Author Archive for Kaine Andrews



05
Feb
20

Vampire 2.0 – Change of Venue

(Missed the beginning? It starts right here…)

Change of Venue

When he emerged from the chamber, feeling as though he had spent decades within, although the chronometer on his digital readout claimed it had been only an hour, Vlad was unsurprised to find Brand waiting for him.
The gargoyle was perched on a wooden stool, swinging his legs like a three-year-old and perusing a girlie magazine. The readout began spitting out details of previous issues and provided full-color displays of previous centerfolds, but Vlad banished them with an irritated thought. Good to know it could be commanded in such a way, he supposed.
Brand glanced up, managing to look sheepish as he rolled the magazine and stuffed it into the back of his waistband. He hopped down from the stool, advancing towards Vlad, already waving his hands in the air.
“Hey, Boss! You doin’ okay? You’re looking a little red around the eyes. And I mean red, like, what you need to clean up or something? Or is it some new look? The ladies love a man in touch with his emotions, you know they say that, but I don’t think that many of ’em are all that into the bleeding-from-the-eyes routine, you know?”
Brand rummaged in the pocket of his coat, producing a pair of handkerchiefs; the first he sniffed, scowled at and tossed over his shoulder. Apparently he was unconcerned about the idea that someone would have to come and collect the foul-looking rag and deposit it in the bin later. The second, after sniffing, apparently passed muster. He handed it up to Vlad.
The vampire took the proffered hanky, blotting absently at his cheeks. The crimson stains that marked it when he stopped told him that he had indeed been weeping. This didn’t surprise him; when one is forced to relive centuries of a painful existence – especially the time with his lost Elizabetha – were a few tears not to be expected, even appreciated? It was merely his nature that made the show of emotion so ghastly. There were few fluids in him beyond the blood. Or perhaps motor oil, he mused.
Brand winced, accepting his hanky back by pinching it daintily between his talons and eyeing it for a long moment before stuffing it back in his pocket. Vlad watched, faintly amused, as Brand returned his gaze to him and shrugged.
“What? It’s a good snotrag; ‘sides, dry cleaning’s tomorrow. It’ll be fine. You, on the other hand… Well, before you looked like a raccoon. A bloody one, but you know… Raccoony. You still do, I guess, just like a plastic, bloody, racc…”
Brand trailed off, coughed into his claw, and started over.
“So, Boss, you good now? A spit-shine, gas up the chopper, paint the town red, so to speak?”
Vlad moved past the gargoyle, through the short hallway that connected his sanctum to an elevator that would bring him back to the house. He had determined that what he needed – besides a few quarts of O-negative, preferably straight from the tap – was information, and his new internal systems had helpfully shown him where to find it.
Brand fell into line behind him and together they boarded the elevator. While hunting for the hidden thumb scanner – a task made more difficult by the numbness in his digits – Vlad answered the imp’s question.
“Yes. Get the helicopter prepared. And one of my suits. A nice one, new gloves and glasses.”
“A’course it’d be a nice one, Boss!” The gargoyle sounded offended that the mere suggestion of the idea that his fashion selections would be anything but nice. “What, d’ya think I am, some schmuck who’s gonna doll ya out Duck Dynasty style?”
Vlad glanced down at the imp, his digitally-enhanced and recently restored memory conjuring up images of some of Brand’s more interesting style choices. Of particular offense was the banana yellow suit – with lime green spats – that Brand had chosen to wear to the last blood drive Vlad had hosted. Pictures of that particular affair were still circulating around the internet. While Brand had never been so ostentatious with his selections when it came to Vlad’s attire, there was no proof that he might not one day commit such a faux pas.
As if sensing the run of his master’s thoughts, Brand shuffled his feet and glanced away, coughing into one talon.
“Right. I’ll make sure it’s somethin’ nice and time. But I’m tellin’ ya, Boss, you could use a little more color in the dressin’ room, you know? Everything in there is black or red or purple! I mean, would it kill ya to try some blues…? Well, I guess nothin’ is really gonna kill you, but you know what I mean…”
Brand trailed off, withering a bit under Vlad’s glance. Scratching his scaly dome, he shuffled his feet again before assuming a more businesslike stance and squaring his shoulders.
“Right. New suit, new gloves, new glasses, same colors.” Perking up, his beak stretching into a semblance of a smile, he continued. “And how much gas we need in the ride? How far we goin’? Please say Vegas. There’s a convention this week, Big Babes Bouncin’, it’ll be great, like an all you can eat buffet, maybe we can have some R&R while we’re out there, and you…”
 The elevator doors slid open with an almost-silent hiss, and Vlad silenced Brand with a quick slice of his hand through the air.
“Enough. Assume a full tank will be necessary. I haven’t decided how far we’re going yet.”
Brand’s face sank into a pout as he rolled his shoulders, massaging one of them as though it pained him. Vlad supposed it did; Brand keeping his bony wings tied down and bound beneath those ridiculous shoulder pads all day had to be uncomfortable.
“All right, you’re the Boss. But I’m tellin’ ya, think Vegas.” He paused, tapping his nonexistent chin for a moment. “Or Disneyland. As long as we don’t have to listen to the singing dollies.”
The gargoyle performed a burlesque shudder, hugging himself.
“Those things creep me out.”
Vlad watched, smirking, as Brand limped out of the elevator and went scurrying off to make preparations. Shaking his head, Vlad turned the other direction, moving towards the lab. According to the readouts, Franks’ computer systems would have the information he needed; with his so-called upgrades, interfacing with them and finding what he needed should be simple enough.

(Want more? The story continues here…)

04
Feb
20

Vampire 2.0 – It Looks Like You’re Trying To…

(Enjoying the story? It starts over here…)

