tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86873853096950071072024-03-06T01:45:52.679-05:00pappysoupFreelance - Original Works - Fan Fictionpappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-2622307199862006022013-09-11T17:30:00.000-04:002013-09-11T17:30:20.252-04:00Comic Competition<a href="http://www.write-bros.com/">Write Brothers</a> and <a href="http://ucreatecomics.com">UcreateComics</a> are sponsoring the <a href="https://www.ucreatecomics.com/competitions/write-brothers-become-extraordinary-competition"><i>Write Brothers Become Extraordinary Competition</i></a> and I have officially entered. The overview and guidelines can be found on the competition page I just linked to, but here is some info from the site:<br />
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<i>The Challenge<br />
You are being asked to to create a scenario comprised of 4 characters and the superpowers that you ascribe to them. The time and setting for your scenario is up to you. Give us up to a two paragraph synopsis of the storyline.<br />
<br />
Synopsis of SUITZ<br />
A man arrives at 4 different doors in the same town. He delivers a simple package. A black box with a strange icon on it. Whoever receives it finds there is no way to open it – but once the icon is touched, the box dissolves, embedding itself into the person touching it. The unsuspecting holder of the box blacks out and wakes up with no memory of what has happened. Over the next 72 hours, each box recipient starts to manifest superhuman powers and transform into a costumed hero – or villain.<br />
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SUITZ is a morality tale about power, corruption, failure, and redemption... the human condition. In the background, someone is watching, monitoring, and controlling the SUITZ and its players who controls the delivery men and their super powered black boxes.</i><br />
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That should give you a pretty good idea of the parameters I had to work within. So, without further ado, here is my submission:<br />
<br />
<b>City:</b> Seaport, MA (fictional major coastal city)<br />
<b>Time:</b> Present Day<br />
<br />
<b>Synopsis:</b> Seaport has always been home to both tenacious law enforcement agencies and ruthless organized crime families, but the struggle for control between these foes has never been greater. The city has reached critical mass and its fate has been put in the hands of four major players in the war for supremacy, courtesy of SUITZ. Will good triumph over evil, or will Mickey’s thirst for revenge overpower his desire to do what’s right? Could a man like Big Sal, destined for a life of crime since birth, see his new ability as a chance to change sides and fight for the good guys? What will Agent Starkey do with her newly acquired powers, other than try to make the Seaport PD look bad? So many questions, but one answer is certain; Seamus Mullally will remain a brutal killer with his eyes on the prize. Only now, he has the ultimate weapon.<br />
<br />
To make things interesting, SUITZ has added a twist; our four “enhanced” characters may find themselves powerless against each other in battle or able to combine powers to work together. They could even involuntarily swap powers with an ally or a foe. All bets are off in the epic war for the City of Seaport!<br />
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<b>Character 1:</b> Mickey Sullivan. He’s 44 years old, tall, sturdily built, and comes from a long line of Irish Seaport cops. Detective Sullivan heads up the Organized Crime unit of the Seaport PD and has a personal stake in the cause; his father was assassinated by mob hit men when Mickey was a boy because he wouldn’t take a pay-off to look the other way. His sole mission in life is to put every member of the Mafia family responsible for the murder behind bars, starting with the son of ailing Don Companetti, Big Sal. <br />
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<b>Power after touching SUITZ glyph:</b> Able to morph into and/or take control of any living organism (bringing undercover police work to a whole new level) with limited regenerative powers based on the strength of his host.<br />
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<b>Character 2:</b> Salvatore “Big Sal” Companetti, aged 38. At 5’9” and 268 pounds, it’s not hard to see where this first generation Italian American mobster gets his nickname. With his father’s health failing, Big Sal has been forced to step up his role in the Companetti family’s illicit activities, making him a primary target for the Seaport PD, local FBI agents, and the rival O’Connor crime organization. No one knows his inner struggle; Big Sal desperately wants to be on the right side of the law but is deathly afraid of disappointing the family…and ending up in a landfill.<br />
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<b>Power after touching SUITZ glyph:</b> Possesses Jedi-like mind control and agility with superhuman resilience to injury.<br />
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<b>Character 3:</b> Agent Jill Starkey. She’s a 29 year-old glory hound who cares more about getting press and promotions than actually saving Seaport. Jill spent her childhood on the west coast immersed in gymnastics and has the diminutive stature of a true competitor. However, what she lacks in size she makes up for in brains, graduating at the top of her class from an Ivy League university and acing the FBI academy. In the war for the city, the only side Agent Starkey is on is her own.<br />
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<b>Power after touching SUITZ glyph:</b> The ability to see the recent future and move at hypersonic speed to get her to the scene of the crime before it happens, giving her the jump on the bad guys, her fellow agents, and the Seaport PD.<br />
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<b>Character 4:</b> Seamus Mullally, aged 31. This heartless hit man of the O’Connor crime family had already made a name for himself in Seaport by the time his was 19; by 24 he stopped counting his victims, as math was never his best subject. Not the sharpest knife in the draw when it comes to most things, Seamus is practically a genius at taking out his quarry. He has to be, because at 5’7” and 156 pounds, he can’t count on brute force to get the job done. With each murder, Seamus is trying to bring himself one step closer to the top of the O’Connor food chain.<br />
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<b>Power after touching SUITZ glyph:</b> Can manipulate matter to make almost anything a lethal weapon, from a playing card to the sidewalk under his feet. Also comes in handy when he needs to hide or escape before and/or after a hit.<br />
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pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-59853723522379028952013-07-09T15:16:00.000-04:002013-07-09T15:16:40.678-04:00Timed OutIt turns out that the writers behind <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1446714/" target="_blank">Prometheus</a> were prophets, in a way. The human race here on Earth was indeed created by Engineer-like beings from another universe that shared their DNA to make us. And, like in the movie, these Engineers also created a method to wipe us out should the need arise, like we start destroying the planet with pollution and overpopulation. Sound familiar? <br />
<br />
However, the method of our extermination was not supposed to be so Hollywood as creepy black goo and acid drooling aliens bursting from our chests. Despite their best intentions, though, life on Earth is now very much like a science fiction film.<br />
<br />
From what scientists and doctors can piece together, the end of the human race was designed to be somewhat of a non-event. The Engineers apparently added a little something to their DNA before they seeded Earth; a timeout feature similar to what we use with software licenses and such. A ticking time bomb, if you will, that was set to go off at a certain point unless the Engineers deactivated it. <br />
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The population would suffer something like a collective aneurysm and that would be it. No drama, no alien invasion, no post-apocalyptic world to survive in, etc. Just BAM! and we all drop dead in our tracks. Nature reclaims the planet and we are written off as a failed experiment. <br />
<br />
As you have probably guessed by now, deactivation didn’t happen. We assume it is because of the mess we have made of this planet, but it could just as easily be because the Engineers are extinct or maybe focusing their energy elsewhere, forgetting about the little project they started so very long ago. The BAM! moment didn’t happen either, at least not like it was supposed to. <br />
<br />
