />My questions were interrupted by a steel mask, fitting itself automatically over my eyes. From somewhere deep beneath our feet, the earth let out a low moan. Construction on the Hypercollider had begun.<br /><br />-----------<br /><br />I arrived at my desk a half hour later, with a packet outlining our new policies and procedures under my arm. Otherwise, the unspoken expectation was that we'd all get right to work, just like it was any other day. In spite of the doubled call volume. In spite of the newly abandoned cubicles, with their action figures and rosary beads and other fetishes gathering dust, looking for all the world like the roadside shrines along the highway after a fatal car accident. Gwen stayed at her apartment last night, so the first time I saw her was when she passed by me halfway through my first call, acknowledging me with a resigned shrug. Tim wouldn't even look in my direction. Truth be told, I was just happy to see them there at all. Yeah, Tim, too.<br /><br />When my lunch hour rolled around I couldn't find either one of them. I didn't have time to go shopping over the weekend, so I hovered around the break room, contemplating whether to swipe a yogurt or frost bitten Hot Pocket from the fridge. I decided not to risk it, in case it had been rigged with a retinal scanner.<br /><br />With only 45 minutes worth of break remaining, I made a decision: I needed to take care of some unfinished business.<br /><br />---------<br /><br />Of <em>course</em> I tried to call Kyle on Sunday. Tried and failed. I figured I'd be harder to ignore if I was pounding on his front door. When I rode up the alley to his apartment, he was standing outside - loading a pile of boxes from the ground into an open U-Haul.<br /><br />"Hey, what's up, you get a new place?" I asked, knowing full well what his answer would be.<br /><br />He looked at me like I was there to deliver a fresh, piping hot case of herpes. "I was stupid, Joel," he said, shoving a box to the back of the truck, "I thought I could start over with at least the identity I was born with. It was a dumb mistake." He lowered his voice, "I called the Agency this morning to help me with relocation. Day after tomorrow, I'm outta here."<br /><br />Watching him there, in his baseball cap and flip flops, it was hard to work up a passionate argument. In the history of mankind, no one - and certainly no <em>man</em> - has ever shown any sign of heroism while wearing flip flops. "So that's it, then? You're just gonna change your name, and become somebody else?"<br /><br />"Why not? It worked for Spliff..."<br /><br />"You're gonna turn your back - <em>again</em>, when it's clear that there's something big going down, right now, here in Denver. And you think that's gonna make all your problems just disappear."<br /><br />"Oh, trust me, I'm well aware that's not gonna happen," he said, cutting me off, "whether or not I'm spending my nights prowling the rooftops in spandex and a utility belt. I'm done. I just wanna ride my bike, pull some tags, make some deliveries, and live my life. <em>Finally</em>. And, Joel... seriously? I hardly think you're in a position to preach to me about doing anything other than that."<br /><br />He slammed down the door to the truck and stormed into his apartment - neglecting to invite me in.<br /><br />I stood around for a minute, trying to look like I belonged there to anyone who happened to see me out their window. That's when I noticed a box sitting alongside the dumpster, filled with the sort of flotsam that gets thrown aside during a move; old CD's, magazines. I rifled through and grabbed a couple things that looked interesting. It's not like he'll miss them, anyway.<br /><br />I got back to work twenty minutes late, leaving me with only two remaining "strikes", according to the new attendance policy. Great.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/04/31-heroes-just-for-one-day.html">Heroes, Just for One Day!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-46056728585095523032009-12-14T12:36:00.000-08:002010-09-20T07:44:33.921-07:0029. Showdown at Last Call...<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S0zHlCXaueI/AAAAAAAAALY/B-NNfZOTrw8/s1600-h/cbrowns.gif"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425931090178783714" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/S0zHlCXaueI/AAAAAAAAALY/B-NNfZOTrw8/s320/cbrowns.gif" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 213px;" /></a><br />Friday night, I sat (Crouched? Okay, <em>cowered, </em>is more like it) helplessly, while <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/11/28-midnight-madness.html">a man was gunned down</a> not ten feet away from me. On Saturday, I was back out on the town. Just - you know - out for a casual drink with a few of my closest friends.<br /><br />Some weekend.<br /><br />I would say I didn't sleep at all between the two excursions, except for the dreams, bleeding together with the dawn as it poured in through my window: a recurring loop of strippers and super-heroes, cheesy R&B and dead bodies. During a split second of lucidity, I found myself longing for the return of that ethereal <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/07/26-dream-sequence.html">green glow</a>. No such luck. It's weird, with everything I've been through lately, all the seemingly impossible, physics-defying things I've seen, none of it has matched the visceral, blunt-object impact of watching gravity's resounding victory over a previously living body.<br /><br />I'm not sure - was that "maudlin" or "melancholy"? Cut me some slack, this whole sincerity thing is new for me.<br /><br />The worst part is that I didn't even get to wallow in a post traumatic haze by gorging on <a href="http://www.lincolnsnacks.com/">Fiddle Faddle </a>and watching infomercials all day long. Had to keep an eye on the local news stations. Watching the footage on Channel 9 - seeing events that are still pulsating through my nervous system - it felt like an out-of-body experience. Lilywatt (who had managed to switch into her uniform) handled the denials, half-truths and "no comments" with all the finesse of a politician, stating that her only mission was to track down a lone, super-powered fugitive. Is that same smoke and mirrors routine what covered up my presence at the at the scene of the crime? ...or is that just me being self-centered? It's hard to keep track.<br /><br />For his part, Vaig managed to keep from being caught on tape. The reporter said he's "cooperating with police", and read an excerpt from the official statement, which insisted that the victim was not an employee, that the killing was an act of self-defense, and Vaig Enterprises would be launching their <em>own </em>investigation into whether the individual was involved in some sort of assassination attempt. On <em>him -</em> Vaig.<br /><br />Which is to say, the victim was shot <em>and</em> thrown under a bus.<br /><br />It was sometime in the afternoon when I got a call from Gwen, which I let go to voicemail. It took a second call, and then a <em>third</em> (coming hot on the heels of her lengthy message) before it dawned on me that she had obviously caught wind of last night; that I was going to have to figure out something more clever than, <em>oh, the usual. Guy stuff.</em> I called her back to let her know I was fine, that I had left before the action went down, since Tim couldn't get in the door. I made a mental note to be sure and square my alibi with him on Monday.<br /><br />I used to think that that would be the hardest part, keeping a secret identity <em>secret</em>; maintaining a double life. To be honest, it's really not that much of a trick.<br />____________________<br /><br />Gwen and I sat in a dim corner booth at <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/charlie-browns-bar-and-grill-denver">Charlie Brown's Bar & Grill</a>, filling up as much of the spot as we could, as larger groups hovered above us in search for a place to sit. The location was Spliff's pick; busier than I would've liked, but I was just happy to be back on my home turf, away from the tool shed that is downtown proper.<br /><br />"God! It's nice to blow off some steam after that hell-week," Gwen mused, polishing off her second vodka-cranberry. "maybe <em>I </em>should go look for some strippers..."<br /><br />"I could ask the piano player if he does lap-dances," I replied in a lame attempt at humor.<br /><br />"So... were any of them cute?" Her comments and questions were meant as nothing more than playful. She was in a great mood, actually; clearly anticipating a night of debauchery.<br /><br />"I dunno, I guess." I recalled my one-time crush on Lilywatt, fueled by endless magazine articles, and pictures taken by the Powerazzi. It made me think of those times, when you get the "exotic dancer" who tells you about the restraining order on her ex-boyfriend, or their troubles paying for school.<br /><br />It was another hour before Kyle and Spliff showed up. They walked through the crowd, stopping for hugs and high-fives, displaying the sort of enthusiasm you show to someone you actually remember from "the other night".<br /><br />"Sorry we're late, Kyle was in rare form over at the <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/404-club-denver">404</a>," Spliff said, having beaten Kyle to the table. He made a show of rolling his eyes, but there was a hint of real exasperation in it.<br /><br />"No worries," I said. Before Gwen released him from her friendly hug, I excused myself to get the next round.<br /><br />I placed my order and waited, half for the drinks, half for Kyle to finish holding court with his "groupies". When he finally noticed me, I pulled him away as quickly as possible, to avoid a round of pointless introductions.<br /><br />"Been too long, Joel," he said, transitioning seamlessly from the last conversation to this one, "What's been goin' on? Spliff said, like, you're getting all married now, or something?"<br /><br />"Yeah, uh, we're doing well, you know?" <em>Seriously?</em> Spliff's butt-hurtedness at my absence will have to be addressed at some other time. "Look, at some point tonight, I need to talk to you for a few minutes."<br /><br />"Fuck and yes. That's what I'm here for. Thanks." he said, taking Gwen's drink from my hand and pouring it down his throat.<br /><br />"<em>Alone</em>,"<br /><br />He pulled the drink from between his lips and stood up straight, attempting to look serious. Or at least something other than completely wasted.<br /><br />"See, I had this really weird dream the other night. Maybe it's nothing, but... the Green Lama was in it. And I think he was looking for <em>you</em>."<br /><br />"Wait," his expression hardened, "wait, seriously? Because I had a dream, too. Was he wearing green leather chaps?" Ten full seconds passed before he burst into laughter.<br /><br />It was a long night, with the four of us squeezed into our booth, Kyle regaling us with tales of difficult deliveries he's made, or of drunken exploits, with Spliff filling in the blanks when the details got murky. And, in spite of myself, I did manage to relax a little. I wanted this to be what the night was all about; just a couple of friends who didn't have anything more pressing to talk about, even if we wanted to. The gin helped, too.<br /><br /><strong>Last Call</strong>: Gwen was leaning in close to Spliff as they talked, an unasked-for (though appreciated) favor to him, to gain the attention of a girl across the room. I had switched to drinking the coffee they keep behind the bar, an especially potent brew that's been sitting on a hot plate since the restaurant first opened. I noticed that Kyle's conversation with the bartender appeared to be heating up, so I took the opportunity to corner him.<br /><br />"Dude, come on," he was moaning, "just one more. Isn't that what 'last call' is all about? Otherwise they'd just call it 'Get the Fuck Out'."<br /><br />The bartender didn't laugh; wasn't even facing us. I leaned casually against a stool to try and calm Kyle down. "Don't worry about it. We've got to go soon, anyway. Hey, so, I want to ask you... what do you think is going on right now, with the whole Vaig thing last night, and Lilywatt being in town?"<br /><br />"Oh, man... what, you too? You're just like Spliff..."<br /><br />I noticed the bar back come out of the kitchen, mop in hand. Time was short. "No, man. I'm not. This is serious. Look, would it make a difference, if I told you that I know some things myself?"<br /><br />Now, I've known Kyle for a while now, and I get it: the guy's in great shape. I've seen him execute an effortless jack-knife dive toward solid concrete, only to land on his feet with barely a bounce. But I never saw the intensity that one would expect from somebody who had been in his line of work... until right at that minute. And when he spoke, there wasn't animosity in his voice - just the clear, pure tones of a seer; someone who, when he looked out at the world around him, saw nothing more than a bunch of quarks and electrons.<br /><br />"<em>Dude</em>. What the <em>fuck</em> do you know?"<br /><br />That's not to say I didn't take offense at it, of course. On the contrary, it was a challenge, a gauntlet lying at my feet, alongside some pistachio shells, and a discarded napkin with a phone number scrawled on it. So I felt (at the time, anyway) that I had no choice but to tell him. Everything but my moniker, which I'm well aware puts me up there with <a href="http://pdsh.wikia.com/wiki/Fighting_Yank">Fighting Yank</a> and <a href="http://pdsh.wikia.com/wiki/Rainbow_Boy">Rainbow Boy</a>, in the running for "Most Unfortunate Code-Name".<br /><br />I finished my sloppy, drunken rant by saying something about superpowers, hoping to table the question of whether I seriously thought I had any; confident that he, of all people, could see where I was coming from on that count.<br /><br />His face shifted to pity, with a little fear mixed in. "You don't get it. You just have absolutely no idea. Alright. Remember how you told me about when you saw Greyraven <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2008/12/11-first-time-i-saw-superhero.html">when you were a kid</a>? How he threw his grappling hook up onto the bottom of that <em>speeding helicopter</em>, and it whisked him up into the air? We could go over to 24 hour fitness, right now, pick up the biggest body builder there, and have him pull the same stunt... you know what would happen?"<br /><br />I just sat there, stupidly, excited to hear the answer.