[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene 6]

You can imagine the pandemonium that took place after everyone had shaken off the effects of the Veil. Parents moved from tent to tent, tipping over tables in a frantic search for their children. Others were trying to make heads and tails of the mess that had occurred during their three minute ‘nap’. Some were in the process of evaluating the pipes (Gas leak, remember?), some were just sitting, their minds still stuck, a hint of lingering doubt of what just occurred.

Surprisingly, the longer it takes to shake off the Veil’s effect, the more it says about the person. Show’s they’re stubborn, strong willed. Their mind isn’t willing to just accept the easiest answer to what happened. The more you know, huh?

I didn’t have long to watch this go on. I was sort of in the process of dying. Distractions, distractions.

Max had done his best to help me to our hovel in the corner. My body was in worse shape than I had expected, it wanting to shut down a few minutes after the attack.

Max dumped me on the moldy mattress where all the magic happens (Ladies… hint, hint) and went to work shredding the remains of my shirt off my back. The low whistle he gave wasn’t a sign he appreciated my good looks- The damage must have been bad.

I felt my eyes close as my body grew heavy, my lids feeling as if they were… well… made of hardened clay. My tongue felt clammy in my mouth. All of me just wanted to find a nice spot of dirt to lay down and fall apart into. It seemed like a nice thought at the time.

I vaguely recall hearing Max peeling back the floorboards. He let out a grunt as he hauled something up to the surface. I heard the pop of the lid, the rustle of saran-wrap, smelt the whiff of freshness, and felt my body shiver with anticipation.

Bliss. As soon as the clay touched my skin, I felt bliss. Like a part of me had finally been found, claimed, and indoctrinated. Sort of like finding a missing son or daughter after years of searching. Clay had that effect on me- I was a junkie for it.

Plaster could close a hole in me and allow my body to heal on its own with relative ease. Sort of like stitches or a cast for fleshies. However, much like fleshies, sometimes those thins aren’t enough. Sometimes, you need a blood transfusion and a team of doctors.

I had clay and Max to fill in said roles.

I felt the essence of the clay flow through my body like morphine travelling through a vein. It tickled and hurt at the same time. It moved throughout my body. Not the clay, mind you, but the essence of it.

I don’t want to say I let out of moan of ecstacy because that might give someone an idea to turn this into some sort of erotic fanfic involving me, Max, and a bucket of clay while ‘Unchained Melody’ plays in the background, but know the feeling I felt was akin to the best bite of steak you’ve ever had combined with the most sensual massage you’ve ever experienced.

It was a thing that made you happy to be alive.

My mind must have lost itself as the essence healed my body because it took Max slapping me on the back of the head again to get my eyes to snap open. I turned my gaze upwards, staring at him.

“Get up, Stone Hedge,” was all he said before he exited the tent. “People are shittin’ themselves outside.”

I tossed what remained of my torn shirt and replaced it with a t-shirt that told folks I was with stupid. And then I followed dump-truck Yoda outside.

Grid Eight was still in a panic, but it was that silent sort of panic that makes you realize things were bad. They had grouped together near the three old men in their rocking chairs. The three men were as silent as ever, swaying back and forth as if all this ruckus was beneath their notice. Two Gridites (Like what I did there?) stood in front of them, arguing. A man and a woman.

“Damn’it, Steve, I don’t care. I’m going out to search-“ A woman I vaguely recall being called Mary threatened. She was a stout woman, her stomach rivaling Max’s.

“Gloria,” Steve began-

Right- Gloria, I said that.

“We are going to look for the kids. But we should calm down, get our bearings, and come up with a plan,” Steve said as he looked towards the crowd for support. “Most likely, the kids saw us effected by gas and took off to the tunnels to find help-“

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?! You know what sort of dangers lurk in their!” Gloria shot back before just shaking her head. She moved away from Steve, heading towards the exit. “And the lot of us are just standing here doin’ nothing! I’m not going to just wait around until we hear one of them have been hit by a train.”

A kid screamed.

At first, I thought it might have been one of the children taken, screaming as they ran from the shadows where the Snake-Heads vanished. Not the case. I turned my head (Along with everyone else) and found a kid sporting a bloody nose. It was the kid I made the Medusa drop. On his face…

Butter fingers….

The kids parents were holding him close as he scream, his eyes darting around with an awareness that many of these people didn’t have- The kid remembered.

The thing about the Veil is that it relies on an understanding of reality. Sure, a grown up knows that fairies and goblins don’t exist, but a kid doesn’t. It takes years for their ‘switch’ to trigger, usually somewhere along puberty. This allowed for kids to catch glimpses through the Veil, knowing that true dangers do go bump in the night.

“They took them! The snake people!” the kid cried as he held onto his mother. Naturally, kidnapping is a hell of a way to gain a crowds attention. No sooner did he speak those words the crowd was surrounding him, shouting questions.

“Shut up! Shut up of of you!” bellowed Steve as he pushed his wirery frame through the group. It took some energy, but the crowd finally shushed enough for him to concentrate on the kid. He kneeled down, offered the kid a smile that would send Dentists crying, and tried his best ‘buddy-buddy’ tone. “Hey, Little Buddy, what do you mean people took them?"

The kid sniffed, buried his head into his mom’s arm, and decided that he didn’t like being the center of attention. Steve looked around nervously before reaching out to take hold of the kid’s arm.

“Kid- Come on, give us a break here-“

The kid let out a startled cry which brought his father to Steve’s face.

“Get you hands off my son, you bastard!” He growled. He had a good growl- Solid. If I had bowels, something would have shifted.

Steve wasn’t one to back down, though. Kudos to him. He stepped forward, raising a finger to the man’s face. “Listen here, Kyle. Our kids are missing and I don’t want to hear any bullshit-“

"My son don’t need an asshole grabbing his arms after-“

          

And the argument continued, building. Soon enough, Steve and Kyle were pushing each others, the other occupants of Grid Eight trying to split them up. And just to show me I have the greatest luck in the world, the few second that wasn’t filled with noise was when the kid decided to look at me and ask “Why didn’t you save them too?”

Everyone silenced at this and turned towards me and Max- Actually when I turned my head towards Max, I saw that he had taken a few steps to the side. Right. On my own.

“Listen,” I began as I held up my hands, trying to play the role of good-natured bystander. “ I was out of it like everyone else.”

“Liar!” the kid hollered. It was almost comical how everyone’s head turned in unison to focus on the kid and then back to me. Desperation from the parents of the missing children grew to anger and a few of them took steps towards me.

“Whoa- Hey, guys, settle down. I don’t know the kid’s problem. I was-“

“Where you and Max disappear too after the lights came back on, huh?” Gloria said as she led the pack towards me. Her sausage like fingers coiled into hams of destruction. “I saw you both stumbling into the tent! I paid it no mind until now- What was goin’ on?”