On February 3, 2020, life on Earth changed forever. Approximately 90% of the population suffered a catastrophic and fatal medical event...but only 10% stayed dead. The other 80% experienced a kind of reanimation after being clinically dead for a short time. Lack of oxygen during what we now call the “suspended period” caused brain damage but not the typical impairment associated with oxygen deprivation. <br />
<br />
The most affected parts of the brain were the hypothalamus (which controls, among other things, body temperature, thirst, and sleep) and the frontal lobes (responsible for regulating the sections deep within our brains that deal with our most primitive urges: hunger, aggression, and reproduction). <br />
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We still haven’t figured out exactly why 10% of the population was unaffected, but it is most likely due to a mutation or unique combination of genes that somehow turned off the kill switch. Another thing we haven’t figured out is how many of the 10% are still alive. Less and less every day is a safe bet.<br />
<br />
What we know for sure is that Earth is overrun with crazed, highly aggressive creatures that are trying desperately to quench their insatiable primal needs. You’ve seen enough zombie movies to know what that looks like so I will spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say that the Engineers may very well get their extermination in the end, albeit a drawn out and bloody one.<br />
<br />
I hope the Engineers are still alive and watching us, and learn from both our mistakes and their own. As Edmund Burke once said, “Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it”.<br />
pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-53062992789048553052013-06-28T20:17:00.002-04:002013-11-25T11:04:27.244-05:00Shining ThroughSo...the end of the world didn’t come on December 21, 2012 as so many thought it would. However, I’m pretty sure that the “physical or spiritual transformation” that others believed would happen has started. I think it is both physical and spiritual; the past is finally catching up to us, one person at a time. The event that started my investigation into the matter involved my 9 year-old son, Sam. <br />
<br />
I was working out using the weight set in our basement playroom, listening to Black Sabbath like I usually did. Sam would often hang out with me while I lifted, playing with his Legos on the floor. He knows <i>We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll</i> backwards and forwards and loves every song. Or, at least he used to.<br />
<br />
<i>War Pigs</i> came on, that slow, distorted guitar filling the low-ceilinged room. Sam seemed oblivious and continued building his latest creation, a heliport for the chopper he had cobbled together. Then the air raid siren started up in the song and all hell broke loose. Sam dropped his Legos, clamped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and began rocking back and forth. A look of pure terror distorted his handsome little face.<br />
<br />
“MAKE IT STOP, DADDY! MAKE IT STOP!”<br />
<br />
The fear in his voice turned my stomach; no father wants to hear his child scream like that. I ran over to the stereo and killed the power, then scooped Sam up and held him tightly to my chest. He wrapped his arms around my neck and began to sob, his face buried in my sweaty t-shirt. Between muffled breaths it sounded as if he were mumbling “want my mom, want my mom” over and over. Turns out it was “no more bombs, no more bombs”.<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
A South African man, born and raised in nearby Cape Town, was surfing the South West Coast when he wiped out, hitting his head on his board. Luckily, his friends saw that he was unconscious and got him safely to shore. When he awoke, the man was shaken up but spoke clearly...in fluent Russian.<br />
<br />
Blind from birth to poor, uneducated parents, a young Chinese girl from the rural province of Qinghai never learned to read braille; there was no one to teach her and no books for a hundred miles or more. No electricity for television or radio, either. Despite all of this, she was able to describe, in precise detail, the layout of Washington, D.C. and its numerous historic buildings and landmarks to a Chinese-American Peace Corps volunteer visiting her village.<br />
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A nursing home in Birmingham, England is home to a large number of former factory workers from the Sutton Coldfield area. Many of its residents were forced to leave school at a young age and go to work to help support their families. Needless to say, music lessons were not a part of childhood there. So how could an 87 year-old man suffering from dementia, with no prior experience, wheel over to a piano brought in for a party and flawlessly play a piece from <i>Gaspard de la nuit</i> by Maurice Ravel?<br />
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Those are just three of the countless stories I have discovered since I began researching this post-12/21/12 phenomenon (plus the one I witnessed first hand, of course). My theory thus far is that there has been a shift in our universe and, somehow, our past lives are starting to “shine through” for lack of a better term. The fabric separating the journey of our soul through its lifetimes here on Earth from the present has worn thin, my friends, and there is no mending it.<br />
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What will be the impact when Atilla, Stalin, and Hitler rear their ugly heads? Better yet, what if it happens to be you?<br />
pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-53713194955048010382013-02-12T21:04:00.000-05:002013-02-13T01:23:00.456-05:00Black Hat ManHave you ev-er seen the Black Hat Man?<br />
If you do, run as fast as you can!<br />
He’ll grab you and take you a-way!<br />
Be-low ground where he likes to play!<br />
<br />
Have you ev-er seen the Black Hat Man?<br />
If you do, run as fast as you can!<br />
Big round head and pitch black eyes!<br />
Stay a-way if you are wise!<br />
<br />
Have you ev-er seen the Black Hat Man?<br />
If you do, run as fast as you can!<br />
He is gon-na make you cry!<br />
You will beg PLEASE LET ME DIE!<br />
<br />
~ Old hopscotch rhyme<br />
<br />
<br />
I have seen the Black Hat Man. I was 11 years old and hiding in the woods behind my house. Father was pretty drunk and angry as hell that day. I knew enough to leave and let him drink himself to sleep. My secret spot was between a huge boulder and a fallen tree. I had spent countless hours there, sitting unseen with a spy’s view of my backyard, waiting for the right time to go back home.<br />
<br />
He looked normal at first glance; an old man in a black topcoat and pork pie hat. Then I saw that his arms were too long, his fingers extending below his knees as he shambled between the trees. And wasn’t his head larger than it should be…and kind of shaped like a ball? I’ll never forget the absolute terror I felt when that schoolgirl chant began to play in my head. “Big round head and pitch black eyes! Stay a-way if you are wise!”<br />
<br />
The Black Hat Man made his way to the base of a massive, old oak tree. He raised a knurled hand as he approached the trunk and the ground just…parted. I don’t know how else to describe it. The earth opened and he descended as if walking slowly down a flight of stairs. I watched in disbelief until his bulbous head moved out of sight and the ground closed over him. <br />
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I was too afraid to move; what if he could hear my steps from under there? The sun sitting low above the horizon finally snapped me out of it. I quietly slid out of my spot and crept toward my house, giving the oak tree a wide berth. Once in my yard I sprinted to the house, charged up the stairs, burst through the back door, and ran headlong into my drunken father.<br />
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He was a big man and I ended up flat on my back on the kitchen floor. He glared down at me with bloodshot eyes as I hurried to my feet. Based on past experience I knew what was coming and braced for it. What happened instead was something I never would have guessed.<br />
<br />
“You got a look at him, didn’t you, son?” My father asked softly. I lifted my eyes to meet his and what I saw there frightened me almost as much as what had happened in the woods. All I could do was nod.<br />
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“I was about your age the first time I laid eyes on him,” my father sighed as he pulled a chair from the table and sat down heavily. “Just about scared the life right out of me. Except I wasn’t lucky like you are. I went down that hole kicking and screaming”.<br />
<br />
He exhaled and ran a large hand through his thinning hair. I could smell the whiskey oozing from his pores. I stood there with my mouth hanging open like a fool.<br />
<br />
“Things happen to children down there, son…horrible things. And now, no matter how much whiskey I drink, I can’t make the guilt go away.” <br />