<br /><br />"He'll dislocate his fucking shoulder! That's <em>if</em> his arm doesn't get yanked out of it's socket altogether. Jesus, Joel, all the superheroes, all of us, we have access to what the 'super-scientists' refer to as the Malphysical "Bandwidth". Me, Greyraven. Even <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2008/11/7-greyraven-vs-ts-k.html"><em>Sureshot</em></a>... I think. Nobody knows why. Some people say it's genetic, a condition that comes out when you're exposed to whatever scientific experiment or bolt of lightning that your powers end up mimicking. Me... I just think it's a great big cosmic fluke. The sort of dumb, random luck that allows one person's spine to fuse back together, <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/17-personal-entry.html">after its been hacked in half by a sword</a>, when somebody else can have their life taken away by a stray bullet. But I do know this: it doesn't come from doing a couple extra sets of pull ups, or reading up on your hero history."<br /><br />He let this sink in, before his expression shifted once again - this time, to something sinister. Vindictive. "The Powerazzi doesn't tell you everything, you know. Here's one little tidbit that I'm sure you're not aware of: me and Psia? We were one <em>'hot item'</em>. Real love, man. Brad and Angelina stuff." He spat the words sarcastically, like he was reading them from a supermarket tabloid.<br /><br />Yeah. <em>Oh, Shit.</em><br /><br />The lights in the bar grew brighter; I saw Gwen put on her jacket and walk off to the restroom. I'm not sure whether Kyle saw Spliff approach us, or if he would've cared, either way. "You know, when you have these powers, these abilities that aren't even subject to the laws of nature... you know what that makes you?"<br /><br />"Fucking awesome?" Spliff said, trying to help.<br /><br />"A God. I don't wanna be a God. I just want another beer." And with that, he set a pistachio down on the bar, and flicked it with his finger.<br /><br />From the sound, you would have thought the bottle of Jack had shattered. Instead, it just dropped to its side and rolled down onto the floor.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2010/03/30-heroes-just-for-one-day.html">Back to Work!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-18886826913312466782009-11-11T10:00:00.000-08:002010-09-20T07:43:52.257-07:0028. Midnight Madness!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SvBGbyxXQkI/AAAAAAAAAJk/CSCTwPqKbmc/s1600-h/nehru.gif"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399893396516454978" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SvBGbyxXQkI/AAAAAAAAAJk/CSCTwPqKbmc/s320/nehru.gif" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 228px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 158px;" /></a>Why does everything have to be so complicated?<br /><br />I never even <em>saw</em> Gwen for the rest of the day on Friday. I got one text from her in the afternoon, asking if I wanted to wait around for a ride home; I just sort of forgot about it, since I knew I was going out anyway. Seriously, though, it's not as if I was actively ignoring her or anything.<br /><br />So about an hour after I finished my shift, Gwen was leaving, and she saw me making small talk with Tim in his office, where Mr. Vaig - <em>Alton </em>- whatever - was supposed to meet us when he finished his press conference. She asked what I was still doing there, and <em>I told her</em>, because, look, it's not like it was some big secret. I was gonna call and let her know about it... eventually. I mean, I didn't even know what we were doing, or how late I would be. So she acts all impressed, but sort of put off by the whole thing, too, until - long story short - Tim winds up asking her if she'd like to join us.<br /><br />Which... okay. Fine. It's just - the invitation coming from Tim makes <em>me</em> look bad. Besides, I was expecting maybe an upscale meal, a couple of drinks on the company dime, but with Gwen coming along, the whole thing would turn into an event. She even went back to her apartment for a shower and a change of clothes, which meant she started questioning why I wasn't doing the same thing. This is Denver, for chrissakes - I was <em>wearing </em>a button-up shirt. Tucked in, even.<br /><br />An hour passed without any word from the boss-man, so I got a <a href="http://www.westword.com/">Westword</a> from outside to kill a little time. When I got back to his office, Tim was getting off the phone.<br /><br />"So, he's on his way. He said he had to <em>change</em>." He started mussing about with his shirt again, after all that time I spent talking him down. I told him not to worry about it, that I was sure we were dressed fine.<br /><br />"Yeah, I guess," he said uncomfortably, "but the thing is, um... well, you're gonna need to call Gwen. Mr. Vaig just said - 'no girlfriends'."<br /><br />"Aw, shit... are you kidding me?"<br /><br />"I know, I know. But he sounded pretty firm. He wants us out front in ten minutes."<br /><br />I spent the ride downstairs tentatively fingering my cell. Once we were out of the elevator, I got a couple yards distance from Tim so I could make my call.<br /><br />"I'm really sorry. I would have figured that Tim cleared it with him first."<br /><br />"Well, not your call, I guess. Tell Tim I said thanks, anyway."<br /><br />Great. I made a joke that she probably wasn't missing out on much, that I was gonna be way out of my element, without a tie, or one of those shiny shirts like all the guys on "<a href="http://abc.go.com/shows/the-bachelor">The Bachelor</a>" wear. She told me not to worry about it, and we agreed we'd see each other the next night. I was so relieved by how cool she was with the whole thing that I had disconnected before realizing "the next night", I was supposed to be getting together with Kyle.<br /><br />I was debating whether or not I should call her back when an immaculate black limo pulled up to the curb. It didn't occur to me that it was for us, until the chauffeur stepped around to open the rear door.<br /><br />I didn't realize they still dressed like that. The little hat was pulled down low, but I could've sworn I recognized him. In the uniform, he looked a little like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kato_(The_Green_Hornet)">Kato</a>, from that old masked hero drama on TV.<br /><br />I figured the vehicle was just to take us to wherever our destination was - imagine my surprise when I saw Vaig himself sitting there, illuminated by the pulsating LED lights, with a half-empty tumbler in hand. He was still wearing the Nehru jacket from earlier, but it was now complimenting what were no doubt a pair of $200 jeans.<br /><br />"What's up, boys? Come in, come in! Get yourselves a drink." The trademark menace in his voice was softened by a barely detectable slur.<br /><br />Tim introduced me to Mr. Vaig ("Alton, <em>please</em>,"). It took a minute for recognition set in.<br /><br />"Ah, yes, I do believe we already met; the stairwell, correct? Now, you realize that in our Manhattan office, we have a state of the art security system which recognizes each of our employee's DNA? That way, if anyone finds his way into an area which he's not authorized for, he'll be paralyzed instantly by one of the 50 million nanobots floating invisibly through the air, until he can be interrogated later by a member of my security personnel."<br /><br />I nodded cautiously.<br /><br />"So, why is it, that here in Denver, I can't even walk through the halls of my own company without a badge? I mean, come on! It's like a hall pass. What is this, fucking middle school?" He burst into laughter. "Am I right?"<br /><br />The limo lurched forward, right as Tim was pouring his scotch and soda. And then, if I'm remembering this right - I think (<em>think</em>) that Alton Vaig leaned in close to me for one of those shoulder-bumping bro-hugs. I don't know, I may have dreamt that part.<br /><br />"I really appreciate you being there for me, man..."<br /><br />We drove around downtown for a while, Tim pointing out landmarks like a tour guide. I'm not really sure whether he was trying to match Vaig's buzz or just drown out his own nerves, but he was good and drunk within the next 30 minutes.<br /><br />After we passed Coors Field, Vaig polished off his third drink since we got in the car. "Well, seeing as baseball season is over, perhaps you gentlemen would be up for some entertainment that's a bit more - shall we say - <em>illicit</em>?"<br />_______________________<br /><br />As I've said before, I believe Denver's reputation as a "cow town" is unfounded. That said, if you're looking for a posh <em>destination,</em> where you can sit in the dark on animal-print cushions with your knees up to your chin while you drink overpriced martinis, you may be happier in an area code <em>other</em> than the 303. I mean, we <em>have</em> all that bullshit here, it's just that we never look more provincial than when we're trying to act all "big city" - more often than not, in some strip mall alongside a P.F. Chang's.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.ptsshowclub.com">Diamond Cabaret</a> is Denver's premier strip-joint-steakhouse-with-a-nightclub-on-top, which means they cater to not just travelling salesmen and creepy politicians, but also the average douchebag wearing too much cologne and hair product, who can stumble downstairs for an eye full once they've figured out they bought a bad batch of roofies.<br /><br />I have to admit, I felt a little bad for Tim. Sure, he had a few, but I think more than anything, the doorman - mad with the sort of power that people feel when they're wearing a bad suit and one of those secret-service earpieces - just didn't like the look of him. Regardless, Tim was told to walk around the block a few times, sober up, and come back later. I would've been more than happy to find someplace else (seeing as I didn't really want to be there at all) but Vaig had made up his mind.<br /><br />So there I was, watching the drunk CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation stuff hundred dollar bills into every g-string that happened by, the "chauffeur" standing just behind us.<br /><br />"Uh, thanks," I said, as he paid for another round of drinks, "you sure you got these?"<br /><br />"Please. What do we pay you people? Fifty, sixty thousand a year? It's the least I can do."<br /><br />Yeah, if I was the sort of guy that made that kind of money, I probably never would've found myself wrapped up in all this stuff in the first place. Still, I recognized this as maybe the only window of opportunity I would get the whole night - opened just a crack, but there it was.<br /><br />"So, uh, yeah... about that. With the hypercollider and all, I bet that's going to open up all sorts of new jobs."<br /><br />"Hmm? Oh, yes, a few, I suppose."<br /><br />"Oh. So, then, did you design it yourself?"<br /><br />"In it's present form; but the potential has been there for some time, since the invention of the original '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_ray">death ray</a>'." he said, a faraway look crossing his face, "Make no mistake: the collider wasn't reverse engineered from technology left behind by an alien race. It wasn't brought back in time, from some far off era. It is the product of purely human ingenuity. I'll tell you something, Joel: when you dabble on the fringes of science, they'll call you a 'mad doctor', or worse: a <em>'super villain'</em>. Oh, I know - you've heard all the viscous rumors regarding my motives. That comes with the territory for any self-made man. But if there's one thing I simply cannot abide, it's being called <em>super</em>... are you going to get that?"<br /><br />I had been ignoring the insistent buzzing of my cellphone, reluctant to interrupt Vaig's stream of consciousness. A text from Tim: he was still downstairs, arguing with the doorman, which Vaig found to be nothing less than an affront to his status.<br /><br />"Ridiculous! He's going to miss out on all the fun!" Then, to the chauffeur: "Handle it, will you?"<br /><br />"I'm dealing with it as we speak, Mr. Vaig," he said, confidently... but he remained standing, exactly where he was.<br /><br />"Now, Joel, we're not here to discuss work. Off the clock and off the record. Look; it would appear that one of the dancers has taken an interest in you."<br /><br />I sort of appreciated the confirmation; one particular redhead, wearing a gilded, neo-Victorian mask had, in fact, been staring me down for the last few minutes. She caught my eye, motioning me to join her.<br /><br />"Ah, yes," Vaig said, handing me a wad of bills, "go on now, enjoy yourself!"<br /><br />Reluctantly (yes, <em>really</em>), I did as he said. When I approached her, she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me to a small, personal table at the other side of the stage.<br /><br />She straddled me and began to dance. She looked me right in the eye, but conspicuously, there was no smile on her face, not even a paid-for expression of lust. "Joel!" She whispered, "What the hell are you doing here?"<br /><br />I was speechless... until she brushed her hand on the light fixture alongside the table, delivering a tiny electric shock to my cheek with her fingertip.<br /><br />"Me? What are you doing here?"<br /><br />"All part of the job," she said, more pissed than embarrassed. After all, her <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/03/15-giant-monster-attack.html">usual togs</a> are no less revealing than what she was presently wearing. "I've been tracking his every move since he came into town. Have you found anything out?"<br /><br />"Uh, not really. I don't know, he seems to be an ass man..."<br /><br />"Funny. Are you going anywhere after this?"<br /><br />"It's possible, I guess. Right now, one of our 'party' can't even get in the door. The chauffeur was supposed to go down and something about it, but..." I nodded in their direction, where the chauffeur remained with eyes shut, as if in deep concentration.<br /><br />There was a flash of recognition in her face: without a word, she dropped from the table and leaped up onto the stage. The dancer there, halted mid-grind, didn't even have time to fire off a poisonous glare before Lilywatt unsheathed the electrified coils from her tall PVC boots.<br /><br />The chauffeur's eyes snapped open, his mouth twisting into a vicious smile. Suddenly, three "clones" of him appeared, one of him standing at each corner of the stage.<br /><br />(Yeah, I know. What can I say? I must've been too nervous to realize it...)<br /><br />Ignoring the copies, Lilywatt flung her whips toward the originator; one caught his ankle, and sent him flipping backwards onto a table. Vaig had vanished from the room.<br /><br />The chauffeur was still conscious - his three clones had made their way on stage. She grabbed onto one of their necks and rammed his head onto the pole, then threw the body into another, sending them both down onto the floor. Behind her, the chauffeur's fourth clone appeared (his mission downstairs <em>completed</em> - or just interrupted?)<br /><br />She was taken by surprise, the two clones bearing down on her, kicking her weapons away. She slipped out from underneath them and grabbed on the pole, swinging around it just like a professional, kicking them both from the stage.<br /><br />She released the bar and dropped down in front of the chauffeur. He blocked her lightning-quick sicsor-kick, and delivered one of his own to her chin, sending her flying back a few feet from punching range.