Daniel loved himself very much. Probably too much. Growing up, he had a tendency to get the girl -- until they realized how obsessed he was with running his own hands through his hair. Now, five years after graduation, he worked at the neighborhood Radio Shack as the guy who specialized in making his clients feel weak and uneducated. Every morning before leaving for work, he would stand in front of the mirror and say, "You are somebody. You are a Greek god. You are the stuff legends are made of." He got the idea from a self-help book he had read when he was in high school, but tweaked it just enough to make him believe the words.
To his friends and casual acquaintances, Daniel liked to call the store he worked at "the office." As in: "I had to run down to the office last night. Forgot something important." or "So this guy comes into the office today: total and complete idiot. I had no idea people could be that dumb." He would also call the people that came into the store "large clients," or "small-timers" depending on whether or not they were obese or merely window-shopping. This made the people sound wealthy or inept, thereby forcing Daniel into a role of superiority.
When friends became intrigued at his stories, he would say he was in the "Networking and Technology segment, working for a national corporation." Should any other questions arise as to his profession, he employed smoke and mirror tactics, became unbearable and made the other person feel as though they had betrayed his honor by asking.
In his spare time, Daniel played the latest MMORPG. The down-side was that he wasn't very good, and felt the need to lie about his ranking. As a result, he also spent a lot of time researching everything related to the game so he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. Living on the couch of his mother's one bedroom apartment, he told those he met that he was subletting his home and staying in the guest house as a way to supplement his income.
Daniel was eventually fired from the Shack for, as his boss put it, "being a prick." When he got to the guest house, he picked up his phone to dial a friend and vent a little. He scrolled through his phone book, reading each name, noticing that none of these people had ever called him. He couldn't remember the last time Allison, Andrew or Barack rung him up to let off some steam. He never went to the movies with Casey, Eileen or Fisher. He couldn't even recall who Fisher was. It was then he realized he was friendless, a liar and a git.
For the next 2 years, Daniel cried himself to sleep.
6.27.2008
6.26.2008
The Interview
Now was the time he wished he had a new car. The old Beetle had creaky seat-belts, no air conditioning and a radio that consisted of AJ's whistling over the hum of the motor. But the car had been given to him, free of charge. It was a love/hate relationship.
"Jesus," he thought. "I'm sweating though my shirt. And I never sweat." He had a job interview today -- the first of it's kind. It was the sort of position his folks would be proud of.
Perspiration beaded his brow and the nice-and-neat spikes he took so long on this morning were now anything but "nice-and-neat." He began whistling Darth Vader's entrance music in "A New Hope," his foot heavy on the accelerator. He found his exit and came through the green light at 35 miles an hour.
Then he was broadsided by a truck full of oranges.
"Jesus," he thought. "I'm sweating though my shirt. And I never sweat." He had a job interview today -- the first of it's kind. It was the sort of position his folks would be proud of.
Perspiration beaded his brow and the nice-and-neat spikes he took so long on this morning were now anything but "nice-and-neat." He began whistling Darth Vader's entrance music in "A New Hope," his foot heavy on the accelerator. He found his exit and came through the green light at 35 miles an hour.
Then he was broadsided by a truck full of oranges.
6.25.2008
Rect
Meta series, Part III
He awoke in a limo and dressed in a gray suit. She was humming something old and slow to herself. It became clear that he had been in this sort of stupor before, waking from a similar dilemma just a few hours previous. Upon coming to clarity, he tried the door and found it locked. Resigning himself finally to his fate, he rested against the leather seats and asked no questions. He supposed this wasn't technically Rect's first impression of Mason, though the memory of that whole meeting was more than a little foggy.
They walked into the large, stone tower. Silently, the two ascended 3 flights of stairs landed in a room of glass. No one paid them any mind.
That was nearly an hour ago.
The man in front of him sat tall and proud in his leather-bound, antique chair. He was corpulent, with a black-rimmed monocle, a white-on-white suit and had the hook of a cane hung over the mahogany desk. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk continuously.
"I see you made it here safely, Mason."
"And you must be Rect."
