Holding Fast on this Journey of Life

Geek Overload

2009-07-25T19:48:05Z

Holy shit, Season Two of Clone Wars looks AMAZING

Game last night

2009-07-23T16:35:24Z

Last night's game went very, very well. I was impressed by the role playing from all of my players and really enjoyed seeing them finally start to react to the world and become more proactive in their goals and desires. A little inner-party conflct reared its ugly head when my PCs started fighting over some magic items, but that was dealt with fairly quickly. At this point I am very pleased to see my party taking such a proactive stance in the world and I really hope it continues.

Gamer Angst

2009-07-21T15:27:29Z

So, I've been running a D&D 4e game on Wednesday nights now for about six weeks or so. My players seem to be having a grand ol' time, and that's cool - but I'm not. They enjoy the beer n pretzels nature of the campaign, but I want something deeper. Its getting more difficult to stay motivated to run the game with each passing week and I'm not sure what to do. I don't want to disappoint my players and I know they're not interested in playing something different or really investing much more than they already have into the game. I don't want to end their fun, but at the same time DMing should not be a chore.

Maybe I should just take it light, like they do. Or, maybe I should start planning my next campaign while still working on this one. I can make the two of them have common elements and maybe draw them into something a little deeper the next time around.

My Return

2009-07-20T19:37:13Z

I know it's been forever since I updated this thing and no one probably even pays attention to LJ anymore, but frankly I kind of miss it. In an era of Facebook and Twitter when everything is thrown at you in an easily digestible micro-format, I think its nice to take five minutes and take a look at someone's thoughts past 160 characters. Are we that amped up on RedBull and Starbucks that we can only spare ten seconds to read about whats going on in the world? And really, what can we say in 150 characters? More importantly, who gives a fuck? Do we really need to tweet that we're in dire need of a latte? What makes someone's caffiene addiction so damned important that we feel the need to whip out the old iPod and let the world know? Have we become that self important?

Speaking of self important, I wanted to take longer than just a sentence to say something, so I downloaded Semagic and am making an effort to update my LJ more often. Maybe breathe some life into the old girl. She's been good to me over the years and like a favorite book, its time to blow the dust off the jacket and get it off the shelf. So here we go again, alright?

I'm running a 4th Edition D&D game at the moment and its really not as fulfilling as I'd hoped. My players seem to be having a great time merrily trouncing around the Forgotten Realms putting their swords into things until XP comes out, but there is very little coherent plot and when I try to present one I feel like they just follow along, waiting to be spoon-fed. Only one of them has shown any interest in achieving personal goals for his character. Everyone else is just happy to following the bouncing ball. I want drama, tension, angst and struggle. I want conflict and questioning, character growth and soul searching. Most people will say that I'm playing the wrong game if thats what I want, but I really feel like that in this case its that the majority of my players are just happy with beer and pretzels games and I'm coming to the conclusion that my own satisfaction at the gaming table requires something a bit more introspective and dynamic.

Oh, and my dishwasher broke. Fuck.

In Nomine

2009-02-19T13:36:48Z

So I love Christian mythology. Always have. Damn near became a priest because of it. So, why is it that I've got a copy of In Nomine sitting in my shelf, along with the Game Master's Guide and I've managed to not run the game in the 5 years I've owned it.

I'll tell you why: Book organization. I can't wade through the book long enough to find out how you make a freakin' character. Yet, I really, really, really want to run this game.

So, if anyone's got some advise or ideas, encouragement or page numbers, let me know.

My Fellow Americans...

2009-01-16T01:15:03Z

Dear America,

Barrack Obama is not the Messiah. He is not the Second Coming of Christ. He is not the Savior of Mankind. He is just a man. Just like you. Just like me. He is human and he is, like the rest of us, flawed. He will make mistakes and through the course of his presidency he will probably be forced to break a few promises or make some choices you don't agree with. Just like every president before him.
When this happens and you feel a sense of righteous indignation boiling up inside of you, remember this: You're the one who put him on a pedestal. You're the one who refused to speak up until public opinion was on your side, or worse yet - until the media told you to do so. You're the one who is expecting Barrack Obama to fix your problems.
Sorry, that's not how it works. Fix your own problems. Take responsibility for your actions. Accept the consequences of your choices. If you do these things and the guy in the White House is still throwing a monkey wrench into your life remember that you have a voice, you can learn your rights, and if you still disagree with the way things go you have another vote in four years.

Sincerely,
James M. Spahn

My Turkey Day is now perfect

2008-11-27T15:58:24Z

Holy shit... The cartoon Chowder just Rickroll'd the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

Score!

I should be in bed by now, but...

2008-11-10T07:41:12Z

...I was up in the attic the other day, cleaning. Emily and I have been making serious progress on finally turning this place from a house and into a home - ya know, a real home. That small miracle aside, I was digging through all the mess we'd tossed haphazardly into the attic when I found this stack of old books. I mean, really old books - like at least 100 years or so. Maybe even older, who knows?

Well, I sat down on one of the chairs we had up there and as I opened the first book up I heard the clicking of Pippin's nails. I glanced up at him - he always makes me smile. He sat down right in front of me and just looked at me all expectantly. I laughed, like he always makes me laugh and just casually said, "What, Pip?"

He just wagged his tail. So I started to read.

I rose from my kneeling position, still cradling the cup of the exotic tea that I'd been given. It was sweet and strong, almost green in color. When it mixed with the sandalwood incense that seemed so somehow familiar, I felt heady - very nearly separated from my own senses. Even now, I cannot recall theses words; this so-called prophecy. At least not in their entirety.

...Last Heir, Forgotten his name...
...Beloved of a Fey Maiden, a Gypsy Princess...
...The Son of a Paladin, Spirit-Child...
...Clad in Armor of Dreams...
...Baring Folded Steel...

I still don't know who these prophets are. What do they want from me? Here I am, unable to recall this damned prophecy of theirs, and yet I can feel pieces of it swimming in my brain like word or memory on the edge of recall.

I shake my head out of both frustration and to clear my thoughts. It doesn't make any sense. None at all. I'm just a simple man. No skills to speak of. No admirable traits. I can't possibly matter. I can't possibly change things.

But for all I am unable to recall, I know this...

The prophecy says otherwise.

Wierd, huh? I looked down at Pippin after reading some more. He was just wagging his little tail and giving me that perky expectant dog look. As always, I couldn't help but see a bit of merriment in his eyes. Anyway, I took a break from my cleaning for an hour or so, and stuffed the books back in the corner.

I'll check on them again soon.

I found this on the journal of satyrblade

2008-09-17T15:07:49Z

This is from Deepak Chopra's MySpace blog.

"Obama and the Palin Effect"

Sometimes politics has the uncanny effect of mirroring the national psyche even when nobody intended to do that. This is perfectly illustrated by the rousing effect that Gov. Sarah Palin had on the Republican convention in Minneapolis this week. On the surface, she outdoes former Vice President Dan Quayle as an unlikely choice, given her negligent parochial expertise in the complex affairs of governing.

Her state of Alaska has less than 700,000 residents, which reduces the job of governor to the scale of running one-tenth of New York City. By comparison, Rudy Giuliani is a towering international figure. Palin's pluck has been admired, and her forthrightness, but her real appeal goes deeper.

She is the reverse of Barack Obama, in essence his shadow, deriding his idealism and exhorting people to obey their worst impulses In psychological terms the shadow is that part of the psyche that hides out of sight, countering our aspirations, virtue, and vision with qualities we are ashamed to face: anger, fear, revenge, violence, selfishness, and suspicion of "the other." For millions of Americans, Obama triggers those feelings, but they don't want to express them. He is calling for us to reach for our higher selves, and frankly, that stirs up hidden reactions of an unsavory kind. (Just to be perfectly clear, I am not making a verbal play out of the fact that Sen. Obama is black. The shadow is a metaphor widely in used before his arrival on the scene.) I recognize that psychological analysis of politics is usually not welcome by the public, but I believe such a perspective can be helpful here to understand Palin's message. In her acceptance speech Gov. Palin sent a rousing call to those who want to celebrate their resistance to change and a higher vision.