<br /><br />She recovered quickly - standing up just in time to see his sweeping, deliberate arm movements, the opening and closing of his hands. The defeated clones vanished, only to be replaced by four more, ready to attack...<br /><br />Suddenly, the grating techno blaring from the abandoned deejay booth was drowned out; the air in the room hollowed with the sound of two dull <em>pops</em>. I lifted my eyes up over the surface of the table in time to see the clones blink out of existence. The chauffeur's lifeless body was crumpled on the floor.<br /><br />Alton Vaig was still holding the gun as he faced Lilywatt. She looked around at the few of us who remained, glancing at me only a second longer, before shouting "All of you, out of here! NOW!"<br />______________________<br /><br />I found Tim outside. He told me how the chauffeur had been roughing up the door man, but disappeared into thin air before doing too much damage (down <em>there</em>, anyway). I talked him into sneaking away with me, convincing him that we didn't want to risk being "accomplices", or saying anything that we'd have to explain to Vaig, later. He agreed, and we said our goodbyes in an alley outside the club.<br /><br />I walked home to my empty apartment, threw up a couple of times, and slept until noon - ignoring the calls I got from Gwen.<br /><br />She'll get the story when she picks me up to go out tonight, anyway.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/11/29-showdown-at-last-call.html">Showdown at Last Call!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-58364314335952601872009-10-30T10:00:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:42:20.276-07:0027. A Very Special Guest!Having woken up at the crack of my ass, I watched the sun come up, revealing Capitol Hill streets covered in a crisp-ity, crunch-ity layer of ice. Too cold to bike, so I caught a ride in to work with Gwen. She starts her shift about an hour after me, so we stopped off for coffee to split the difference in time. No big deal; everybody comes in late when the weather's bad.<br /><br />Usually, snow days are sort of mellow - especially if its a Friday. Lots of jeans, sweatshirts, and the managers will bring in a few dozen donuts for those of us who live downtown, and can make it into work. But I could tell something was different: tense, more "buttoned up" than usual. Once we walked in the door, I didn't see Gwen all morning. Anyone higher up the food chain than us phone jockeys was being shuffled back and forth through a continuous series of meetings.<br /><br />At about 9:30, I took my first unofficial break of the day. I placed my caller on hold to check on the status of their "Trouble Ticket", and snuck into the bathroom to call Kyle on my cell. No answer, just the default voice mail greeting. I didn't bother to leave a message.<br /><br />I was killing a few more seconds, humping up against a urinal when Tim rushed in with a gym bag and started tugging off his shirt. No greeting, not even his usual "T.G.I.(mf'n)<strong><em>F</em></strong>.!" He was white as a sheet.<br /><br />"Hey, Tim," I said, zipping up, "everything okay?"<br /><br />He was stuffing a wrinkled dress shirt into a pair of jeans that still showed a of hint acid wash. I'm sure they must have fit at some point.<br /><br />"All hands on deck, man. Wigs are here today."<br /><br />Wigs?<br /><br />"<em>Big</em> ones." he clarified, pushing neck fat out of his collar with a tie. "I'd get on the phones if I were you..."<br /><br />I followed him out and headed back to my cube. I put a note on Mr. Davidson's file that his call dropped, and got back on the phone. I tried Kyle a few more times while I was in after-call.<br /><br />I spent lunch on the net, catching up on the buzz about Dr. Macguffin. Lots of speculation on the powerrazi sites, but no official word of an investigation from the Agency; just a few quotes from random heroes who've worked with him over the years.<br /><br />In the afternoon, for my second unscheduled break, I snuck into the stairwell between four and the corporate offices on five, and called Kyle, <em>again</em>: shitty reception, but great for privacy, because, hey, as long as the building keeps from going up in a ball of flames, who's gonna use the <em>stairs</em>?<br /><br />"Hello?" a woman's voice. I check to make sure I hit the right number, before hearing a male on the other end.<br /><br />"Gimme that... yeah, what's up?"<br /><br />"Hey, Kyle? Dude, this is Joel," I'm not sure, but I could've <em>sworn</em> I heard two distinct female laughs, "I guess I don't have to ask how <em>you'r</em>e doing..."<br /><br />"Hey, man... long time no see. What's goin' on?"<br /><br /><em>I had this totally crazy dream last night, and You Were In It.</em> Yeah. "Uh, nothing much. I just... I don't know, haven't talked in a while, and wanted to get together with you."<br /><br />"Yeah, I've been out and about. What's your excu..." Stupid cement walls, "hey, this call may drop... you wanna meet up tonight?"<br /><br />"Ah, I don't know, I was up pretty late last... me and Spliff are... drinks tomor... want in?"<br /><br />From up the steps, behind me, I heard a door open. Great.<br /><br />"Uh, yeah, I guess that'll work. Look, I'll call you tomorrow." I disconnected the call, standing to let the person behind me pass, prepared to avoid any eye contact - but by the time I turned, we were face-to-face.<br /><br />Or "eyes-to-chin", is more like it.<br /><br />Exquisitely tailored suit, Nehru jacket hugging against dense muscle. And that window's peak, high above a craggy, furrowed brow. Practically a Mohawk. Anyone else would've just shaved it off. Too cliche, I guess.<br /><br />I knew I had to say something, just to cut the tension, keep me from falling to my knees.<br /><br />"Fuck,"<br /><br />"May I pass?" he said, in his mannered baritone.<br /><br />"Yah! <em>Yes</em>. Alton Vaig... Mr. Vaig. Yes. Sir!"<br /><br />He moved past, sending me stumbling back down onto a step. I waited, catching my breath before I went back to my floor. The last thing I needed was for him to think I was following him. But when I got to my door, he just stood there, with his back to me. I considered running back up the steps.<br /><br />He mumbled something about <em>retinal scan units</em>, then: "I don't suppose you have your badge. I seem to have forgotten mine."<br /><br />I moved awkwardly around him in order to beep the door. He grabbed the knob before I could get it for him.<br /><br />The entire floor was dark. More-or-less, anyway. As dark as you can get by covering ceiling-to-floor windows with cheap industrial blinds, anyway. Across the room, Gwen stood awkwardly among the "wigs", in her casual Friday-wear. Tim was on a P.A. system - swaggering around like it was a karaoke machine at happy hour.<br /><br />"... alright, boys and girls, as you read in your Corporate Communications email this morning, we do have a very special guest here today. So without any further ado..."<br /><br /><em>Et cetera.</em> I just barely dodged the spotlight when it dropped down onto him.<br /><br />Wild cheers from the audience. Yeah, even me. You just get swept up in it. I figured something out, too: you don't get to be an all-powerful, super-criminal mastermind by being a total dick, y'know? Not on the surface, anyway. Even though though he was all business - discussing the future of his multi-million dollar empire - he was, without a doubt, downright genial.<br />_____________________<br /><br />So: as pretty much everyone knows by now, the world wide hypernet has evolved in pretty much the same way as the Internet before it. Made up of the individual users from around the world, using a series of interconnected computer networks. But apparently, the quantum particles that transmit the various signals - they're unstable, "too random", resulting in the "temporal seepage" of signals from other eras. Vaig says that research and development has figured out a way to manage all the rouge particles, with an enormous <em>Hypercollider</em>, a sort of <em>hyper</em>-hypeport unit, that will be located in a centralized hub that's being set up over the next two weeks.<br /><br />In Denver.<br /><br />In an secure, underground facility. Located <em>four stories directly below</em> my office.<br />_______________________________<br /><br />The meeting broke up, Vaig leaving with a bunch of other suits for a press junket to make the official announcement. Probably the same spiel, "<em>Creating new jobs, cutting edge technology</em>". When he left, it was like you were breaking away from orbit, no longer under the influence of this mighty gravity well.<br /><br />I had to make a call. I headed for the stairwell, but thought better of it - just in case. Seriously? I was gonna have to call a high profile super heroine from the men's room? And, once again, what was I gonna say? What could I possibly tell her that she wasn't about to find out from the 5 pm news?<br /><br />I checked the floor for shoes, and saw someone in the stall. A robust, wet sniff, and out stepped Tim, all red around the eyes.<br /><br />"Joel! Oh, man... I'm so glad you're here. What am I gonna do?"<br /><br />"What? What's going on?"<br /><br />"I am not ready for this. No way. Having these guys around here all the time? No way."<br /><br />"Don't worry about it," I said casually - for his sake - to avoid the fact that he had obviously been crying, "Look, we're still a call center, here. I pretty sure Alton Vaig is gonna be more focused on his little science project down in the basement."<br /><br />"No, man. You don't understand. Denver's always been small potatoes in the operation. When it comes to local management, the guys who're expected to wine and dine," he spread his arms out, wide-eyed. "Mr. Vaig, he cornered me today, he wants me to take him 'on the town'. I don't know what a millionaire CEO likes to do in their off hours... what am I supposed to do?"<br />______________________<br /><br />Huh. Looks like I'm going out tonight after all.<br /><br />Anything I can do to help out a friend.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/11/28-midnight-madness.html">Midnight Madness!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-54922002024330804142009-10-26T07:09:00.000-07:002010-12-09T07:26:49.817-08:0026. Dream Sequence!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SpgmfqEQ8VI/AAAAAAAAAJU/JuQfWQqcLak/s1600-h/untitled.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375088480576663890" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SpgmfqEQ8VI/AAAAAAAAAJU/JuQfWQqcLak/s320/untitled.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 297px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 292px;" /></a>“Alright, ha ha. <em>Very</em> funny. Now put that shit down, already, will you?"<br /><br />Spliff and I are standing at <a href="http://denver.decider.com/articles/bohemian-burbs-black-read,895/">Black and Read</a>, this little record shop / book store out in the suburbs (which is pretty weird in and of itself, seeing as we haven’t really hung out there since high school). Across a crate of records, Spliff holds out a battered "Sister Christian" 12-inch single. He actually waves it around above his head, where basically everyone can see.<br /><br />So then this little prick, maybe 18 years old, says from over my shoulder, “Yeah, I’ve seen that fucking poseur around. Gimme a break.”<br /><br />...and suddenly, it occurs to me that I'm wearing what, at night, serves as my uniform.<br /><br />But Spliff, he's not laughing. It's like he doesn't even notice the gallery of record shop snobs and community college intellectuals hovering all around us: “Seriously, though, Joel – Night Ranger or, say, <strong>Green Lama</strong>? -Who you got?”<br /><br />The kid spouts something off in newsweekly music critic speak: "<em>unapologetic grindcore"</em>... "<em>shakes the very foundations of the hell realms", </em>etc. I couldn't really make it out, over the music in the store. Then I just sort of forgot about him altogether, because the room becomes bathed in this thick, green glow, growing brighter, brighter, until finally, it <em>congeals</em> into this humanoid figure, all wrapped up in a radiant, emerald cloak. Which is when things start to get weird...<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/Spg8BKr6dXI/AAAAAAAAAJc/0nZI-5HdjTs/s1600-h/untitled1.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375112146012763506" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/Spg8BKr6dXI/AAAAAAAAAJc/0nZI-5HdjTs/s320/untitled1.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 124px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 136px;" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SpVaY1tEmsI/AAAAAAAAAJE/64IqSp7gI28/s1600-h/untitled.JPG"></a><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;"><em><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SpVaY1tEmsI/AAAAAAAAAJE/64IqSp7gI28/s1600-h/untitled.JPG"></a></em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;"><em><span style="color: #33cc00;">Green Lama (Artist's Rendition)</span></em></span><br /><br /><br /><br />The figure hovers towards me. I can't see a face, but there's a voice calling out from within the cloak, like it's being transmitted through a radio from some far away continent. It's not like it's threatening, necessarily, but I'm not really sure what to expect next. Every nerve in my body vibrates like a struck tuning fork, focusing my mind acutely on the stranger. I'm like an animal, ready to pounce. Confident. Natural.<br /><br />I look at my arms, at my waterproof hoodie. It's shrunk, molding itself to my body, like it's part of my skin. Tight, but comfortable, like it's not really there at all. But it <em>is</em>... and it gives me <em>power</em>. Not like bulky body armor, but I don't really think of it as having been "mystical" in origin, either. I was thinking, like, maybe it was designed by ancient astronauts, or something. Anyway, that's not important. What's important is that I could actually <em>feel </em>the green radiating off the figure as it moves into my space. I lash out, executing this flawless, masterful right hook, to right where the figure's chin should be.<br /><br />And I made contact, too. I absolutely, most definitely hit something, solid and jaw-like. But then, the cloak unravels itself from the shoulder, like a mummy's bandages, or the snakes atop Medusa's head, swooping down and binding my wrists together.<br /><br /><em><span style="color: #33cc00;">"</span><span style="color: #33cc00;">Om Mami Padme Hum... Om Mani Padme Hum..."</span></em><br /><br />The chant echoes inside my mind, radiating calm over my body, but I'm neither sedate nor lethargic - there's this innate strength, right at the center of the calm. The bands dissolve into my skin, trumping my need, or even desire, to resist.<br /><br /><em><span style="color: #33cc00;">"Darkstreak... Where Is Darkstreak?"