"Indeed. Do you know why you're here? Or do you need a bit of a refresher?" Rect laughed heartily then, unexpectantly, and the fat around his eyes bounced grotesquely.
"Um ... yes. Yes. I do need, what did you call it, 'a refresher.'"
The man got up from his desk, hobbled slowly over to within only a foot or two of Mason, and extended his left palm. "I trust your insignia has healed." Mason could see the same logo reflected on Rect's hand as was on his own. The larger man squinted his eyes for just a second and the brand began to glow. Without warning, Rect let out a gasp and his clothes fell to the floor. With a pop, a tiger stood where the man had been moments before.
"No," Mason said. "That can't be real."
The cat prowled around momentarily, yellow eyes fierce in the afternoon sunlight as it shone through the window. Again, it closed its eyes and Rect stood in its place after a moment.
"I am finding it more difficult to shift these days, so you will have to excuse the time it takes. But as you can see, based on that insignia in your hand, you are one of us." Fury gave a quick and dirty smile while Rect stood behind a semi-permanent wall to cover his nakedness.
"One of who? You mean I can shift? Is that what it's called?"
"To answer your latter question, yes. You can shift. It will take time to learn, though. Your genealogy makes it pretty plain, though the first time we found you in form you were very confused and had to be tranquilized to keep calm. Fury has been nursing you."
"And the first question?"
"O yes. Right. We are the Meta."
He awoke in a limo and dressed in a gray suit. She was humming something old and slow to herself. It became clear that he had been in this sort of stupor before, waking from a similar dilemma just a few hours previous. Upon coming to clarity, he tried the door and found it locked. Resigning himself finally to his fate, he rested against the leather seats and asked no questions. He supposed this wasn't technically Rect's first impression of Mason, though the memory of that whole meeting was more than a little foggy.
They walked into the large, stone tower. Silently, the two ascended 3 flights of stairs landed in a room of glass. No one paid them any mind.
That was nearly an hour ago.
The man in front of him sat tall and proud in his leather-bound, antique chair. He was corpulent, with a black-rimmed monocle, a white-on-white suit and had the hook of a cane hung over the mahogany desk. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk continuously.
"I see you made it here safely, Mason."
"And you must be Rect."
"Indeed. Do you know why you're here? Or do you need a bit of a refresher?" Rect laughed heartily then, unexpectantly, and the fat around his eyes bounced grotesquely.
"Um ... yes. Yes. I do need, what did you call it, 'a refresher.'"
The man got up from his desk, hobbled slowly over to within only a foot or two of Mason, and extended his left palm. "I trust your insignia has healed." Mason could see the same logo reflected on Rect's hand as was on his own. The larger man squinted his eyes for just a second and the brand began to glow. Without warning, Rect let out a gasp and his clothes fell to the floor. With a pop, a tiger stood where the man had been moments before.
"No," Mason said. "That can't be real."
The cat prowled around momentarily, yellow eyes fierce in the afternoon sunlight as it shone through the window. Again, it closed its eyes and Rect stood in its place after a moment.
"I am finding it more difficult to shift these days, so you will have to excuse the time it takes. But as you can see, based on that insignia in your hand, you are one of us." Fury gave a quick and dirty smile while Rect stood behind a semi-permanent wall to cover his nakedness.
"One of who? You mean I can shift? Is that what it's called?"
"To answer your latter question, yes. You can shift. It will take time to learn, though. Your genealogy makes it pretty plain, though the first time we found you in form you were very confused and had to be tranquilized to keep calm. Fury has been nursing you."
"And the first question?"
"O yes. Right. We are the Meta."
Fury
Meta Series, Part II
When he comprehended her nudity, he turned away, sheepishly eyeing a swatch of discoloration in the shower tile. Then he realized she could see his buttocks through the glass slider and he became fidgety, asking questions and shifting his weight back and forth over his feet.
But she wouldn't tell him much more than he could have figured out on his own. When he asked a question she didn't want to -- or couldn't -- answer, she only remained silent. At last, she said, "We changed your name. We branded you. We welcomed you to 'the team.'"
"What if I don't want to be on 'the team?'"