Look at what she stands for:
--Small town values -- a denial of America's global role, a return to petty, small-minded parochialism.

--Ignorance of world affairs -- a repudiation of the need to repair America's image abroad.

--Family values -- a code for walling out anybody who makes a claim for social justice. Such strangers, being outside the family, don't need to be heeded.

--Rigid stands on guns and abortion -- a scornful repudiation that these issues can be negotiated with those who disagree.

--Patriotism -- the usual fallback in a failed war.

--"Reform" -- an italicized term, since in addition to cleaning out corruption and excessive spending, one also throws out anyone who doesn't fit your ideology.

Palin reinforces the overall message of the reactionary right, which has been in play since 1980, that social justice is liberal-radical, that minorities and immigrants, being different from "us" pure American types, can be ignored, that progressivism takes too much effort and globalism is a foreign threat. The radical right marches under the banners of "I'm all right, Jack," and "Why change? Everything's OK as it is." The irony, of course, is that Gov. Palin is a woman and a reactionary at the same time. She can add mom to apple pie on her resume, while blithely reversing forty years of feminist progress. The irony is superficial; there are millions of women who stand on the side of conservatism, however obviously they are voting against their own good. The Republicans have won multiple national elections by raising shadow issues based on fear, rejection, hostility to change, and narrow-mindedness.

Obama's call for higher ideals in politics can't be seen in a vacuum. The shadow is real; it was bound to respond. Not just conservatives possess a shadow -- we all do. So what comes next is a contest between the two forces of progress and inertia. Will the shadow win again, or has its furtive appeal become exhausted? No one can predict. The best thing about Gov. Palin is that she brought this conflict to light, which makes the upcoming debate honest. It would be a shame to elect another Reagan, whose smiling persona was a stalking horse for the reactionary forces that have brought us to the demoralized state we are in.

We deserve to see what we are getting, without disguise.

Because Joss Whedon told me to...

2008-07-17T15:04:45Z

Watch it. Love it. Spread the word.

Midnight Ace and the Fang of Quetzalcotal

2008-06-03T12:40:56Z

She moved with the cool grace of a woman in complete control. Around her, chaos reigned. The crowd of scholars, patrons and press had gathered to see the unveiling of the latest exhibit at San Caballero's Museum of Natural History - "Aztecs: The Lost Civilization." This was her exhibit and these were her artifacts. Dr. Scarlet Solferino had spent the past seven years in the wilderness of Peru. She'd given blood, sweat and tears for these treasures of the past and now she was entitled to all the glory about to be showered upon her.

On the marble steps of the Museum she surveyed the crowd of nearly a thousand one last time before offering everyone a tight smile and stepping up to the podium. "Welcome, my fellow citizens. I am pleased to offer the City of San Caballero this glimpse into the mysterious and bloody civilization of the past."

The crowd replied with a hail of applause and cheers, while the local reporters exploded with questions and photographs. Scarlet replied by raising a single hand a simple, elegant request for silence. Within a few seconds only the distant sounds of the city could be heard. "Let me begin by saying that the legacy of the Aztecs be felt here in San Caballero, thousands of years after the fall of their civilization..."

Amidst the collection of reporters and shutterbugs near the rear of the crowd Clayton Baxter fiddled clumsily with the camera. He accidentally dropped the flash bulb onto the concrete with a sharp crashing noise. His partner, the ace reporter Clara Conway, scowled. "For Pete's Sake," she whispered harshly, "They never should've taken you out of layout, Clay. You're all thumbs!"

His face flushed red as he reassembled the camera. "Sorry, Clara." He turned away from her and knelt onto one knee as he prepared new film for the camera. At least this way he didn't see her blue eyes looking down on him as if he were some kind of child. He was surrounded on all sides by men in trench coats with pens and cameras.

A distinct and singular click caused him to look up. The two men behind him in fedoras and gray coats whom he'd presumed to be reporters each produced a Thompson from the folds of their jackets. Clayton's reaction was instant.

"Gun!" he screamed at the top of his lungs as he leapt at Clara. She collapsed as Clay grabbed her knees and the two of them tumbled to the asphalt. An instant later the only thing that could be heard were screams and gunfire.

Midnight Ace and the Fang of Quetzalcotal

2008-05-31T13:08:01Z

Lightning tore like a wound across the evening sky, concealing the sound of a gunshot. The rain fell in sheets, feeling more like wave after wave crashing against anyone foolish enough to be caught in this deluge. In the dying light of a dockside lamp a man waited. He wore a long coat that was a colorless kind of gray and seemed to relish in the obfuscation of the evening storm. A final touch to his mystery was the still burning cigarette just barely exposed to the endless rains. Standing on Dock 43 of the San Caballero wharf he waited with the patience of the dead.

Soon, it would be here. After all his years, all his suffering, all his searching, it was finally within his grasp. He glanced down, only barely acknowledging the soaked corpse at his feet. He slipped the pistol back into he interior pocket of his coat and took one final drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the waters of the Western Bay. With an annoyed sigh, he knelt down by the body.

He almost felt sorry for the poor sap. Just another Joe trying to make a buck. The guy had just been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Pushing anything resembling remorse from his mind, the man in the colorless gray coat grabbed the stiff by his collar and grunted as he dragged him towards the edge of the dock. Between his own thin frame and the constant battering from Mother Nature, it was quite a struggle.

Within a few moments though, a heavy splash and a few ripples on the surface of the sea were the only memorial for the dead man. Now thoroughly annoyed at such a menial task as disposing of the dead, the gray coated stranger returned his gaze to the horizon - returned to waiting.

After fifteen minutes, a life time to the stranger, he saw a light on the horizon. The Windfall was coming into port. It had finally arrived.

Midnight Ace and the Atomic Engine

2008-05-28T17:03:15Z

Clayton Baxter slung his leg over the cracked leather seat of the 1930 Indian and within a few seconds the roar of the motorcycle filled the rain soaked streets of San Caballero. The sun would be rising in a few hours, and the cool wind created by the speeding motorcycle helped refresh the tired young typesetter as he left the Gazzette building and made his way home.

His apartment wasn't in the best neighborhood of the city, and nor was it large, but Clay was proud of what he had. A cot was set up in the corner and across the tiny room was a rust-stained sink. There wasn't much on the wall besides a plethora of unidentifiable stains and the whole thing was lit by a single bulb that swung from a chain hanging from the ceiling. But Clayton had found an old radio, and the door had a good lock. Besides, he told himself, the only window in the one-room apartment gave him a good view of the city.

He stuffed his keys in his pocket and flopped onto his cot. As he collapsed onto his bed he remembered the dufflebag stuffed under the bed. With an uncomfortable metallic clunk, he winced as he hit the cot. He sat up, tossing his legs back over the side and looked down at the half open bag. The engine had spilled out and was laying on the floor silently.

It reminded him of back home. Of Iowa. Of Ricky. But things were different now. Ricky was gone, and so was the farm. Clayton knew if he hadn't left, they would've eventually come for his mother and father. They'd already taken Ricky from him, he wasn't going to lose the rest of his family. All of it over this engine. This damned "Atomic Engine." At least that's what Ricky had called it with his dying breath as he shoved it into Clay's hands.

Clayton chuckled to himself as he recalled the letters Ricky used to write him. Ricky was a pilot and he used to always write his younger brother, talking of secret missions and special projects. Clayton never really believed his brother's bravado. At least not until Ricky came home, afraid and hiding this damned engine. Ricky claimed it could make a man fly without wings and without a plane. Like a bird, Ricky had claimed.

Clayton hated the damned thing and hated what it had done to his family. But a part of him wanted to fly. I part of him wanted to figure out how to use that engine. To fly like a bird. To be reckless like Ricky. Clayton sighed and walked over to the tiny closet in the apartment. Within its shadows he saw Ricky's old flight jacket and scarf suspended by a hanger. His pilot's goggles were hanging from a hook on the door. That was all that was left of Ricky, really. Clayton left the door open as he turned and looked out the window and into the streets of San Caballero.