It Looks Like You’re Trying To…

Vlad sat in the palatial chamber that was hidden beneath the center of the house. A similar room was in most of his lodgings – at least, the ones that could accommodate it – and, according to the imp, at least, was where he got much of his best thinking done. Brand had claimed not to know why that would be, but Vlad had seen a mischievous sparkle in his attendant’s eyes and suspected the gargoyle knew more than he was letting on. He sensed no malice behind the withheld information, however, and the vocal analysis his so-called “upgrades” provided detected no danger or sense of betrayal. Vlad suspected that Brand was merely of the opinion that there were some things he should learn – or relearn – for himself.
The room was fifteen feet to a side, with he arched ceiling some twenty feet up at the apex. Painstakingly hewn from the bedrock and then remodeled with imported basalt to form the walls and marble flooring, Vlad suspected that it had probably taken years to prepare it. There were few furnishings – tall candelabras spaced along the walls in five foot intervals, a raised dais with what appeared to be some form of alter in the center of the room, and the chair in which he now sat – but the walls were lavishly appointed with gold etchings of old runes, long velvet drapes the color of wine and family portraits. These last, though purporting to be of Vlad’s ancestors, were actually all of himself. He should know; had he not painted some of them? His internal systems, apparently not recognizing an internalized rhetorical question, helpfully pointed out that he had, indeed.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. He knew he had done so – knew, in fact, the names, looks, dispositions, favorite foods and blood types of all the painters who had taken his portrait through the centuries – but not because he could remember them well. Some were just shadows of memory at best, others completely blank, but again the visual overlay that stained everything seen through his left eye informed him of such things. He found the sensation of being reminded of his own past by a computerized intruder he couldn’t banish to be unpleasant, to say the least.
On the nature of the room – for example, the function of the altar, if that’s indeed what it was – his mechanized hitchhiker was less than helpful. It identified the substances used in the construction, certainly. It determined that the deep maroon color of the stone was not natural, but rather accumulated bloodstains, and further provided the information that most of it bore the genetic and mystical markers unique to his own blood. But what purpose the carved stand, with its prancing goat base and rounded, horned top served… on that subject, all was silent, including his own stubborn memory.
Vlad remembered the chair he sat in, at least; for him that was something of a victory. It was eight feet tall, carved of ebony and inlaid with runners of silver. The back had been lushly upholstered with thick silk cushions, black with a red dragon stitched into them. He’d had it uprooted from the ancestral home and placed here, his first den in the Americas, and still found sitting in it to be comforting. Memories of his mortal life were thick here, penetrating the haze that covered so much of his existence. Memories of himself as a child, watching his father issue dictates and greet the boyars from it; himself as an adult seated in it while he watched his enemies suffer and his bride, his lost Elizabetha, perched on the arm and playfully tweaking his beard as she groomed him. The thoughts served to remind him of who he was, but still did nothing for his disquiet and inability to remember much beyond drinking from the cursed chalice and assuming the mantle that Brand assured him was his and his alone.
“Prince of Darkness,” he muttered. “What does that even mean?”
Vlad slammed one hand down onto the armrest, wincing at the unnatural clang of his metal fingers against the thick wood. His face turned skyward as he glared at the ceiling, teeth clenched in a snarl.
“What am I supposed to do, eh?”
As though his voice had been loud enough to dislodge something, perhaps to send the whole works tumbling down around him – and a part of him seemed to wish for just that – Vlad heard the harsh grating sound of stone against stone. Glancing down towards the altar, he saw the rounded top had slid open, revealing a silver bowl, filled nearly to the brim with a thick red liquid. His readouts indicated it was primarily blood – and like that which stained the altar’s surface, it was mostly his own – but a red blinking indicator claimed that it was “10% unknown substance, potentially dangerous.”
Despite the sense of unease that his internal computer had summoned, Vlad rose from his throne and approached the altar. He dipped one steel fingertip into the fluid, swirling it in a semicircle. In the ripples left by that questing finger, he felt he could almost see images, flickering holograms of the past; emboldened, he dipped the flesh parks of his other hand and repeated the motion.
The response was immediate; his vision of the room – both as it was and as his internal circuits processed it – were washed away, leaving him standing on soil he almost remembered, staring about as the carnage and clash of war sprung up around him. Dozens of men wearing the same sigil stitched into the pillows of his chair were charging into the fray around him, their enemy outnumbering them ten to one and dressed in thick robes and turbans as they shouted in foreign tongues and swung long, curved blades.
“The Ottomans…” Vlad whispered to himself.
Driven by instinct, his hand dropped to his sash, clutching for his sword. He barely noticed that the hand was once again flesh and blood – mortal flesh and blood, warm and throbbing with the angry pulse that had once driven him – or that his clothes had been replaced with thick, charred armor.
Buried in his memories, Vlad drew steel and charged his enemy.

(Want more? The story continues here…)