Max seemed to get that his ass was now in the fire and stepped closer to me. Either to defend myself or get behind the ‘muscle’ if this turned badly. He puffed out his chest, trying to match Gloria’s girth like some territorial blowfish. “Hold on there, Gloria! What me and Emmet do in our tent is our own business!”

Well, that sounded awkward.

Max continued.

“The reason we were running into the tent was because Emmet here was pretty banged up! Woke up and found him swaying drunk!”

              

The eyes returned to me and I offered up the traditional defense of a simple shrug.

            

 “Didn’t seem right in the head,” Max explained as he slapped the back of my scalp. “Like he was drugged. Like we all were drugged. Maybe Emmet didn’t go out like the rest of us? Maybe he can’t remember what he done.”

“He fought the Snake-Men!” The kid exclaimed again. I gave the kid a look that adult could read as “Shut the hell uP” but apparently, the kids reading level wasn’t high enough yet.

              

“Damn straight, he did! Apparently, who ever took the kids couldn’t get them all. I’d wager Emmet was the reason,” Max said before slapping, this time, on the back. I stood still, look around, trying to read everyone’s expression. Slowly but surely, they all faded from anger and returned to just plain worried.

“Listen- I don’t remember. I woke up with bruised knuckles and a bruise on my back.” I said, taking my cue.

Steve was the first one to bite. A natural leader. “Guys- Emmet’s been good to us in the past. Always sharin’ his good. Come on! We can’t be turning on folks. We gotta think. If the kids were really taken, we have-“

“We need to go to the police,” Someone said.

“We can’t go to the police- When have they ever helped anyone?”

And so the argument began again. I slinked back a few steps with Max.

“Police don’t come down to Grid Eight,” Max mumbled.

   
I nodded.

               

“Even if they did, I doubt they’d be equipped to handle the sort of thing that hires Medusas.” I said as I watched the panic spread though the families and friends that I’ve grown to know down here. If I had a heart instead of programming, I’d have felt something, I’m sure.

And yet the only thing I felt was an intense urge to find those kids. To keep them safe. To bring them back. Like a computer opening up a file when an icon was clicked on a desktop.

Programmed morality. And I was destined to follow it. 

[Offensive Story] Tits and Bullets [PART THREE]

[I just want you all to know... I understand that I have yet to name the character in this story. I am going to redo the first chapter to have his name revealed plus a little back ground. Also, I understand this guy is a dick. He's a touch racist and he's not too respectful with women. This is a character choice and one that will bite him in the ass. Be patient]

I hear the annoying beep of the heart monitor first.

I want to sit and curse, give everybody a scare and maybe get someone in here to pay attention to me. I can’t though. My body is weak and the only thing that rises is m eye lids. This time, I’m not greeting with the scream of James Earl Jone’s tenor or the sight of cheap ceiling tiles.

I’m staring at –nice- ceiling tiles.

As George Jefferson would say, I’m movin’ on up.

I feel around the bed until I find that patient clicker-thingie that hospitals are suppose to give you. I press my thumb down hard on the call sign. I also scream, “Stop suckin’ off Doc McDreamie and get you asses in here!”

Or I try. It doesn’t sound right cause my jaw seems to be wrapped tightly with a bandage and my tongue in numb. However, I make enough noise to garner someone’s attention. A guy’s bald head is suddenly hanging over me and he offers a friendly smile that just tells me that everything is going to be okay.

Also tells me he isn’t into ladies either.

“Mister Ducker? Hello, I’m Doctor Vance Morgan. I suppose asking you how you are feeling today wouldn’t do you any good today?” He says with as much cheer as I can handle for the day. I try to spit back a response about feeling up his wife’s ass but it doesn’t work so well. I gargle and spit like a newborn and the man takes this as me giving him the go ahead to shine a light into my eyes. “You gave Eddie quite the scare downstairs when you woke up last week. Gave us all quite the scare. You’ve been giving-“

I zone out at this point. Last week? I narrow my eyes and reach forward. Enough strength returns to my arm allowing me to grab hold of the doctor by the collar. He shuts up immediately and even gives out an adorable squeal as I pull him closer to my nose.

“What. The fuck. Happened,” I growl. Spittle gets in the way of some of the sounds but he gets the gist.

Vance swallows and I see a nervous droplet of sweat touch on the peak of his nose. He takes hold of me arm and tries to gingerly pull free but I’m having none of it. I give him a violent shake and he freezes in shock. I remain glowering at him, he remains pissing himself. However, that surgeon inside his little prick must have eventually took over because one minute I’m looking at a piss ant and the next, a professional.

He takes my hand and gives it a slight squeeze on the wrist. He hits some sort of pressure point and my grip loosens instantly. Fucking egg-heads cheating.

“Mister Ducker, you were shot,” Vance began. “When you were brought in, you weren’t even put on the operating table. You had been dead for at least twelve hours. Or so we thought.”

“Why?” I started before just giving up. My tongue felt like a bloated sausage trying to force its way down my gullet. However, Doctor ‘Vance’ Morgan seems to get it.

“We don’t know what happened but-“ He pauses, searching for the right word. “- But here you are. Alive. More than alive.”

He moves away from me, out of my view. I grunt as I try to sit up by everything in front of me blurs and whatever inch I gained sitting was lost. I fall back into the pillow. Doctor Morgan returns, apparently reading my file.

“Your brain was dealt a massive degree of damage from the bullet. It pierced… Well, without getting too technical, Mister Ducker, it went through several key areas. Even if someone were to survive the intitial shot, it would take years of work and a miracle to gain back rudimentary motor skills.”

I peer at him, not fully comprehending what he’s saying. No, scratch that, I am. I’m just not believing it. Here I was supposed to be a vegetable and yet…

I raise my arm and flicker my gaze back at the doctor. Seeing me raise my arm again seems to send him back into his shock so I one up it and wiggle my fingers. The other hand goes up and I deliver the doctor a set of ‘Jazz hands’. Soon enough, one of my knee raises and I’m about to raise the other one when I just feel something ‘pop’ in my head.

I let out a cry of pain and my limbs fall dead. I squeeze my eyes shut, take in a breath, and allow the world a few minutes to stop spinning. This would have been easier if Doctor ‘Vance’ Morgan wasn’t waving a light in my eyes and calling over his shoulders.

They insert some sort of breathing tube into my nose or atleast try too. My hand raise and I take hold of the hand holding the tubelette. This sends a stir of surprise from everyone and that just seems to start the excitement.  People are running through the room, doctors and nurses, each seeming to want to test something on me. Hell, someone is slipping on a threatening latex glove and I feel a touch of fear hit me as I guess where that might be going.

This all stops, though. A voice breaks through all the chaos.

“Excuse me!”

The voice is filled with such… conviction that it’s enough to make me turn my head for the first time today. Surprisingly, it’s not a doctor or nurse standing in the doorway. It’s an elderly man. A preacher. The type you’d see in ‘Leave it to Beaver’ who’d give sermons on Sunday and spend the rest of the week cat-fishing and not masturbating.  