He smiled to himself, "Gimmie a sign, Rick. Help your kid brother out."

Growing louder and louder came the wail of a police siren, followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of a Thompson being fired. Clayton smiled and glanced back at his brother's jacket. He had his answer.

Clayton quickly threw his brother's jacket on, zipping it half way up with a quick jerk. He grabbed Ricky's scarf and wrapped it around his face similar to an old west bandit and quickly slapped the aviator's goggles over his eyes. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He ruffled his short black hair, hoping to get the look of an aviator lost in the wild blue yonder. What he looked like was someone with bed head.

He pulled the engine free from the dufflebag under his bed. It was sleak and silver, a collection of switches and fans with a series of leather straps hanging from it. After a few minutes of fiddling Clay managed to figure out that it was a four-point system, with two shoulder straps that met at a belt buckle at the waist, all attached directly to the engine. He quickly strapped the engine to his back and for the first time noticed the large silver button on the buckle. Clayton figured it wouldn't be prudent to press the button just yet, for he had no doubt what it did. He found the engine to be surprsingly light on his back, weighing little more than a few pounds it was barely noticeable.

In what he felt was a suitable disguise, Clayton climbed out of his window and onto the fire escape. Looking down the street in the direction of the sirens, he saw a black sedan leading a high speed chase that was headed right in his direction. A silloutte in a fedora was sticking out of the passanger side window of the sedan, firing a tommy gun on the growing fleet of police cars in pursuit. Taking a deep breath, Clayton walked to the edge of the escape and waited as the black sedan sped towards him on the street below.

Closing his eyes, Clayton pressed the large silver button. He heard a metallic clicking and a high pitched whine came from the engine. An instant later he was launched from the fire escape. Like a bullet he was airborn, moving so fast that he shot past the sedan as it sped by. He screamed for a moment and began to flail his arms, looking more like an injured carrion bird than a hero. Within a few moments he found himself suddenly tangled in a series of low hanging telephone lines, the engine's powerful high-pitched whine filling his ears.

"Stop! Stop!" He gasped. His arms and torso were thoroughly entangled in the phone lines, with the engine applying enough force to hold him tightly against the long black cables. He was effectively immobilzed in midair. Taking a moment to gather himself, Clayton took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

He could hear the gunfire getting closer again, and he knew the black sedan would catch up to him soon. Clayton relaxed and reached down, pressing the large silver button on the buckle of the engine's leather straps. A metallic click was heard as the high pitched whine began to fade.

It was only as Clayton began to tumble towards the streets, gravity taking it's hold on him once more, that he realized his mistake.

Meanwhile, outside of San Caballero

"What do you mean you lost it?" Franky Two-Tone belowed in a heavy accent. He stood, and took a deep breath to calm himself. Taking the stogie out his mouth, he blew a little smoke into the air and looked at the collection of men around him. The pin striped suits didn't matter and neither did the fancy rings or the expensive cars. These guys were stupid thugs, and Franky knew it. He looked up at them and smiled, almost laughing.

"Gentlemen," he began. He saw their faces begin to lighten as he smiled. "Do you know who your boss is?"

The bald bemenoth simply known as Stiff spoke up dumbly, "You is, Franky. You is."

"Very good, Stiff. Very good." Franky looked over Stiff's shoulder at Vinnie Depalma. Vinnie stuck to the shadows, and had features like a weasel. Franky chuckled to himself and decided that he liked the slimy little bastard. He continued speaking to Stiff. "And, do you know Stiff, who my boss is?"

Stiff paused, confused. He'd never actually thought of his boss having a boss. "I dunno, Franky. You're da boss. You ain't got no boss as far as I know."

Franky Two-Tone smiled. It was a geniune smile, and it was full of malice and satisfaction. The mixture of shadows and cigar smoke the filled the speak easy made him almost seem like a ghost, a reaper. "Oh, I assure you Stiff, I have a boss." He made a motion with his hand and spoke in a cold crisp tone, "Vincent."

Suddenly the room was filled the smoke and noise and Vinnie's face was painted in a series of flashes. Soon, the room was so congested with cigar and gunsmoke that no one could see. After a few moments, it cleared. Franky looked down at Stiff. He was laying in a pool of blood that seemed to be slowly expanding around him and his grey pin stripe suit was nothing more than a collection of rags.

"And my boss, Stiff, is far less merciful than I am." Franky looked at the rest of the assembled goons. Most were to frozen in fear to do anything. The satisfaction faded from his face, replaced by rage and anger. "Well? What the hell are you numb skulls waiting for! Jimmy! Tommy! Francis! Find out what that idiot flyboy, Rick Baxter did with the engine! I want it and I want it now!" Without waiting to see if his commands were carried out, Franky turned and walked back to his desk and sat down.

"Vinnie, I want you to head into San Caballero. I got a shipment coming into the city and it might be a little hot. I need you to over see the drop off. Take whoever you need with you." He reached into his drawer and removed a fresh cigar. He took a deep wiff of the length of it, enjoying the aroma.

Vinnie took his cue wordlessly and made his way out the door. "Oh, and Vinnie?" The sharp featured mobster turned to look at his boss. "Vinnie, get rid of the stiff."

Franky Two-Tone laughed at his own tiny pun as his new number one guy made his way out of the speak easy.

The black sedan sped like a bullet down the rain-soaked street, leaving a hail of bullets and fleet of police cars in it's wake. Side Street Johnny was the best wheelman in San Caballero, but even he couldn't maintain control of the sedan as the plummetting body of Clayton Baxter landed on the hood of his car. He swerved and skidded across the wet streets while his gunman was forced to drop his Thompson and flailed his arms in an effort not to find himself recieving a concrete facelift at eighty miles per hour.

Clayton grabed onto the first thing he could, wrapping one hand around the hood orniment of the sedan as it began to swerve uncontrollably. With one hand on the orniment, he took his free hand and grabbed onto the car's front grill for balance. He kicked over and over with his feet, smashing the windshield and catching Side Street Johnny in the jaw. The mobster swore loudly as glass splashed across the inside of the car and yelled for his accomplice to deal with this problem. Clay was relentless, kicking over and over again, each time catching Johnny in the face. Within a few seconds, the wheelman was unconcious and the car spiraled out of control.

Fighting off dizziness, Clayton saw that the car was spinning like a corkscrew towards a road-side gas station. Without thinking, he threw himself from the vehicle and mashed his fist into the belt buckle. A moment later, he was airborne as both the insuing explosion and the engine thrust him into the air. His ears were filled with the high pitched whine of the engine and the rumbling explosion of the service station.

Higher and higher he flew and within a few moments Clayton had regained his compsure. For a few precious seconds he felt the pure freedom that was flight. Nearly ten stories in the air, Clayton slowly and cautiously tried to use his body weight guide himself. He clumsily took a perch on a skyscraper, fifteen stories above the inferno that was now surrounded by the red twinkling lights of the police. Clayton was in awe as the engine shut down, dizzy from both the new height and the fact that he'd just very nearly died.

"What are you doing, Baxter?" he said to himself as he unwrapped the scarf from around his face and spit out a little bit of blood onto the concrete. He rotated his right arm, feeling the muscle pain from where he'd hit the car. He sighed to himself and continued to watch below. Within a few minutes, firetrucks were on the scene. These guys were the real heroes, Clayton thought. He was just a farmboy who'd gotten a job in the big city as as typesetter. All he had was a beat up bike, a dirty apartment, and a crush on an ace reporter. He relaxed and realized how exhausted and out of his element he was.

"I'm no Ricky Baxter." He took the engine off his back and let it hit the concrete roof with a metallic thud. "And I sure ain't some ace pilot." He half heartedly picked the engine up by one strap and began to make his way down the side of the building via the fire exit. By the time he set foot in the alleyway, he'd decided that tomorrow the engine was going to go to the police and that he was going to get on with his life.