</span></em><br /><br />Visions of a handful of watering holes float through my mind before I realize that I really don't know... it's been weeks since I've last seen Kyle.<br /><br /><em><span style="color: #33cc00;">"You must find Kyle Tyler..."</span></em><br /><br />From some other channel in my brain, a thought pours down into the empty vessel: <em>He knows Kyle's secret identity! </em>The glow, that same energy that was so reassuring just a moment before, it shifts with my perception of it. More thoughts flood my consciousness, and the binds re-materialize, tighter, around my limbs. Beyond my opponent, I see Spliff beside that queasy little punk, both of them watching me, critically. Spliff reaches into a pockets and produces a handful of bills.<br /><br />And then - but of course! - I'm laying contorted in my bed, a twisted bed sheet, damp with sweat, snaking around my body. Alongside me, Gwen mumbles a question; just a reflex. She pecks at the air and is fast asleep again before I can even tell her I'm okay.<br /><br />I logged onto the Internet about a half hour ago, to search Google News for any small bit of info pertaining to the Green Llama.<br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />Damn it. I <em>knew</em> I shouldn't have said anything to Spliff - but I was stuck. He caught me with the mysterious woman, witnessed her little display of power. If I had left it to his imagination, he only would have come up with something that much worse. Instead, he knows the truth. Of course, he totally freaked out. I told him that it was no big deal, that I'm really just an informant, and just barely that. I may never hear anything from the Agency again. He promised he wouldn't say anything to Kyle (which sort of surprised me, until he mentioned that Kyle got pissed at him the other night for pestering him about his "active duty" days). I was relieved, but I'm more concerned about Gwen, if I'm being completely honest. I'm not sure why, but I even told Spliff about my "premonition". He said my future self <em>"sounds like kind of a dick."</em><br /><br />No, really, don't hold back.<br /><br />Hopefully, my typing is quiet enough that she stays asleep. In the other room, but <em>here</em>, her presence is comforting. It's almost enough to convince me that my call from "future me" was just my imagination. A mirage, like my visit from the Lama. But all that changes if she finds me sitting here, awake, at three in the morning; throwing me instantly back into a barrage of questions. I managed to convince her that she should wait until her roommate finds somebody new to take her place, that it'll give me a chance to get the place ready. She's giving me the benefit of the doubt, but I know the questions are lingering there, just beneath the surface.<br /><br />Interestingly enough, I didn't need to worry about Spliff. He's barely said a word to me since I told him. Like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morrissey">Morrissey</a> says, <em>"We Hate it When Our Friends Become Successful"</em>. Or even so much as take a crack at it, I suppose.<br />___________________________<br /><br />Holy. Shit.<br /><br /><em>From the Associated Press</em>, 10 minutes ago...<br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><strong>Controversial Scientist Hugh Macguffin found dead in Laboratory</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO - Local authorities have confirmed that a body found late last night in a private rural laboratory is that of noted scientist Dr. Hugh Macguffin. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Macguffin, the controversial author of the hotly contested 1960 book <em>Foundations of Malphysics,</em> has used the laboratory as his primary residence for the last twelve years. Nearby landowners, who state they've rarely seen the reclusive scientist, called police to report a disturbance from the location. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"For ten minutes, all you could hear was these loud, terrified screams," said one neighbor, who wished to remain anonymous.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The case remains open, and the exact cause of death is yet to be determined. Early reports suggest that a wild animal may have found it's way into the residence.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The coroner's office is "unsure" of the victim's age. He has no known family.</span><br />_____<br /><br />Jesus. What a way to go. And just what kind of "wild animals" do they have in New Mexico, anyway?<br /><br />Quarter to four. Why do I have the feeling my day's not going to get any less strange?<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/10/27-very-special-guest.html">A Very Special Guest!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-28610617319195120122009-07-16T06:00:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:38:36.184-07:0025. The Adventures of Night Ranger<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SlN3D59mhBI/AAAAAAAAAIs/pK2wYqktFDk/s1600-h/sumo_sam.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355755290856162322" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SlN3D59mhBI/AAAAAAAAAIs/pK2wYqktFDk/s320/sumo_sam.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 218px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 251px;" /></a>It was only a few minutes after 10 pm when I rode over the highway into the north side of the city, past the <em>carnicerias</em> and bakeries and Italian restaurants that had all closed up shop, hours before. I locked my bike up on one of the better-lit streets a couple blocks away from the bar. It's hard to maintain superhero cred when you're rockin' a 7 speed.<br /><br />Off my bike, the night air no longer rushing over me, I was beginning to overheat. I wore a variation of my uniform from the <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/21-personal-entry-lilywatt-returns.html">other night</a> - lightweight military pants, windbreaker (hood up, natch), and orange-tinted goggles instead of the infra reds, which were bulging in the pocket on my thigh. I thought it was best to be ready for action, in case Lilywatt decided we needed to do some impromptu detective work.<br /><br />The bar was this nameless, dive-y little hole in the wall that Spliff and I came across on a bender one night; a neon "Coors" sign in the barred window the only thing to indicate it's there at all. Walking up the street, I stared to panic, worried that maybe it boarded up since last year. Instead, I found a group of men in bathtub-sized cowboy hats and enormous belt buckles sitting along the tiny bar, mesmerized by the television.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SlN3LAEg6uI/AAAAAAAAAI0/9Qzbe6A7ZEg/s1600-h/el_blanco.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355755412754852578" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SlN3LAEg6uI/AAAAAAAAAI0/9Qzbe6A7ZEg/s320/el_blanco.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 133px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 136px;" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SlN3LAEg6uI/AAAAAAAAAI0/9Qzbe6A7ZEg/s1600-h/el_blanco.JPG"></a><br />Shit - the big <strong>El Blanco</strong> match - "High Noon at Midnight", they were billing it. I wasn't counting on the immigrant version of <a href="http://www.jacksonsallamerican.com/">Jackson's Hole</a>.<br /><br />The patrons all eyed me suspiciously, but at least the bartender didn't say anything about my outfit. Not to me directly, or in English, anyway.<br /><br />At the corner of bar, the dull glow of an open laptop illuminated a sickly-thin Caucasian man, looking only a little less out of place than myself. A tenth of a second worth of eye contact, and he was hiding his clutch of bills beneath the counter.<br /><br />I sat in a corner booth with my <em>cervesa</em> and a bowl of peanuts, the volume gradually returning to what it must have been before my entrance. On the TV, the masked wrestler entered the ring and sent his robe out into the far reaches of the auditorium with a telekinetic shove.<br /><br />"<em>Viva El Blanco!</em>" ... "<em>Ole!</em>"<br /><br />I finished my drink, deciding it was best to just wait outside.<br /><br />Striding confidently up the street was this gorgeous woman, dressed like she had just come from a funeral for a French new wave film director. Jet-black bob, black heels, black seam up the back of her stockings (I guessed; she was facing me). Just some art school girl heading back to her apartment.<br /><br />She stopped directly in my path, like was waiting for me to say something. "Night Ranger, I presume?"<br /><br />After the initial surprise, her cheap shot sunk in. "Huh? I... wait, I <em>specifically</em> said I wanted to meet with Lilywatt herself..."<br /><br />She did one of those <a href="http://www.facepalm.org/">facepalm</a> things. <em>Idiot</em>. What can I say? She took me off guard.<br /><br />"Oh, right. It's a little busier in there than I expected. Maybe we should find someplace..." I said to the door, as it swung shut.<br /><br />She waited for her drink at the bar (she was too quick for me to buy it for her) and watched as the enormous, domino-masked Sumo wrestler on TV lumbered up to the ring. "Ooh, that's right. <em>'Midnight in Mexico City</em>'. This ought to be a good one."<br /><br />I searched behind the glasses that were surely part of her disguise, for something in her eyes that would indicate sarcasm; I came up empty. "Are you serious? You follow the Powered Wrestling Federation?"<br /><br />She broke her gaze from the TV, as if suddenly remembering I was in the room, "You have a problem with that?"<br /><br />"Uh, I guess not" I said, motioning her to a booth. "You do realize it's all fake, though, right?"<br /><br />"I went up against <strong>The Mass</strong> in Osaka three years ago, back before he <em>reformed</em>," she made little quotation marks with her hands around the last word, "Six-hundred fifty pounds of hyper-viscous molecules. You're gonna talk to me about '<em>real</em>'?"<br /><br />I decided to change the subject. "Well, thanks for meeting with me here tonight."<br /><br />"Not my idea, but I'll be sure to send your regards to <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/06/24-life-on-hold.html">AVI</a>. He's the brains of our little operation - or so I'm told. When he did a background check on you, and found out where you work - he decided it would be worthwhile to follow up. So, then... what is it, exactly, that you think you know?"<br /><br />Good question. I told her about my experience with my future self, which she no doubt had already been briefed on. I couldn't tell whether she was even listening; when I finished, we just sat there, watching the wrestlers prowl around one another on the screen.<br /><br />"Hmm. We're working on the time travel angle. So far, the research hasn't really turned up anything, other than the fact that your future self is a petty, self-involved jerk. Interesting, but I don't see how you're so sure it has anything to do with my case."<br /><br />I took her abuse in stride; I've made it too far to let her get to me now. "For one thing, I heard you mention Vaig in the warehouse the other night."<br /><br />El Blanco's telekinetic jabs splashed against his opponent's giant torso. "Oh, you did, did you? So you just jumped to the logical conclusion, based on that. Do you figure that maybe Alton Vaig himself is trying to split you and your girlfriend up, so your progeny won't be able save the future?"<br /><br />"I didn't say that...where are you going?"<br /><br />She headed for the bar. Surprisingly, she had two glasses when she returned.<br /><br />"Drink this. You're gonna need it. I know I am." She took a long pull from her own. "Joel, I do believe - against my better judgement - I'm about to make your night. You can decide later whether you want to thank me. AVI thinks it would be a good idea if you could keep your eyes and ears open at work."<br /><br />"Wait... seriously?" She nodded, cautiously. I'm sure my eyes must have glazed over.<br /><br />"Whoa, there, 'Ranger', don't get too excited. Nobody's expecting an in-depth investigation. Just let us know if you come across anything suspicious. You can go ahead and leave your uniform at home."<br /><br />Up to that point, I was thinking about at least pulling off my hood, but I wasn't about to admit defeat, now - body temperature be damned. "Alright, yeah, I get it. But never discount the little guy, right?" I pointed to the TV; the Mass was pressed up against the ropes, like a shar pei in a high powered wind tunnel. "Maybe you should let me know what we're up against. Like our friends from the other night."<br /><br />She gave this more serious consideration that I expected. "As far as I'm concerned, you already know way more than you should. But if it'll convince you to keep your distance... the older guy is the world's preeminent authority on genetic manipulation - and a known kaiju wrangler. <strong>Dr. Fang</strong> - his real name, if you can believe that. The makeshift hideout he recently vacated is owned by the Vaig corporation, but we haven't yet established a connection beyond that."<br /><br />"And his bodyguard, the suit - he's Yakuza?"<br /><br />"Chinese <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triad_(underground_societies)">Triad</a>, if anything - but we don't have an official dossier on him. Fang's been exiled from Japan, so he's had to outsource his muscle."<br /><br />"But I don't get it. Why here? Why Manitou Springs?"<br /><br />She shrugged. It seemed like less of a brush off, and more that she just really didn't know, herself. She nodded toward the screen. "Hey, you might want to take a look at your 'little guy'."<br /><br />Gravity was reasserting it's hold on the Mass's <em>mass</em>, his layers of skin shifting slowly back downward. The luchador fought to keep his invisible hold, but the strain was apparent. Finally, El Blanco went flying backwards from the telekinetic kick-back.<br /><br />Lilywatt shuddered. "Uh oh. See, that's bad... with the Mass, your only advantage is if you're a distance fighter. Beyond that, your only hope is if you've got better superpowers."<br /><br />I felt my heart break, just a little. "You're one of those? Seriously? C'mon, Blanco's a way better fighter than this guy."<br /><br />El Blanco struggled to his feet; his desperate punch sunk deep into his challenger's pliant flesh. The crowd at the bar was becoming restless. Shouts; hands slamming against tables. The local favorite was about to lose them a lot of money.<br /><br />"Trust me," she mused, "it's all about the powers."<br /><br />"I don't know. I've got a friend who used to be a superhero - he doesn't have any powers at all..."<br /><br />"Yeah? Who's that - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Lion">White Lion</a>?"<br /><br />I was calculating a pithy comeback when the volume in the room dropped again, unexpectedly. I turned just in time to see the door swing shut...