His voice silences the room and he offers one of the most pleasing smiles I’ve ever witnessed towards Doctor Morgan.  He reaching into his pants, plucks out what looks to be a business card, and asks, “Is this the miracle? A Mister William Ducker?”

Vance seems to get past the man’s holy exterior because when he moves to the preacher, he doesn’t sound respectful. More annoyed. “Father, we have other patients you can-“

“Of course, of course. But is this Mister William Ducker? His mother has asked me to check up on him while she rests.”

This seems to give a spoonful of sugar to the doctor so he answers with a humble, “Yes it is, father.”

I gurgle a gurgle a warning.

I want to tell the doctor that my mother died when I was fourteen of a pill overdose. I want to tell the doctor that my father never remarried. I want to tell the doctor that this ‘Father’ is lying through his teeth- I’m a business man. I can spot a bull shitter. I want to tell the doctor a lot of things but instead, I’m silenced when the ‘Father’ reaches behind him and pulls a revolver from behind his back.

Well fuck.

My chest erupts in pain as the room erupts with violence.

[Offensive Story] Tits and Bullets [PART TWO]

[Well, I actually did something with the old story. I did make a change in the first chapter. He was shot in the head instead of the chest. So remember that, folks! Okay! Here is part two]

I’m not a nice guy but I’m not a bad guy. So, when I don’t see a flash of pearly gates waiting for me, I sort of get pissed that I’m going to head to Hell. I mean, come on! I didn’t rape or kill. I only banged one married chick ever and her husband was the one holding the camcorder. No harm, no foul, right?

I don’t see flames or fire or demons though. I don’t see anything. It’s nothingness and I’m floating in it like I’m one of those lazy fucks who spend all day at the water park on an inflatable tire. I don’t even get the luxury of balancing a beer on my stomach while I try to cover up my erection from the girls who skimper on past, giggling and reminding me how out of shape my body is. And I stay in this state for what feels like a minute and an eternity.

Right, I don’t want to sound like an asshole and go post-modern on you but I can’t describe it.

My body goes through all those fun faces of decomposition, wrinkles traveling up my arms as my balls shrivel up into raisons and hide in my rectum. My hair falls out, I have to piss, I don’t have to piss, my skin peals. My body is numb- My body is cold. My body wilts and crumbles and then I’m dust. And now I’m left with my mind and my essence and the darkness. And all that shit knows I’ve only been here for a minute but what used to be my body knows it’s been longer.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bang Tony’s wife after all.

Pain.

The body I don’t have feels pain or an echo of what it supposed to feel like. And it burns. It’s not that subtle burn you get after a careless weekend in Key West. I’m Richard Pryor and I’ve just set myself on fire. I’d run down the street for the hospital if there was a street… or a hospital… and if I had legs and not just memory of legs. I convulse, which is odd because I lack the muscles to do such, but my essence finds a way.

Hurt. My head hurts. Everything hurts. It grows. It consumes me. And I know I’ve transitioned from the darkness to Hell itself.

And then I have eyes again… Eye-lids at least. They open and I’m stuck staring at the ever glowing burn of Hell’s furnace, its flame glowing a sickly blue as the souls of the sinful scream out in anguish, begging me to not free them but simply end them.

Hah, fuck you. I was kidding. I actually find myself staring at ceiling tile.

I need to breathe so I do so, but it comes out more like a greedy slurp for oxygen. I sit up, knocking away some metallic table that had been hovering over me. Lights blind me from the side. I panic. I swing, miss hitting anything, and fall straight off whatever I’m laying on and land on cheap bathroom tile.

Someone screams. It’s not me. I’m too busy trying to breathe.

Mind you, I know I’ve been shot. I know I’ve just experienced some sort of outer body experience. I know I just woke up in some room with shiney lights, cheap tiling, and- By the way- I know I’m naked. So, fuck you very much if you think it’s selfish of me to not give a shit about whoever is screaming.

I let my breath find a resemblance of rhythm before I look up.

The scream is coming for an African American chap in scrubs. His has a solid scream for a guy. Not too high pitched, not too baritone. Call me racist but his scream sort of reminds me of James Earl Jones. And I can tell he’s scared. Hell, I bet he can tell I’m scared. So, we do each other a favor and let the other sort of shit themselves without the bother of questions. At least for a minute.

Fuck my head hurts. I feel my body grow numb and cold, and I’ve gone fetal. I cling to my head and feel my first hint of something wrong. Wetness on my scalp.

I pull my hand back and stare at blood. It’s not crimson honey to confuse me and I don’t take a minute to realize what it is like those dumb shits in literature. My mind is sharp and I know that I’m fucking bleeding. My mind is so sharp, I know it fucking hurts too.

Mister Jones has stopped screaming so I decide too. I scream and cry and try my best to stand. Two out of three isn’t bad.

People are in the room now. Confused. Loud. I feel a hand on my shoulder and I pull away, not wanting it close. Not wanting it to be the Reaper to pull me back to where ever the hell I had come from. The hand returns and I scream again like a mad man.

A needle. I love needles. I used to use them in the early nineties with my business school buds. They always made me feel better and this one didn’t hold an exception. The pain subsides and I’m weightless. Not out, mind you. Just weightless and motionless and painless.

“The motha fucker was dead! I was about to drill into his skull to get the fragments out-“

Way to use ‘motha fucker’ like every cliché in Hollywood.

I want to say this but waking up naked and hearing you’re supposed to be fucking dead is a sobering experience.

I’m on a cart. How’d I get on a cart? I don’t care. I don’t know so I don’t care. Lights flash over head as I’m rolled through a hall and someone is talking to me. Faces flash above me and something is put over my mouth to help me breath.

People are still talking. Someone is trying to assure me that I’m going to be okay.

On TV, doctors are supposed to be hot, right? Yeah, big lie. Let’s just say the lady looking down at me wears her surgical mask well.

Zing.

Unconsciousness. 

[Dream] Lost Children

Goooooood morning, followers.

I planned on adding a new piece of fiction today to this board, and I still plan on doing it! However, I just woke up to one of the funnest (most fun?) dreams of my life! It had action. It had intrigue. It had possible romance... It even had a dog!

So, I'm going to post here. Simply the bones of it all. What I remember, what I have altered in my head, and what I want to do with this. Now, remember, this is from a DREAM so its a bit fragmented! I'm hoping this make sense to me in the morning. Here goes nothing.

Dream Version: Private Government Contractor creates a brand of super soldiers. Via genetic manipulation, these children are raised and trained to be soldiers. These soldiers, of course, are 'rented' out to the US Army (Along with its allies) to be the best of the best. Code name: Lost Boys (From Peter Pan, right?)

Adjustments : I like the Peter Pan reference, however, I need to point out how females were created as well as men. This isn't just a boy's club. Boys were created first (Men always fearing females in the military... tsk, tsk) but females did follow.... Lily, Wendy, ect.