As he made his way down the building and into an alley, he never saw the rodent-faced man watching him from the shadows. Vinnie smiled to himself and knew even if they'd lost Side Street John and the load of swag that the discovery of the engine would make Franky Two-Tone smile. Vinnie lit a cigarette and walked away, absently wondering exactly who Franky Two-Tone's boss actually was. After a few minutes he dismissed the thought and faded into the night.

The sound of guns firing and tires squealing woke Clara up from what was already a light sleep. She climbed out of bed and made her way to her bedroom window. She had a good view of the city and lived in a nice apartment, not like those dives a mile or so across the tracks. She threw the window open and saw chaos errupting before her eyes.

A black sedan was speeding down Charleston Street, pursued by at least half a dozen cop cars with their lights blazing. Some mook was hanging out of the sedan, throwing lead at the blue boys and swearing at his partner's driving. What amazed her most of all was the man clutching to the hood of the getaway car. He was dressed in a beat-up flight jacket and had some kind of metal box strapped to his back. Carla grabbed the note pad and pencil she kept by her desk, still watching the chaos unfold. She couldn't tear her eyes away for even a second, a good reporter had to remember every detail.

She watched as the man in on the hood of the car kicked through the glass of the sedan, knocking the driver unconcious and forcing the gunman to drop his tommy. An instant later the car was spinning out of control towards the Citgo Station right across the street from her place. Like the fires of hell itself, the station became an inferno as the out of control car flew into the pumps. The flash and the heat of it all forced Clara to look away, but not before she saw the mysterious man with the silver backpack launched himself into the sky. A pair of wings popped out of the silver box and a wake of heat distortion seemed to follow the now airborn hero, but no obvious form of propulsion seemed to be launching him upward. Seizing the moment, Clara watched him like a hawk. She didn't blink, capturing every detail of his features that she could make out in the shadowy night. Within a few seconds, he was lost to the clouds, like a human bird.

She smiled and stood up, throwing on a few clothes and turned to run out the door to question the cops. She glanced at her alarm clock as she closed the door behind her: Midnight.

Clayton darted out of Joe's Place and jumped on his bike. He was running late for work and Mr. Spielman would have his hide if the evening edition of the Gazette didn't get out on time. Besides, rumored had it that Clara had something hot for the presses. Clayton couldn't help but think about the engine he now had stuffed in a knapsack and strapped to the back of the bike. After work that damned thing was going to the cops.

He put these thoughts out of his head as he pulled into the Gazette parking lot. Clayton smiled as he turned the bike off and grabbed the knapsack strapped to the back. He turned around just in time to see Clara Conway making her way into the offices. He felt his heart skip a beat as he caught a glance of her sapphire eyes and golden hair. She was dressed in a lady's business suit with a broad-brimmed hat and Clay couldn't help but notice how maginificent she was in the afternoon sun. He took a deep breath and jogged up after her.

"Ms. Conway!" He called. She turned and looked at him and he stumbled and managed an embarassed smile. After stammering for a moment as she stopped to wait for him and finally managed something reasonable. "So, I... uh, hear that you've got a big story for tonight's pages?"

Clara smiled. Clay thought he felt himself start to flush red at how beautiful she was. He'd never known a woman like that before. She laughed softly at the silly farm boy. He was a sweet kid, but she didn't think he was the smart enough for the city. She spoke with him like he was a young boy, worthy of a civil respect despite his ignorance. "Sure do, Mr. Baxter. I saw a police chase come to a fiery end outside of my apartment last night."

Clay swallowed the growing lump in his throat. He only hoped she didn't notice his knap sack. "R... really?"

"Oh my goodness, Clayton!" she said in sudden excitement. "The most amazing part was the flying man! Like a bird, he flew right out of the fire with a pair of silver wings on his back! Like some kind of ace pilot!" Her eyes sparkled with a kind of wild fascination. Clay didn't notice in his nervousness.

"Wow, Clara. What happened to this birdman?" Clayton's voice cracked slightly. Neither beautiful woman nor lies were his specialty and the combination of the two was really starting to wear at his demeanor.

"He disappeared into the midnight sky, Mr. Baxter." She sighed and pursed her lips together in thought. "Midnight Ace," she said, thinking out loud. "What do you think, Mr. Baxter? I'd been search for an article title all night, and hadn't really come up with anything."

Clayton couldn't help but smile to himself as he nodded to her, "Yeah, I like it." She nodded to him and went into the paper's offices. Clayton stayed behind for a moment, letting his mind fill with images of the Midnight Ace flying into the night with Clara held tightly in his arms. After a moment he dismissed the fantasy and slung the damned engine over his shoulder and went to work. Soon the engine would be in the hands of the police and this whole mess would be over.

Vincent Depalma stepped into the phone booth as the rest of the boys climbed into the car. Franky wasn't going to be happy. Taking a deep breath and put his two bits into the slot and picked up the phone. After a few minutes, the operater had him connected.

Franky Two-Tone didn't bother with a greeting. "You got my engine, Vincent?"

Vinnie swallowed and finally blurted it out, "It wasn't there boss! The kid stashed it somwhere! But I can get it, I got a plan."

"If I don't have that engine by midnight tonight, Mr. Depalma, you're gonna be swimming with the fishes. Is that clear?" Franky's voice was deep, almost throaty. Vinnie knew it wasn't an idle threat.

Hanging up the phone, Vinnie climbed out of the booth and made his way to the car. He climbed into the driver's side and looked at the other three men in the Studebaker. "Alright boys," he began as he started up the car and made his way onto the road. "We're headin' over to the Gazette building and we're nabbing us a dame. Just a snatch and grab, and then we head back to Franky's. Once we've got the broad at Franky's we wait."

Rocco 'Rocks' Malloy, spoke up from the back seat. "Whats we gonna do wit some broad back at Franky's? I thought we was supposed to get some kind of motor."

Vinnie sighed. He never could understand why Franky Two-Tone, a criminal mastermind, insisted on hiring the stupidest men in San Caballero to do his dirty work for him. "Rocks, once we have the girl, the engine will come to us. Now, you're paid to smash, not to think."

Within a few minutes they were parked in a lot across from the Gazette building, waiting. Vinnie took this time to describe Clara Conway to the rest of the goons in the car. The men watched and waited. After an hour the sun had gone down and they were all getting restless. Just as Vinnie was about to tell them all to pipe down, Clara walked out of the building and made her way to the nearby bus stop.

"Now, boys. Now!" The four men leaped from the car and ran across the street towards the frightened reporter. She let out a brief, but piercing scream as Rocks picked her up and covered her mouth. She struggled and squirmed, kicking him in the shines as he halled her back to the car. Rocks didn't seem to really care.

A moment later Clayton Baxter came running around from the back of the building. In the dying daylight he saw Rocks stuffing a struggling Clara into the Studebaker. Vinnie stood by the open door to the driver's seat and leveled his tommy gun at the farm boy. Clayton froze.

"If you want to see the dame again, bring the engine to Warehouse 23 on the corner of 5th and the docks by midnight." Vinnie sneered, his sharp features and the shadows bringing out his rodent-like features. He laughed to himself and fired a few shots at Clayton's feet.

Clay dove to the ground and heard Clara scream as the car sped away into the night.

Clayton swore loudly and ran around to the back of the building. Just inside the bag door lay the knap sack with the engine inside. He grabbed the blasted then and ran to his motorcycle. Slinging the knapsack over his shoulder the kicked the bike to life and sped down the street after the Studebaker. He sped down the street at a break-neck pace, often using alleyways and even sidewalks to catch the goons who'd taken his girl. He was single-minded in his efforts to rescue Clara. The only other thing he could think about was how much he hated the damned engine.

So focused on the black Studebaker was Clay that he never saw the Ford pull in front of him and slam on its brakes. His Indian Sport was ruined as he slammed into the back of the van. The last thing he remembered before he lost conciousness was tumbling end over end, clutching desperately to the engine as he hit the pavement and the waking world escaped him.

Clay woke up to the splash of cold water on his face. As soon as he tried to open his eyes, he found his vision filled with a blinding yellow bulb. His head ached terribly and he could feel that some of the skin on his back was raw.