03
Feb
20

Vampire 2.0 – Reboot

Reboot

He awoke to sensations that were foreign to him, the way he imagined a New Yorker might find it foreign to wake in the morning with birdsong in their ears instead of traffic and gunfire. For centuries, there had been very little to divide his time awake from his time asleep; at one moment, he might be mistaken for a corpse, still and silent, while in the next his eyes would be open and full of a hellish awareness, though otherwise remaining still and silent. Internally it was only slightly different; he would leave the black oblivion of sleep and enter wakefulness with the only difference being that he could see. He had no heartbeat with which to measure time, no sudden rush of blood from one part of his body to another to mark a limb that had fallen asleep. He did not dream, and whatever sounds there were, he heard peripherally while sleep so they weren’t startling or remarkable when he awakened.
But this time, something was different. He lay still, somewhat perplexed at the darkness before him, for he was certain his eyes were open. He tried to determine what had changed. Finally, it came to him.
Always before there had been silence within. The only time he heard his body working was shortly after feeding, when the sweet wine of his victim’s blood would rush about his body, revitalizing him and making him feel – for a few minutes, at least – truly alive. but now there were sounds within, and not sounds that he connected to any of his experiences, be they the last few centuries as a corpse that walked and talked like a man, nor the thirty-some years he had spent as a mortal before that.
Clicks and whirs were coming from within him, mechanical sounds that seemed more at home in a grandfather clock than his own body. A little beep every ten seconds. A thrumming sound, more felt than heard, somewhere in his lower back.
More disturbing than the blackness in front of his eyes or the strange sounds was the way he felt. When one spends eternity in a given shape, one knows the feel of one’s self; one knows where a leg lies and to what degree it is cocked at the knee, or how tightly the hands were clasped in the night. But he felt strange, not himself. Parts of himself he was unable to feel; at his elbows, the right side of his face, much of his chest, the right leg. Other parts he could feel, but wrongly, like his left leg. That felt as though it was packed in ice, and there were numb spots scattered through it, full of the tingling of a limb that is trying to wake itself back up. That was a sensation he had almost forgotten, a small benefit of having been bereft of a working circulatory system for the majority of his existence.
Majority of my existence? What does that mean?
The thought sounded strange to him, and he stopped examining his externap input in favor of digging into his own mind. What he found there was slightly frightening. There were images there, feelings, discarded moments in time, but none of them seemed to flow in a linear way. There seemed to be no connection between them. What was worse is the number of faces he saw there that he was unable to name – the one he suspected of being himself was only the most obvious. The thought that he could know something was wrong without even knowing who or where he was was even worse, and he jerked upright, almost frantic as he pawed at his own face, trying to cement it by his touch and thus put a name to it.
“Hey, hey, easy there, Boss! Don’t hurt yaself!”
The voice, a nasal mess with a horrid New York accent, came from his left. He turned, and while what he saw might have disturbed most people, it eased his mind. The red-skinned dwarf in the business suit sitting beside him was a known quantity, one of the few faces in his memory that he could put a name to. He couldn’t remember everything, but there was a sense of trust and familiarity that he chose to allow in.
Brand was hopping down from the stool he’d been sitting on, coming towards the body on the table and reaching up with his tridactyl talons to pull his master’s hands away before they did any damage to his face. He smiled – as best as he was able, given the beak-shape of his face, anyway – and laid the man’s hands down before putting his own up in a conciliatory gesture.
“S’okay, Boss. Just simmer down. S’okay, am I right?” Brand glanced over his shoulder, bellowing out to someone out of sight. “Hey! The Boss is awake, get some damn grub in here already!”
He returned his sparkling black eyes to the man, giving him an appraising look before continuing.
“You hungry? Sure ya are. After what you’ve been through, hell, it’ll probably take a hundred of them fat chicks from that con in Vegas to set you right, am I right?”
The little red monster snickered, shaking his head.
The man glanced into his lap, where his hands now rested. The first thing that struck him was the sensible reason for his apparent blindness, and its quick departure when he sat up: he had been covered with a sheet that was no cast adrift around his waist. The second was that his hands weren’t hands, precisely; the wrists were okay, and the palm of the right was fine. Likewise, all but the index finger on his left hand and the ring and pinky fingers on the right. Simple flesh – ghastly pale with a bluish cast under the nails that was a trifle disturbing but that his gut told him was simple enough to remedy, though it chose not to elaborate on the how of it – marked those places. The palm and index finger on his left hand, and the thumb and first two fingers of his right were certainly not all right, however. There flesh ended and cold steel began. The index finger resembled a carving knife more than anything, and while the altered fingers on his right hand had the proper shape, there were all manner of strange extrusions along them. Almost as quickly as he thought it, the barbs, hooks and nodules along them withdrew, leaving smooth silver behind. He flexed his hands a time or two, and discovered that they responded as fingers should… except for the near total lack of feeling in them, of course.
His eyes trailed up his arms, noting that both of his elbows appeared to have been replaced by silver and copper cog wheels, and that there were numerous patches where the skin was broken, revealing gleaming steel beneath. His chest appeared to have been replaced with a metal plate, which seemed to be the source of most of the clicks, beeps and hums that he had awakened to. On the left side, a single greed LED pulsed, and after a moment, he realized the pulse was in sync with the beep he kept hearing.
“What am I?”
His voice sounded strange to his own ears, layered in a way that the fragments of memory he could find hadn’t suggested. There seemed to be a queer doubling, a reverb that started somewhere in the back of his throat that added a mechanical, artificial chorus to his formerly melodious bass tone.
Brand glanced downward, steepling his fingers and for a moment looking like he wished he could be anywhere but here. He cleared his throat, staring down into the darkness between his palms.
“Well, er… you’re the Boss. You know. Lord of the Castle. Master of the NIght, Prince of Darkness, all that shit. Just… um. Well, a little different. Upgraded, like. You know?”
 He tried to smile, his eyes flickering over the unimpressed and unamused expression of his employer – which the man knew himself to be, in some manner – then dropped again to his closed hands.
“The… Prince of Darkness?”
Somewhere inside, the title tickled a memory. Something about a church, a woman crying somewhere inside. A taste in his mouth, salty, sweet, hideous, delightful, and most of all, crimson. Thoughts of that taste brought a rumbling from down below, and he realized that the demon had been correct: he was hungry. His tongue – thankfully not “upgraded,” whatever that meant, but still lasciviously long and serpentine – flicked out over his lips.
“But… who… ugh. What’s wrong with me?”
Brand continued to look uncomfortable, shooting glances over his shoulder and towards the door as though hoping for a distraction. When none came, he sighed.
“Well, nothing, now. But jeez, when I brought you in, you were a mess, Boss. Head was all crushed, leg missing. Chest was blown out like you’d gotten into it with Elliot Ness or some shit. I mean, you looked like a paper dolly that some girl tried to rip in half.”
He glanced upward, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
“Stupidest part was that most of it was done by the cops, fa chrissakes! Stupid sons of bitches ran you down by accident! I mean, really, how hard is it to operate a basic motor vehicle? I manage, and I’ve gotta have all these extra dials and levers. Jeez, I mean, you think it’s easy to drive when you’re three feet tall, can’t reach the pedals, and have to work with these…” He splayed his tridactyl hands in front of him to illustrate. “…while you’re running all those extra things they snap onto the steering wheel to make up for it? but I never ran nobody over.”
He paused in his monologue, his eyes going skyward for a moment.
“Well. Not by accident, anyway.”
The man on the table found he could do nothing but stare at the demon as he ranted. The back of his mind said this was common behavior for Brand, generally tolerated because the imp was useful more often than not, but often frustrating. He raised his steel hand, shaking his head.
“Save the sidelines, Brand.”
The imp appeared both pleased and troubled that his name had been remembered, but quieted.
“Tell me who I am, why I’m here, and what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Brand stood straighter, spiffing the collar of his suit coat briefly before assuming a full at-attention posture.
“You’re Vlad Tepes, Boss. Prince of Darkness, King of the Vampires, Lord of the Dead. You’re in your estate in Palm Springs, because that’s where we put the lab – didn’t want it too close to your digs in Vegas, couldn’t handle the electrical modifications to the family castle, too much drywalling and drilling and messing with the portraits you said – and you needed the lab so we could fix ya.”
A smarmy smirk spread across his features as he continued.
“And you remember, five years ago, I told you, Boss, we’re gonna need a mad scientist, and you said ‘Oh, but that’s so expensive. You don’t think we really need one, do you?’ And, Boss, I says, you gotta have a mad scientist with an evil lab. It’s the in thing now. And you say…”
He was silenced as Vlad raised his hand and shook his head again, cutting him off. He continued, looking chastened.
“Anyway. We built the lab – under budget, I’d point out – and that’s where we are because you’d be dead, otherwise. Or… well. I dunno how to say it, but you know what I mean. Off to the fuckin’ Cadillac Ranch, you know? Not dead, anyway, because you’re always kinda dead, well, undead, but anyway. Yeah. So we’re at the lab and as far as what you’re supposed to be doing, hell, how should I know? You’re the Boss. But, and this is only a bit, you know, nothing personal, don’t let me tell you how to do things, but I’d say you should be getting better, getting your shit together, and kicking that little fucker Van Helsing’s ass from here to Coney Island.” He shrugged. “But, hey, like I said. I’m just the help, Boss. Your call.”
Vlad steepled his fingers in the front of his mouth, the gesture coming without forethought but seeming to calm him as he studied Brand. He realized he wasn’t seeing the gargoyle the way he had previous to his accident, though part of him was; on one level, he was looking at Brand the way he always had, but there were also strange floating words surrounding him, and there were brief flickers of other color spectrums running across the demon. Vlad closed his left eye, and saw nothing but the imp watching him warily. He closed his right, and saw Brand in thermal vision with a digital readout calling out the imp’s name, demonic classification, known weaknesses, age, blood type, sexual preference and six last known addresses and phone numbers. Vlad opened both eyes again and saw both images overlaid on one another. Disturbing.
“Van Helsing.”
He whispered the name, letting it roll over both his tongue and his strangely doubled vocal chords. The name evoked many conflicting emotions, foremost among them utter contempt mingled with traces of affection and competitive camaraderie. Closing his eyes, faces bubbled forth: one a fat, surly young man, tagged by the digital readout as Isaac Van Helsing, age 26, born 1986. That was the source of the contempt, Vlad was certain. His certainty was only increased when the readout scrolled slightly to highly “Van Hamstring’ as a popular nickname for the boy. The other was an elderly gent with slicked back hair, a thick mustache, and deep-set green eyes that reflected an agrressive sparkle. The ever-helpful readout tagged this one as Abraham Van Helsing, age 54, born 1862, died 1916. That was the source of the amused rivalry. He opened his eyes again, settling them on Brand.
“Isaac. He did this.”
Brand was nodding with excitement.
“Yeah, that was him, Boss. Best we figure, he busted in while you were… ah… occupied with dinner. Phosphorous rounds. Nasty, nasty shit, you know? Bastard ran off while the cops were busy trying to dig out out of their mudflaps, and the chick didn’t know nothin’ useful. Said some fat kid shot in the door and shot you.”
His eyes dipped slyly sideways for a moment as his mouth split in his version of a grin.
“Too bad you didn’t close escrow with her, Boss. I mean, I wouldn’t kick her outta the castle for eatin’ kittens, am I right?” He punctuated this with a cackle, shaking his head.
“Anyways, yeah, Isaac, he’s the one. Got most of the boys lookin’ for him.” He lifted one hand as though warding off interruption, though Vlad was still and watchful. “Don’t worry, Boss, they’re not gonna hurt him none. I know you’ll want him fresh. No fun fuckin’ him up when you’re just gettin’ the ghouls’ sloppy seconds, am I right? I know, I know, no need to thank me.”
Vlad opened his mouth – though what he might ask, he wasn’t entirely certain – then closed it again as the door opened and a giant string-bean of a man entered. Nearly seven feet tall and painfully thin, with thick white hair that sprung out from his head as though he’d recently been struct by lightening, Dr. Franks appeared out of breath and wild with excitement as he burst through the door, carrying a jelly-glass filled with thick red liquid. Vlad could smell it from the table, and as he focused on the glass, the readout helpfully informed him that it was blood. Type O, taken from a virgin female seventeen years old, clear of disease and spiced with a spring of mint and a dash of lemon-pepper. The blinking display indicated that it was his favorite, though he wasn’t entirely certain of that.
Franks stumpled, almost dropping the glass and sending it’s cavalcade of Pac-Man characters and the precious fluid within splattering across the floor. He managed to untangle his feet before that happened, and Brand moved to steady the doctor almost immediately. Taking the glass from the tall man’s shaking hand, Brand carried it over to Vlad, dropped to one knee and held it aloft like a priest’s chalice.
“To you, Boss. Drink up, and let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Vlad took the glass – some internal instinct warning him not to grip the glass too tightly, lest his unnatural strength and steel fingers crush it – and drained it in a single humongous gulp. The taste of it set his brain alight, flooding him with the desire for more. He could feel it running down his throat – though there were numb patches there as well, and part of his mind seemed to be processing the chemical makeup of the blood rather than just enjoying the taste – and exploding in his stomach, suffusing him with the delirious feeling of pure life taken straight from the tap. Somewhere inside was comparing it to the first taste, the chalice in the church back in Romania, the first taste that all the others had tried to compare to and failed, and this time he found it equally as satisfying. It was like being reborn all over again. His fingers spasmed – crushing the jelly-glass into dust and provoking a pained wince from Dr. Franks – and his eyes rolled back in hsi head as the feeling surged over him. He felt some of the holes in his flesh knitting back together and knew without looking that the blood was surging to the places where his flesh didn’t entirely cover the steel beneath, pulling at it and trying to bring it more into alignment with his memories of himself. Finally, when the surge receded and he could think clearly again, he leveled his eyes at Brand.
“I need more. Then we will tend to other matters. Yes?”
Brand nodded, shooting an irritated glance over his shoulder at Franks. The doctor was muttering “Mein Gott, it’s alive” repeatedly, as though trying to force the sense of it into his skull. Brand returned his gaze to Vlad, shaking his head and twirling one finger beside his ear.
“See, you should be glad I fought to get that mad scientist thing through…” His voice dropped to what the gargoyle probably thought of as a conspiratorial whisper, though was closer in volume to a loud mutter. “But I think maybe I got one a little too mad, you know?”
Franks glowered down at the imp, his repeated mutterings ending as he clenched his hands into tight little fists, popping the veins in his forearms and the cords in his neck into vivid relief. His breath was coming in heavy, ragged gasps as he snarled at Brand.
“I am not mad! Merely eccentric!”
Brand wave this away with one hand, while using the other to steady Vlad as the vampire rose from the table.
“Yeah, yeah, not mad, I got it. Right, Boss? Just eccentric, he says. And Paris Hilton’s just a little slutty, too, right?”
The gargoyle squawked his cawing laugh as he led Vlad out of the lab, unheeding of the venom dripping from Franks’ eyes as the doctor watched them go.