<br /><br /><em>"Hola! Coma Esta?"</em><br /><br />Shit! I turned back to Lilywatt, slouching down in my seat. She asked if there was a problem.<br /><br />"No, no. I'm good."<br /><br />Jesus, stop hanging out with a guy for a few week and there's no telling what they'll get up to.<br /><br />"So, how's the fight going, amigos?" Spliff slurred, loudly. "Oh, hey! Look at that!"<br /><br />The Mass lifted Blanco high above his head, then slammed him hard to the mat.<br /><br />"Ha! Hey, bartender - make that a <em>Grey Goose</em> and tonic, huh?"<br /><br />Lilywatt straightened up in her seat. "Oh, this guy's a genius..."<br /><br />"Tell me about it," I mumbled, turning in my seat to watch.<br /><br />"Dude, I knew I shouldn't have left the last bar. Hey, you wanna just pay me tomorrow, that's cool..." The bookie was shutting down his laptop, shrugging Spliff's arm from his shoulder.<br /><br />Halfway down the bar, a man called out, "Hey, idiot, shut your mouth!"<br /><br />The crowd went silent. "Okay. I gotcha," Spliff said. The man was bigger, stronger - while Spliff, on the other hand, was <em>drunker</em>. "But, I mean, when I thought my guy was losing, you didn't see me gettin' all upset..."<br /><br />The man walked down the length of the bar and shoved Spliff off his stool. Suddenly, Lilywatt was up from the booth to intercept them. So what was I supposed to do - just sit there?<br /><br />She touched the man on the shoulder. "All right, sir, let's just settle down. Maybe our lucky winner here would like to buy you a drink..."<br /><br />Spiff got to his feet and dusted himself off, "Yeah, man, sure. Just be cool..."<br /><br />Exactly. That's exactly how that should've gone. It would've played out just like that had there been no interference at all. But now, there was a <em>woman</em> involved - the lone attractive woman in a bar full of men who just spent their evening drinking and watching a sporting event.<br /><br />The man reached into his jacket pocket and produced an especially nasty-looking fish gutting knife. I seriously doubt he would really have used it, but I'm betting super heroines don't find themselves in that situation very often.<br /><br />The man seized, his head jerking back. A flicker of St. Elmo's fire licked across his body before it dropped finally to the floor.<br /><br />Lilywatt moved her fingertips away from the back of the neon Coors sign and looked in my eyes. "If you find anything interesting, you can reach me through AVI." Then, to Spliff "Maybe you should call it a night." She spun and stormed out of the bar.<br /><br />I seriously thought he was going to chase her out of the bar, until I saw his glassy eyes straining to pull me into focus.<br /><br />"Joel? Dude, is that you?... What're you doing here?"<br /><br />I really need to do something about my costume.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/07/26-dream-sequence.html">Dream Sequence!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-83296146043793796182009-06-26T04:05:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:38:00.383-07:0024. Life on Hold<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SkPjJyB9w3I/AAAAAAAAAHk/ZYeBDpklIXY/s1600-h/phone.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351370539434623858" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SkPjJyB9w3I/AAAAAAAAAHk/ZYeBDpklIXY/s320/phone.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 293px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 292px;" /></a><br /><div>Can't sleep. Can't even think of sleeping. I just keep going over the conversation in my head, trying to recall it, word for word.<br /><br />I'm alone. I told Gwen that I'm not feeling well. On the <em>very night</em> that she was going to "bring some stuff over", in effect, starting to move her things in. Just great. Great timing, really. Now, <em>I'm</em> the bad guy. </div><div></div><div>But I'm not really, right? Not yet, anyway.<br /><br />I page through my copy of <em>Malphysics for Dummies</em>, re-reading the chapter on time paradoxes. No answers, just more questions: <em>does time travel prove there's no such thing as fate?</em> or: <em>if somebody changes history, was history predestined to play out like that in the first place?</em> Blah blah blah.<br /><br />It could be, like, an alternate timeline, couldn't it? Or maybe a "mirror universe", where the Nazis won World War II, and Alphamale is a brutal dictator, and I'm... still a louse.<br /><br />On the Agency's website, the "Hypeport Anomalies" aren't even on the front page anymore. They're old news, pushed off by the Druid's attack on Big Ben. They've <em>"been assured that Vaig Industries should have all their technical issues fixed by the end of third quarter"</em>. Well, thank goodness that's settled. The anomalies have been officially classified as "low bandwidth", not strong enough to allow anyone to physically slip through into the timestream.<br /><br />And then there's this -<br /><br /><em>"At this time, there's no evidence that the anomalies can be used to transmit willful, direct messages to other eras, but we will continue to monitor the situation."</em><br /><br />That seals it. I scroll down to the very bottom of the screen and dial the number.<br /><br />The male voice is articulate and deliberate, but purposely not too friendly, to avoid sounding ridiculous.<br /><br /><em>Thank you for calling the Agency's 24 hour, International Emergency Hotline! You are hearby advised that any knowingly fraudulent calls or claims made to this line are a Federal offence, punishable by international law. Your call may be recorded for review purposes. If you are in need of immediate assistance, and your emergency can be handled by local authorities, please hang up and dial 911. For all media inquiries, visit our website. Para espanol, oprima numero dos...</em><br /><br />Fucking <em>seriously</em>? Good thing I don't have a giant gorilla trying to break through my window.<br /><br /><em>Please listen closely to the following options, and state aloud your answer. Are you calling about: a natural disaster? A crime in progress? A UFO sighting? A terrorist attack? A kaiju attack? A giant mecha attack? A space/time anomaly?</em><br /><br />"Yes, damnit...!" I catch myself too late.<br /><br /><em>I'm sorry you're having trouble. Please repeat your selection -</em><br /><br />"Space/time anomaly," I say, trying to match the tempo of the automated voice.<br /><br /><em>On a scale of one through ten, how immediate do you perceive the threat to be?</em><br /><br />Well, that just depends, doesn't it? "Seven and three quarters," I say, enunciating every word.<br /><br /><em>Is this threat directly towards you, or is it -</em><br /><br />"<strong>Customer service</strong>." I bark. "Please. Can I just talk to somebody?"<br /><br /><em>I am the Agency's Virtual Intelligence unit - AVI. I'm sure I'll be able to help you with your concerns today. Please explain the nature of your emergency.</em><br /><br />I just sit for second, expecting to be transferred before it sinks in. "Wait a minute. I'm supposed to talk to... <em>you</em>?"<br /><br /><em>I'm sure I'll be able to help you out. What is your name and location?</em><br /><br />"Joel Wyatt, Denv - wait, I could have just been talking to you, all this all this time?"<br /><br /><em>Yes, sir. Please re-state your location.</em><br /><br />"Denver, Colorado. So, you can actually - <em>engage</em> with me, in a conversation, over the phone?" I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm over-tired, I guess. But I mean, come <em>on</em>.<br /><br /><em>Yes, sir.</em><br /><br />"So what's up with all that automated phone tree crap?"<br /><br /><em>I am programmed to follow a particular set of protocols, in order to best address citizen concerns.</em><br /><br />"Who wrote '<em>I think, therefore I am'</em>"?<br /><br /><em>Rene Descartes, in part one of "Principals of Philosophy". Please explain the nature of your emergency.</em><br /><br />"Right. And all that 'how may I help you' stuff, that doesn't bother -"<br /><br /><em>Sir, may I remind you that tying up the Agency's emergency hotline is a federal-</em><br /><br />"Okay, okay," no reason to push it.<br /><br />After I explained everything that happened this morning, AVI said <em>I'm sure I'll be able to help you out with that today.</em> Like I've never used that one, myself.<br /><br /><em>According to the research from the Agency's Temporal Division, the anomalies are incapable of the sort of effects you're stating.</em><br /><br />"Well, it happened."<br /><br />Back to automated recording-mode: <em>You do realize that making changes to the existing timeline is a crime?</em><br /><br />"What? Are you serious? It wasn't... me." The voice knew what I meant.<br /><br /><em>Would you please hold while I do some additional research into the matter?</em><br /><br />Five; ten minutes pass. It was the Descartes thing. I swear - <em>swear</em> - I heard a change in his tone. The line comes alive:<br /><br /><em>Mr. Wyatt?</em><br /><br />"Yo."<br /><br /><em>Thank you for holding. Because this is our first indication of a problem, I'm going to send a note to our Temporal Unit, for further research.</em><br /><br />"So, what... is somebody going to contact me?"<br /><br /><em>Possibly, if there are any further questions.</em><br /><br />"And... that's it?"<br /><br /><em>Unless you have anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Wyatt.</em><br /><br />I don't know what got into me. It's been a weird, weird day. Time travel, sentient answering machines. I guess I just lost my head. "Yeah, all right, I'll tell you what else, AVI. You can get this into your 'practically intelligent' processors: I know that Lilywatt is in town, on assignment. And I know that Alton Vaig has to have something to do with it. Unless she meets me, tomorrow night at 11 p.m. - I'm going to go to the powerazzi with everything I know."<br /><br />I give the address of the most out of the way bar I can think of, and slam down the phone. And that is that.<br /><br />It was a risky move, for sure, acting like I know something I most definitely don't. But it was the only way to be sure that I could meet with Lilywatt, face to face, and get to the bottom of this.<br /><br />Unless, of course, the Argo Jet is hovering above my apartment in a few hours, to take me away in handcuffs.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/07/25-adventures-of-night-ranger.html">The Adventures of Night Ranger!</a></em></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-53507828764908360252009-06-25T00:37:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:37:25.383-07:0023. Note to Self...<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SkONSzbDt2I/AAAAAAAAAHc/yRkhc6EnnBE/s1600-h/work.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351276136427140962" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SkONSzbDt2I/AAAAAAAAAHc/yRkhc6EnnBE/s320/work.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 231px;" /></a><br /><div>So Gwen kept me on the ropes there for a while, left me wondering what, exactly, the other night amounted to. Sometimes, she'd smile and say hi when she walked past my desk. But other times, when she'd be chatting with her friends in the break room, no doubt engaging in one of those girly-girl conversations about who they're interested in, or breaking up with, or sleeping with on the side - the sort of times you'd really <em>like</em> a little encouragement - she'd barely acknowledge me at all.<br /><br />Then, the other night, we had a dinner date to "talk some things over". It was mostly me, speaking over a plate of untouched linguine, listing off everything I've done wrong. Enough detail to show how seriously I was taking it, but not so much as to yank the scab from the wound altogether. She'd sort of help me along if she thought I was glossing over anything. It was annoying, but I suppose I owed her at least that.<br /><br />When she mentioned Norah by name, I took it as my opportunity to bring up Mike. Which of course pissed her off, because we weren't together when she hooked up with him. Which meant more apologies from me. It was a risky move for someone in my position, but at least I got an answer to those lingering questions, i.e., did "The Deed", but no orgasm, and I didn't get the impression that they got around to anything too crazy. I figured on pressing for more details once we got back to the regularly scheduled arguing stage.<br /><br />An hour or so, and we wound up back at my place... and That. Was. That.<br /><br />And it's incredible, right? I mean, all of it. Secure, and solid, and sweet, just like you want a long-term relationship to feel; but also exciting, and new. Not like a brand-new relationship, but closer than I'd ever have gotten again, if we never broke up. We can't wait to see each other every day, and we don't care who knows. Which, of course, is everyone: Gwen's mom, my parents, even Team-Leader-Tim knows (and I swear if he doesn't stop with the "thumbs-up" crap every time I see him, I'm going to punch him in the fucking throat.)<br /><br />72 hours of happily ever after. Right up until work this morning... </div><div>_____________________________<br /><br />The call volume has tapered off a little lately. Gwen's "Corporate Communications" would have you believe that our techs are getting a handle on the anomalies, but I sort of suspect our customers have given up trying.<br /><br />I'm on a call with an angry cell phone customer, stranded out on 36. Her phone's been shut off for past due bills, so she can only dial 911, and us.<br /><br />"...well, ma'am, I suppose if you really feel like it's an emergency, you <em>could</em> give them a call..."<br /><br />That upset her: she's halfway through her diatribe when the sound of her voice starts to stretch into the telltale "warp" mode. I'm thinking, awesome; all these dropped calls have been a real boon for my "calls-per-hour" average.<br /><br />Then it happens - before she even falls off altogether, the signal gets all choppy. Suddenly, the tube lighting above my workstation flickers. Stranger still, my computer screen goes all... wonky. </div><div></div><div><br /><em>"...hear me now? Is this better? Who is this?"</em> A male voice. Familiar.<br /><br />"Uh, thank you for calling Vaig Communications, how may I help you?"<br /><br />"Jesus, that's depressing. I'm trying a visual hack... are you getting it?"<br /><br />I am; my desktop freezes, about a sixth of my screen is hijacked by a slow moving, streaming video image on some platform I've never seen before.<br /><br />"Uh... what the hell's going on?" I try to pull my eyes away, to look around my desk for the camera that's capturing... me - displaying my face on the monitor.<br /><br />"All right, Joel. Just listen to me." The voice is out-of-sync with his lips. <em>My</em> lips. "I don't have much time. I could get in big trouble for this. Unless you listen to me. I'm you..."