<br />
<i>Wait…guilt? What is he talking about?</i> I didn’t dare ask.<br />
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“When I reached manhood he stopped taking me, and I did everything I could to forget him. But when you were born I knew he would come for you one day. I couldn’t let my boy go down that hole - I just couldn’t! So I made a deal with that monster. I did it for you, son…”<br />
<br />
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Why the neighborhood kids didn’t play on our street. Why I had no friends. Why my father drank himself stupid every day.<br />
<br />
The sacrifices he made to keep me safe from the Black Hat Man.<br />
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pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-80677150425659009182012-07-29T18:00:00.001-04:002012-07-29T18:12:14.585-04:00Go Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiFRuOfshGeiP_JdwgWv3mZ-OsHxYVQY4MPnizznXeVtoX-7nUcVNPWRz7YwM1lBbKkE1hOLRnUDQGPjnndymUD-FZUehCbqZ0o5ACpptCMOCf3Tq1vEorxpPQVExFc00FO3FnxBBxLEi/s1600/MT-Evo-4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiFRuOfshGeiP_JdwgWv3mZ-OsHxYVQY4MPnizznXeVtoX-7nUcVNPWRz7YwM1lBbKkE1hOLRnUDQGPjnndymUD-FZUehCbqZ0o5ACpptCMOCf3Tq1vEorxpPQVExFc00FO3FnxBBxLEi/s200/MT-Evo-4.JPG" /></a></div>MT-01’s distress beacon was leading them closer to Volkria than they liked but the MTs stayed the course; they were eager to close the gap between their shuttle and the MT Transport. Soon after leaving Rilleco, the troopers discovered that the transport was moving away from them in an irregular flight pattern. They were unaware that the ship’s internal protection mechanism had detected their signal lock and was intentionally evading their shuttle, classifying it as non-MT and therefore a threat.<br />
<br />
As they approached the planet’s outer atmosphere, the communication system abruptly came to life. “This is Task Force Volkriun, and you are in restricted space,” a monotone voice droned. “Identify yourself at once. Repeat: identify yourself at once.”<br />
<br />
“Sounds like a Glyan,” MT-27 said angrily. “What are they doing on Volkria?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t know and don’t care,” MT-48 replied. “Unless they try to delay our mission. That would end badly for them...I guarantee it.”<br />
<br />
MT-106 turned away from the instrument panel. “Looks like we are going to find out - patrol ship incoming!”<br />
<br />
Answering the Volkriuns with his synthetic speech would only make matters worse, so MT-09 ignored the hail. “We say and do nothing. When their scanners detect no life forms they will have to board the shuttle to investigate. Then we make our move.” <br />
<br />
The veteran warriors instinctively took their posts with arms at the ready. MT-106 brought the outboard phase cannon online, hands hovering above the controls, eyes on the outer hatchway. The pulse drive of the patrol ship shook the hull as it made its approach and docked with the shuttle. <br />
<br />
As the hatch slid open, MT-106 disabled the patrol ship’s external communication array with a blast of the cannon. The troopers raised their weapons, took aim, and-<br />
<br />
“Hold your fire!” MT-09 shouted. It took him a beat to comprehend that the OD green troops rushing toward him were not MTs. “What the...?” <br />
<br />
That was all the time the Glyans needed to get the jump on the troopers. MT-09 was blown off his feet as a barrage of fire erupted inside the shuttle. The three other MTs scrambled for cover as the Task Force Volkriun patrol overran their positions.<br />
<br />
The skirmish shifted to hand-to-hand combat in the tight space. The MTs were unrivaled at close quarters fighting, and used the organic make-up of the Glyans to their advantage. Noses exploded and bones shattered; blood painted the bulkheads a deep red. Despite sustaining heavy damage during the initial assault, the troopers finally managed to overcome their foes. The last Glyan, neck bent at an impossibly grotesque angle, fell to the deck in a heap.<br />
<br />
MT-09 surveyed the carnage. “I don’t know why these soldiers wear our green. What I do know is they haven’t earned the right to. We will get some answers soon enough, but right now we need to clean up this mess and get moving. It won’t be long before they come looking for the missing patrol.”<br />
<br />
The troopers dragged the dead Glyans into the patrol ship, set it adrift, and resumed the search for their missing leader. <br />pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-24076945251519213132012-07-29T17:50:00.000-04:002012-07-29T18:09:48.315-04:00Lost Wave<i>Artwork by Matt Doughty, <a href="http://onelldesign.blogspot.com">Onell Design</a></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkFpvdTr6wyL80cugNgmSfzFl7bMHKBJFJLxhtZAVVK5GMaU85sPTndrK49LLtGATeB_AJKrdJZsr7tpgY1LTC6zicx98yYlwEvxrCYwwQauYt5sqIrzBFEg_26uW2LlObp7SIETDuimP/s1600/MT-01-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="191" width="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkFpvdTr6wyL80cugNgmSfzFl7bMHKBJFJLxhtZAVVK5GMaU85sPTndrK49LLtGATeB_AJKrdJZsr7tpgY1LTC6zicx98yYlwEvxrCYwwQauYt5sqIrzBFEg_26uW2LlObp7SIETDuimP/s320/MT-01-3.JPG" /></a></div>He was grateful to be excused from his regular duty of working with the liberated gendrones of the Build Station. Progress had slowed to a crawl and with no word from Argen, the end of the mission was nowhere in sight. MT-106 spent his time either monitoring the portable receiver or improving its range. <br />
<br />
<br />
The tenacious MT was determined to discover the whereabouts of his fellow troopers. So far, he was unable to pick up even the slightest signal from his unit, but did manage to gather bits of intelligence about something disturbing called Zorennor. From what MT-106 could piece together, a rift in space had appeared somewhere in Glyos. It was believed to be extremely dangerous, and reports of missing ships had-<br />
<br />
The realization hit him hard. <i>The MTs are lost...in Zorennor!</i> He cursed his sentience as thought after thought bombarded his synthetic mind, eliciting feelings of sadness, dread, anger. <i>Why am I on this cursed planet instead of with my unit? Maybe I could have saved them!</i><br />
<br />
MT-106 got his emotions in check before contacting MT-09. <i>There is a chance the MTs are still alive, and getting mad won’t help them.</i> He told his leader what he had learned from the intercepted transmissions and MT-09 agreed that chances were high their unit’s lack of communication had to do with the ominous Zorennor. An emergency meeting was called to share the facts with MT-27 and MT-48.<br />
<br />
Rushing to meet the troopers, MT-106 almost missed the faint but steady beeping that began to emanate from the portable receiver. The signal analyzer, automatically comparing the tone to the countless samples in its database, quickly identified a match: the homing beacon of the MT Transport.<br />
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<br />
MT-09, MT-27, MT-48, and MT-106 were in agreement; they would disobey a direct order and depart before Argen’s return. Blatant disregard of a command went against every fiber of their being, but what was the alternative? Leave their commander and fellow troopers in peril? That was not an option.<br />
<br />
“OK, listen up,” MT-09 barked. “The MT Transport’s signal has been analyzed and confirmed. I have secured and armed a small shuttle for us. We leave immediately.”<br />
<br />
The realization of what they had decided silenced the battle-hardened gendrones. Never before had they defied authority, but they knew what had to be done. The MTs cared deeply for MT-01 and their unit, leaving no choice but to search for them. The transformation from obedient hunks of metal to free thinking beings was complete and emotions ran high.<br />
<br />
“Do you remember how glorious we were in battle?” MT-48 asked wistfully. “Wave after wave of green death crashing down upon our enemies without mercy. I long for those days again. We have to rescue our brothers!” The MT raised his arm, fist tightly clenched. “We must find...the Lost Wave!”<br />
<br />
Without another word, the troopers marched off toward the ship. Once on board, MT-106 docked the portable receiver and programmed the navigation system to follow the signal. The MTs lifted off and slid out of Rilleco’s atmosphere undetected. Their journey into the unknown had begun.<br />pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-46940786488697106792012-03-25T21:36:00.000-04:002012-03-31T14:47:11.601-04:00Skin vs. Tin“What kind of question is that? Hey, you new around here or something? Yeah? Well, let me make it real simple for you then - being a Skin is good and being a Tin is bad. Why? That’s just the way it is, kid. There are lots of reasons. Probably how it will always be, too, unless the revolution takes off. Pretty small right now, but don’t all revolutions start that way? Don’t worry, I could tell you were a Skin a mile away, so you don’t have to sweat anything around here. That is, unless the Tins really do take over the show one day...<br />
