The Ramblings of Perceived Sanity
Against the Maddening Hum of the Void

8th December 2013


I am tired of living with a bully and a psychopath.

2nd July 2013


Continuing the Dagger’s Tip

The Banshee’s Stand

I can’t wait to take this armor off.  Maybe get a shower in too.  Private First Class Emanuel Hernandez thought to himself as he was in the gun turret of an old style HMMWV, staring out over the rear of his convoy.  Twelve HMMWV’s and one Air Defense Laser platform plodded along in a wide diamond formation over the Kansas prairie a few klicks south of Topeka near Wakarusa.  It was early dusk and with luck they should be back in Kansas City before sunrise tomorrow.  Hernandez hated pulling rear security.  He’d rather see where he was headed instead of where he was coming from.  It was much less interesting to see ground you’d already covered.  He felt like he was the last to know.  That, and he’d rather see what was trying to kill him. Still, it was a necessary thing so he did it the best he could.

His platoon was headed back to their Forward Operations Base after a week long recon patrol.  The Xenos’ control of the sky resurrected the need for on-the-ground recon teams, and the sheer size of the American midwest made vehicles a must.  There was no way a dismounted element could cover that much terrain.  Especially, with the heavy weapons they had to carry to fight anything they did run into.

Something in the sky caught Hernandez’s eyes.  He stood up, using the .50 caliber machine gun as a hand hold and letting the gunner’s hammock rest on the back of his thighs.  He was watching the contrails above him.  Suddenly the craft the others were following turned hard back around and the followers scattered.  Even from this distance Hernandez had to squint from the brilliant flashes of light that were bursting from what must be one of the Xeno’s planes.  The contrails lead out of sight over Topeka.  A wave of dark depression washed over Hernandez.  He’d heard about what the flyboys called, “Arrowheads” could do, and he said a futile prayer for the pilot.  He sat back down to scan his sector once more.  A minute later the radio crackled.

“All stations this net, this is Banshee Two-Six.  Looks like we got a follow-on mission,” The platoon leader’s voice croaked over the radio, obviously restraining himself.  “In a nut shell, that dogfight our gunners were just watching, ended in a win for us, for once.  We’re heading in to secure the crash site.  Dagger element somehow brought the Xeno down and they’ll provide air cover as long as they can, but this is our hog to tie.  Follow my truck.  We will be putting the peddle to the metal on this one guys so keep up.”

The formation swept to the north and collapsed into a column with the HMMWV’s falling in one after the other.  Once all the trucks were in a line, the Lieutenant hit the throttle.  The trucks were built to be rugged and reliable, not to be soft rides.  Hernandez felt every bump and rise in the grassland crawl it’s way through the truck’s over worked suspension and culminate in a fresh bruise as he was thrown about the inside of the turret ring like a rag doll.  He grabbed onto the machine gun as if his life depended on it, trying in vain to steady himself against the onslaught of turbulence.  It seemed to last forever.

Suddenly the bumps waned and his truck turned to take up it’s position on the far right of the wedge formation the platoon was making.  Hernandez looked up to see the beginnings of a suburban landscape gone wrong.  Even from this distance he could smell the place.  The sick syrupy scent of decay.  It had been months since the initial bio-bombings, but the scent never went away.  The platoon advanced to the target through the neighborhood, and Hernandez steeled himself for what he knew was coming. 

The neighborhood looked like a macabre caricature of a disaster movie.  Dessicated corpses cradling smaller corpses in over grown front lawns that were scattered with hastily packed luggage.  The houses had their windows broken out with their doors still open leaving the former homes looking surprised.  Blackened streaks left by structure fires told the story of the short riots that broke out when people realized they were doomed.  The charred wreckage of a church, the rioters’ final display of fury at their creator before their demise.  The last image was personally abhorrent to devout Hernandez.  It made him wonder if the human race was worth saving.

Hovering over the whole scene was the ever-present scent of death.  Topeka had suffered the same fate that many other cities across the US had.  Hernandez had seen it many places before.  Each time was as bad as the first.

Hernandez shook himself to get back to the tast at hand.  He forced himself back to task, prying himself away from the carnage.  The convoy drove through the one-time city’s streets.  They finally came across the trench their objective had torn through the landscape, and followed it to the Arrowhead’s resting place.

"Would you look at that thing?  I mean these things look a whole lot smaller when they’re flying around.  It must be twenty-five, thirty meters long!"  Sgt. Thurston said from the HMMWV’s passenger seat.  Hernandez turned around for a moment to look at it.  Even crashed, the aircraft (spacecraft? he thought to himself) looked lethal.  Its smooth, elegant curves were punctuated with lines that looked sharp enough to cut.  Hernandez felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge as the reality hit that he was among the first human beings to be this close to an Arrowhead and still be breathing.  This thing had traveled more distance than he could contemplate to end up crashed in the parking lot of McElroy Electric in the middle of Kansas.  It would have been funny if it weren’t true.