Dream Story - The story isn't about this super soldier program. Really, it's not. It's actually about the program crumbling. The 'Lost Boys' are sent out on a mission that proves set up. A new government contractor has created better soldiers, those of being hived minds, and is given the contracts.The "Lost Boys" are sent into a mission (Militant Group in Nebraska? Was that it) and are killed. Only three make it out alive... but here is the kicker. The three make it out seperately. Each thinking they are the last surviving one. We follow the three's individual story until it comes together in one final arc.

Adjustments - Eh, I got nothing. So, lets keep it close to that.

Dream Characters :

Older Brother (Peter) - The leader of the pack. He was the first kid created, part of the first 'batch'. Straight edged, gifted with many skills. His survival in the massacre is through skill alone. His escape from the battle is a mystery, he himself not remembering due to his injuries
.
Rebellious Brother (Michel) - Michel came from the second batch of kids 'brewed'. He is simply the rebel of the group. He's been known to show up after a mission smelling of ladies and beers ("What, I got the job done so I stopped off to party"). Think "Alec" from Dark Angel. His escape from the massacre is through luck and (possibly) running away.

Younger Sister (Wendy) - Is the youngest of the group, being one of the few females created. She is talented, maybe showing signs of being the new leader one day. However, she is inexperienced. She has the least amount of experience with the real world.

Main Honcho Woman (Nanny) - She's watched these children grow into soldiers. She's supervised them, kept track of them, and also helped decide when one needs to be sent to "Neverland" if they aren't cutting the mustard. She's a business shark, in the end, however she views her project as the best. She helps the survivors of the massacre when she can only because of what seems to be wishing to prove her soldiers are not cast offs. That they are the better soldiers.

Deputy Female - This small town deputy happens upon Michel breaking into a summer cabin after the battle. Michel, being dazed, scared, and paranoid takes her hostage. I want her to end up helping Michel, trying to keep him from hurting himself. (Think... Alissa from Gargoyals).

Donnie (Nibs) - Donnie finds Wendy while she's moving through the forest, trying to escape the new breed of super soldiers. Donnie saves her from walking into a trap and helps guide her out of the woods. He claims to be a soldier from Iraq, someone who got discharged from service because of PTS. However, what you find out later is he's 'Nibs'. The only kid to ever escape from 'Neverland'. He was sent there because he proved to be insane. (Think Alpha from Dollhouse). Wendy would not recognize him due to her being second batch. Peter would.


So.... What do I do with this?

The basic idea is that the Lost Boys are wiped out by another corporation. The 'evil' corporation uses them to show off their newest breed of soldier to the US government. Nanny, sadly, is made aware of this. Nanny does sign off to send the 'Lost Boys' to the mission (Militant Group in Nebraska), hoping that they can prove they are better soldiers.

The idea is that the 'militants' prove to be the hive linked soldiers. Shells, really, with fighting skills. The battle is intense. If this was a movie, we'd switch between Wendy, Peter, and Michel. Peter is last seen running for the window of a room as grenades are thrown near him. He dives out the window, explosions behind him, and that's it for him. Michel is shown fighting 'hand to hand' with a guy, barely being able to kill him. Michel can tell this isn't a normal 'militant' group. He knows something is wrong. He watches as the building with Peter in it explodes, thus making him decide to run for it. Wendy, of course, is shown fighting. We also see her escape the battle dragging out a dying 'Lost Boy'.

Peter will wake up in the back of the van. Nanny is there. She'll reveal that she had to at least secure him. Naturally, he's pissed. He might even try to kill her. However, what she holds over him is that he's not the only survivor. That others escaped and she can help him find them.

Michel will be breaking into a cabin for bandages and food. While rummaging, a local sheriff will roll into the drive way- Deputy Female (I need a name for her). She'll come in, investigating why the lights were on or something. Michel will easily subdue her (Even after several impressive blows from the Deputy). She becomes his hostage while he tries to work everything out.

Wendy will be shown closing the eyes of the now dead Lost Boy. She hears something in the woods and she slowly moves to investigate. She readies her gun. As she turns, two 'Super Hive Soldiers' will attack her. When it looks like she'll be killed, Donnie will appear. He kills them easily, saving Wendy. When asked how he learned to fight, he'll say "Iraq Veteran, ma'am. I was camping when I saw those gents attacking." Something lame... But clearly, Donnie has been following Wendy since he's not really who he says he is.

Okay! This is fragmented. Isn't that great? Dreams can seem so real but... in the end, they make not alot of sense on paper. Anyways... I put this down for my own benefit. For those following, why don't you drop me a line saying what's wrong or what you like about this dream. Remember, this was a dream! I woke up and wrote it here just so it would remain vivid in my head. So, don't worry! If you think it's all a poor idea or if it makes no sense, don't fret! Tell me. It was just a dream!

[Offensive Story] Tits and Bullets [PART ONE]

[I wrote this a long time ago on a challenge. We were supposed to try to create something off the cuff, regardless of  politics. This was supposed to help us create characters who weren't carbon copies of ourselves. Clearly, I'm not like this guy but it's interesting I found his voice easily, huh? Anyways! Not sure if I ever had anything planned with this... but I had some fun writing it]



The first thing I noticed were her tits.

Perhaps that isn't romantic or charming or, hell, even witty. However, it was the truth.  My eyes fell over the way they seemed to strain against the fabric of what I could only hope to be something red and lacy. Something easy enough to unhook or edible enough to chew off. Possibly  a size or two too small or perhaps just right- I don't know. I'm not really an expert on bras or their sizes. Truth be told, if you asked me what size bras came in,  I would answer "mouthful, handful, or cock wrap".  The point of it all was that her breasts were the first thing I saw.

Noted.

Observed.

They had a bounce to them, a sort of rhythm that could inspire a musical number that would be both true and insulting at the same time. The music would take a shit on the feminist movement, reducing years of fighting for respect to a bug on the glass ceiling that they've grown accustomed to citing. The song wouldn't sing praise about skill or practices that this woman was capable of or talents she might possess. It was simply a ballad of lust that most Neanderthals would 'hoot' and 'holler' towards around their frat boys as they took sips from their 'brewskis' and 'buds'- saying snapping lines such as "This buds for you" or "it's miller times" while they drank away all respect and replaced it with faux-respect that they used to hide their mediocrity in life and in the sack.

Her tits inspired poets and bards to creates a tale of two ginormous apples hanging from the Tree of Sin. Two apples meant to taunt men into looking but not touching. Warning men to fantasize but not react. Eyes only. Hands off. They weren’t meant for reality but man, wouldn’t it be wild if they were? These tits were poetic. These tits were sinful. These tits, in the words of my father’s generation, were ‘gnarly’ or ‘rad’ or possibly ‘hip to the square’.

These tits were the first things I noticed about the girl. The second thing was her gun.

That early part about me admitting to knowing next to nil about bras? I know even less about guns. However, I knew enough to know that if you applied said gun to said forehead it created said piss in my pants.