<br /><br /><em>...Ten years in the future</em>. He didn't even have to say it; somehow, I just knew.<br /><br />I've always dreamt of this: a future me, traveling back in time to give myself advice, to help me avoid all those stupid mistakes I've made up to now. Like, preemptive retrospection. I hoped to keep off those last 10 pounds, figured maybe I'd have an eye patch... but, whatever.<br /><br />"Why are you doing this?" I say, hovering close enough to the screen to block the image from anyone who happens by.<br /><br />"Tell me now... are you back together with Gwen, or not?"<br /><br />I tell him I am. "Damn it! Are you serious? She was right about the date." Then, with a grim smile, "She's <em>always</em> right."</div><div><br />"Wait... what is it? What's the problem?"<br /><br />"Alright, just listen to me. You gotta get out of it. You can't be with Gwen."<br /><br />I look up from my desk, to see if she's anywhere around. I laugh nervously, just because... what else can I do? "What are you taking about? Everything is great. Are you gonna tell me she's like, a super-villain or something?"<br /><br />"Yeah, you <em>wish</em>." My 38 year-old eyes roll - am I really like this? "It's worse than that. The fights, man, about money, and sex, and <em>everything</em>. It sucks, sitting there in that chair, dealing with the constant calls, doesn't it? Well you can either heed my advice," he presses his face in close to the monitor, and I flinch back from mine, even though I doubt he can see me, "or you can get used to it. Just get up, tell Tim to fuck off - <em>please</em> - and move on."<br /><br />He looks away. "Shit. She's coming. Just... trust me, okay?"<br /><br />The image starts to "tile" as he calls off screen, "Yeah, almost done. Just hold on, alright?" One last plea, and the image starts to tile, finally disappearing altogether. Just as suddenly, Gwen is over my computer, outside of my cubicle.<br /><br />"Hey, babe, you coming or what?"<br /><br />"Yeah, almost done. Just hold..." I cringe.<br />___________________________<br /><br />Even now, his last words before the call broke up ring in my ears. A prophecy. A curse.<br /><br /><em>"Hindsight is 20/20."</em><br /><br />Yeah, and foresight is a bitch.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/06/24-life-on-hold.html">Life on Hold!</a></em></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-38953003127446417872009-06-17T11:23:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:35:42.536-07:0022. That Old Black Magic<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SjEp55ItAxI/AAAAAAAAAHU/D3qMC3ZS6Hk/s1600-h/hexhat.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346100307232097042" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SjEp55ItAxI/AAAAAAAAAHU/D3qMC3ZS6Hk/s320/hexhat.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 229px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 252px;" /></a>Yesterday, magician and “mystical warrior” Dr. Hex cancelled all performances of his San Francisco stage show for the remainder of the week. Rumors are swirling that the good Doctor is in the midst of a deep trance (read: coma), his astral form engaged in psychic battle against some necromancing evildoer.<br /><br />Is it just me, or do magic (okay, “<em>magick</em>” – yeesh) based powers seem like they'd be a real pain in the ass? Too unpredictable, no easily defined parameters. One day, Count Aeon nearly destroys Ultraphenomenon; the next, he’s taken down by an ancient artifact, readily available from an "ancient artifacts" exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry. Something else I've never been able to get my meat-based mind around: is Dr. Hex’s witchcraft derived from the same source as Ms. Mage's Sumerian sorcery? If so, how come the latter can teleport, while the former has to levitate himself from location to location?<br /><br />On the other hand - feeling the purplish-black bruise on my shoulder pulsate - the idea of a battle waged on some ethereal, <em>non-physical</em> plane sounds pretty good, right about now.<br /><br />I've been feeling ambivalent about my own super-heroic aspirations, lately. I suppose staring down the glowing muzzle of a death ray will do that to a guy.<br /><br />So I get to thinking: maybe my plain-old, vanilla life really isn't so bad after all. I like having my weekends off, and my free time all to myself. Besides, between "customer service agent" and "masked adventurer", there's a whole host of other career options that I haven't even considered yet. Right now, I've got an article about "<a href="http://denver.decider.com/articles/boba-fetish,31952/">bubble tea</a>" shops that I'm passing around to a couple of different newsweeklies. If somebody picks that thing up, there's nothing I can't do.<br /><br />These were the idle thoughts that were floating through my head as I sat at my desk - when Tim dropped his chubby paw down onto my shoulder. I flinched, but somehow managed to censor a string of expletives.<br /><br />"What's up, buddy? You got a sunburn or something?"<br /><br />"Yeah, I don't know. I think I maybe... pulled it at the gym." I reached under my shirt to sooth the discolored tendrils creeping off the edges of the wound.<br /><br />"A couple drinks at happy hour tonight ought to ease the pain, huh? Are you in?"<br /><br />For his 12 + years of dedicated service, Tim has been rewarded with an ill-defined promotion. He'll still be in the Denver office, but he'll be reporting directly to the corporate bigwigs. The whole thing will probably result in little more than a pay differential, and a few more of those shirts with the company logo embroidered on them. Nevertheless, he's been planning a party for himself all week.<br /><br />I assured him that I would most definitely drop by. And I wasn't lying, either. After all, I overheard Gwen saying she would be there.<br />________________________________<br /><br />The whole "happy hour with co-workers" thing is a mixed bag. It's probably a completely different experience if you're all architects, or, I don't know, a team of brain surgeons. But when you're a bunch of call center employees, with nothing more in common than the need for a paycheck, and the fact that you're unqualified to do anything else - the prospect of drinking margaritas with a group of complete strangers (more or less) can be a little jarring. At best, you'll be swapping war stories about the last time you were drunk (which for most of my coworkers was at the <em>last</em> happy hour we organized); at worst, you'll find out that the middle-aged woman who sits in the cubicle next to you, with the photocopied transcript of the "Our Father" hanging on her computer, is having an affair with her neighbor.<br /><br />Even so, I actually managed to enjoy myself last night. Maybe I was just happy to connect with people over something completely trivial, to bask in the mundane, for a change. It's the only reason I can think of that I stayed until nearly everyone else took off.<br /><br />Tim, Corrine, Gwen and I sat around a table at Benny's, our last pitcher of frozen margarita melting down to alcoholic Kool-Aid. The bussers swarmed around us, making a show of the fact that they were trying to clean up, but Tim just continued on with stories of his glory days as the lead singer of a heavy metal band. Finally, Gwen stood up.<br /><br />"I better hit the bathroom before they kick us out of here."<br /><br />Corrine grabbed her purse. "Wait up for me."<br /><br />Tim smiled at them, all the way until the bathroom door shut. Then: "Okay, here's how this is gonna go. You offer to give Gwen a ride home, and then I can see if Corrine wants to come over to my place to hear some of my old recordings."<br /><br />I fidgeted with the half-empty basket of chips on the table. "I can think of a couple reasons Gwen's not gonna go for that, not the least of which is the fact that I don't have a car."<br /><br />"Oh, dude, you're killing me. Too bad for you..."<br /><br />"What're you talking about?"<br /><br />"Are you kidding? Please, I see the way you're always checking her out, man. You and Gwen have been a foregone conclusion since before you were on my team. It's totally obvious."<br /><br />Totally. "Yeah, I don't know."<br /><br />"Seriously; and I think she likes you, too."<br /><br />The girls returned, saving me from continuing the awkward exchange. Corrine was trying to talk us in to finding a place for one last drink. I was actually considering it, but Gwen asked me if I'd be willing to walk her home.<br /><br />A few quick goodbyes and a wink from Tim later, and I was pushing my bike alongside Gwen, through the quiet, weeknight streets of Capitol Hill.<br /><br />"Thanks for walking with me, Joel. She was planning on staying the night at my place, which meant she might have invited him over..." she shuddered. "I'm surprised you made it as long as you did. I figured you'd be gone as soon as Tim brought up <em><strong>Jokester</strong></em>."<br /><br />"Hey, who am I to question the Aurora Weekly's pick for best metal band of 1989?"<br /><br />"I'm mean it. You seem different. More patient. Maybe even a little more serious."<br /><br />I mulled that over for a minute. Ever since Lilywatt's comment, I've been thinking that maybe, deep down, the whole superhero thing was just a big joke, nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to my breakup with Gwen. Hearing that I've changed, and hearing it from <em>her</em>... it was weird.<br /><br />I told her about Manitou Springs, the kaiju, about staring death right in the face. It was nice to couch it in terms other than "<em>Whoa, that was so cool</em>...", to have a sympathetic ear. But I stopped short of telling her the rest; the training, and Kyle, and the other night. I don't know, I'm just not ready for that, yet. But maybe I should've, instead of what I did say, as we stood outside her building.<br /><br />"...so, I guess I have changed. I'm still changing. Thinking about what's really important. But some things will never change."<br /><br />Nothing. She just continued digging for her keys, which meant I'd have to keep talking. "I don't expect this to change anything, of course. This isn't about that. But I want you to know, that <em>I</em> know I've made big, huge mistakes. But I still love you."<br /><br />I didn't expect her to drop into my arms. I figured maybe surprise, or anger. Instead, she had a look that just sort of said "Uh huh."<br /><br />"Uh huh," She said, "Well. That's sort of a problem, then."<br /><br />"Oh. Is it?"<br /><br />She was holding her keys, but didn't move for the door. "It's a problem, because if you didn't, I'd just have to figure out a way to deal with that. And if I felt differently, then I could be all smug and aloof about it, because I'm still feeling that vindictive. But as it is, now I know how you feel, and I've got to deal with the fact that I still don't know if I can trust you."<br /><br />I would've told her she could, if it would have meant anything at all. Instead, I just said, "<em>I'm sorry</em>."<br /><br />She leaned in and kissed me on my jaw, in that space right between my cheek and my neck. Just below my ear. Left side. And she said "Thank you".<br /><br />She went to unlock the door, but stopped herself, turning back like she forgot something. She walked over to punch me on the shoulder - the bad one. Maybe a love pat, but still, there was some anger behind it. <em>Then</em> she went inside.<br /><br />Ow.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/06/23-note-to-self.html">Note to Self!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-27225720905998736432009-06-02T10:25:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:35:02.630-07:0021. Lilywatt Returns!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SiQq0SXcVaI/AAAAAAAAAHM/glIICm7uinY/s1600-h/untitled.JPG"><em><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342442135739979170" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/SiQq0SXcVaI/AAAAAAAAAHM/glIICm7uinY/s320/untitled.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 171px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 285px;" /></em></a>Last night, after the gym, I picked up a vegetable teriyaki bowl and ducked back in to work to avoid an especially nasty rainstorm outside. The graveyard shift sits on the floor below me, so I decided to take advantage of the quiet and do some research on the 'net.<br /><br />I looked over the usual sites. There hadn't been a single superhero sighting in Colorado since the giant monster attack, two weeks ago. When the local news still talks about it at all, there's no mention of the Agency, only "the authorities'" continuing investigation.<br /><br />I moved from the bigger, "well respected" sites (all still obsessing about the Diamond Girl / Lightraver breakup) to the unaffiliated blogs, then finally to the message boards: last stop for the desperate, delusional, and just plain bored. There, among the paranoid rants about "Why won't the Agency facilitate the Middle East peace process?" and "Help! I'm being stalked by the Alphamale" was one lone point of interest: a short thread claiming <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/03/15-giant-monster-attack.html">Lilywatt</a> had been spotted in the metro area. The blurry picture could easily have been a fake - no electrified whips, no Lilycycle, just a pretty face in a purple cowl. But it's not like I had anything else going on, so I decided to see for myself if there was anything to it.<br /><br />Spliff was off work, but I didn't even consider calling him. I couldn't even have said why at the time. In retrospect, maybe I just knew. He was probably just out drinking with Kyle again, anyway.<br /><br />My mode of transport lately is a 7-speed bicycle I picked up at a pawn shop. It was still early, even for a city that snuggles into bed by 10 on any given weeknight, so I cruised around for awhile, soaking my pant legs when I sliced through the puddles on the street. I stopped at a coffee shop to dry off, and downed a couple shots of espresso, just to give myself a little edge.<br /><br />The Lilywatt sighting occurred on the far edge of lower downtown, where the prefab half-million dollar "lofts" meet up with the real lofts. I kept an eye on the rooftops as I rode, and stopped a couple times to look inside a few of the office furniture outlet stores. Nothing. A gang of punk rock kids walked out of an industrial garage, letting a rush of loud music escape into the night.<br /><br />I continued on, to where the city devolves into a series of dilapidated warehouses, until the din faded completely. The rain began to pick up, the silent flashes in the sky became more frequent, but I wasn't ready to turn back just yet. The most likely candidate for a temporary Agency outpost (my prevailing theory at the time) would be one of the buildings back from the main streets.