"Oh, you do. We're sure of that. Positive, in fact." He turned his face to her and she looked strongly into his coal-black eyes, smiling jaggedly. She lifted her left palm to reveal a nearly-exact replica of the brand he carried. His stomach lurched and he shivered under the hot water, looking away.
She stepped into the shower, still smiling when they locked eyes for just a second. He promptly got out and grabbed himself a towel. "So let me get this right," he said through the terry cloth as he ran it quickly through his hair, dripping wet onto the linoleum. "My name is now Mason." The towel found itself wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't know where to turn, so he walked into the living room, soiling the carpet and yelled from just beyond the doorway.
"Uh-huh"
"What?" He craned his neck toward the opening of the frame, but kept his eyes averted.
"Yes. Come back in here. You can't hear me."
"No," he said. "I'll be fine." Of all the things Mason now was, "fine" was not one of them. He began pacing back and forth over a 5 foot area, tramping down the thick flooring. He bit his nails until they bled. "Your name is ..."
"Fury."
He stopped in his tracks, unbelieving. "Seriously? Fury?"
"Yes. You've hit the nail on the head."
"What was your name before ... this?" He spread his arms wide for emphasis, even if she couldn't see it. His towel slipped just a little and he readjusted quickly.
"What was yours?," she asked.
"Wait, what?"
"Your name. What was it? Before ... this, as you just said." He could hear her smiling through her words. It didn't calm him.
"It was ..." His mind raced for some thought that would bring a name to his lips, but none came. "Dammit, I don't remember!" The panic began to rise in his throat, like sunlight. "Is this some kind of cruel joke? I'm in my apartment, for Chrissakes! How can I not know my own name? Are you a ... a ... mind-wiper?"
"No. Nothing like that." She chuckled and water filled her mouth. She swallowed. "Once you make the Crossing, unnecessary information like the name you carried in your past life vanish. You only keep what you need. Since you have a new name, there is no need for the old one. But I am getting ahead of myself."
"Wait. What do you mean by 'the Crossing?' Why would I want to cross anything? What the hell is going on?" He heard the water turn off and the slider open until it hit the opposite wall with a thud.
"Where are the towels?"
"Uhh... under the sink. Tell me about this 'Crossing.'"
"Not to worry, partner." She rummaged under the sink until she got what she was looking for. He quickly tossed on some pants and shirt, opting for some running shoes behind the door. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." She came out of the bathroom, hair boltered to her head and her body covered. Mason backed away from her, keeping his distance.
"We have a busy day ahead of us."
"Why do you say that?"
"We're going to see Rect."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." He backed up to a corner, hands raised. She quietly went to her bag and pulled out a small, black gun. "What in the name of hell is that?" His voice cracked over the last syllable.
"Just something to quiet your nerves." She shot him with the tranquilizer gun and all went black.
When he comprehended her nudity, he turned away, sheepishly eyeing a swatch of discoloration in the shower tile. Then he realized she could see his buttocks through the glass slider and he became fidgety, asking questions and shifting his weight back and forth over his feet.
But she wouldn't tell him much more than he could have figured out on his own. When he asked a question she didn't want to -- or couldn't -- answer, she only remained silent. At last, she said, "We changed your name. We branded you. We welcomed you to 'the team.'"
"What if I don't want to be on 'the team?'"
"Oh, you do. We're sure of that. Positive, in fact." He turned his face to her and she looked strongly into his coal-black eyes, smiling jaggedly. She lifted her left palm to reveal a nearly-exact replica of the brand he carried. His stomach lurched and he shivered under the hot water, looking away.
She stepped into the shower, still smiling when they locked eyes for just a second. He promptly got out and grabbed himself a towel. "So let me get this right," he said through the terry cloth as he ran it quickly through his hair, dripping wet onto the linoleum. "My name is now Mason." The towel found itself wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't know where to turn, so he walked into the living room, soiling the carpet and yelled from just beyond the doorway.
"Uh-huh"
"What?" He craned his neck toward the opening of the frame, but kept his eyes averted.
"Yes. Come back in here. You can't hear me."