(Want more? The story continues here…)

02
Feb
20

Vampire 2.0 – Installation

(Enjoying the story? It starts over here…)

Installation

Dr. Franks worked quickly and efficiently, humming the Ride of the Valkyries under his breath while he bustled between different stations in the gleaming steel laboratory. He’d glance at one gauge, turn a dial, cluck contentedly before making a checkmark on his clipboard, turning to a different system and repeating the process. Every three or four circuits of the room, he moved towards the large table in the center, lifted up the sheet that covered the shape laying on it, then would shake his head and move away again for another check of all his instruments. The only sound besides his footsteps and humming was the crackling of the Jacob’s Ladder in the corner and the faint whirring of the artificial respirator that sat beside it, looking dejected and useless.
As he was making his twentieth trip around the room, the door beside the respirator inched open, and a tiny knock drifted towards him. Dr. Franks snapped his head towards it, ceased his humming and snarled.
“Who is it?! I am busy, the patient, he is not doing so well!”
 His thick German accent made the already gruff tone sound even worse, and the figure outside of the lab seemed to hesitate. Then the door opened the rest of the way, and the visitor walked through. Franks seemed to relax – slightly – after determining that his guest was supposed to be here, and went back to his dials and clipboard.
“There is not yet a change, Mr. Brand. Still he doesn’t wake.”
Brand stepped towards the table at the center of the room, lifting the sheet that covered it and squinting a little at the high-intensity bulbs that glowered down from above, giving it the look of a macabre pool table.
He was short and squat, barely three feet tall, and powerfully muscled; he hid it well under an immaculately tailored suit. His facial features appeared to have been made by an apprentice sculptor making a caricature of a bird, with no lips to speak of at the end of a protruding beak; tiny holes for a nose, and deep set eyes the shade of polished ebony. His skin was red; not merely sunburned, like some of the other residents of this place, but a literal bright fire-engine red. If Dr. Franks found anything odd about his guest’s appearance, it didn’t show.
Brand winced, dropping the sheet and turning his avian gaze back to the doctor.
“He don’t look so good. He ain’t gonna be happen when he wakes up and checks a mirror. And what’s with the bolts, Doc? I mean, really? Bolts?”
He rolled his shoulders, a brief pained expression wandering across his face, then crossed his arms and tapped one clawed bare foot on the ground as though awaiting an explanation.
Franks dropped his clipboard atop one of the stainless steel counters, internally pleased by the theatric gong noise it made when he did so. He turned towards the little monstrosity, placing his hands on his hips and adopting his best lecturing tone – the same one, he thought, that he had once used before they chased him off the campus for his crazy ideas. Crazy, indeed; let them call him crazy! Here was the fruit of his labor!
“Yes, bolts! There must be somewhere too hook up the generator, jah? And what of it?! It is my style, it is my… signature! Better than that one on the television, always adding an extra buttock to this or that, eh?”
He shook his head and flapped a hand at Brand.
“And if he is not happy with the looking, then he can fix it on his own. You give me terrible materials – Terrible! That one leg, the femur was cracked in six places! – but when he wakes, his flesh is malleable to him, is it not? Then he can fix the rest. I… I… I gave him life!”
He shook his fist in the air, tilting his head upward as though no longer speaking to Brand, but rather some invisible other that hovered overhead. The Jacob’s Ladder sparked as if in response.
Brand sighed, shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah. Just call me when he wakes up. And get one of the ghouls to get some dinner for him. The boss’s always hungry when he wakes up from a nap.”
Franks lowered his fist, looking puzzled. For a moment he had forgotten he wasn’t alone in the room, able to rant at his uncaring God as he pleased. He coughed lightly into his fist and nodded.
“Of course. He will be tended to.”
Brand sighed and slipped out of the lab, muttering to himself. Franks didn’t catch most of it, but his ears were well attuned to a specific phrase, and they caught them here.
“I am not mad!” he shouted out after the beast as it left. “Only eccentric! True genius is never properly recognized!”
Sighing, realizing Brand was already gone – and likely wouldn’t have cared to listen, anyway – Franks picked up his clipboard, shook his head, and resumed his vigil.