<br />
My job? I try to keep the peace between the two classes. That’s not easy in a big city like this. Oh, you come from the Farmlands? No wonder you’re so clueless! They even have Tins where you live? I didn’t think so. Here, read this. I have better things to do with my time than answer all your questions. Good luck, kid...you’ll need it.”<br />
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INTERNAL COMMUNICATION - URBAN ZONE 0003 - DEFINITIONS<br />
<br />
<i>Skin</i>: Slang term referring to a fully organic human. Through certain means (proper upbringing, healthy lifestyle, wealth, power, etc.), a Skin has managed to properly protect and care for his/her natural body, thus eliminating the need for a synthetic replacement (see Tin). Today’s environment is a harsh one, and this is no small feat. You will usually find Skins in positions of leadership within government agencies, private corporations, social clubs, and anywhere else requiring a high level of discipline, motivation, and intelligence.<br />
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<i>Tin</i>: Slang term referring to a human possessing his/her organic brain, with said brain being housed within a synthetic body, normally in the cranial chamber*. The vast majority of Tins are those who either abused their natural bodies (drinking, smoking, poor diet, improper environmental precautions, etc.) and/or did not have the money required to protect themselves from the ravages of time and disease. You will usually find Tins in positions considered undesirable (hazardous waste, environmental sterilization, high risk labor, etc.).<br />
<br />
* It has recently been discovered that rebel Tins are relocating their brains into heavily reinforced torsos, using the cranial chamber to hold less essential hardware.<br />
<br />
<i>Dent</i>: Slang term referring to an Indentured Servant. Dents are almost always Tins, as the financial hardship that precipitated the indenture also facilitated the failure of the natural body and subsequent need for a synthetic replacement. You will rarely find a Skin in servitude; they are generally Masters of at least one Dent. Synthetic bodies are costly and often purchased by a Master on behalf of a newly created Tin. In return, the Tin becomes an Indentured Servant until the debt (plus interest) is paid. This practice is seen as unfair by some Tins, and has led to the formation of rebel groups across a multitude of Urban Zones. The fact that they made a conscious choice (servitude over death) does not seem to matter to these rebels.<br />
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<br />
The young man reads through the definitions a second time, then a third, struggling to fully grasp their meaning. <i>How can this be?</i> Back home, no one ever spoke of Skins and Tins and Dents. Of course, the government is notorious for withholding information about the Urban Zones. Food produced by the Farmlands is essential for the well being of the entire Commonwealth, and they can’t risk any backlash from its residents. Technically, all regions are under the same harsh rule, but most necessary goods produced in the Urban Zones are done by robotic facilities and rely less on manual labor. Farming requires a human touch that no robot has ever been able to reproduce.<br />
<br />
Tired of the endless work in the fields and quiet rural atmosphere, the young man jumped at the chance to be a Farmlands Liaison and live in an Urban Zone. Several friends had accepted the same sort of job, never returning to the dull agricultural life they left behind. He assumed it was because they were having such a great time in the big city but now he was not so sure. <i>Where -or what- are they now?</i><br />
<br />
A wave of panic hits him hard as he answers his own question. <i>They are Tins...and Dents</i>. Like him, his friends were born and raised in the Farmlands and left there eager for adventure but flat broke. Too broke by far to afford a synthetic body after the acrid air of the Urban Zone destroyed lungs used to breathing fresh country air. A lifetime of being kept in the dark about how things really were in the Urban Zones, and now the young man will learn the truth, whether he wants to or not.<br />
<br />pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-59166215093097584352012-03-15T16:45:00.000-04:002012-03-15T16:45:06.494-04:00Shadow CastersA girl lies down in a sunny spot to study. Leaning on her elbows in the deep grass, she reads from a thick textbook. Fully engaged, it takes a minute to notice the shadow across the well-used pages. She turns her head expectantly, a half smile ready to greet the friend who is standing beside her. The girl finds herself alone. Puzzled, she brings her attention back to the book and recoils at the sight of the shadow remaining there. <i>Huh...that's odd</i>. The girl hastily gathers her things and leaves.<br />
<br />
Unable to shake an increasing feeling of unease, she heads to the campus library and learns the following from a dictionary:<br />
<br />
Shadow - the dark figure cast upon a surface by an interposed opaque body intercepting the rays from a source of light.<br />
<br />
Opaque - blocking the passage of radiant energy and especially light.<br />
<br />
Body - the organized physical substance of an animal or plant either living or dead.<br />
<br />
Of course, the “dead” in the last definition refers to a corpse, but the anxious girl thinks only of “ghost”. <i>More likely a person walking by or a passing cloud...</i><br />
<br />
She tries to rationalize what just occurred but can’t; the sky was clear and she was lying by herself in the middle of an expanse of grass. Returning the dictionary to the shelf, the girl decides to dig a little more. She moves to an empty section of the library to research paranormal phenomena. In an old book entitled “The Ones Among Us”, she finds a passage within a chapter about reincarnation. It reads:<br />
<br />
“Neither alive nor dead, Shadow Casters roam the earth unseen in search of their lost souls, feeding on the light they absorb. To fall under their shadow is to be marked for death, for they will not rest until they reclaim what was once theirs. When found by a Shadow Caster, a mortal man can do nothing but wait for his inevitable demise.”<br />
<br />
A shiver runs through the girl’s body as she slams the book shut. <i>This is crazy…just relax! I’m sure if I search the web I will find plenty of sites that say this is just urban legend</i>. As she pushes her chair from the table and starts to rise, her foot becomes tangled in her backpack strap. The girl turns and steps away, only to trip into the next row of tables. Broken by the edge of the hard oak top, her nasal bones drive into her brain as her face slams down on the seat of a chair. She is dead before she hits the floor. If she were still alive, the girl would surely see the shadow darkening the worn carpet beside her.<br />pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-67131909457427325092012-02-19T22:15:00.001-05:002012-02-20T12:30:06.360-05:00More Than<i>Artwork by Matt Doughty, <a href="http://onelldesign.blogspot.com">Onell Design</a></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5E0VQCuuLc0gB063RKQksSZKDfNpM7K4_8lpeBCduBwVIFWoyTBHPRUU6AbEQ2PkMb_3xqXaBRd92X1jToSLKyMSp4D9yJadRvvZDrXU5WNUlSCy4mgHVP5hfmC7DsPTBsbrJZ_IWjwZ/s1600/Complex-ALT--WEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5E0VQCuuLc0gB063RKQksSZKDfNpM7K4_8lpeBCduBwVIFWoyTBHPRUU6AbEQ2PkMb_3xqXaBRd92X1jToSLKyMSp4D9yJadRvvZDrXU5WNUlSCy4mgHVP5hfmC7DsPTBsbrJZ_IWjwZ/s320/Complex-ALT--WEB.jpg" /></a></div>The dark figure is back. Hunched over a table, it is totally engrossed in its work. Buildman parts are scattered across the smooth surface. Blueprints, detailing what looks like an exploded view of a weaponized gendrone, lay close at hand. He can’t be sure, but MT-01 thinks that may be his own name scrawled across the top of the paper, along with another. <i>What does that say? Volk...</i><br />
<br />
The scene fades before he can finish and is replaced with another - the interior of a ship. Gobon gendrones in a multitude of configurations move freely about the sizable space. A silver Buildman walks beside a tall <a href="http://www.gendronechronicles.com/pg7.html">Gobon</a> wearing a green cloak, the pair engaged in deep conversation. <i>Argen?</i> Again the image disappears before MT-01 can fully interpret it.<br />
<br />
Absolute blackness returns, and with it a suffocating silence. MT-01 can do nothing but wait; time has no meaning in this place. Finally, a voice speaks to him from out of the gloom. “You are more than what you have become.” Simple words yet rife with meaning.<br />
<br />