<br /><br />The skyline a few miles behind me, I came to a massive structure on the corner of "Hell" and "Gone"; lit from the inside, Range Rover parked out front. A tall-ish Asian man in a tailored black suit was moving some boxes out of the vehicle. Denver's become a lot more diverse in recent years, but when you see anyone in a suspect location dressed like this guy was, it can be construed as an ominous sign. When I snuck to the side of the building and climbed up the fire escape, I can't really say whether I was ignoring that fact, or counting on it.<br /><br />The skylight on the roof looked down into a large open space, with two makeshift bedrooms sectioned off on either side. In the main area, another man - Asian also, but shorter, and balding - took great care to remove the contents of one of the boxes surrounding him. He delicately turned over a large, medicine ball-sized canister in his hands, before setting it on a table, connecting it to a series of tubes and wires. Black Suit lounged on a couch a few feet away, cigarette dangling between his lips. It appeared that in the few minutes it took me to reach the roof, he had dried off completely.<br /><br />Another flash of lighting; the bolt must have landed not a hundred feet behind me. I nearly lost the ill-advised concoction of broccoli, snap peas and espresso churning in my bowels. The figures below glanced up for only a second, before turning their attention to a second Black Suit entering the warehouse - identical to the first man, and wet. His brother, I figured. Suit 1 sat up, offering his cigarette; Suit 2 somberly took a drag, handed it back, and moved back outside. Must've drawn the short straw.<br /><br />Outside the door, there was another flash. The older man looked up nervously from his science project. Through an opening in the window, I could hear Suit 1 laugh, mockingly. Then, out of nowhere, he jerked upright, as if he was overtaken by stomach pains, or something. The older man stood up in a panic, looking to the door.<br /><br />Suit 2 crashed through the doors onto the floor; smoke - or steam - rising from his body. And then, she was there: Lilywatt walked cautiously into the room, surges of electricity pulsating up and down the whips coiled at her feet. <br /><br />"Some setup you've got here gentlemen. Looks like the recession has hit the Vaig organization worse than expected..."<br /><br />Vaig. I can't say I was surprised. So much for reform.<br /><br />The older man moved, maybe to just scratch his nose, but she wasn't taking any chances. Her whip snapped with an imperceptible flick of the wrist; a warning for him to stay put. Suit 1 was standing now, some 12 feet away from her. She approached him slowly, pointing a whip at each of her targets.<br /><br />Suit 1 kicked a light weight coffee table off the floor with his shoeless foot, catching the top with both hands. Lilywatt struck out just as fast with her whip, but managed only to catch one of the table's legs. They struggled back and forth, until her left hand weapon slipped out from her grasp, dropping to the floor.<br /><br />The older man ran for cover, ducking under a cabinet, canister in hand. Lilywatt kept her focus on Suit 1, who prowled backwards, away from the reach of her other whip. He tossed the table away - then tensed his whole body. I could barely focus on him. Standing there, he seemed to... blur.<br /><br />Suddenly, he "split", like a double exposure photograph - one, two, three identical "Black Suits" stepped out from where he stood. He strained even harder, and the body on the floor vanished; he produced one last "clone" from his body.<br /><br />The five figures rushed as one toward Lilywatt. She grasped her belt, which must have charged up her battery pack; tiny arcs of electricity licked across her lithe frame.<br /><br />As super-skill sets go, I've always thought that martial arts are overrated. I mean, if you're fighting a giant robot, "Shaolin Style" probably falls somewhere between "origami" and "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gymkata">gymkata</a>" on the usefulness scale. But this wasn't just five chop socky thugs against one super human target: this was a lethal, single-minded killing machine. Lilywatt snared one of the Suits, swinging his electrified body at two others, but each Suit could see what the others saw. Even fully charged, she was in trouble. There could be no element of surprise in her strikes. These guys were everywhere, all at once, like Pepsi in an 80s movie.<br /><br />She recognized her disadvantage. The Suit-down recovered, and they all seized upon her at once. In a desperate move, she lashed her whip out at an electrical box, and the room went black.<br /><br />Silence. Then, a slash of illumination, as she swung her whip through the air, just long enough to see the Suits surrounding her - for them to see her...<br /><br />Darkness, again. Then another slash, this time from a different corner of the room. Every time the room went black, I imagined the worst...<br /><br />Ready or not - It was Time. This is what I have been training for. Kind of. What I've been getting ready to start training for, any day now. In this situation, with this particular set of circumstances - I could at least help. There was no other choice.<br /><br />I raced down the fire escape, clawing through my bag. I made a promise to not get too far ahead of myself, as far as crime fighting gear was concerned. No reason to start pricing super-sonic crotch rockets before I ever even threw a punch. But perusing the Army Surplus Store in Englewood with Spliff the other day, I found a pair of infrared goggles on clearance. I slipped them on over the full face mask I kept for early morning runs, and pulled my hoodie up. I didn't feel like a superhero; I'm pretty sure I looked like a survivalist on his way to a fetish party.<br /><br />I picked a length of pipe up off the ground and snuck quietly inside. My (decidedly narrow) field of vision was crowded with glowing blobs. Three of them were pure, vivid orange; I took these for the clones. Not really clones, of course, probably some kind of energy projections. Of the two other figures - the ones fluctuating up and down the "ROY G BIV" spectrum - I just needed to figure out who was who. If I could just take Suit Prime down, I figured the others would "short out". I don't know why. I was making it up as I went along.<br /><br />One of the figures was surrounded by the orange beings. I figured this must be Suit Prime, keeping his defences up. I slid between two of the “oranges”, and raised the pipe high above my head, preparing to strike…<br /><br />Lilywatt’s whip crackled to life. She must have heard me breathing, seeing as we were standing nose to nose.<br /><br />“Who the hell…?”<br /><br />Just as the Suits realized they had her surrounded, the room went dark again. I took a blind scissor-kick to my left shoulder, knocking me to the floor. To be honest, I'm still not convinced it came from one of the Suits.<br /><br />From the ground, my shoulder throbbing, I watched as the blobs all repositioned themselves. But now at least, I knew who was who - and who was where. Suit Prime stood a few feet from Lilywatt, his stockinged feet in a puddle of water that his "brother" had tracked inside. I could see the residual energy, coursing through Lilywatt's whip - mere inches from the puddle's edge. <br /><br />I slid as quietly as I could across the floor, and tugged the slack of the whip towards the water, praying the whole time to a God I didn't believe in that she wouldn't notice the tension, and startle back into defensive mode. <br /><br />She turned, putting the whip's end a full 6 inches from the water. I only had one other idea - not a great one, but hey, if it didn't work, they'd kill me anyway. <br /><br />I scurried back away from them, to what I calculated was a safe distance - and tossed my length of pipe into the space between the end of her whip and the edge of the water. <br /><br />The pipe landed with an ear-splitting CLANG. Lilywatt powered up, sending a high voltage jolt through her whip, which flowed through the pipe into the puddle - lighting up Suit Prime like a Christmas Tree. His "brothers" did, in fact, short out, but Prime stood his ground. For a minute, anyway. In his weakened state, it only took a few well executed hits for her to lay him out. <br /><br />I was waiting for my thanks, when light flooded the room. This was no flickering arc of electricity, it was the high-beams from the Range Rover shining down on us. The old man - the scientist - stepped out of the vehicle, pointing what was no doubt a death ray. He was screaming something in... I don't know... Asian. <br /><br />He barked another order, pressing a few buttons on his weapon to show he meant business. Lilywatt dropped her whip to the ground.<br /><br />He stepped around to the front of the vehicle, dragged Suit Prime into the back seat, and tore off, just as soon he figured out how to put it into reverse. <br /><br />I ran outside as he pulled away. I called back behind me, "Are you gonna go after him?"<br /><br />She strolled out into the night, attaching her whip back to her belt. "You know, I'm pretty tired out." She looked at me with a smirk: "You go ahead, I'll catch up. Who are you, anyway?"<br /><br />"I'm..." <br /><br />Shit. All that training, all those years spent obsessing over superheroes, and I hadn't even come up with a name yet. And then, it just sort of came out, the first words that popped into my head. At least I didn't say "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winger_(band)">Winger</a>". <br /><br />She looked me over, with eyes that were so-not-in-the-mood-for-this. "Well, 'Night-Ranger', maybe you better get <strong>motorin</strong>' on home, now..."<br /><br />"Hey, you know, I did help you out back there."<br /><br />"And don't think I don't appreciate it. Immensely. It's the reason I'm not just turning you over to the authorities for psychiatric evaluation. But lets be clear - this is not a game. I don't want to see you get hurt, and I don't think you want to get hurt. Go home, get a girlfriend, smoke a joint. Trust me, it's better that way."<br /><br />She walked away without looking back. I would've argued, but I don't think she meant it as an insult. Plus, I could've sworn I saw a spark go off between her teeth. Instead, I just walked to the side of the building and picked up my bike for the long ride home. <br /><br />I needed to find an alley to throw up in, anyway.<br /><br /><strong><em>Next Ish: </em><a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/06/22-that-old-black-magic.html"><em>That Old Black Magic!</em></a></strong>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-68869751629889210682009-05-28T07:59:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:34:19.245-07:0020. Out to Lunch<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/Sh7KD9hz1II/AAAAAAAAAG8/B7lksGkTZJE/s1600-h/teslaray01.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340928377512776834" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/Sh7KD9hz1II/AAAAAAAAAG8/B7lksGkTZJE/s320/teslaray01.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 239px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 205px;" /></a>Did you pick up last week's issue of Time? If you're one of the 12 million people who get their phone, cable, and / or Internet service from Vaig Communications, it would appear that you have; and that you paged-to and read with great interest their cover story ("<em>Phoenix Rising</em>") profiling the ever-elusive Hungarian orphan / reformed supervillian / self-made multimillionaire Alton Vaig - and his quest to revolutionize the way the world surfs for porn from home. And really, who could blame you? It was gripping stuff. I particularly liked the sidebar with all the helpful graphics, outlining the evolution from <a href="http://www.teslasociety.com/deathray.htm">Nikola Tesla</a>'s original death ray to the patented Hypeport unit that now sits in so many homes across the country.<br /><br />Antimatter particles injected directly into our fiber optic network? Seriously? I'm pretty sure they didn't mention <em>that</em> in training.<br /><br />That little factoid has given credence to all the reports of anomalies that are warping our customers phone and television reception. The Agency has released a hasty statement assuring the public that they've looked into the matter, and that the anomalies are 1) rare, 2) affecting only electronic transmissions, and 3) not strong enough to rip a hole in the fabric of reality.<br /><br />Well, <em>my</em> concerns have certainly been put to rest. Our customers, on the other hand, are calling in at an unprecedented rate. A week of drawn out conversations with conspiracy theorists and armchair quantum physicists about the philosophical ramifications of their Internet connection is enough to make me long for my simple chats with Mr. Charlton.<br /><br />Our tripled call volume has been terrible for employee morale, which can only means one thing: More Donuts! How does that old again? Oh, yeah - "Feed a cold, starve a fever, stuff a hole in the space-time continuum with empty calories."<br /><br />As the Corporate Communications Editor for the call center, Gwen is responsible for disseminating information to the masses about the various incentives (Donuts! Free Movie Passes! Target gift cards!) they're giving us to <em>not</em> ram our skulls in with our telephones. Not only that, she's actually accompanying the team leads as they deliver said prizes, along with a bouquet of helium filled balloons, to the reps who take the highest number of calls during their shift. This morning, one of my coworkers actually managed to win something, and as the expected response if you're not on a call is to gather around their desk to congratulate them, I tried as best I could to look busy.<br /><br />But then, something unexpected happened: Gwen actually made eye contact with me, her eyes squinting, in order to see past my ruse.<br /><br />"Joel... are you on a call?" She said, in an unexpectedly sing-songy voice.<br /><br />"Yeah. Well... no. Just got off, got to finish this note..."<br /><br />"Get on over to Anita's desk. You need to show support for your fellow agents." Then, under her breath, "Trust me, you don't want to miss this."<br /><br />She made a face, an expression I haven't seen in what feels like forever; barely-crossed eyes, just the very tip of her tongue pressing out from her pursed lips in exasperation. She's moved past her outward anger towards me, but this wasn't just politeness - it was a show of humanity. And it came rushing back, how heart breakingly adorable she could be in those seconds when she used to address me like I was the only person in the room.<br /><br />I gathered with the rest of my team around Anita's cube, and joined in with the polite round of applause at the big reveal (Ipod shuffle!). When the furor died down we all moved to return to our desks, but as this was the first prize to be won by someone in our group, Team Leader Tim decided this would be the ideal time to make a speech.