(Want more? The story continues here…)

30
Jan
20

Vampire 2.0 – System Shutdown

System Shutdown

The female moaned a little, deep in the back of her throat, as his talented fingers found the spot at the small of her back that had been troubling her. Encouraged by the sound, he worked harder, kneading with his fingers, then circling with his knuckles. She was sitting sideways on the couch, her shirt pulled up to her neck, bra strap undone and bare back turned towards him. So far he had been doing well, managing to get no closer than was absolutely necessary to do the deed. His long years had taught him control and discipline, among many other things, and he didn’t intend to relinquish those teachings now. No matter how much she moaned and squirmed, no matter how tantalizing the smell of her sweat was becoming.
They were in one of his apartments in Las Vegas. He always found it most amusing to hunt there, given the liberties that the artists had taken with him over the years and the fact that it was in the center of the worst desert America had to offer. It was well furnished – and why wouldn’t it be? He was wealthy enough to own dozens of mansions if it took his fancy – with furniture that tended towards Old World style. Lots of leather, dark hardwood and silk. The predominant colors were red and purple, and the few visitors to the place often made snide remarks about it – if they were brave – or seemed to be assessing it poorly but silently – if they were not – but both such visitors were few, and were often mollified when he pointed out that the colors were those of royalty and of his family.
The female was nothing special; dozens of them milled in every nightclub and bar along the strip. Just another girl who bleached her hair, bleached her skin, paid far too much to have her nailed trimmed for her and spent far too much on clothes that were ill-fitting. Drawn by the grandeur and possibilities that Vegas represented – or drawn by what lay over the border in California and either rebuffed or sidetracked before they made it – they were invariably starry-eyed and certain the world existed simply to glorify them. This one’s name was Candi. He had known ten or twelve Candis before her. Also a half dozen Brandis, a Mandi or two, and once, god help us, a Cyndi. Why they all insisted on using “I”s instead of a more traditional Y in their name, he didn’t understand. Why he never once tripped over a Tracy or a Kaitlyn or a Melissa he likewise failed to understand. Parents and their naming conventions these days were something that was always going to be a mystery to him.
While he had been mulling all of this over, his fingers had continued to work. He had only been paying peripheral attention when she had half twisted and laid her hand on his leg. Now she was finger-walking up his thigh, smiling – and of course, her teeth were as bleached as the rest of her – and whispering in what she probably thought of as her best seductive voice.
“Maybe I should massage you. Tit…” and at that, she turned fully. She removed his hand from her back and placed it on one silicone breast as it wobbled out from underneath her shirt. “…for tat.”
He allowed himself to appear to stammer – they seemed to enjoy it when they unmanned their prey, never seeming to realize that a real predator was in the room with them – and tried to pull his hand away. He knew she would grab it and place it back, and was not proven wrong. He gave her a slow smile, a slightly nervous smile, all the while focusing on the side of her throat, at the steady beat there, the slight quivering of the vein picking up speed. She moved towards him, licking her lips as her hand finally reached his member and took hold of it with a grip that spoke of deep familiarity.
He leaned over her, the ache in his gums as his teeth revealed themselves there and gone again. She buried her face in the thick dark hair that framed his features, nibbling playfully at his neck as his teeth – nearly three inches long and viciously sharp – descended towards that quickening pulse.
Then all hell broke loose.
His senses were far sharper than any normal man’s. Had he not been so focused on the female, he would have heard the heavy, unfamiliar treat coming up the walk or along the hallway. But he had been occupied and the intruder had reached that far before being noticed. The loud crash of a shotgun, amplified by the tight outer corridor, rippled through the front room. His front door was standing in tatters, several chunks of it drifting lazily through the air. Some of them were on fire, he observed with a brief flicker of fear. Fire was just about the only thing he did fear, and never mind the hacks’ ideas regarding crosses, garlic, and mirrors. The female was gone, having leapt off the couch and into the bathroom, seemingly in a single movement, and her sobbing seemed to serve as a soundtrack to those slowly drifting bits of cinder.
Standing in the doorway was a short, fat little man that the apartment’s owner recognized almost immediately.
“Ah. Van Hamstring,” he spat. “Don’t you know it’s terrible manners to enter in such a way? Why not knock?”
The fat man stepped over the remains of the door, hammering some more of the frame out of his path. His pale face – topped with an unfortunate crop of red, curly hair – sported two flaming spots of hate as he snarled back at his intended victim.
“That’s Van Helsing. Not like I haven’t told you before.”
The vampire smiled, his fangs pulling back into his upper lip as he twisted one hand in the air.
“Ah, but I shudder to think of what your great grandfather would say of the mockery you’ve made of his name. Now, Abraham, he had some manners!”
He shook his finger at Van Helsing in a tsk tsk gesture, then leapt onto the back of the couch, balancing there quite easily.
Van Helsing spat out the mouthful of tobacco he’d been chewing on, staining the thick carpet – Another black mark in his behavioral record, the vampire thought dourly – and scrubbed his mouth with his left hand, clad in a rugged-looking black gauntlet. The right kept hold of the shotgun, keeping it trained on the vampire.
“Oh, really. You’d just bust into a man’s home and shoot him? That’s hardly sporting.”
He inched slightly to the left on the back of the couch. He knew the layout of the room perfectly, and by his judgment his back was now directly facing the eastern picture window. While dawn was coming, it didn’t concern him overmuch; it wouldn’t induce melting like the picture shows seemed to claim, and while launching out a window and falling twenty stories would probably be unpleasant – especially if the sun caught him out before he mended the worst of the damage – it was certainly better than being vaporized by dragon’s breath shotgun rounds. All his attention was on Van Helsing’s trigger finger; the second he saw it begin to twitch, he’d jump.
Van Helsing seemed unimpressed with the balancing act.
“You can stop that right now, you know. You don’t scare me with your little tricks.”
The click in his throat as he swallowed marked the lie for what it was.
The vampire laughed, full-throated and rich as it rolled across the room, a far warmer sound than the shotgun’s rude blaring.
“Ah, my little Van Hamstring. You’re a terrible liar. Perhaps you’re a better shot?”
Whatever Van Helsing might have said next, he choked back, glancing over his shoulder in surprise. The sound of sirens had filled the pre-dawn evening air, and flashes of red and blue were approaching the apartment. The vampire snarled. He’d forgotten the female. She must have alerted the authorities; when the police got calls from this neighborhood, they arrived almost immediately.
“Well, well. So sorry to say goodbye, but…” He took a bow, but before he was able to somersault out the window, Van Helsing’s attention had refocused on the vampire. The little fat man squeezed the triggers of the Mossberg, and twin jets of flame belched out of the barrels towards the vampire.
The vampire had a brief moment where everything seemed to pause before the force of the slugs struck him in the chest, shredding the expensive silk vest he had been wearing and demolishing the marble flesh beneath. The impact finished the leap he had started, sending him flying out the window just as the sun crested the horizon.
Pain struck him then, pain unlike anything he had felt in nearly six hundred years. Mortal pain, the pain humans felt. He tried to scream, but his lungs were gone, so much ash and vapor probably still trapped in the apartment above. He turned his head, eyes seeking the sun, the hateful sun that couldn’t have waited just five more minutes to arrive, but he saw only blackness. In the moment that he had before that darkness bore down on him, he registered that it was the tire of a police cruiser, moving much too quickly to stop, and then his world was only blackness.