"Clayton Baxter?" an unfamilar voice questioned. In a few minutes his vision cleared and he saw four men in gray suits surrounding him. He was in some kind of basement or small warehouse. Some of the evening's starlight was spilling in through a skylight. He shook his head, trying to force the throbbing pain in his jaw to go away.

"Where's Clara?" He said. His words were slow but strong.

"Answer the question," one of the men said. He had short black hair and was wearing a fedora. "Is your name Clayton Baxter?"

"Yes!" he said, exasperated. He started to stand up out of the chair and was halted as three of the men drew pistols from inside their coats and cocked the hammer.

"I would advise you to stay seated," the man said. He began to pace back and forth in front of Clay. "I'm Special Agent Langston, FBI. Would you care to tell us how this came into your posession?" He stepped aside and Clay could see his knapsack was on the otherside of the room, the engine peeking out of its folds.

"Listen! What time is it? I don't have time for this, they're going to kill Clara!"

Langston sighed. "It's 11 P.M. Mr. Baxter, you've been out for quite some time. Now, how did you get this engine?"

Losing his temper, Clay leapt to his feet. A rush of sudden movement didn't help with his headache as he stood nose-to-nose with Langston. "My brother gave it to me, just before he died! Now, if you don't get out of my way that damned engine is going to cost someone else their life!" The other agents responded instantly, all of them stepping closer and one of them putting his pistol to Baxter's temple.

Langston didn't bat an eye at the man's rash action. "Mr. Baxter," he said dryly as he looked him directly in the eye. "Let me enlighten you about what that 'damned engine,' as you so eloquently put it, exactly is." With a surprisingly strong grip on Clay's shirt, Langston shoved him back into the chair and then began to speak.

"When Einstein came here in five years ago, do you know what he was running from, Baxter?" Langston didn't wait for a reply to the retorical question. "He was running from Hitler's cronies, the Nazis. Do you know why?" Langston let his eyes drift over to the engine before continuing. "Eistein developed some kind of atomic theory. I'm not egghead enought to know the details, but supposedly the technology used to build that engine can be used to blow up an entire city. Einstein wanted to use this atom for cheap energy. Hitler had other plans."

Clayton was dumbstruck. This was so much bigger than he'd ever imagined. Bigger than him and bigger than Clara. Langston saw that his point was starting to get through the young man's thick skull. "After making a deal with Churchill, we sent a pilot in to recover the engine before Hitler's boys could get to it. We lost him as he was fleeing Europe over the Atlantic."

"Ricky?" Clay was in complete awe of it all.

Langston nodded, "Richard Baxter. When our people found he died, it was only a matter of time before we figured out what he did with the engine." Langston sighed and reached into his coat, retreiving a cigarette. He lit it and looked down at Clayton. "Look kid, we've heard about this Franky Two-Tone. Supposedly he'd got connections to the Bund. The Bund is Hitler's mini-Reich here in the states. Nothin' more than a bunch of Krauts waving the old stars and stripes." He sighed and put his hand on Clay's shoulder. "I'm sorry kid, but the engine's going with us. It's safer this way."

Clayton looked up at Langston. "What about Clara?"

Langston didn't say anything.

"Can I at least have a cigarette?" Langston handed one to the young man. Clay put it in his mouth and grumbled for a light. As Langston reached for his matches Clayton stood up sharply and shoved the g-man to the ground, knocking over two of the other men in the process. Clay made a mad dash across the room and dove for the engine as the remaining Fed openned fire.

"No! You might hit the engine!" Langston cried.

Clay grabbed the knapsack and threw the engine onto his back as the men scrambled to their feet and moved towards him. With knapsack in one hand and the engine half-strapped to his body, he hit the buckle and launched himself into the sky, shattering the skylight.

Langston swore and turned to the other agents. "What are you waiting for! Follow him!"

Clayton burst through the glass and landed quickly on the roof of the building as he heard the g-men reacting to the chaos below. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out Ricky's old jacket throwing it on quickly. He wrapped the scarf around his face and put his brother's goggles across his face. By the time the engine's harness was in place and he was completely outfitted he could hear the feds getting into their cars. He mashed down on the silver belt buckle and with the now familiar metallic click and high pitched whine, he was airborne.

He stayed low to the ground, only a few yards above most of the city's buildings, hoping that the cops would trail him to the warehouse where Franky Two-Tone was holding Carla. He found that controlling the engine was getting easier now, and within a few minutes he found himself growing more comfortable controlling the atomic contraption. It reminded him of his now destroyed Indian Scout. Despite his concern for Carla and the shortness of time, Claytont tried to keep his speed low enough so that the cops could keep pace with him. Every few seconds he glanced back to see that Langston's boys were still indeed behind him.

Within ten minutes of flying, Clayton was on the other side of the city and was able to locate the warehouse with relative ease. It was off a side street and he knew that Langston's men would have trouble getting close to the place in their Ford. Landing cautiously on the roof, Clayton took in his surroundings. Vinnie's car was parked in front of the warehouse, and there was one large (and rather dumb looking) stooge standing outside of what appeared to be the building's only entrance, except for a few windows that were high up on the walls. Clayton would've traded the engine for a pistol at this point.

He gently pressed on the silver buckle and the engine gave him a little bit of lift, just enough so that he was levitating in the air. Using the edge of the wall to guide himself, he positioned himself in front of one of the warehouse's window and mashed down hard on the buckle, covering his face.

He burst through in a shower of glass to find the six men in suits spread around the otherwise empty room. One of them was holding Clara, gagged, in front of him like a body shield. The men immediately turned their guns on him and took aim. Before shots could be fired, Franky Two-Tone spoke up as he pulled Carla against him and produced a pistol from his coat, which he promptly put to her head. "Alright kid. Give me the engine or the broad gets a lead lobotomy."

Calling out in a slightly muffled voice from behind the scarf, Clay retorted. "Let her go first and you can have it."

Franky laughed. "There ain't no room for you to negotiate, flyboy. It's real simple: The engine or the girl." He cocked the hammer of his gun, as if to accentuate his point.

Clay sighed, "Alright, you win." He came to a slow landing. Immediately the mobsters began to move towards him. He held his hands out in a gesture of surrender and began to walk towards Franky. "Look, if I'm going to give you this thing, I've got to unstrap it."

"You heard the man, boys." Franky called out, "But if he tries any funny stuff, we're gonna have brains splattered all over this pretty lady's dress."

Carla scowled. She didn't seem afraid, just angry. She watched Clayton with a razor sharp eye. He slowly began to walk towards Clara and Franky as he unbuckled the engine from his back. When he was within three feet, he took the engine off his back. He held it in his arms for a second. He could smell Franky's breath. He formulated a quick plan in his mind and swallowed deeply. He could only hope that Langston's boys would get here soon.

"Duck!" He screamed. Clara let her weight drop and fell to the ground just as Clayton thrust the engine forward with his arms, hitting Franky Two-Tone square in the nose. His gun went off with a loud crack and then all hell broke loose.

Franky Two-Tone bent over as his nose broke. He grunted out an angry order to his men, but it was cut short as Clayton Baxter hit him across the back with the now unstrapped engine. Franky went down like a ton of bricks. As Franky hit the ground, Clara scrambled to grab his loose pistol as the remaining goons made their way towards the Midnight Ace.

One of the men leapt at Clayton as he scrambled to put the engine's harness back on, knocking the Ace to the floor and sending the engine skidding across the floor. The man clearly out weighed Clay and soon had him pinned to the ground and started to treat his face like kneaded dough with the butt of his pistol. Though brave, Clayton was no brawler. Distantly, Clayton heard gunshots. Throwing his arms up over his face, he kicked out with his legs desperately. After a second he caught the mobster in the groin and he collapsed to the ground, clutching himself and moaning softly.

He rolled over and grabbed the dropped pistol. Rising to one knee, he took in his surroudings. Carla was holding her own with surprising proficiency. Two of the mooks lay side by side on the floor, one holding his side and staining the ground a deep shade of red. She whirled around as Clayton came to his feet and leveled her gun at him. "Ace!" She cried out, "behind you!"