<br /><br />"Hey you guys, I just want to take a minute to let you all know how proud I am of each and every one of you, for all your hard work over the last couple of weeks. I know that it hasn't been easy, but I think we all realize how great it feels when you're a part of the team that makes it happen..."<br /><br />Oh, God. There was another round of applause and some uncomfortable shuffling, but Tim continued, undaunted: "I think this is proof that, when we put in the hard work, the higher ups are always ready to reward us for it. Now, I understand that not everyone is going to share my sense of dedication, because, hey, I am a pretty wild and crazy guy, as you all well know." he pauses for the polite chuckles (his own, mostly) "But I just want to show you guys how much I believe in the work we're doing here..."<br /><br />He did it; he seriously went through with it. I heard him talk about it one night when we were all out for a happy hour, in the midst of a rant about his 401K, but I just thought it was all drunk talk. I obviously gave him too much credit.<br /><br />He unbuttoned and rolled up his shirt sleeve, and pulled off the gauzy bandage underneath; dramatically, as if he was about to reveal the contents of Pandora's box. There, on his shaved forearm, was a shiny, brand-new tattoo of the stylized Vaig<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"></span> "<strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">√</span></strong>"</span> logo.<br /><br />From the peanut gallery came the expected "ooohs" and "aahhs", and the good-natured cracks about "Now <em>that</em> is dedication." Gwen couldn't so much as look in my direction. Her flushed purple face betrayed her smile; she looked as if she would burst into hysterical tears at any moment. I did the only appropriate thing I could think of, drawing out this historic moment with a litany of questions.<br /><br />"Wow, Tim, seriously, that is awesome. Did it hurt?"... "How much did it cost?"... "So, Gwen, are you next?" (Hey, anything to keep off the phones for a few minutes.)<br /><br />Tim finally excused himself, saying we all had better get back to work, but he'd talk to me more about it later. Gwen gave me the evil eye.<br /><br />"You are such an ass. I don't believe you just put me through that..."<br /><br />"What?" I said, innocently, "If he had just the merest sense of irony, that would almost be cool. Sort of."<br /><br />"Whatever, asshole." But her smile remained. Like, <em>big</em>. Full-on. Beaming, even.<br /><br />"Hey look," I chanced, "I'm on lunch in a few. You maybe want to join me?"<br />____________________________<br /><br />To my never ending surprise, a half hour later Gwen and I were racing to finish our street vendor hot dogs on the mall, sitting among the homeless kids asking for spare change and the receptionists in their sensible skirts and running shoes.<br /><br />"...I was kind of tired of writing about cupcakes and stuff anyway. I'm still waiting for my last check, though. I guess all the staffers are too."<br /><br />"So you're just filling up that extra time by working on your biceps, then." She said, fiddling with her bag of Doritos. I felt kind of embarrassed, but happy at least that somebody noticed.<br /><br />"I'm just giving you a hard time. Everybody goes into self-betterment mode after a breakup, right?"<br /><br />Yeah, right. She looked good, too - and this wasn't the first time I noticed. "I guess. How about your-'self'? Are you 'better'?" By which I obviously meant <em>are you seeing anyone?</em><br /><br />"I'm doing well. Keeping active. I've been hanging out with some friends from college." I let her answer just hang there, waiting. She took the bait, without ever acknowledging I cast it. "You remember Mike? He just got made partner at his firm in Boulder."<br /><br />"Yeah, Mike. That's cool. He's been working towards that for a long time." The <em>pain</em>. "So, are you guys dating?" By which I meant... something else entirely. She didn't even have the common courtesy to look uncomfortable with the question.<br /><br />"We were, but we both decided it wasn't a good idea. We were really just sort of hanging out."<br /><br />Have ever noticed how a qualifier to make a statement more vague really just winds up making it that much more specific? Fucking <em>'sort of'. </em><br /><br />"Oh, well, that's okay. I mean, just, if it's not serious or anything, if you ever want to hang out some time..."<br /><br />And I meant it. <em>'hang out'</em>, no <em>'sort of'</em> implied. The olive branch she extended after all these weeks looked for second as if it was about to snap - but she recovered her smile. Somehow, that was much colder.<br /><br />"Well, I'm really busy with work, so I don't have a lot of time for anything else." she said, getting her trash together and standing. "But maybe we could do this again sometime."<br /><br />"Yeah, right. Or maybe we could round everyone up, get some tats..."<br />________________________<br /><br />Ha ha. Clever, pithy, impenetrable Joel.<br /><br />I don't know what I was thinking. I was making it up as I went along. Hell, I'm still recovering from the fact that she said yes to lunch. Maybe she did me a favor. I need to keep focused. I've always thought husband and wife superhero teams were kind of stupid, anyway.<br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/21-personal-entry-lilywatt-returns.html">Lilywatt Returns!</a></em>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2253235765690544723.post-49566564072196205582009-05-18T06:55:00.000-07:002010-09-20T07:33:30.222-07:0019. Workout Life<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/ShGRYMURfpI/AAAAAAAAAGk/KTCXy6m2j2M/s1600-h/green+lama.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337206878219894418" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YubCd85PmA0/ShGRYMURfpI/AAAAAAAAAGk/KTCXy6m2j2M/s320/green+lama.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 173px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 285px;" /></a><br /><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="http://www.toonopedia.com/grnlama.htm">Green Lama</a> (artist rendition)</span></em> </div><br /><div align="left">Diet Log for today:<br /><br /><strong>Breakfast:</strong> 1 slice dry, whole wheat toast with scrambled egg whites.<br /><br /><strong>Lunch:</strong> The Joel Wyatt Power Salad of Destiny, one can of albacore tuna (dry) </div><div align="left"><br /><strong>Snack:</strong> Ants on a Log (Celery sticks with peanut butter and raisins)<br /><br /><strong>Dinner:</strong> Smothered burrito, nachos<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><strong>Dessert:</strong> Three donuts I swiped from outside the manager's meeting this morning<br /><br />Because I earned it, that's why.<br /><br />Today, my ass was completely, totally, unequivocally kicked. Then handed to me. What's more is: I actually liked it.<br /><br />I took a half day today so I could meet Kyle at the gym for a quick, full body workout. After I changed into my sweats, I was left to wait for about 30 minutes after our agreed-upon time. I didn't want to start without him, since I was anticipating the eventual whooping I received, so I just sort of hovered around the weights, looking over those old workout charts that have been hanging up since aerobics were all the rage, which was probably only slightly less conspicuous than if I waited in the locker room by the showers.<br /><br />Kyle strolled into the workout area finally, decked out in his courier gear. It occurred to me for the first time that the getup is virtually interchangeable with the standard superhero uniform; all light weight, tight fitting spandex and mystery gear strapped strategically along his body. </div><div align="left"><br />"All right, man. Shall we?" He said, tousling his hair from its helmet-flattened state to its natural droopy-poof.<br /><br />"Hey, you're the pro. Lead on..."<br /><br />He proceeded to drop his torso down to his knees, effortlessly grabbing onto the soles of his shoes. For like, a minute. When he whipped back to his full height, I turned to head over to the weights.<br /><br />"Where you going? Aren't you going to stretch?"<br /><br />"Oh. Yeah, no, definitely." I lie down on the exercise mats and begin tugging my limbs away from their sockets, while Kyle works his way through a series of downward-facing animals and sun-salutations. I don't usually like to stay at the gym for more than an hour, but having promised myself that I'd follow his lead, I attempted to match his deceptively simple movements; for the next 10 minutes we're in the corner, balancing on the smalls of our backs, me breathing out as if I'm about to deliver a baby.<br /><br />Kyle walked over to the squats rack, where a couple of guys in those MC Hammer workout pants were standing, congratulating each other between sets.<br /><br />"Hey, you guys mind if we work-in here?"<br /><br />The guys huff out a non-committal grunt, worried that this wispy little thing is going to move their weights without setting them back up afterwards. I haven't really decided yet if Kyle is completely un-self conscious, or if he's so hyper aware of his body that he has no idea what's going on around him; but he leaped up and grabbed onto a bar at the top of the rack, executing a set of gravity-defying pull ups.<br /><br />He lands, thanking the two weight lifters, then looks at me, "Oh, did you want a go?" </div><div align="left"><br />"Ah, no, I'm good." No reason to completely humiliate myself with my standard three-and-a-half chin ups. Besides, my muscles were still quivering from the stretches.<br /><br />We head over to the weight rack, and he started in with some curls. I glance around to make sure no one's listening in. "So, that yoga stuff, did you learn all that while you were training?"<br /><br />"Nah," he said, with only the slightest hint of strain beneath his voice. "that all came about after I retired."<br /><br />Retired. All the same questions raced back into my head. "So, then, what really is the training? What's it like? I mean, how exactly does one get into your line of work?"<br /><br />He just looked at me for a moment. I could see he was considering his words, wary of potential eavesdroppers, or letting me in on something that was still a closely guarded secret. "Well, my... benefactor... there's a foundation, see? A group that tracks potential candidates. Psychological profiles are drawn up, based on their surveillance. If you're a tough kid, naturally athletic, with an I.Q. of 139 or above, you're off to a good start." He offers this without a hint of humility, but its okay, because I sort of feel sorry for him. "There's all these grants and scholarships that just sort of find their way to you through anonymous channels. My parents died when I was young and my aunt didn't have a lot of money, so she wasn't about to question it. But ultimately, it's all science camps and summer programs. You stay in public school - inner city, every one of us - to keep that 'edge'. That way you're already pretty tough by the time your real training begins."<br /><br />Okay, so that bugged me. I got an edge: Englewood High, yo. "What about the ones who aren't chosen? Do they just wind up managing a Starbucks?" </div><div align="left"><br />"From where I sit, it's a pretty sweet deal. The scholarships sort of fade, but their file is destroyed, and they just move on with their lives, none the wiser. They miss out on the insanity; the attempts on your life, and the mad scientists and alternate dimensions..."<br /><br />Yeah, about <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/18-work-life.html">that</a>... "And time travel?" I ask.<br /><br />"That, too. Not that I've ever done any, myself. The Agency has a special task force of heroes to deal with space-time anomalies."<br /><br />"But it's a real thing, like, people going into the past, or the future?"<br /><br />"Not as much as you'd think. Nobody wants to take the chance of wiping themselves out of existence. Too risky - even for the bad guys."<br /><br />I thought about telling him my experience at work the other day, but decided against it. I've pretty much written the whole thing off to stress. And I was too focused on the "retirement" thing; I couldn't shake my ambivalence. You wanna do whatever common people do, fine, but...<br /><br />"...why Denver?" I ask his upside-down face, as I'm spotting him on the bench press. "You could have opened up a theme restaurant, put a doomsday device right in the middle of the dining area, or something."<br /><br />He stood, looking at me incredulously - then waved me to the bench. "Your turn."<br /><br />From above the barbell, he says: "Alright, keeping in mind that pretty much everything you know about me is top secret information, I'm gonna ask that you keep this to yourself - not as a matter of national security - but as a personal favor to me." He accepted my grunt of compliance. "Have you ever heard of the <a href="http://www.toonopedia.com/grnlama.htm">Green Lama</a>?"<br /><br />Oooh, tough one. Obscure. Of course I have. "American Jethro Dumont travels to Tibet to become a monk; discovers all sorts of Buddha-riffic super powers. He was the token mystic for the <strong>Allied Force</strong> during double-u double-u two. Am I missing anything?" I sat up and awaited his point.<br /><br />"Well, when the Allied Force turned into the Agency after the war, the 'Lama retired to the mountains just outside of Boulder. He lived the ascetic's life for a few years. The rumor among superheroes is that he made some amazing realization, that he witnessed the malphysical nature of the universe itself."<br /><br />Huh. "More amazing than the ability to levitate? To cloud men's minds? So, what, you want to find him and become his pupil?"<br /><br />He looked uncomfortable with this. "Yeah, I guess so."<br /><br />"You think it's like some bad ass kung fu style or something?"<br /><br />"No, it's nothing like that. It's just - doing what I did - you see some weird shit. It'd just be nice to get some perspective."<br /><br />"So, you left the biz so you could become one with everything?" It came out harsher than I'd intended.<br /><br />"It's not a religious pilgrimage or anything. Stupid, I know. Anyway, I'm over it. He pretty much dropped off the face of the Earth in the 70's, after a bunch of hippies came and tried to get him to set up an ashram. He could be dead, for all I know." He sort of faded out for a minute, there, lost in his thoughts. Then: "Hey, I'm not really feeling this. You want to get some margaritas or something?"<br /><br />I most definitely <em>was</em> feeling it, so a drink sounded just fine to me. Enough margaritas will bring about their own kind of enlightenment.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br /><br /><em>Next Ish: <a href="http://flyovercity.blogspot.com/2009/05/20-out-to-lunch.html">Out to Lunch!</a></em></div>joel wyatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17311020368673660148noreply@blogger.com0