 

(The story continues here…)

11
Jan
20

The Rise of Skywalker – Not Rising to the Occasion

I had the dubious pleasure of watching Rise of Skywalker this week.

Too long, didn’t read? I hated it. I hated everything about it. It managed to claim the coveted spot of Worst Star Wars Media Ever, knocking the dipso duo of the holiday special and The Last Jedi out of the way in its hurry to claim the title.

That probably marks me as one of those sycophantic fanboys who just gets mad every time the studios, writers, directors or whoever don’t do what I want. I had to hear that enough when I said I didn’t like Last Jedi, too. I don’t think that’s what I am; I just think there was that much garbage in this thing. Of course, I’m probably wrong; I also think Rose Tico sucked, which makes me a misogynist racist and not someone who just thought her plot was stupid, pointless, bloating an already bloated movie or shattering the chance for one of the good characters to have an epic, heroic moment. (For the record, I quite like Finn, and while some have claimed “Because patriarchy!” I don’t care what gender the character is. I just think a reformed stormtrooper who actually does some of the cool stuff is fun.) Also, as much as Holdo irritates me, she’s got some awesome moments, and that lightspeed collision was freakin’ awesome (though I think it should have been Leia, so she got a suitably heroic and awesome death instead of that idiotic flying thing she did and what happens to her in RoS.)

Most folks who accused me of being a misogynistic fanboy who hates all joy would probably be confused as to why I hate Rise of Skywalker even more; after all, Rose Tico becomes a piece of the background, there’s dominant male figures, Reylo happens, Palpatine is back, we get an explanation for Snoke, everything’s back to normal. Except that’s not ever what it was about. It was about telling a good goddamn story that makes freakin’ sense.

That’s where Rise of Skywalker falls flat on it’s face. There’s other problems – that the whole thing feels like 45 or so unrelated 5 minute vignettes instead of a whole movie, that it never takes a second to just breathe and let us take in what happened, that the plot devices were silly and too convoluted, that every time something actually interesting might happen we have to go all Michael Bay and blow some shit up and that most of it feels like Abrahms giving the middle finger to Johnson – but I spent the whole damn time going “That doesn’t make any goddamn sense in this universe!”

So, spoilers ahoy, because I’m just going to run down the list of shit that infuriated me with the level of stupid, the plot holes, the gloss overs, the idiot plans of the characters. Ready? Go.

1. Palpatine is back. If he was a clone (or if the Emperor seen in Return of the Jedi was), that’s fine, I guess. Stupid, but fine. But no indication is made of that. Instead I’m supposed to believe he survived getting hucked down a reactor core, electrocuted, exploding (twice) and planetfall in the remains of a destroyed superstation. Horse shit.

2. Palpatine wants to drain the life of Kylo and Rey to regenerate. Sure, sounds like a plan. Except, if he needs life force, why not eat all those cultists or whatever they were who were bobbing their heads and chanting the Sephiroth theme? Why not suck dry the few thousand Sith troopers who just happen to be on the planet (which is also stupid)? How about the Snokes-in-a-jar (or hell, clone more of ’em and them, too.) There’s no reason for him to sit around waiting for those two. They may be quality eats, but I’m willing to bet devouring a few thousand is going to get the job done. Quantity, in this case, is likely to trump quality.

3. Palpatine wants to eat Kylo and Rey, and lures Kylo to Exegal. Okay. Then, instead of eating him, he lies to him and sends him off to go fetch Rey. Meanwhile, he’s made it stupidly convoluted for Rey to find her way there without Kylo. Apparently, the Emperor has Alzheimers, as he forgot what happened the last time he took a Sith Skywalker and a Jedi into his inner chambers for nefarious purposes. Even if he could somehow keep Kylo loyal, Kylo isn’t a bloody idiot and showed up wanting to gank Palpy anyway. Better to get rid of him and lure Rey in nice and easy.

4. Rey is Palpy’s granddaughter. Excuse me, fuck what? So, the Emperor had a kid, who we’ve never heard of but that he knew about. Somehow this kid is not on the Imperial payroll, and manages to stay hidden until he’s got a six year old, and further somehow manages to hide that six year old from a Jedi hunter. You know, those guys who are frequently force sensitive, trained to track and kill people, and who had the full backing of the Empire? Yeah, them. Somehow missed a six year old (who’s so super Force powerful she learns all the tricks within seconds of being exposed to it, adopts a rare lightsaber form from instinct, and scares the piss out of Luke she’s so strong) just because she’s hanging with a junk trader. Bullshit.

5. Leia being Rey’s trainer. Okay, Luke’s “dead” (not that it stops him), Yoda’s a ghost (who doesn’t bother saying “hey, my presence might be helpful), Obi-Wan, Qui-Gonn, Ezra, Asokha and god knows how many other force ghosts don’t care. She’s got the bloody texts, and what does she need training for anyway? She knows all the tricks and is better at them than anyone else anyway. But Leia, who trained a little under Luke (that we never heard about until now) is now Jedi Master enough to train the next Jedi Messiah? Bullshit.

6. Anakin’s lightsaber. Maybe I missed something, but I could have sworn Kylo and Rey blew it up while playing tug-o-war with it at the end of Last Jedi, and I don’t remember Rey stopping to pick up the pieces before she booked it. But don’t worry, it’s fine, now.