The MT Transport, rendered invisible by the cloaking device, continues its meandering course unobserved. MT-01 rests comatose inside, unaware of the events taking place across Glyos and within the rift called <a href="http://www.onelldesign.com/comics/omfg/">Zorennor</a>: events that will forever alter his destiny.<br />pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-30087825848044290122012-01-01T00:09:00.002-05:002012-01-01T18:11:43.378-05:00Plan of Action<i>Artwork by Matt Doughty, <a href="http://onelldesign.blogspot.com">Onell Design</a></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUykq3_JkVJpWR0Lak_3C4TSI0tVYW4dVyCR4CbwU9y-8-clxoDc8nKtnJpnkVAPMpT9KVuzu7xdo-o357PfIUkLN-_QQZC_t3yoNMpHqjrL84WtJeSdbcCzSwo_W4PB4PKEprGFPv6Ob/s1600/MTs-Talk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="235" width="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUykq3_JkVJpWR0Lak_3C4TSI0tVYW4dVyCR4CbwU9y-8-clxoDc8nKtnJpnkVAPMpT9KVuzu7xdo-o357PfIUkLN-_QQZC_t3yoNMpHqjrL84WtJeSdbcCzSwo_W4PB4PKEprGFPv6Ob/s320/MTs-Talk.jpg" /></a></div><br />
After the MTs abrupt departure from Rilleco, Argen and the remaining four troopers resumed the task of bringing sentience to the gendrones wandering aimlessly about the Build Station. It was an arduous job, and Argen’s seemingly inexhaustible patience finally ran thin. He decided to take <a href="http://gendronechronicles.com/pg3.html">leave</a> of the planet and head for Point Lannoc. <br />
<br />
Now that Argen was gone, MT-09, MT-27, MT-48, and MT-106 wasted no time; they quickly made for the edge of the Black Ruins. Something had been weighing heavily on them, and the time to discuss it had come.<br />
<br />
“This isn’t right,” MT-09 stated as soon as his squad had assembled. One of the first MTs to gain free thought, MT-09 was a natural leader and easily assumed the role. “We should have received word from MT-01 by now.”<br />
<br />
“We all know what it’s like out there,” MT-48 replied. “Sometimes you barely have enough time to repair the damage you took during one battle before you’re moving out to fight the next one. They’re probably knee-deep in corpses right now and too busy to call.”<br />
<br />
Grunted affirmations arose from the group, followed by an unsettled silence. Each trooper feared that the MTs had run into trouble and needed their help, but MT-01’s orders were clear: remain on Rilleco to support Argen. Should they stay and continue their duties until Argen’s return? Or disobey a direct order and leave to find their brothers? <br />
<br />
“With a few modifications I should be able to boost the strength of our portable receiver,” MT-106 suggested. “The troops could be operating out of our range on the other side of Glyos. Give me some time to do the work, and if there is a signal out there from our unit, I’ll find it.”pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-71057636904117003222011-12-14T15:14:00.003-05:002012-01-01T00:18:25.263-05:00Dead Time<i>Artwork by Matt Doughty, <a href="http://onelldesign.blogspot.com">Onell Design</a></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0pqt4ZfCfM4h_APkeKpn4wAX8XH2Zw1X1MU3LkPio6xe9P2UBbb_Cq3jNWIbS4l0dCXYamefLNArPT5hAtsOLAXrwhWGV6BoPp4Sbj8TvPt0bLvpzDhnMGPJ4nOrn_KcsW-r5w0NDTWsU/s1600/MT-Transport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="222" width="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0pqt4ZfCfM4h_APkeKpn4wAX8XH2Zw1X1MU3LkPio6xe9P2UBbb_Cq3jNWIbS4l0dCXYamefLNArPT5hAtsOLAXrwhWGV6BoPp4Sbj8TvPt0bLvpzDhnMGPJ4nOrn_KcsW-r5w0NDTWsU/s200/MT-Transport.jpg" /></a></div>He was vaguely aware of the MT Transport’s reactivation, but not because he could see the instrument panel or hear the steady drone of the propulsion system. Paralyzed, MT-01 sat motionless in the cockpit, the internal protection mechanism he created keeping him in a kind of coma. If he still lived, then so did the MTs. <br />
<br />
That was the idea behind the failsafe system; spare the leader in an apocalyptic situation so he can rebuild the unit, making the MTs virtually immortal. Easier said than done, especially considering his current state. MT-01 drifted in and out of consciousness, his fragmented thoughts mixing with cryptic images.<br />
<br />
<i>I can hardly remember what I was, and don’t want to think about who I’ve become. I just wanted to be free, someone instead of something owned by another, but I didn’t know the price would be so high. None of us did. Battle after battle, kill or be killed. Living like that takes its toll on a - </i><br />
<br />
A dark figure materializes out of the haze of his stupor. It feels like a memory, except MT-01 does not recognize the mysterious being. Or does he? It points into the fog as if it has something to show him, but nothing is there. <br />
<br />
<i>Funny...I almost said Glyan. I guess that means something, but I don’t know what exactly. Is that what we were fighting for, to be like them? If it was I’m not sure it was worth it. Maybe we were better off as programmable pieces of metal. At least we were together, a unit.</i><br />
<br />
Light reflects off a metallic surface, blinding him. As MT-01 lifts his arm to shade his image receptors, a silver gendrone takes shape, its blue visor looking at him, through him. Behind him stand four MTs.<br />
<br />
<i>This journey has taught me so much but left me with so little. I am alone now; the others have vanished, sucked into that unforgiving void. I used to command an army, strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. Now I sit here, helpless in this floating tomb. If only...</i><br />
<br />
As MT-01 slipped back into oblivion, his ship initiated its cloaking sequence and homing beacon. The signal, weak at first, will slowly gain strength as the MT Transport’s power collectors gather the small pockets of energy found moving throughout Glyos. By his own design, MT-01 now existed in a self-perpetuating state of suspended animation.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-66953759041456610332011-12-08T22:18:00.001-05:002012-07-29T17:51:48.906-04:00Heavy CasualtiesTrouble came soon after Argen and MT-01 joined forces to liberate their Buildmen brethren on Rilleco. The process of granting free thought to the gendrones and training them for battle was a tedious one, and the MTs grew restless. Their impatience quickly turned to anger and fights broke out across the encampment, threatening to splinter the unit of elite warriors. <br />
<br />
Sentience was both a blessing and a curse for MT-01 and his troopers; he knew it was the beginning of the end for the MTs if he allowed that behavior to continue. With his options limited, he made the decision to abandon Rilleco and continue executing covert attacks against the enemy. Argen’s philosophy of freedom through peace went against all that MT-01 and his unit stood for, and the strain of their conflicting ideals was showing. He was built for war, not diplomacy. <br />
<br />
To keep the peace with Argen, MT-01 left a small detachment behind to assist with the assimilation. After lifting off from Rilleco, the MTs moved soundlessly across the system, slaughtering gendrone owners through an endless series of stealth missions. They left no evidence of their existence, only a trail of dead Glyans. The MTs were once again a killing machine, the short time spent on Rilleco almost forgotten. <br />
<br />
Their clandestine quest led the MTs to the Relgost Sector where, according to recent intelligence, a huge Buildship filled with new gendrones was adrift and awaiting a repair ship. It would take the entire MT unit to commandeer such a large craft, but the reward was worth the effort; new gendrones were by far the easiest to convert. MT-01 had a bad feeling about conducting such a complex, visible operation in open space, but his MTs were eager for reinforcements.<br />
<br />
As MT-01 watched in disbelief, a rift in space opened, swallowing the disabled Buildship and his approaching force of MTs. His first instinct was to fly in after his troopers, but the internal protection mechanism of the MT Transport picked up his thought pattern just before he could reach for the controls. Alarms sounded as the on-board systems switched to emergency shutdown mode. The stunned gendrone floated in absolute blackness, unable to follow his MTs into the abyss, unable to do anything at all. When his ship finally came back online, he found himself lost and alone in deep space.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-50090444952012303542011-04-04T21:09:00.002-04:002011-04-06T11:05:51.436-04:00Ted's Blog - Post TwoMe again. This is my second blog post about my life as one of the <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/08/plight-of-living-ted.html">undead</a>. Figured I might as well keep writing stuff because boy, do I have time to spare. Plus maybe something will come of it. Let’s see…has anything interesting happened lately? Nothing worth mentioning – except that my pinkie finger FELL OFF on Tuesday. What the hell is <i>that</i> all about? Like things aren’t messed up enough already! On the plus side, it didn’t hurt or anything. Matter of fact, I didn’t even notice. Some dude in the movie theater let me know I dropped a digit in the lobby. Talk about an awkward conversation.<br />