"No," he said. "I'll be fine." Of all the things Mason now was, "fine" was not one of them. He began pacing back and forth over a 5 foot area, tramping down the thick flooring. He bit his nails until they bled. "Your name is ..."
"Fury."
He stopped in his tracks, unbelieving. "Seriously? Fury?"
"Yes. You've hit the nail on the head."
"What was your name before ... this?" He spread his arms wide for emphasis, even if she couldn't see it. His towel slipped just a little and he readjusted quickly.
"What was yours?," she asked.
"Wait, what?"
"Your name. What was it? Before ... this, as you just said." He could hear her smiling through her words. It didn't calm him.
"It was ..." His mind raced for some thought that would bring a name to his lips, but none came. "Dammit, I don't remember!" The panic began to rise in his throat, like sunlight. "Is this some kind of cruel joke? I'm in my apartment, for Chrissakes! How can I not know my own name? Are you a ... a ... mind-wiper?"
"No. Nothing like that." She chuckled and water filled her mouth. She swallowed. "Once you make the Crossing, unnecessary information like the name you carried in your past life vanish. You only keep what you need. Since you have a new name, there is no need for the old one. But I am getting ahead of myself."
"Wait. What do you mean by 'the Crossing?' Why would I want to cross anything? What the hell is going on?" He heard the water turn off and the slider open until it hit the opposite wall with a thud.
"Where are the towels?"
"Uhh... under the sink. Tell me about this 'Crossing.'"
"Not to worry, partner." She rummaged under the sink until she got what she was looking for. He quickly tossed on some pants and shirt, opting for some running shoes behind the door. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." She came out of the bathroom, hair boltered to her head and her body covered. Mason backed away from her, keeping his distance.
"We have a busy day ahead of us."
"Why do you say that?"
"We're going to see Rect."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." He backed up to a corner, hands raised. She quietly went to her bag and pulled out a small, black gun. "What in the name of hell is that?" His voice cracked over the last syllable.
"Just something to quiet your nerves." She shot him with the tranquilizer gun and all went black.
The Scar
Meta Series, Part I
He rolled out of bed a little forlorn and feeling as though he had been run over with a truck. Twice. He stumbled into the bathroom, hand pressed hard against his temple. A clean linen bandage was tied around his left palm. He felt of the long bruise that extended down the right-side of his ribcage and his eyeballs throbbed in agony.
Ugh, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into now?
He took a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw an unfamiliar blond, fast asleep and breathing heavily. Her form made quiet waves under the white bedsheets. There's no way she would be waking any time soon.
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise toward the ceiling. Unwrapping his hand, he stared, startled at the revelation: this was no ordinary cut of the palm. This was a brand of some sort -- some burn that had all but healed, leaving scar tissue in the shape of a perfect circle encased inside a diamond. Inside the circle was the letter "M."
This isn't normal, he thought. Confusion began to set in as he washed up, letting the hot water peel away the layers of dead skin and dirt. He couldn't recall the last week. This was his apartment, his shower, his person. But the woman in his bed. The scar. The headache and ringing that began to build in his ears. All foreign.
"Mason," she said as she stepped into the doorway. He didn't notice her disrobing as he jumped at her voice. "You forgot to wake me."
"That isn't my name," he said.
"It is now."
He rolled out of bed a little forlorn and feeling as though he had been run over with a truck. Twice. He stumbled into the bathroom, hand pressed hard against his temple. A clean linen bandage was tied around his left palm. He felt of the long bruise that extended down the right-side of his ribcage and his eyeballs throbbed in agony.
Ugh, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into now?
He took a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw an unfamiliar blond, fast asleep and breathing heavily. Her form made quiet waves under the white bedsheets. There's no way she would be waking any time soon.
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise toward the ceiling. Unwrapping his hand, he stared, startled at the revelation: this was no ordinary cut of the palm. This was a brand of some sort -- some burn that had all but healed, leaving scar tissue in the shape of a perfect circle encased inside a diamond. Inside the circle was the letter "M."