7. The ATVs the stormtroopers use during the chase scene. Why treads? Useless and causing more trouble than they’re worth (both with potential for mechanical failure, and the added cost of having to repair that AND the antigravity thrusters, since it looks like they still float in the back.) Plus the little “launch” hiccup when they have the jetpack troopers take off looks dumb and is unnecessary.

8. “They can fly, now?” Not because I have a problem with jetpack troopers, because that tech has already been shown in Star Wars (Boba/Jango Fett, and I could swear I had a jetpack trooper action figure back in the 80s, though I might be wrong.) But because Finn and Poe are surprised by it.

9. Healing the snake. That was flat out retarded. “Hey, lookit this cool new Force power which has never been indicated to exist in any way previously that I just know how to do, and lookit how I show it off for no bloody reason when I could just cut this obviously hostile – and probably responsible for the death of the Jedi hunter – monster in half and move along! And lookit how it shows gratitude and wanders off!” Stupid.

10. The multi-layer MagGuffins. “I need to get this thing. But to get this thing, I have to find this other thing. Which means hunting for a third thing. Luke and Lando were looking for the thing (and never mind how they knew to look for the thing or what they were doing or why they just gave up) so there’s a clue trail, let’s go!” Further, since Palpy wants her to come, you think he’d make it easier to get there, instead of giving her more chances to show off, learn new Jedi tricks, or harden herself.

11. The magic captain’s coin. I don’t give a crap if you have a magic coin or not (the Empire has previously been shown to be very lax on security, so it not being deactivated or reported stolen I’m willing to overlook), if you fly in there in the friggin’ Millenium Falcon – you know, that ship that was present for two of your greatest defeats, that is the known vessel of several of your Most Wanted targets, that has the Hutts looking for it – general protocol should be to just blow the sucker up. The odds of it showing up and actually having a Sith/Imperial/First Order guy on board who just forgot to phone ahead and submit to screening is essentially 0.

12. Chewbacca’s “death.” Aside from it being a cheap fake-out, you’re telling me Rey and Kylo couldn’t still sense him being alive? Bullshit.

13. C3P0’s memory wipe. “Here, have a touching moment. Have some actual stakes. We’ll make a couple jokes about it. Oh, you thought that would stick? Nope. He’s fixed, back to himself. No worries.”

14. I hate them, but what happened to the Porgs on the Millenium Falcon? They tore the whole thing up and turned it into a giant nest, and one of them acted like it was Chewbacca’s new pet. Now they’re just gone.

15. Palpatine’s Death Star Destroyers. Whether he conjured them with the Force or had a secret factory under Exegal, why sit on them for 30+ years? If you want the galaxy, the time to use them would have been right after you got back from your double explosion. Luke’s the only known Jedi, the Republic is still trying to put itself back together. Nuke a few planets and announce “You thought I was gone, bitches? Nah ah ah!” Alternatively, should have just sent Snoke with a few of those instead of the Starkiller base bullshit. In fact, Palpy being alive and having his Death Star Destroyers makes the whole Snoke ploy utterly pointless.

16. Palpatine’s plan. When not yet up to full strength and planning to eat a couple of uber-Jedi to get there, let’s tell everyone you’re there and about to start killin’ folks. No, idiot. Wait until you’re going to do it, then do it and wait a little longer for whatever terrorist act you commit to sink in, then tell them you’re there. Bragging about how you’re coming is just going to rile up potential resistance, which has never gone well for him in the past.

17. Palpy’s plan, part two. Announce you’re back and ready to blow shit up, lure in your wayward children, eat them. Except, no, that’s not the plan; the plan is to die and possess Rey and make her Empress. This is very stupid. If Reypatine turns up and demands subservience, people are probably not going to obey (at least at first) because Palpy told everyone he’s coming. They’re more likely to be scared of him, and assume that supporting – or accepting – Rey as Empress is just going to make the Emperor mad. Again, don’t tell them you’re coming until you’re actually doing it, dipshit!

18. Palpy’s a dumbass, mark… 208, I imagine. Try to force lightning your granddaughter? Okay; but when the granddaughter starts reflecting the lightning back at you, turn that shit off, yo! Just… stop. Don’t keep firing and disintegrate yourself, you idiot.

19. Kylo magically learns the healing trick, uses it on Rey, dies. Just dumb all around, though at this point I guess Rey fans should be glad she’s not a Skywalker; every Skywalker who uses a cool Force trick dies right after, so…

There’s more. So many more. I could go on for ages about it, but I’m not MauLer, so I’ll stop there. All in all? I hated it, thought it was the stupidest Star Wars media ever made, and want to die.

Your opinions? Did I miss something? Did some of these make more sense to you than me? Let me know down below!

09
Jan
20

Not a Dog

It looked like a dog, but it wasn’t one.

I should know; I’d been watching it for a week. It wasn’t a dog. Just like the things that looked like little girls skipping rope up the street weren’t little girls, how the flickering lights in the office building around the corner wasn’t an electrical malfunction, and how the rattling fence in front of juvie over on Saliman wasn’t just the wind.

So I watched it. I sat outside the Qwik Stop all day and most of the night, pretending to be just another panhandler. I was invisible to most folks coming and going, even the staff. To a few, I was a figure of ridicule, getting an insult, a dirty look, or sometimes a kick if no one else was looking. To a handful, I was something to be pitied, handed one of the godawful things the store claimed were cheeseburgers but tasted like styrofoam, or maybe a few spare coins. None of them concerned me. I preferred to be invisible, but the occasional cheeseburger kept my stomach from growling and the kicks or insults kept me awake on the long nights when the dog-thing either didn’t show or did nothing but stare back at me.

Why did I do it? A simple question, with a simple answer: I had to. Someone had to, anyway, and nobody else was volunteering. For a little podunk wannabe city, this place was lousy with ghosts and spooks of all flavors, and if someone wasn’t keeping watch and cleaning up the messes the unsolved crimes part of the police blotter would be a hell of a lot bigger than it already was.

So I wait. I watch. The dog that isn’t a dog is up to something – waiting for something, maybe – and I need to be ready when it happens.

06
Jan
20

Trophy Hunt – 1/6

Trophy Test

I gave up. Kingdom Hearts is on its way back to GameFly. Between hating Chain of Memories even more than I hate the rest of the series, boredom with Birth By Sleep as I went to fill in Aqua and Ventus’ reports after already having done everything with Terra, and beating my head against the wall repeatedly trying to finish the EX Gummi Missions in Kingdom Hearts II, I decided it was best to walk away. I can always come back to it later, I suppose.

As though attempting to purge myself of the taint, I went back to a few games that still needed some love. Redownloaded Dishonored, and made it through the first couple of chapters (both lethal and non-lethal), snatching a nice double handful of trophies along the way. Don’t know if it’s grabbed me enough to make me bludgeon through the whole thing on the way to the platinum just yet, but it was a nice change of pace.

Also picked up Resident Evil 6 again; I’d previously beaten Chris and Jake’s campaigns, but Ada and Leon still needed love as well as most of the miscellaneous trophies. Picked up a handful of the misc. stuff in a couple of sessions, but not much story progress. I’ll get there. Probably going to speed through Leon’s campaign tonight, then pick at Ada and the collectibles while I wait to see what torture GameFly inflicts on me next.