He whirlled around to see the other goons running towards the now unattended engine. He yelled for Carla to stay back and ran headlong into the trio of gangsters. He ran up behind the closest one and wrapped his arm around the guy's throat, leaping onto his back. The goon fell face-first to the concrete floor. As they hit the ground, Clayton sprang to his feet and kicked the guy in the back of the head, leaving him unconcious.

At this, one of the men turned his full attention to the Midnight Ace while the other one knelt down next to the engine. The thug easily had six inches and sixty five pounds on the slender hero and as he raised his two ham-sized fists, Clayton knew he was out classed. He looked at the guy and smirked beneath his scarf. With one fluid motion he raised his newly liberated pistol, shot the man in the knee cap and sent him sprawlling to the floor in a howl of pain.

He took another step towards the engine as the last man came to his feet already clutching the prized machine. Clayton raised his pistol but knew he wouldn't fire. He couldn't risk the engine or what might happen if it were struck by a stray bullet. He heard Clara walking up behind him as he held his pistol on the criminal.

"There's no way out," Clayton heard himself saying. "The Feds are already on their way. It's over." Clara was right behind him, he could smell her perfume. Despite the danger and the pain that wracked his body, he was still intoxicated by her closeness. He tilted his head towards her, but didn't take his eyes off the engine. "You should get out of here, Ms. Conway."

"What? And lose the story? Not a chance, Ace."

A fresh smile came across the criminal's face and he began to put strap the engine to his back. Clayton shook his pistol at the man, but the goon only laughed. "You ain't gonna shoot me flyboy," he said with a laugh, "If you was you'da done it by now." Clayton sighed, knowing he was right.

"That may be true," came Clara's voice, "but I wo..."

Clayton whirled around, his mind racing as Clara took a shot at the gangster. He slapped her wrist away and the sound of a richocheting bullet was heard against the wall. She scowled at Clayton and lowered her gun. They both returned their attention to the gangster, who now nearly had he harness completely strapped on. He paused and looked at them in shock. He openned his mouth to say something, but only a small trickle of blood came out. He fell onto the floor as stiff as a board.

Clayton was completely shocked, but took a reluctant step towards the man. He was bleeding from the side, and it was starting to pool around him. He looked at Clara, dumbfounded. "Your shot must've richocheted off the wall and hit him in the kidneys. He's dead."

She smirked to herself. "Well, let's get this engine of yours and get out of here."

He nodded to her and set to work. Within a minute he had the engine firmly on his back. "I wasn't lying. The Feds are on their way."

"So what's your plan?" While she didn't seem impressed by his lack of deception, she did want to know what he intended to do.

He shrugged, "I figured we'd walk right out the front door until they show up."

"How simple." He wasn't sure if she was complimenting him or insulting him.

The two of them made their way to the door of the warehouse. Clayton grabbed the handle and was thrown back as Rocks Malloy burst into the room and nearly tore the door off the hinges with his stupid, brute strength. Grabbing Clara with one hand, he unceremoniously slung her over his shoulder and held her there with one tree-trunk sized arm.

As Clayton was fighting off the dizziness caused by such a blow Rocks lumbered towards him. He raised his pistol with a shaking hand, but Rocks was quicker than he looked and slapped it out of his hand with one swipe. Grabbing Clayton by the throat he lifted him into the air with one hand and held him there.

"With you gone, the boss'll gets the engine and I gets the dame." Without another word, Rocks started to squeeze. Clayton felt his vision starting to narrow, quickly followed by a series of bright spots. He hardly noticed the pain as unconciousness started to grab hold.

"Rocks," came the groggy voice of Franky Two-Tone. "Drop the flyboy and quit playin' around!" Franky slowly got to his feet as Rocks followed orders and dropped the half-conscious hero onto the unceremoniously. Looking over at his large and stupid employee, Franky sighed. "Get the engine, you moron!"

Clara struggled, hoping to break free as Rocks grabbed Clayton by the engine's harness and unbuckled it. Her attempting to pound on Rock's back and shoudlers had no affect as Rocks lifted the Midnight Ace and pulled the engine off his back. Clayton fell to the floor with an painful groan. Keeping Clara held over his shoulder with one arm, Rocks walked towards Franky.

"No! Stop!" Clara cried. "You can't just.."

Franky sighed, rubbing his broken and bloody nose. "Stop her yappin', Rocks."

The brute pulled her from his shoulder and sent her into unconciousness with one unceremonious slap. She cried out in pain before fainting away. The sound of her pain pulled Clayton from his stupor and he began to stand on his quivering legs. He watched as Rocks handed the engine over to Franky and the latter began to strap it to his back. After he had the engine secured, he picked up Clara's lost pistol from the floor. Clayton was only half aware of what was going on as his senses began to return to him.

"Well Rocks," Franky began with a smile, "It's been good working with you. But now your employment is at an end." Franky Two-Tone raised the pistol and shot Rocks Malloy square between the eyes. The galoot fell to the ground and nearly dropped the unconscious Clara. Franky caught her and slung her over his shoulder, thinking she'd make a good hostage if the Feds showed up.

With his free arm, Franky pressed on the silver buckle. With a high pitched whine and a metallic click, he rose slowly into the air. Finally, Clayton gathered his resolve and forced the pain and deseperation from his mind. He ran headlong at Franky Two-Tone, leaping into the air and grabbing the airborn criminal around his knees.

The engine stalled for just a moment, but Franky was only momentarily stunned. Smashing his fist down on the silver buckle, the engine roared to new speeds, launching the three of them out of the warehouse's window and into the sky thousands of feet above San Caballero.

Franky Two-Tone catapulted into the sky above San Caballero as the atomic engine roared. Clayton Baxter was wrapped around his knees, clutching onto him for dear life, while Franky held the unconcious Clara Conway in one arm. With a pistol in his free hand, Franky tried to take aim at the tenacious hero holding onto his legs. But the amount of weight he was carrying combined with his lack of familiarity with the engine made getting a clear shot impossible. "Alright, flyboy! Either you go, or the dame goes! This thing won't support the three of us for long!"

Clayton didn't know if he was right, but it was a risk he was going to have to take. Without thinking, he reached up with one arm and grabbed the engine's harness. The sudden shift in weight caused Franky to lose his balance, and he began to tumble across the sky. The unconcious woman over his shoulder slipped free of her place, and within a few moments he was holding onto her only by the sleeve of her dress. The sharp jerk and change in motion brought her suddenly back into the waking world. Immediately disoriented and afraid, she began to scream. With both arms free, Franky leveled his pistol at the reporter as he righted himself. "Sorry, doll-face." He cocked the hammer of the gun and took aim.

"Clara!" Clayton screamed out over the sound of the engine. He grabbed her by the wrist and let go of Franky. In the instant before gravity sent him to his death, he reached up and slammed down on the silver buckle.

The engine shut down instantly, and the three of them were spiralling down towards the streets of San Caballero. Franky's pistol fired wildly and he began to swear. Over his obsenity and Clara's screams, Clayton instantly formulated a plan. Holding his hand to the buckle, he quickly unclasped the harness.

As the engine came loose from Franky's back and he sprawlled freely towards the city streets. Clayton held desperately to Clara with one hand and to the engine's harness with the other. He looked at Clara for a moment and realized the horror of what he had to do. He let go of her wrist and she began to tumble past him towards the ever advancing streets. Rapidly throwing the harness around his waist, Clayton mashed down on the silver buckle and flew into a dive towards the ground.

Clara looked up at him, screaming in terror. In that moment time seemed to freeze. He saw Franky Two-Tone hit the ground with a sickening crack as a black Ford with a police siren pulled up on the street below. Another few seconds and both he and Clara would both be dead. He closed his eyes and reached out blindly.

Feeling her delicate wrist in his grasp, he shifted his body weight and reversed the dive. The two of them shot into the San Caballero sky like a bullet. She wrapped her arms around him, crying and shaking from fear. He held her against his chest as the two of them flew across the night sky. He thought long and hard about something to say. Something witty. Something memorable. Something he'd always wanted to say to his magnificent woman. He figured that she may never know who Clayton Baxter is, but he'd make sure she remembered the Midnight Ace.