This isn't normal, he thought. Confusion began to set in as he washed up, letting the hot water peel away the layers of dead skin and dirt. He couldn't recall the last week. This was his apartment, his shower, his person. But the woman in his bed. The scar. The headache and ringing that began to build in his ears. All foreign.
"Mason," she said as she stepped into the doorway. He didn't notice her disrobing as he jumped at her voice. "You forgot to wake me."
"That isn't my name," he said.
"It is now."
Hurt
Sometimes I forget how good songs are until they are spun again. Here is Johnny Cash's last video, "Hurt" -- a Nine Inch Nails cover.
6.24.2008
Yay speeding! Boo tickets!
So, I got 2 speeding tickets in one week. In one road-trip, actually. I can't say I blame the cops for pulling me over. I mean, I WAS indeed speeding. However, one of the cops was a REALLY nice guy -- he even asked me to think about becoming a member of the CHP -- while the other was just, well, a jerk. Really, I just found it ironic that I can speed in the city where there are tons of cars, but not in the country, where it is really safer to travel at such speed -- nothing to wreck except you, your car and maybe a picket fence. O well. Guess I've learned my lesson.
6.09.2008
Pop-Culture Christianity
Ugh. Where to start? I hate the fact that the Gospel is being repackaged to "fit" a generation of teens and 20-somethings. Christianity isn't something designed to be "cool" and it shouldn't have to fit into the pop-culture box in order to be accepted. Either one of two things should happen: God impresses Himself on the heart of an unbeliever so that the man submits his life to that of Christ and His kingdom; or He does not do so and the man is abandoned to the judgment that is destined him. Harsh, I know, but that is reality.
I do not think that there is something we can do to make Christianity look better. Eating grapes in a New-Age fashion instead of drinking juice at Communion, using modern metaphors BECAUSE we think the metaphors of the Bible are "out-of-date" (someone really said that), or using our HUGE trucks plastered with NOTW as a religious advertisement are all examples of "cooling up" our religion.
The God of the Gospel is the same yesterday, today and forever and no amount of effort on our part will change the way God operates with His people.
Hear me out: I am not saying we should give up electricity, let the sinners die where they fall, or become Bible-thumping corner hooligans. Not at all. I AM saying that we should focus on our own spirituality, not on the outward extravagances that make up the person we would like the world to think we are; we should clean up the reputation of our churches, our pastors, our ministers -- not by making them more "acceptable" to the outside world, but by keeping them accountable for their own holiness.
What I have noticed happening at times is that the message is being tweaked so more butts are in pews. "God is Love," while true, is not wholly-correct if not taught that He is also a jealous, righteous and angry God. We ignore the parts we don't like -- and even tweak the parts we do -- in order to make Truth look more appealing.
We are to be ministers, missionaries, pastors, etc. -- not truth-benders. I will not sacrifice the kernel of veritas that has been given me so that I can make God look cooler.
I do not think that there is something we can do to make Christianity look better. Eating grapes in a New-Age fashion instead of drinking juice at Communion, using modern metaphors BECAUSE we think the metaphors of the Bible are "out-of-date" (someone really said that), or using our HUGE trucks plastered with NOTW as a religious advertisement are all examples of "cooling up" our religion.
The God of the Gospel is the same yesterday, today and forever and no amount of effort on our part will change the way God operates with His people.
Hear me out: I am not saying we should give up electricity, let the sinners die where they fall, or become Bible-thumping corner hooligans. Not at all. I AM saying that we should focus on our own spirituality, not on the outward extravagances that make up the person we would like the world to think we are; we should clean up the reputation of our churches, our pastors, our ministers -- not by making them more "acceptable" to the outside world, but by keeping them accountable for their own holiness.
What I have noticed happening at times is that the message is being tweaked so more butts are in pews. "God is Love," while true, is not wholly-correct if not taught that He is also a jealous, righteous and angry God. We ignore the parts we don't like -- and even tweak the parts we do -- in order to make Truth look more appealing.
We are to be ministers, missionaries, pastors, etc. -- not truth-benders. I will not sacrifice the kernel of veritas that has been given me so that I can make God look cooler.
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