“Hand over your wallet.” Fantasy-Tits stated with a sort of grace that was more Southern Bell than Brooklyn thug. It was playful even with a pistol pressed to my forehead and piss dribbling down my leg. A paradox of observation and emotion. Sort of like getting kicked in the balls by Shirley Temple. It’s painful and bizarre but holy shit, it’s Shirley Temple. You couldn’t be angry or pissed or even peeved. You’d be in pain, sure, but you would be choking on kittens and shitting rainbows at the cuteness.

I imagine that if my life was a porno, I would have said something about having a massive wad for her, pulled out a thirteen incher, and introduced her shirt to the alley’s floor and her breasts to my penis. If my life was a porno, I would have been fucking the shit out of her tits in the middle of a studio surrounded by a half rate director and his motley crew of dregs instead of the make-shift “Red Light District” of Williamsburg, Nebraska. If my life was a porno, she would have been screaming my name until I heard “cut” and even then I would give an extra thrust so she’d know she was special to me. Instead, however, the only thing being said was her asking for my wallet.

Sadly, my life isn’t a porno. She took my wallet, steadies her pistol, and fires into my head. I counted one shot but what the fuck do I know? I was a corpse the second I hit the ground. No flash of my past. No sudden insights or puzzle pieces coming together. I didn’t even get a fucking angle or white light. All I got was a darkness followed by nothingness.

Jokes on her, though. I had sex with her about a million times in my head before she shot me. How does she like them apples?

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Five]

[Felt alittle short changed on this one. I'm slipping tenses again (My biggest weakness) However, here you are. In the spirit of things, I'm putting this out their as it is. Spelling mistakes and grammar aside! The most important thing is a rough draft being shown so I don't let this blog slow down!)

Golems can’t see in the dark.


A lot of times, people hear you are a supernatural being and assume you’re good to go in the areas of flying, seeing in the dark, and mesmerizing teenage girls to dry humping spells. What can I say? I blame Twilight.

So when the lights went out, I only had the light glow of the trash-can fire that someone was using to roast dinner. Shadows danced around the area, each one intermixing with the frozen bodies of civilians. I spun around as something brushed past, a fist raised.

Nothing.

Another wave of screams echoed off the walls, and I did my best to pinpoint the nearest attacker. As you can imagine, the atmosphere along with the visibility was making it nigh impossible. Add fear into the mix, and you have one confused clay-doll.

“Come out!” I bellowed using my unlimited amount of wit. Finding no one to take me up on my challenge, I added, “Pussies.”

I waded through the darkness, careful not to push aside the frozen citizens of Grid Eight. From the flickering light of the trash can, I found the majority of faces had entered that dazed expression, their mind deciding it was better to turn off until a logical explanation could be reached.

I heard another sound behind me and turned just in time to have a ball of garden hoses thrust in my nose. I felt what amounted to a dozen mini-jack hammers smashing into face, and I threw my fists upward. Whatever had attacked hadn’t counted on that. My knuckled connected to what I thought might be a chin and sent the creature launching. It flew through the air before smashing itself into the side of the flaming trash can, tipping it on its side and the burning contents to the floor.

The fact that I had an exposed flame now on a dirty floor surrounded by frozen people didn’t register immediately. What did register was the head full of snakes that hissed and struck out as far as they could towards me and the old hag with the oozing lips and extended claws who sported said snake-fro. She (And they… Or were they just all one?) hissed, jumped to her feet, and charged me.

I shook off my surprise and ran to meet her half way. However, before I could get more than a few steps into my charge, I felt something heavy come down on my back. Again, a dozen hammers slammed into me, this time on my neck. Claws gripped my shoulders, and I spun, trying to get the new witch off of me. I smashed through a cheaply improvised table holding scraps, and we both fell to the floor, the thing still on my back.

I might have been made out of clay but that didn’t stop me from feeling some pain. I was wired to feel hints of displeasure when my body was being damaged, and I assure you, I was in the process of just that. A dozen or so serpents chipped away at my skin as the thing’s claws dug into my shoulders, deep.

I look ahead, a flaming piece of timber just a few feet away, right outside the burning embers. I reached for this burning Excaliber and then felt the witch dig her claws into my shoulder blade. Something cracked and my whole limb stop functioning. She had cut my ‘strings’.

I slumped forward as I hollered in pain. The witch seemed to take this as a sign of victory, and I felt her continue her onslaught. My back felt like it had lost a few pounds at this point, and I felt tired.

I wasn’t invincible. I took a beating that would have killed a man a long time before me but I wasn’t invincible. What I was, though, was stubborn. Monuments could be made about my stubbornness.

I screamed, using the boiling rage inside my body to push all my remaining strength back into my legs. I hauled us both up, dove forward, and twisted as best I could. I landed with her pinned to the ground- Right on top of the flames. Fire and clay were never a bad combination, kids. Fire and flesh was.

The creature screeched and let go. I stumbled to my feet, away from the creature, and turned just in time to see the thing clamper to its feet before completely igniting as if she was covered with gasoline. She made it a few steps before completely exploding as if she was some monster in those cheesy 70’s monster movies.

And here I was without popcorn.

I turned to face the one I had previously engaged only to find her with a child thrown over her shoulder. The creature was frozen with shock, staring at her downed sister. The snakes responded before she could, her serpentine-hair pulling back before spitting at me. Goblets of goo splattered my chest. Could have been poison. Could have been some paralysis-brew. Whatever it was, it didn’t work. I charged forward, my programming guiding my actions more so than my brain. The witch gave out what might have been the start if an “Oh hell” before I drove my fist into her face. Cracking and popping bones greeted my fist. She fell, the kid landing painfully to the floor.

Hey, the kid was alive at least.

A choir of screeches echoed throughout the chamber, and I turned, fist held prepared. From all around me, I saw shadows that seemed to slither back and forth between warm bodies. They moved closer to me, four of five beings, each with hissing friends on top of their heads.

“I’ll kick all your asses,” I threatened.

Yeah, I wasn’t impressed with my words so you could image how they handled it. A sound of what might have been laughter moved around me as they descended.

That’s when the sound of the chug-chug-chug of a generator started up. The lights suddenly snapped on and I was greeted with the sight of the ugliest pair of sisters I’d ever seen. Swamp Crones sat at the popular table compared to these girls. They didn’t like the way they looked either because as soon as the lights activated, they screamed in unison, shadowing their eyes with their hands. They turned away from me, rushing for the shadows the lights couldn’t reach.

And with that, they were gone.

I stood in place, panting for breath. My body told my brain that I was hurting, twisting my programming for me to respond to what pain must feel like. My knees grew weak, and I fell to them. My arm resting limply at my side, and I just sat.

I don’t know how long it took for Max to join me. I became aware of his presence when his hand slapped the back of my head. I flinched, looked up, and squinted at the man.

“You don’t fight Medusa’s in the dark, She-Hulk,” Max scoffed before he attempted to lift me to my feet. It was either my size or his lack of upper body strength that didn’t make that happen. He gave up after a few attempts before slumping down to the ground himself.