<br />
What else? Oh, I got a job as the night watchman at that refurbished amusement park in Amherst. It turns out that my “lifestyle” is perfectly suited for the position. Who better to shuffle around a dark park in the middle of the night, scaring off teenagers trying to sneak in to make out or cause trouble? My night vision is way better than it was before I died, and my eyes give off a kind of milky white glow now. The scientists and doctors can’t explain it (or anything else that has happened to me) but it saves flashlight batteries for the owners of the place and makes my job easier, so I’m not complaining. I do kind of feel like a cliché working there, though…the bad guy in a Scooby Doo episode or something. Whatever – it pays the bills. <br />
<br />
I ran into my ex-girlfriend the other day. She wasn’t my ex when I killed myself, so needless to say she wasn’t thrilled to see me. Apparently she suffered some kind of breakdown afterwards, thinking that she was to blame. I didn’t bother leaving a note but in hindsight it probably would have been a good idea. In my defense, I didn’t mean to take anyone down with me. She’s dating someone new now and seems to be happy, so that’s good.<br />
<br />
Well, that’s about it for now. I’ll put up another post when I have something interesting to say.<br />
<br />
~ Tedpappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-81628291473904020102011-01-19T17:20:00.000-05:002011-01-19T17:20:37.366-05:00Father's Day<span style="font-style:italic;">It's hard to pick up your teeth with broken fingers, boy</span>. That's what he used to tell me when I was little. I think he heard it in a movie but already knew it from experience. It's safe to say that I didn't have a fairy tale childhood. My father was a back alley bare knuckle brawler way before that ultimate fighting stuff became mainstream. The one rule when he fought was the last man standing gets the pot. Most times the other guy was knocked out cold; sometimes the other guy was dead. <br />
<br />
Growing up it was just him and me so we were always together. As a child I saw too many terrible things happen behind seedy pubs. A man literally fighting for his life and a few bucks to buy food for his kid. That is real tough to watch. When that man is your father it's a lot worse. What I witnessed scared me half to death but despite that I was doing it myself by the time I was 17. We worked the circuit and made out okay.<br />
<br />
Eventually one of the crime families in the area found out about the money that exchanged hands during the matches. The action was too good to pass up so they got involved. Most of us didn't complain because the take for the winner of one of their brawls was better and you were guaranteed to get paid. The down side was you had to agree to fight before you knew who you were up against. If you tried to back out after you gave your word then things would get ugly fast. My dad and I got used to beating up whoever they put in front of us. <br />
<br />
I started making half decent money from my bouts but my old man always managed to burn through it. Boy, did he love his booze. Matches were set up over drinks and settled after last call. You could say alcohol was a part of the job. Too much of it made him accept his last fight. He was feeling no pain that night and didn't stop to ask who was setting it up and why the prize was so damn big. I didn't either and I regret that every day. <br />
<br />
The prison psychiatrist says it wasn't my fault; he was drunk and violent and I did what I had to do to defend myself. Maybe he knew we would both be dead if we didn't go at it full speed. Or maybe he was worn out after all those years and wanted me to kill him before someone else did. Not knowing is eating me up...especially today. The shrink says this journal will help me get the feelings out so I can work through them. I told him I know a better way.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-54640903943007258262011-01-12T01:15:00.002-05:002011-01-12T01:15:19.432-05:00American Haiku 5-7-5Colors fall to death,<br />
Naked before clearest blue,<br />
Life will bloom again.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-1770006318888213942010-10-14T13:59:00.001-04:002010-10-15T09:33:35.917-04:00Scene IIIHe came to on the hard soil, curled up under a patch of scrub brush. His clothes were torn and caked with dried blood, and he was sore all over. <i>What happened?</i> As his eyes focused and took in his surroundings, <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-manhkee_19.html">Manhkee</a> began to remember. After all, this wasn't the first time he had woken up in the chimpanzee enclosure at the city zoo. A night of battling over females, violent sex, and eating warm meat still pulsing with life always left him groggy the next morning. He rolled over on his back, the mottled sunlight breaking through the foliage and playing on his gruesome mug. He heard pained whimpering nearby and recognized the sound of his favorite girl. <br />
<br />
"Don't worry, sweetheart, Daddy's too tired to give you what you deserve." <br />
<br />
Manhkee slowly got to his knees and crawled out from under his cover, making sure to stick to the shadows at the back of the pen. A young male sat with his back against a tree, watching him with teeth bared. He had lost the fight and knew to stay seated but still showed his displeasure over the intrusion of this man-beast. Manhkee scoffed at the chimp and flipped him off before moving stealthily across the back wall to the maintenance door. Luckily the key was still in his pocket; there had been times when he had to search the terrain for an hour or more before finding it. He unlocked the door and quietly slipped out of the enclosure. <br />
<br />
Making his way through the zoo, Manhkee was careful not to spook any of the animals. The place wasn't open yet but the staff might be there for cleaning and feeding. He was hurting a bit more than usual and didn't want to deal with any problems. <i>I gotta see the scientist for some more of that go-go juice!</i> He had come to crave the strange elixir the scientist brewed for him and the other <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/something-new_19.html">Murderers</a>. It was almost magical the way it took his pain away and brought his energy level back up in an instant. Of course, it was also highly addictive, and Manhkee hated to be so dependent on anyone or anything. <i>This will be the last time... </i><br />
<br />
Scaling the outer wall with ease, he paused at the top to make sure it was clear before he dropped to the ground. The zoo was bordered on three sides by sidewalks and busy streets, but the fourth side backed up to a small, heavily wooded park. Manhkee climbed the nearest tree and deftly swung from limb to limb, his long, powerful arms propelling him forward through the tree tops. Before long he came to a huge oak and stopped. Reaching into a hollow in the massive trunk, he pulled out a ragged nylon gym bag. Inside was a long coat and wide brimmed hat, both wrinkled and worn. Manhkee quickly put them on and stuffed the bag back into its hole. Raising his collar and pulling the hat down over his protruding brow, he lowered himself to the grass and continued his journey to the scientist's laboratory.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-31615528290696085892010-08-30T15:02:00.006-04:002010-08-30T19:44:10.722-04:00Scene II"So, what would you like to replace your rotting arm with...a grenade launcher?" The scientist asked half-jokingly. He had actually planned to try just such a surgery, but his latest victim/experiment died the day before yesterday. "Or maybe something more subtle better suits your style?"<br />
<br />
<a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-s-o-g.html">S-O-G</a> looked around the makeshift laboratory, cunningly hidden in the basement of one of the city's many condemned apartment buildings. As she watched, a plump rat grabbed something red and pulpy from under the operating table and scurried into the shadows. "None of the toys you have here interest me, Doc, so let's cut the bullshit and put another arm on, okay?" Her gravelly voice was unsettling yet sexy. "I got six months out of this one and it worked well enough. Besides, you've already grafted enough hardware on me."<br />
<br />
The scientist nodded and opened the old, stained refrigerator standing beside him. The rusted wire shelves held blood smeared plastic bags of various shapes and sizes. After a moment of thought, he reached to the back and brought out a long package. Laying it on a metal table, he carefully opened it and removed the muscular, heavily tattooed arm. Holding it out for S-O-G to see, he spoke with a hint of excitement in his voice. "You're going to like this one; it's strong, the hand has excellent manual dexterity, and the skull tattoos are right up your alley. Best of all...it's fresh! No graveyard leftovers for my favorite <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/something-new_19.html">Murderer</a>." A rare smile flashed across the scientist's face before being replaced by his usual serious expression.<br />