"So," he stammered. "Hi."

She laughed and wept all at once and closed her eyes, letting out a sigh of relief. Clayton carried her across the sky for a few more minutes before courage finally found its way into his heart. He slowly pulled away the scarf that was still covering his face. An instant later he had his lips pressed to hers. He lost himself as the midnight winds mingled with her intoxicating presence.

Truly, he was flying.

Clayton Baxter woke up the next morning hurting in places he didn't even know he had. He sat up with a painful groan and rubbed his eyes. The sun was just starting to peek through his window. He climbed out of the cot and walked over to the tiny sink in his apartment. Throwing a bit of water on his face, the haziness of sleep finally started to fade away.

He glanced into his open closet. His brother's jacket, his jacket now, lay there in a heap along with the goggles, the scarf and the atomic engine. He sighed and rubbed his shoulder. It was time to turn the engine over to Langston and be done with. Clara was safe. Franky was dead. The Midnight Ace had done his job, and now it was time to go back to being regular old Clayton Baxter. He sighed again, and laughed to himself.

His mirth was interuptted by a knock at his door. He openned it, but didn't undo the chain. Special Agent Langston stood in the hallway, his fedora pulled low. He had a cigarette in his mouth and it look like he'd gone a day or so without a shave. "Mind if I come in kid?"

Clayton undid the chain and let him in. He walked to the closet and didn't look back as he spoke. "I suppose you're here for the engine."

"Yeah. Uncle Sam wants it back." Langston sounded almost apologetic, but Clayton wasn't sure if he was mocking him or not.

Picking the engine up, Clayton turned to face the investigator. "Y'know something, Langston?"

"What's that, kid?"

Clayton laughed to himself. "Believe it or not, I'm going to miss this blasted contraption." He shoved the engine into Langston's arm and stepped away from the g-man before he changed his mind.

Langston slung the engine over his shoulder. "It's not that easy, kid." He took a long puff on the cigarette and reached into the interior pocket of his jacket. Clayton swallowed deeply, fearing that he was going to be permanently to keep this secret from the growing Third Reich.

Langston's hand came out of the jacket holding a folded piece of paper. Clayton let out a sigh of relief. He handed the paper to Clayton, "Things are complicated, Baxter. You see President Roosevelt has been looking for someone to test Einstein's contraption, but none of the boys in Washington have had the brass to strap that thing to their back and see what happens. While Roosevelt tells everyone we're neutral, he sees which way the wind is blowing. Basically, kid, Uncle Sam is looking for a few freelancers to do her dirty work for her. The pay is peanuts, but the benefits are golden." Langston glanced down at the engine and smiled.

"Are you saying that I..." Clayton stammered and stumbled over his words.

"Yeah, kid. Yeah. Something like that." He turned to walk out of the apartment. "Now c'mon, we've got alot of work to do." He left the engine for Clayton to take.

Clayton grabbed the engine and stuffed it into his knapsack, following by his jacket, scarf, and goggles. He called for Langston to wait up because the G-man was already at the end of the hall. The two of them left the apartment and Clay began to climb into Langston's Ford, which was waiting on the corner. Clay found his mind filled with images of heroic patriotism and daring missions. Just like Ricky.

As they pulled away from the building Clayton heard a newsie pushing his papers: "Extra! Extra! Midnight Ace saves local reporter and brings down the mob! Read all about it! Extra! Extra!"

By: James M. Spahn

Note to Self:

2008-05-20T17:11:35Z

Great Scion Link:

http://www.colugo.org/jmcmurra/generators/inc/dhtml-suite/scion/scionscreen.php

I hate cars

2008-04-21T11:53:32Z

In the past four weeks...

Broken Ignition Housing: $400.00
Broken Timing Chain two days later on the same vehicle: Totalled
Ripped Coolant Housing: $250.00
Bad seem on replacement Coolant Housing: 3 more days in shop, no charge.
Blown tire, next day: $50.00

Complete and total nervous break down: Priceless

the_confessor @ 2008-04-05T14:13:00

2008-04-05T18:14:28Z

Call it really geeky, but I really want my own customized Viper Pilot Dog Tags.

Tell me that isn't too cool for school?

the_confessor @ 2008-03-29T10:53:00

2008-03-29T14:59:02Z

A silly meme (courtesy of satyrblade):
1. Post a list of ten TV shows or fandoms you follow (current or cancelled).

2. Have your friends list guess your favorite character from each show.

3. When guessed, bold the line and write a sentence about why you like the character.

4. Post in your own LiveJournal.

The List
Star Wars
Firefly - Malcolm Reynolds - He's got all the cool of Han Solo and all the angst of morally torn war veteran. He's broken and powerful at the same time.
Lord of the Rings - Samwise Gamgee - Because he's the embodiment of all virtues I aspire to one day possess.
Terminator
The Dresden Files
Battlestar Galactica (new)
The Dark Tower
Batman
Carnivale
Ravenloft

the_confessor @ 2008-03-26T01:49:00

2008-03-26T05:54:29Z

I drift through tonight
echoes of Gnarls Barkley and chocolate milk
easing me on through
sex and salvation on my mind
present, but not important (not really, anyway)
I tell myself I'm just tired
poetry, like Prayer
I should go to bed
But the chill of a dead fireplace
It keeps me up at night
while I contemplate another drink
Fuck it (I say with shrug)
At least YouTube will keep me company
Where are you now, Tarentino?

the_confessor @ 2008-03-25T11:43:00

2008-03-25T15:58:52Z

So, after almost three years I've finally accepted that this house is my home. It was something I subconsciously fought with ever since we moved in. I didn't want to settle. To be honest, I'd gotten used to the nomadic lifestyle I'd been living all through my late teens and twenties.

It was kind of romantic, in a sense. A new set of walls every year or so, sometimes even less. Everything I owned could be packed into my car. It was like some kind of bizarre sense of freedom in knowing that no matter what I wasn't bound to any single place. As I look back on it now, I'm glad I did it. It taught me a lot about myself and the friends in my life. I learned what truly matters in life* and what doesn't**. I was the poorest, monetarily, I'll probably ever be, yet I never really felt it. It was, in short, a great period of adventure in my life.

But now, I think I'm ready to relax. Ready to move on into the next stage of the journey. But, even in stability I still have a romantic view of things. I've always seen my life through a filter of fantasy and liked to imagine myself as some kind of idealized amalgam of knighthood. At least that's my aspiration. And as I decide now to settle down and turn my life towards a home and a wife it feels like a surprisingly logical step. After all, a knight can't be errant forever.

That's not to say I'm totally content or satisfied by this home of mine. Far from it. There's so much work to be done and most of the time I have no clue how the hell I'm going to accomplish it. But this is my castle, and I'm going to build it as strong as possible. The thing is, this is no longer a task to be completed for my wife-to-be or my unconcieved children, for the first time this is my task. My house. My home.

* The family we build ourselves
** Everything else.

Catharsis

2008-03-22T17:01:53Z

So, yesterday was probably the most difficult day of my life in recent memory. Not necessarily the course of events, but the things that happened forced me to take a long hard look at who I am and what I want my life to become.

It hurt. I haven't hurt like that in nearly a decade. But pain can be cleansing, and when I took the time to look at the source of my suffering I realized that I had brought it all upon myself and that in the end, if I found the strength, I could stop the pain.

The problem is that I felt too weak, too soft, too lazy. So I took the last lane out: I prayed. It helped. I'm still not sure what I believe, but all I know is that it helped. It gave me reserves of strength I needed to survive. I never felt revitalized or anything magical or miraculous. I just was able to trudge on, to soldier on. It kept me from giving up.

And if it works, then I'll do it.

the_confessor @ 2008-03-22T11:56:00

2008-03-22T15:58:15Z

Yesterday was very cathartic.

But I am strong.

And I am not alone.