“Medusas,” I repeated.

“People frozen, snake for heads? Ugly as sin?” Max shook his head. “Doesn’t take much to put the name to the face.”

I nodded as I reached to my coat, plucking a burned piece of skin from my jacket. It wasn’t mine.

“Medusas… From that poem?” I asked. “Didn’t they turn people to stone?”

“A poem using metaphor. Who ever thought of such a thing?” Max mumbled before standing up to attempt lifting me again. This time, I helped and made it to my feet. The people of Grid Eight weren’t exactly frozen still, but they were still in a stupor. The fire from the trash can had thankfully not caught hold of anything other than the witch so it didn’t take more than a few stomps from my boot to put out any real risks.

“How’d you shake the spell?” I asked Max.

“Laziness,” he responded. “Theirs, not mine. Must assumed everyone experienced the dazed effect from their spell already and stopped usin’ it. Since that shit don’t work on me…” He trailed off, assuming I got the picture. I did.

It took little more than a few minutes until people starting coming out of their daze. None of them the wiser- Some assuming a gas leak was the reason. Me and Max played dumb, nodding along. No sense trying to explain the truth. People never understood it anyways.

And then the first parent screamed for their child. Then the next. Then the next. And this continued.

Almost all the children were missing from Grid Eight.

And I couldn’t help but feel like it was my fault.

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Four]

Whatever Grid Eight used to be, it was long forgotten. Some speculate it was a service center where the early diggers slept and lived while working this deep. Some think it’s the remains of a subway station that was abandoned half way thought construction. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anymore. What it became was my domain, my piece of solace. A place where people lived with simple ignorance of their status up top.

I brush past the small bazaar, everything from food to junk being bartered, and offer a wave towards the trio of old men who sit slumped in their rocking chairs. The three of them offer nothing but a silent nod as I continue along my merry. I pass families laughing, music playing, dogs barking- Mind you, I also pass through the coughing, the pained, and the simply hungry. But what can I say? I’ve decided to wear my rose tinted glasses today. Grid Eight is a pocket of humanity in the Underneath which means you get the good and the bad.

I start my rounds. I move from huddled mass to huddled mass, my haul growing lighter as I ‘share the wealth’. Please, don’t take this as a sign that I’m a nice guy. Really, I’m not. But in Grid Eight, you don’t survive when you’re greedy.  Grid Eight is beautifully communal or beautifully socialist depending on if you watch Fox News. I get the traditional slaps on the back, a few cheers, maybe a hug or two from some rugrats before  I finish my wade through Grid Eight. I move to my little corner in the station, slip into my tent, and drop what remaining loot I have.

Max is sitting in front of television, a bowl of beans balanced on his stomach as a shoeless foot attempts to adjust the rabbit ears on top of the set in order to get a clearer picture. Max isn’t exactly what you call the peak of human perfection. In truth, he’s a rather shitty side kick. He is about forty pounds over weight, smelled like the end result of a carnival’s port-o-john, and seemed content with wearing the same torn jeans and flannel shirt. And that is just touching on his physical flaws. You know when someone says ’atleast he has a good personality’? Well, they wouldn’t say that about Max. He doesn’t. He’s an old, cranky, and some-what insane man. However, Max was one of those rare norms who could see through the Veil which means that he made for a good middle man. When  the ‘Magic-Kin’ wished to know something mortal or do something in the mortal realm, Max was their man. Plus, given the man’s age, he was an encyclopedia of knowledge when it came to the unknown.

‘How’d it go?” Max asks as his toe nudges the  rabbit’s ears just enough to allow for a woman’s moan to escape from the speaker before the static returns. He looks towards me and shovels a spoonful of beans into his mouth. I don’t give him anything verbal. I just open my jacket to show the signs of buckshot. Max eyes the damage, notes my anger, and the belches. “Well, I did warn you about shotguns.”

“No, Max. You didn‘t,” I shoot back as I move towards the television. I take hold of the rabbit ears and the screen suddenly breaks into perfect clarity. Whatever went with building me involved electricity which allowed little tricks like this possible.  “You warned against the sprinkler system but said I had nothing to worry about as long as they didn’t start a fire.”

Max turns his focus back towards the television and shrugs his shoulders. Apparently, the skin-flick on the television held more interest. “Then watch out. I hear they might have shotguns. Happy now? Sheesh, you big baby.”

“I was shot, Max.”

“And I have crabs, your point?”

I let go of rabbit ears and move to where I had thrown the bag of loot. After the run through of Grid Eight, it was lighter than it had previously been. I pull out the remain stacks of bills from the bag, pull open the loose panel from the floor, and slip it all away with the rest of my ‘horde’. Technically, this isn’t all mine. A third of it belongs to Max, but Max isn’t good with money so I helped monitor it for him. Insert Jewish stereotype here.

Afterwards,  I grab one of the many cans of spackle and a putty knife and flop down into the arm chair next to Max. I pull my shirt over my head and begin to work repairing the damage. I’m not exactly Michelangelo but I’ve down this enough to fill in the hole, even it out, and maybe attempt a redefinition of muscles.

“Any deaths?” Max asks as his foot abandons the top of the set to move to the dials below. He does some fancy foot work to turn the set off and turns his attention to me. I just shake my head. I splatter another glob  of spackle onto my chest deciding that the silent treatment was best used on Max.

He seems to get the point and focuses on his beans. He brings his beans midway to his mouth before freezing. And when I say freezing, I mean a solid freeze. Statues could take pointers from him. My brow wrinkles as a I stand, unsure if this was serious or if Max had been working on this act for awhile. If he had…too much time on his hands. A bum with time on his hands? I know, imagine the impossibilities.

Then I notice the sounds around me. There isn’t any. That music and laughter and coughing and barking? All gone. All silenced. Mute.

I walk out of the tent and look around. The entire Grid Eight stood frozen around me. The only movement involved the trio of old men swaying in their rocking chairs. The dogs are even still. It was like everybody just decided to stop and freeze for a portrait. One thing is different about them all, however. Their bodies might be frozen but their eyes sure aren’t. As I pass them, I see their eyes dart towards me in panic. Some simply look around, confused and lost. And I know that look. It’s the look I saw in the eyes of the security guard I punched out earlier. It was the brain unable to handle all this. This was Veil work. No doubt about it.

I move down the isles of tents, tables, anywhere. Every place I go, people seem stuck. I find a father holding his child over his head. I find a couple in the act of making love. I find a few rats who seem to have decided to join in the party and remain still on top of a hunk of unguarded cheese.

The lights flicker once before shutting off completely. And in the blanket of darkness, I hear what can only be describe as the sound a cat makes when you skin it alive. A horrible shrieking that would rupture my ear drums if I had any. What’s worse, the shrieking isn’t just coming from one spot. It’s coming from multiple spots all round me. I wasn’t just dealing with one thing. I was deal with -a lot- of things.

Oy vey.