<br />
"Awww, Doc, you shouldn't have!" S-O-G said sarcastically, but the scientist could tell she was pleased. "Enough chit-chat - I have people to kill. This won't take long, will it?"<br />
<br />
"Not at all, my dear. Just remove your top and lay down on the operating table. I'll have you back in action in no time." As S-O-G got undressed, the scientist couldn't help staring at her. Despite what she was, he was madly in love with the half-dead homicidal beauty. He secretly hoped that, when all this was over, they could have a life together. <i>Much to accomplish before that can happen</i>, he thought sadly. <i>Perhaps too much</i>...pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-47683892204030347242010-08-17T17:40:00.001-04:002010-08-17T17:43:19.513-04:00Scene IThe night sky hangs heavily over the street corner as the crowd forms a circle, careful not to get too close to the peculiar juggling clown. Children cower behind their parents, peeking around legs to catch a glimpse of the freak show. Cracked, dried out rubber balls float in the air and mesmerize while strangled pipe organ notes ooze from an old portable radio. People start to shuffle forward unconsciously as they stare at the performer. Like magic, the balls disappear when they reach his hands, quickly replaced by dingy bowling pins. Higher and higher they go until the onlookers are craning their necks to follow them.<br />
<br />
The pins meet far above the audience and burst into a shower of red confetti. They gasp in wonder, then clap a little too loudly as they watch the paper rain fall. A short, round man in the front row blinks and shakes his head, snapping out of his trance in time to see the blur of an enormous combat boot! His sternum explodes, puncturing his lungs with bone fragments when he leaves his feet, and he flattens the couple behind him. Across the circle, a woman drops to her knees and releases an inhuman wail as spikes slip out of her ruined eye sockets. Panic takes over and the mob scatters as <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-buzz-kill.html">Buzz Kill</a> tears through them, laughing and screaming.<br />
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Rear tire sliding, a black motorcycle rips around the corner and heads straight for the mayhem. It jumps the curb and rams the killer clown, slamming him to the sidewalk as it rides across his back and skids to a stop! The dark rider slowly dismounts and turns to face his opponent.<br />
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"Get up, you twisted son-of-a-bitch, and fight like a man," <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/hero.html">Triple Zero</a> growls.<br />
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Buzz Kill slowly raises himself to his feet and smiles at the figure in black, blood dripping from his battered face. "Now why'd you have to go and spoil a good time, huh? The fun was just getting started!" With a flick of his wrist, he produces a gore encrusted throwing knife and hurls it with incredible force.<br />
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Triple Zero barely has enough time to spin away! As he recovers his footing, Buzz Kill launches his formidable bulk and crashes into him full force. They fall to the cement and tumble into the street. Buzz Kill manages to gain the advantage, and pins Triple Zero's arms to the tar with his knees.<br />
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"Not so tough now, are you?" Buzz Kill sneers as he kneels on top of Triple Zero. "You're gonna pay for that little stunt you pulled!"<br />
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Lowering his arms, Buzz Kill lets his deadly spikes drop from their hiding places and into his sweaty grasp. Before he can deliver his death stroke a pair of short, powerful arms shoots out from under Triple Zero's long coat, one knurled hand closing off Buzz Kill's windpipe and the other crushing his balls! Completely surprised and in serious pain, he flails wildly with the spikes to try to free himself from that horrible grip. Bending his knees backwards like some sort of insect, Triple Zero gets his feet under Buzz Kill and pushes with everything he's got, sending the grotesque creature flying!<br />
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He rolls to his left and stands up as Buzz Kill lands hard against the curb. Triple Zero moves in to finish the job, but hesitates when he hears the sirens approaching. The brief pause is all Buzz Kill needs to escape; he throws a smoke bomb on the ground and vanishes. Triple Zero follows suit and speeds away, front wheel in the air.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-26748744465492566132010-08-12T15:17:00.001-04:002010-08-12T16:31:49.715-04:00The ClearingThe sun gives warmth, asks nothing in return; <br />
A dragonfly taunts me, circling my head.<br />
Tall grass bleached to yellow, waiting to burn.<br />
Wind carries fragrance of sorrow and dread.<br />
<br />
No longer here, did not care to save me.<br />
Broken promises, hopes dashed against stone, <br />
Leaving me hollow inside. How could she? <br />
Starting to crumble, gray dust and white bone.<br />
<br />
Across the clearing, glittering treasure.<br />
My present of silver tells the story;<br />
Her betrayal brings pain beyond measure.<br />
Life loses purpose, ends with no glory.<br />
<br />
To wipe clean the past, never know this love,<br />
Better than death? My soul weeps from above.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-45819337815700993612010-08-05T16:38:00.005-04:002011-04-04T18:57:06.801-04:00Plight of the Living TedI sit on the couch and watch images that do nothing for me. The cameras deliver a new angle every few seconds but tell the same old story. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you can't sleep - stare at a foolish box until you can't stand it anymore? Not much else to do in the middle of the night. If I go for a walk someone will probably call the cops on me again. I turn off the television and just exist for a while.<br />
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The expression goes "Life sucks and then you die." I know something worse. They call me lucky because I came back in one piece...sort of. Zoe Hendricks died in a horrific boating accident on Mirror Lake a number of years ago; the propeller chewed her to bits. When she woke up and hobbled into Murphy's General Store it was like the end of the world. Poor Zoe didn't know what the fuss was all about until she caught her reflection in the floor length mirror by the clothing racks. She just about lost what was left of her mind right then and there. They have her locked up with the rest of them over at the State Hospital in Greenfield.<br />
<br />
Ever see a George Romero <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0063350/">zombie movie</a>? Yeah? Well, let me tell you, he doesn't know <i>shit</i>. Don't get me wrong; his movies are classics and very entertaining. It's just not the way it works. No satellite full of radiation came to our town from outer space. We didn't start shambling around, moaning and trying to eat people. We just came back, simple as that. To be fair to George, how could he have known what would happen? No one else did. <br />
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The biggest problem was that life kept moving while we were in the ground, and there wasn't much to come back <i>to</i>. Everyone except me had been dead for awhile and that wasn't so great, either. Needless to say, no one looked their best. I wasn't buried for too long but that rope sure did a number on my boyish good looks. How ironic is that? Ted, the one person who actually wanted to die, gets to live again while the rest climb the walls of their padded cells. Life just isn't fair. <br />