Movie Quote Meme

2008-02-08T02:34:05Z

A. Pick 15 of your favorite movies.
B. Then pick one of your favorite quotes from each movie.
C. Post the quotes in your journal.
D. Have those on your friends list to guess what the movie is.
E. Strike out the quote once it has been correctly identified and place the guesser's user name directly after the quote.
F. (Bonus) Name the Character(s) who said the quote.

1."And Shepherds we shall be
For thee, my Lord, for thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand
Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands.
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee
And teeming with souls shall it ever be.
In Nomine Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti."

2. "From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renenwed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.”

3. "Do you find me sadistic? You know, I bet I could fry an egg on your head right now, if I wanted to. You know, Kiddo, I'd like to believe that you're aware enough even now to know that there's nothing sadistic in my actions. Well, maybe towards those other... jokers, but not you. No Kiddo, at this moment, this is me at my most... masochistic."

4. "An essential characteristic of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero, and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When he wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic that Superman stands alone. Superman did not become Superman, Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears, the glasses, the business suit, that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent? He's weak, he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race."

5. "Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while."

6. "I'm your huckleberry."

7. "Thirty-Seven?!"

8. "I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar."

9. "She's safe, just like I promised. She's all set to marry Norrington, just like she promised. And you get to die for her, just like you promised. So we're all men of our word really... except for, of course, Elizabeth, who is in fact, a woman."

10. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee."

11. "Wake up! These humans have besmirched everything He's bestowed upon them. They were given Paradise - they threw it away. They were given this planet - they destroyed it. They were favored best among all His endeavors, and some of them don't even believe he exists. And in spite of it all... He hath shown them infinite fucking patience at every turn. What about us? I asked you... Once, to lay down the sword, because I felt sorry for them. What was the result? Our expulsion from Paradise! Where was his infinite fucking patience then? It's not right! It's not fair! We've paid our debt. Don't you think it's time... Don't you think it's time we went home? And to do that... I... I think we may have to dispatch our-our would be dispatchers."

12. "It ain't easy having pals."

13. "Only after we've lost everything are we free to do anything."

14. "Mother is the word for God on the lips and hearts of all children."

15. "Oh, the cleverness of me!"

Crazy Dreams

2008-01-27T17:53:54Z

So I had a rather bizarre, vivid dream last night.

It all began when I was traveling to an unnamed, local Juvenille Hall (Home for Wayward Boys). I was traveling in a snazzy red sports car with my house-mate and good friend Martin (gothfabmartin) riding shotgun. Well, before we arrive I decide to stop by the Sussex Consortium, which is a separate school for children with behavioral and discipline problems. I attended this school, in real life, from the time I was 10 until 14 years old.

I stopped by the Consortium because I wanted to get some advice from my old teachers and mentors about speaking to troubled kids. The school was, on the exterior, just as I remembered it - but inside it was different. The school no longer served children with disciplinary problems - it had instead become a school to help autistic children. I knew this to be a fact, IRL, before I ever had the dream. I wasn't there for the students, though. I was there to speak with some old teachers. I entered the Consortium to find the interior no longer matched the exterior. I became very unnerved, uncomfortable, and when I saw a teacher in the distance with some students (a teacher I did not recognize), I left.

Martin and I (and the kick ass red sports car) continued on to the Juvenille Hall. We arrived to find at least six security guard waiting for us, along with a drug-sniffing dog. They patted us down and sniffed the car out. Martin seemed a little wierded out by this, but we played it cool and soon they let us in.

So, I go into this class room and go before this collection of rough and tumble young criminals. Someone asks me for an example of how other people see these kids on the outside. I replied by saying "These reckless, useless children should be locked away, no hope for improvement and no futures."

Well, a couple of students get really pissed. I try to explain that this is not how I feel, but a common perception of them. I explain that I myself was once seen this way. It's too late, they're spooked. The security personnel tells me to come back when I know what I'm doing. As I leave, I mutter about 'how am I supposed to know what I'm doing?'

One of the teachers tells me to find the "old lady." So, I do. I drive to the old lady's house, not knowing how I know the way. Her house is old, crafted from crumbling wood and rotted timber. I enter, without knocking. It's like I know I'm welcome, even if it's all a bit creepy. Then, I see her. She's idly picking at the wall.

She's not old. That is, she's probably around my age. But you can see the experience on her face and in her form. She's been worn away, physically by her experiences and knowledge. She's skinny, a pile of bones with her dark, leathery flesh kind of stretched over her bones. Despite the fact that she's black she's got shining blue eyes along with a sly 'cat-who-ate-the-canary' smile.

She and I talk for bit, and I'm still a bit creepified by the house, and she makes me a bit nervous herself. She offers to give me a tour of the house, to which I reluctantly accept. She leads me into the bedroom first, and I see this massive old bed with a nightstand next to it. On the nightstand are a collection of books that appear to be from the RPG Wraith: The Oblivion. Her eyes flash and she tells me she'll give me all the information and knowledge I need, if I'll just have sex with her. Before I can really react, she kisses me deep and passionately. In that moment I find that I actually want to sleep with her, and am quite aroused by the whole prospect.

Still, I pull away and tell her that I can't do that. I'm promised to someone else (Emily, of course). She tells me if I want that knowledge and wisdom, I should talk to Emily about this whole series of events. So, I decide to do just that. I explain the situation to Em and she says "Well, you've got to do what you've got to do. I totally understand. Just don't make a habit of sleepin' with strange black ladies." Casual, wise, understanding. That's my Emily.

As we're talking about this, in our bedroom. Martin sticks his head in and says he's about to go to the laundromat (which is weird because we have a washer and dryer) and asks if there's anything we'd like to add to his load. Emily says yes, and very casually takes off the clothing she's wearing and tosses it to Martin like it's no big deal. This is very not Emily, who is very self-concious about her appearance and stays as fully clothed as possible most of the time.

This, combined with the laundromat refrence makes me realize I'm dreaming - and I wake up.

I need to blog more often...

2008-01-24T19:15:31Z

So I'm now two weeks into the college semester and I have to say that this time around I'm really enjoying myself. I've only got three classes, but that and two jobs is more than enough. I've got English 101, Computer Systems 101, and Business Management 101.

I spent a long time trying to decide what exactly would make me happy in life before I returned to college. I've always been a very spiritual person, though not particularly religious and this has taken a long time for me to reconcile. I think as I'm getting older it's becoming easier to get a handle on this, and I'm realizing more and more the things that matter and the things that don't matter.

To that end, I realized I would be immensely happy if I were able to open a World Religion bookstore. The area I live in already has a large number of Christian book stores and I see it everyday at my present job that the minority religions are under-served and ignored. They're also, at least in the case of Pagans, a fairly fragmented group. If you're not Christian, you feel alone. I figure that by opening my own business in a town like Salisbury, I can set myself up for a very lucrative and fulfilling career. In addition to being able to make money at a dream profession, I feel as though my store could help serve as a hub for these fragmented subcultures and help create a sense of community.

So, to this end, I returned to college with a focus on business management. As Ben Franklin once said, "God helps those who help themselves." Also, to be honest, it's nice to have a tangible goal in mind. I can know what I'm doing and why I'm doing. I'm not sitting in some classroom wondering what's "the point." Both Emily and my parents have been amazingly supportive of this. As a matter of fact, without my parents helping me out financially, I'd never be able to afford to go back to college.

I've really taken an interest in my Business class. I was surprised to find myself so fascinated by it all, and really enjoy the subject matter. It's allowed me to turn a more educated eye towards economics, politics, and the world market in general. After just one class, I feel so much more informed.

With this new knowledge, it's allowed me to feel more able to examine the world around me, the state of my beloved nation and the state of my own life. It's really given me a fresh way to look at the Iraq War, the political candidates, the National Debt, the housing market, and all kinds of things that impact our lives on a daily basis that I never even gave a second glance.

the_confessor @ 2008-01-17T14:30:00

2008-01-17T19:36:35Z

Apparently I've got the highest grade in my CMP 101 class, after our first test.

And I thought I sucked.

*Shrug*

Go me... I guess.