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Three]

The Underneath.

Talk to any New Yorker out there and they’ll tell you that a majority of the stories about the abandoned tunnels under the city are nothing but a load. That in all reality, the only thing people can expect to find in the tunnels are homeless, spider webs, and maybe the sleeping body of Walt Disney. What they fail to realize, however, is that the underneath isn’t a part of their ‘reality’. Not completely.

I’m walking the tracks of the old subway, my cut of the haul slung over my shoulder. I pass graffiti, homeless, and discarded ruins that most people don’t realize still exist down here. It’s been said that if you can’t find it in the Underneath, you aren’t looking hard enough, and I would believe that. From subway cars to actual automobiles, you’ll find it down here. Some were simply abandoned when the old stations were closed. Some were brought down here when the Trolls decided to move in. Whatever the history, it was a yellow brick road of junk.

You have questions- Understandable.

First, the Veil. Not many people  can hear about the Veil and fully grasp it. Truth be told, those who can see through it and use it don’t fully fathom it. The Veil is that layer of understanding that people can’t fully understand without something in their heads snapping.

You see, somewhere down the line of evolution, humans sort of developed a nice ‘switch’ in their heads that caused their brains to block out those things that were beyond their precious logic.  Way it’s been described to me is that a normal human looking at the Veil is like having a fish watch a television. It’s seeing the images but it isn’t exactly understanding it. So, its mind messes around until it brings enough understanding to the surface to make it fit in to the fish’s reality. A troll becomes a slob, a nymph becomes Miss America, and a talking donkey could become a president.

A little political humor in there for you.

And you are probably wondering who I am. First, yes, I’m not human. I suppose the shotgun blast proved that.  I might look the part, talk the part, but I’m not the part. Not fully. You see, I’m what you call a golem. Or perhaps I’m -the- golem. I‘m the only one I know. Jewish myth? Man made from clay? Protector of his people and all that noble stuff? Well, fine, maybe I don’t match that description to the letter but it’s the closest thing I’ve read up on that describes me .

Oh- Right. No, I don’t have the jewish word for life written on my body. I’ve checked. Secondly, you can’t kill me by writing the jewish word for death on my body- I’ve tried. A better solution would  be water or shotgun shells- lots of either. I don’t really know how I was created, I’ve never met any of my kind, and the only memories I do have prior to the 1950’s are enough to make me realize I have daddy issues. There- Now we know each other. Mozel Tov.

I move deeper into the Underneath. At first, the tunnels grows darker as I go further from the surface. An occasional flicker from a dying light occasionally activates to scare the shadows away, but this was darkness domain. Around me, I feel eyes on me. Some are human, some are not. Neither are bothering with me though.

It only takes about ten minutes until the lights start appearing. A subtle glow of flames. Soon, I’m moving past the tired, the sick, the huddled masses. They stay near their trashcan-fires, warming themselves. They toss a glance my way and I meet them with a subtle nod of my head. I continue along my way, leaving them to their hopelessness.

I pass the homeless as I continue down the tracks. Each step takes me further away from the cluster of humanity that has survived down here. I duck under a fallen beam, enter another tunnel, and I’m crouching as I head home. I hear a hiss through the tunnels, either steam or goblins, and do my best to ignore it. Occasionally, I spot a darting shadow, a set of glowing eyes, but I’ve proved myself in the Underneath. No one is really looking to start anything anytime soon.

I wonder through the tunnel, past some pipes, hobble up a stair case or two before finding my way back to my domain: Grid Eight. I’m greeted first with music as I pull myself through the grating, the sound of laughter and families following. For a place like the Underneath, these things are uncommon. Not for Grid Eight, though.

[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Two]

Lets get one thing clear: I’m really not that bad of a guy.

I assume that’s what every bad guy says when questioned. Most people don’t see themselves as baddies or monsters. They see themselves as a survivor- a much cleaner word; they make television series on it. So every time I’m told I need to rob a bank or bust into a vault, I can deal with myself because I’m doing things in order to survive.

You read Ayn Rand? Love the bitch, and trust me, she’s a big one. I recall a passage she wrote in one of her essays on morality. She stated “ Since the proper moral code is based on man’s nature and his survival, and since joy is the expression of his survival, this form of happiness can have no contradiction in it”. Pretty heavy stuff, huh?

I figure what the Randster is trying to get a crossed is that morality is created by survivability. If you live then you did the right thing to get out of the wrong situation. Now, naturally, you get a few bored Lit Majors into a room and toss that quote out, you’ll get more than a few monkey wrenches thrown into the logic circle, but forget that for now. I need to survive. I like surviving.

See? I can’t be a bad guy. I know philosophy.

I’m thinking that to myself as a bullet slams into the back of the windshield, shattering it.  The goblin behind the wheel is doing his best to swerve us through Manhattan’s traffic as his ’homeys’ hang out the windows firing behind us. I just keep my head down, my eyes staring straight ahead as the driver decides that stop lights were optional. Sadly, some of the other ‘elitest’ cars don’t see it that way. Call it magic or just blind luck, but the driver is able to turn the wheel in time to avoid getting us an up-close-and-personal chat with a dump truck.

I’m not going to admit that I scream. Truthfully? I like to think of it as me boldly stating my displeasure. The driver probably isn’t going to admit it either because he boldly states his displeasure as well as the car squeezes past the truck. The Chevy takes the curb, finds itself on the sidewalk, and continues going.

Remember that part about my program? Well, I can feel it kicking in as the vehicle sends a herd of nuns diving out of the way.  Flock of nuns? Gaggle of nuns? It really doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the driver’s luck isn’t going to remain stretched for long and their were plenty of folks still on the side walk. Add to the fact that bullets were flying and folks were screaming and I can’t sit back. I pull myself from my spot and reach over the seat. My grips’ a lot stronger than the goblin and he doesn’t have much of a choice when I yank the wheel to the right, down a flight of stairs, and straight into Central Park.

Call me a faux-New Yorker but I’m not a fan of Central Park. The hot dogs are over priced and I got kicked off the carousel once for cursing out a five year old who took my ‘ride’. The car crashes down on some hedges and heads into one of the many picnic areas. By this time, the goblins in the back pull me back and the driver has regained control.

The car is shaking, bouncing us all about as the sirens grow into the distance. It’s not that we got away by any stretch of the imagination- This wasn’t Grand Theft Auto. However, the NYPD are a noble bunch who get a bad rap. They don’t have many “John McClanes” who are willing to dive bomb their vehicles into a loaded park in the middle of baseball season. Most likely, they were getting the rangers to secure the area while they got the support of the whirly-birds in the sky.

In a few seconds, though, they won’t be seeing us.

“Cops are stallin’, Burv,” the goblin I’ve dubbed Frodo calls out towards the driver. Burv looks over his shoulder, peels back his cracked lips, and I’m greeted with the razor sharp smile. A hiss breaks out in the car and all I can assume that their having a good old laugh. The only thing goblins enjoy more than  breaking and bruising is getting away with it.