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Some day I might write everything down, publish my "memoirs" as they say. I doubt it would be good reading, though. Man kills himself, inexplicably comes back to life, and is bored to shit. The End. I guess for now I will just keep on going, alive on the outside and dead on the inside. Come to think of it, I know a lot of people like that, surviving but not really living, struggling to make it through each day. Maybe I don't have it so bad after all.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-24837364237087554622010-07-21T21:08:00.003-04:002010-08-17T17:48:36.898-04:00Profile: Triple ZeroAttending college and in need of money, he answered an ad for a supposed medical trial, only to be kidnapped by the scientist. Unspeakable experiments were mercilessly conducted on Triple Zero, the very first test subject of the scientist's career. It is presumed that the crude methods and techniques practiced on the helpless student were later employed to alter <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-buzz-kill.html">Buzz Kill</a>, <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-manhkee_19.html">Manhkee</a>, and <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-s-o-g.html">S-O-G</a>. He awoke in a dumpster, forever changed and with no memory of his past, his single clue a paper tag affixed to his toe with the words "Test Subject 000" scrawled across it. Forced to live like a nocturnal animal due to his appearance, he scavenged food after dark and sought shelter during daylight, his rage growing with each passing day. A chance encounter with S-O-G and the scientist late one night triggered a series of memories about his suffering at the hands of that lunatic. Since their fateful meeting, Triple Zero thinks of nothing but revenge.<br />
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He rides the city streets and alleyways from dusk until dawn, searching for the scientist and his three loathsome accomplices, his blacked out motorcycle cobbled together from salvaged and stolen parts. Triple Zero will run down wrong doers with the ominous machine when his true prey is nowhere to be found. Only dead criminals have gotten a close look, but those who have caught a glimpse describe a being that isn't quite right. His silhouette and the way he moves make it obvious that something terrible is hidden under those dark clothes. A few citizens even claim to have spotted him during the day, lurking in the shadows at the scene of yet another bloodbath by The Murderers. Triple Zero is becoming more and more aggressive in the pursuit of his enemies, so the odds are good there will be more sightings. Hopefully, we will learn more about this vigilante and whatever "modifications" he received courtesy of the scientist.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-89696585907246168792010-07-19T20:25:00.021-04:002013-09-11T11:46:27.352-04:00The MurderersOnce believed to be acting independently, we now know that the top three most wanted criminals have in fact been working together for some time. Why these homicidal maniacs chose to join forces remains a mystery, but all agree that the union of <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-buzz-kill.html">Buzz Kill</a>, <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-manhkee_19.html">Manhkee</a>, and <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/profile-s-o-g.html ">S-O-G</a> means death, destruction, and mayhem for our city and its inhabitants. According to recent intelligence, this alliance of pure evil called The Murderers is in league with a mad scientist of sorts. It is alleged that this scientist has physically altered each member of the organization to better suit their individual personalities and killing styles, and may very well prove to be the mastermind of the operation.<br />
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The efforts of law enforcement agencies and private security firms have thus far been ineffective against The Murderers. The only party to achieve favorable results against this gang of mutants is Test Subject 000. Although not working in cooperation with the authorities and often breaking the law himself, Test Subject 000, or <a href="http://pappysoup.blogspot.com/2010/07/hero.html">Triple Zero</a> as some call him, has a very personal interest in bringing the mad scientist to justice.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-72009031517887182452010-07-19T20:20:00.003-04:002010-07-19T20:38:55.521-04:00Profile: Buzz KillHis childhood idol was serial killer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wayne_Gacy">John Wayne Gacy</a>, which accounts for his malevolent clown persona. Buzz Kill stands over six feet tall and has an overweight, pear shaped physique. The hair follicles on the top of his head have been surgically removed, the remainder of his hair worn long and dyed yellow. His ghostly white complexion makes a perfect canvas for the multi-colored facial tattoos that substitute for traditional clown makeup. The entire lower half of Buzz Kill's face is covered by a gruesome red smile, with a hideously bulbous purple nose sitting on top of his oversized upper lip. His beady eyes are surrounded by sloppy, green starbursts and two black diagonal slashes on his forehead act as eyebrows. His outfit can vary depending on the situation, but his favorite article of clothing is a bright orange, bloodstained prison jumpsuit. <br />
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Buzz Kill's passion for magic is second only to his love of murder. To further his craft, the scientist implanted tubes beneath the skin on the undersides of his forearms, leaving the ends closest to the wrists open. Victims may watch as a foam ball, silk scarf, or shiny silver dollar appears out of thin air. However, the last thing they will ever see is a pair of long titanium spikes that Buzz Kill reveals with a flourish before jabbing them through the eyeballs and into the brain. It is rumored that his comically large combat boots are actually filled with flesh (yet another surgical enhancement) and make for formidable blunt trauma weapons. More than a few poor souls have undoubtedly perished under the crushing force of that lethal footwear.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-19220044802086250062010-07-19T20:18:00.004-04:002010-07-19T22:03:50.949-04:00Profile: ManhkeeNever considered a handsome guy, this already simian-looking slayer took it to the next level. Inspired by news stories of owners mauled by their pet chimpanzees, Manhkee made a few changes to his appearance with the help of the scientist. His legs were shortened and arms extended. Hair growth serum was applied to the skin with mixed results, producing a mangy, patchy coat of greasy black. Lastly, the jaws, teeth, mouth, and nose of some unfortunate chimp were shoddily grafted on to round out the twisted transformation. What you are left with is an abomination that is hard to wrap your head around, never mind look at. <br />
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As luck (or strange forces of primate destiny) would have it, Manhkee has been a student of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monkey_Kung_Fu">Monkey Kung Fu</a>, specifically the Drunken Monkey form, since he was a teenager. This style of martial arts uses ape-like movements and attacks usually directed towards the knees, groin, throat, and eyes of the opponent. His new body structure is perfectly suited for this ground based assault, and most people are unable to effectively defend against it. If all else fails, he will simply bite off whatever body parts he can sink his teeth into until you bleed out or run away screaming. Although not officially confirmed, it has been said that Manhkee tends to chew and swallow what he tears off, adding cannibal to the list of things horribly wrong with him.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8687385309695007107.post-60687523945773832252010-07-19T20:11:00.005-04:002010-07-19T22:05:01.525-04:00Profile: S-O-GThis raven haired gun-for-hire has left bodies scattered around the globe. As a paid assassin, she lived the life of a nomad, the pack on her back holding all her worldly possessions. Finding no real need for money, she started killing for free, asking her clients to merely cover travel expenses. The joy she got from a clean kill was priceless. A stray landmine in a war torn country ended her illustrious career...for awhile. According to the grapevine, the scientist gathered what parts he could from the blast and scavenged the rest from local cemeteries. He reanimated the patchwork killer and dubbed her S-O-G. No one truly knows what that stands for, but one theory is Straight Outta Graveyard. Could the mad scientist be an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/N.W.A">N.W.A</a> fan? <br />
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Neither fully living nor completely dead, S-O-G exists only to take life from others. Unlike the classic movie zombie, she is highly intelligent and agile, and can essentially pass for a normal human being. Until you see her in a bikini, that is. Because of her massive scarring and slightly mismatched appendages, she covers herself from the neck down in black fatigues. S-O-G's eyes were damaged from the flash of the explosion, causing her to wear dark smoke goggles at all times. She still requires food (not brains), liquid, and sleep to survive, but she can get by on a minimal amount of each. The scientist made several secret upgrades to her anatomy that have yet to be revealed, but you can be sure they involve guns and knives, the tools of her trade.pappysouphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05389835302205098209noreply@blogger.com