While on the subject of RE6, I just want to point out: It isn’t nearly as bad as some folks make it out to be. Is it a good Resident Evil? Oh, good Christ, no. But is it a decent game with lots of content and fun to be found? Yes. (Note, I am considered a pariah in the RE fandom for this opinion, as well as the one that says RE4 isn’t all that great.)

Mega Man X Legacy Collection is going strong, even though I’m awful at it. Finished all the X1 content, and knocked out most of X4; still have to kill the last boss with Rookie Hunter mode turned off. (Sigma kicked my ass for about 3 hours, I decided I’d had enough, and in a moment of weakness I turned to easy mode. Sue me.) Haven’t touched X3 as of yet, and X2 is made of hatred (can’t even take out Overdrive Ostrich so far), but I’ll get there eventually, I’m sure.

Also came back to Doom (Reboot/2016/4 or whatever you want to call it.) I’d knocked out all the multiplayer trophies a while ago, but hadn’t gotten far in singleplayer. Trying to rectify that. Just got back from my first trip into hell, which I think is around the 1/3rd to halfway point. Picking up collectibles and weapon challenges as I go, unless they prove to be too big a pain in the ass (I can always use chapter select to pick them up later when I’m a dark god fully stocked with Runes and the BFG), and only got one trophy out of it so far (the one for going to hell the first time), since the other basic stuff had already been knocked out when I picked at it initially, but it’ll steamroll eventually, I’m sure.

The living room in the (no longer exactly) new place is coming together, and the streaming PC was located at last, so I may get back to doing some streams soon; any suggestions on what you’d like to see played if and when I do? Always open. What trophies are you looking at, or have recently been added to your cabinet? Let us know down below!

KA Spiral no signature

04
Jan
20

Reading Up

img_0124

I failed last year’s Goodreads reading goal. Miserably, in fact. The year before, I had set it to 100 books, thinking I’d plow through easily; didn’t even make it halfway, but at least there was reading being done. Last year, I set it at a more realistic 20 and did… three, I think? If that. Almost all of it was towards the beginning of the year.

Yeah, I’ve had a shitty time, but I know I should read more. Should be doing that instead of bringing the Vita into the bathroom. I haven’t set a goal (and probably won’t) since goals just depress me when I inevitably fail them. See for reference my performance in NaNoWriMo, where the manuscript I started is still stalled at the 12k words it was mid-November. But I intend to read something.

I’m starting with a pair of books I’ve had for a while and just never opened up to get to. The first is Confessions of a Yakuza; it’s a pseudo-memoir of a former Japanese crime boss. I have a strange fascination with the Japanese mafia that carries across all forms of media, and I’ve managed to get through 1/5th of it in the day since I started, so odds are good I will actually finish it. It’s interesting so far, though most of what’s already happened involved learning how they treated syphilis in the 1910s, pretty graphically. Fun stuff.

The other is Spooked: Science Tackles the Afterlife. I’ve owned it for a while – and had it marked as To Read for a lot longer – but hadn’t done much but crack it and glance at the first page beforehand. About 20 pages in, which may not seem like much, but I imagine the pace’ll pick up once they actually start getting into the title topic instead of musings about the nature of death and the spirituality surrounding it.

What are you reading this year? Have you got a target, or just taking them as they come along? Anything you think I should be reading? Let us know down below!

KA Spiral no signature

03
Jan
20

Health Update

img_0123Long and short of it, I’m still borked.

But there’s been some improvement, if only on the mental side of things. The shrinks decided “Prozac ain’t cuttin’ it. Let’s try something else.” They then introduced me to the wonders of Latuda.

On day 1, I pretty much was instantly kicked out of the depressive pit. On day 2, I saw the warning signs of a manic phase. On day 3, mania had descended. Day 4, it was fading. Day 5 and since, I’ve felt… normal. It’s weird. I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

I believe the message here is: Take your damn meds. If what you’re on isn’t working, call the doctor and tell them so. Don’t keep quiet. Moral #2 is “don’t expect instant change.” Give it a week or two to see what changes occur. Moral #3 is “don’t get discouraged.” Easier said than done, especially for those of us laboring under depressive or bipolar disorders, but it’s key. Psychiatry is more art than science thanks to the wonders of individual chemistry, and a lot of it is throwing darts to see what sticks.

So far as the physical front, it’s only getting worse. I’m still lucky if I can get an hour or two of uninterrupted breathing, and making a quick Target run to pick up coffee and sugar or my latest prescription or getting the mail or taking out the trash is an effort that sometimes seems as monumental – and potentially lethal – as climbing Everest. But I continue to survive. It’s almost funny, really; I’ve heard a joke a few times that basically sums it up: “I have autoimmune problems. I’m so awesome, only I can kill me.” It’s true. Snake and spider bites? Nothing. Broken bones, blood loss, shredded flesh? I laugh at you. Questionable food choices hold no worry for me – except for that last trip to Red Robin – and with the exception of severe hydrophobia, I’m not worried about the elements either. But my immune system (or lack thereof, depending on how many steroids the pulmonologist has decided I need that week) certainly seem to have it in for me. They’re still saying surgery is probably the best option, and it’s still painfully out of reach.

I’m going to take a second and get semi-political and “problematic,” primarily because someone felt the need to inform me that my GoFundMe and Patreon were unnecessary and pointless because I have privilege that will protect me. This person has a fairly sizable Patreon, and has done multiple GoFundMe campaigns (usually to pay for legal costs as they have difficulty following rules like paying rent, having a driver’s license, registering their car, or leaving an establishment when told they are not welcome) that were quite successful. To them – and anyone like them – I say “fuck you.” Your imaginary concept of privilege doesn’t seem to care what color or sexuality I am; it cares that my lungs are an easy target and seems determined to rip them to shreds. Also “fuck you” that someone who flaunts the law, wants to scream victim and oppression at every point, and relies on made-up bullshit to grift people feels the need to take time out of their busy day explaining how there’s a secret squirrel account tied to their “Straw Man’s” SSN that can pay off all debts to harass me for the cardinal sin of asking for help. Wanna trade? I’ll take your skin color and sexual status if I also get your bank account and apparent immunity to criticism or consequences, and you can have my privilege and my lungs. We’ll see how that goes.

Okay, got that out of my system. Wait. Not quite. “Sovereign Citizens and Moors are giant dickbags, and if they think they’re beyond the law, then we should just start shooting the assholes and be done with it.” Go ahead. Lien my bond or whatever. It’ll be funny.

Okay, really done with that. But, in all seriousness, my lungs are fucked, my finances are worse since I haven’t been able to work in over a year, and I could really use some help. If you think you can assist, please take a minute to drop by (or share the link) my GoFundMe or Patreon. It’d really help.

Thanks for reading, everyone. Hopefully I’ll have a bit of fiction available for you next week. Still mulling it over. We’ll see how it turns out.

Until next time.

KA Spiral no signature




Show your support

Adopt an Artist

Take pity, and eternal gratitude will be yours; helps keep this site running and the words flowing.

PayPal Donate Button

Archives

Follow Insomniac Nightmares on WordPress.com