The car isn’t really speeding along anymore but it isn’t exactly slowing down as the goblin does his best to “Keep off the grass” as a sign reminds us to do. Entering one of the tunnels a speeding, bullet-ridden Chevy, I am pleasantly surprised to see us depart the tunnel in a horse drawn carriage. Burv is a black guy now, top hat and all the get up. I find myself in a suit. The ‘home boys’ around me are now a mother with a decent rack with four rug rats that could pass as her kids. Mother Goose looks towards me, offers me a dazzling smile before she raises her  parasol  and opens it.

“Honey, I love it when you take me and the children to the park,” she exclaims very Victorian. I flicker my eyes from her and stare at the rug rats, all of them watching me as they lick at their old fashion lollipops. Of course, I was seeing the other vision- Goblins dressed in rags, hissing in amusement- but I decide to keep with the charade.

“Children and I,” I correct.

“Blow me,” my ’wife’ responds.

I can’t help but laugh at that as I lean back in my seat. I know it’s not made of fine leather that seems to mold to my every curve. I know it’s really torn fabric with stuffing come from it. I know that this carriage is really the Chevy being cloaked by the Veil, and that my ‘wife’ and ‘kids’ were a ruse. However, do you know how much a ride in one of these costs for real? In Central Park? It’s grave yard robbery and I’m going to enjoy it as much as I can.

“Shotguns?” I ask, my hands pulling open the suit jacket to feel the cracked dent in my chest.  Frodo just gives off a pleasant laughter as the horse and carriage pulls off the side walk and onto the typical carriage trail. I see cops are beginning to crowd the area and judging by the looks on their face, they’re rather confused. A smoking Chevy shooting bullets don’t typically disappear. I look back towards Frodo and he simply shrugs.

“We were lucky it was you being shot than one of us. We can only grow back so much damage, Emmet.” Frodo says as Burv slows the vehicle, the police officer directing him to follow the rest of the crowd. Apparently, their were bank robbers on the loose.

“Lucky? I guess this rabbit’s foot is working,” I mumble as I look down at the brief case and book bags at my feet. In reality, their the cash, and it’s taking every fiber of my being to not take my cut, hop off the carriage, and go home. My chest was still burning, my joints are sore, and I swear a pen at the checking counter got lodged in my ass. Home was a pleasant thought.

We ride it out, Burv clearly enjoying himself as he plays up on every stereotype he can draw from, calling me “Mastah‘” every chance he gets. Frodo seems to be enjoying his newly budded breast because every chance he gets, he flashes the folks on the road. The car-carriage, as I have decided to describe it as, continues to trot away from the scene until the distant sounds of sirens silence as we wonder into an alleyway.

The carriage goes back to Chevy, family back to home boys, and book bags back to money bags. Burv pulls open a man hole and we begins making are way back down to the Underneath. It was a long day and I had earned my cut.

Not to sound like an asshole making a pun but the day was just a stroll in the park.

[Urban Fantasy Novel] Fist Full of Clay Scene One

[Like the title? I don't! But I was stuck so I just threw something there! Okay! This is my first draft to the story of Emett. Remember, first drafts are supposed to have spelling errors and 'fat' to trim from the story. So, toss me a suggestion if you wish]

Max never said there would be shotguns.

If I had known that taking a shell to the chest was going to be part of this little bank heist, I would have asked for maybe a benefits package or at least a boost in pay. Pistols? I can handle pistols. They aren’t a pleasure to be shot with but they’re a pin prick compared to shotguns. Shotguns ‘buck’. Shotguns don’t spit peas but are a torrent of pain. Shotguns leave big holes and cause people like me to be cranky.

Max really never said there’d be shotguns.

I’m not sure how long I’m in the air. Truth be told, I don’t really remember how I got here in the first place. However, I do vividly recall my body crashing into the wooden frame of the checking counter, the screams from the bank customers drowning out the shotgun’s shell hitting the floor. Me? I don’t scream. Shows weakness and hell, I need to make up ground after being brought down by a slug to the chest.

I hear the world around me explode into action. The sound of some security guard who developed a sudden stutter is screaming for my colleagues to freeze, and I just know that the guy has just signed his death warrant. You don’t yell at goblins- They’re a cranky lot and when push comes to shove, they tend to take it a step further and remove your head.

I can’t really blame the guy, though. Like most humans, he can’t see past the ‘Veil’. Like, right now? Johny Justice is thinking he’s staring at a motley crew of gang banger thugs who are out to ‘cap and tap’ this and that. In truth, they are a motley crew of gang banger goblins.

Trust me, there is a difference.

For one, goblins speak in a pitch that only dogs pick up. And right now, while the Justice League is thinking he’s got his bank robbers pinned down and silent, they were most likely crafting a plan. Me? I’ve resigned myself to just laying here, a crater still sizzling in my chest. Like I said, shotguns weren’t mentioned in the planning of this thing.

I roll my head to the side, a subtle gesture that most observers might hold up to gravity, and I take a glance at the scene. Seeing through a Veil is hard to describe, however, the simplest way of doing it is state you sort of see two things. For one, I see the assortment of my ‘home boys’ as the world sees them. Scrawny white boys wearing baggy jeans, wife beaters, and ski masks, silently holding up their arms in surrender . On the other side of the coin, I see the cracked reptilian features of the goblins. I’m not hearing a sound from them, but the way their lips are moving, I can sure the hell bet that they’re plotting.

And then the security guard comes into view and I feel my insides churn. He was an old guy- probably a few years from retirement. Call me observant too or just call me lucky, but I note the wedding ring on his finger, and I know I can’t just lay here. I know I can’t just let this guy walk into a trap. Why? Well, simple answer, it’s in my ‘programming’.

So I sit up Terminator style. I figure if I’m going to get shot again, why not do it as bad ass as possible. I get the effect I want because some blonde teller named “Ruth” screams her head off. The guard spins around just in time to get a face full of thrown checks- Not enough to hurt him but hell, who expects to be attack with checks? Loan Sharks? His shot goes wide and I’m on my feet within seconds. Two seconds flat, the shotgun is sailing out of his grasp. Three seconds, the old man is being pinned against a granite pillar, my hand wrapped firmly around his throat.

He pisses himself and I remind myself to throw away these shoes later. I see his eyes dart down to the smoking crater in my chest and then back to my eyes. He can tell I’m the angry sort and that his shell sure the hell didn’t hit my ticklish spot.

“What are you?” he asks, and I can see that switch in his mind flickering vigorously to make sense of this madness. He won’t be remembering much of this part of the heist, that’s for sure. That tends to happen when norms meet up with folks like me.

“Ain’t it obvious, Captain America?” I ask as I pull back my fist. “I’m Jewish.” And with that, I give the guy a night cap a crossed the chops. He was out of the count for now and safe from the goblins. I drop him to the ground, step around him, and toss a glance back towards the confused customers and tellers. “Sholom.”