A few minutes later the squad leaders were huddled together with the platoon leader and platoon sergeant, hashing out how they were going to deploy.  The terrain wasn’t kind to their endeavor.  The Arrowhead had demolished several buildings during it slide across the ground.  Finally Sgt. Thurston came sauntering back up to the two vehicles in his squad.

"Alright guys, listen up!" The sergeant said as he crouched down and started to draw a sand table on the concrete with a piece of chalk.  The heads of everyone in the squad were turned to him as he started his brief, “As you know, we’ve got the dubious honor of holding this crashed enemy bird until it is either removed from the area or we’re all dead.  We’ve still got Dagger on station above us, but that’s only going to be happening for…"  he looked down at his watch, “about another hour.  They’ll keep an eye out for us as long as they can, but we’ve got a lot of work to do.  First we have to establish and build a perimeter.  Our Air Defense Laser is going to set up next to the Denny’s over there with our mortar detachment setting up across the street from them.  Our six truck will be parked next to the collection center to keep control of the ADL.  First squad, with one of weapon squad’s gun trucks will, be covering the southern approach over old US 75.  Sergeant Dobezewski’s second squad will be opposite of them covering the north approach with the other gun truck.  Their positions will connect on the west.  Our domain, gentlemen, is from the Advance Auto Parts here, down to the body shop.  A truck from first, second, and third squads will be posted about three hundred meters out away from their squad to act as an outpost and every four hours the trucks will swap out."  

"That’s the good news.  The bad news is that the earliest we can expect relief will be in about two days.  They’ll try to keep air cover up, but, as always, there’s no guarantee on that.  We’ll be informed who our relief and air cover will be when the higher ups decide who will do that.  As if that wasn’t confusing enough.  We do know that our relief will have an engineer element so we need to keep the area next to the Arrowhead clear."

Sergeant Thurston took a sip from his camel-back and made sure to look each one of his soldiers in the eye as he said, “One final thing before we go of to set up our positions: under no circumstances are any of us to touch the Arrowhead.  Don’t take pictures of it, don’t breath near it.  We have absolutely no idea what, if any, security devices that thing has.  I say again, Do not go near the Arrowhead.

21st June 2013


Attempt at Noir, Part IV

"Are you deaf?  I said, who the fuck are you?"  Even though the dark, Ed could tell the man with the shotgun was about six foot and three inches tall, and built like a brick wall.  The man flipped a light switch.  Ed saw his assailant was wearing a black leather jacket and a cabby hat.  He looked like he crawled out of a mob movie.  The man was itching to pull the trigger on the cannon. 

Ed’s mind had come to a halt.  This was the last thing he wanted to run into.  The man was too far away to fight without Ed getting a new hole in his chest.  Even if he tried to run, that twelve gauge would cut him in half before he made it two steps.  Think, man.  Think life your life depends on it.  “Me?  Who the fuck are you?  Tony didn’t tell me anyone would be here looking after the merchandise, and get that fucking gun outta my face.”  Tony seems reasonable.  There’s always a Tony in a mob movie.

The man was puzzled by this, but he let the barrel droop on his shotgun without truly taking it off of Ed.  “Tony’s up in Philly.  How-“

Ed took advantage of this man’s confusion and pressed even harder.  “He wanted to check up on the shipment.  Make sure it was secure, and he is going to be pissed, like killin’ pissed, that I got so close to it without anyone seeing me.  Where were you?  Asleep?  Jerkin’ it to a picture of your sister?  What the fuck is wrong with you?  I’m going to give Tony a call and tell him how fucked up you are.”  Ed reached into his pocket for his cell phone, “and drop the gun before I shove it up your ass!”

Despite what he was saying, Ed was terrified, but it was looking like his gamble was paying off.  He took the opportunity to discretely get a few steps closer  Apparently, this guy only got talked to like that when he screwed up.  The shotgun barrel was pointed at the floor now.

"Whoa man, no need to get the boss involved here,"  the man said holding his left hand out in a placating gesture.  "I do want to know your name th-"

Ed saw his opportunity, “Oh that fuckin’ tears it!  I come in here!” Ed stepped closer, “To do my Job!  I find you fucking up, then you ask me my fuckin’ name!?  You know what, you’re going to call Tony.  Now!  To tell him what a fuck up you are!”

Ed had won.  The man started to juggle the shotgun to his left hand to reach for his phone in his jacket.  He took his eyes off of Ed just long enough for Ed to make his move.  Ed grabbed the shotgun’s muzzle with his left and the stock with his right as swiftly as he could.  Then in one flowing motion, slammed the butt of the gun as hard as he could into the man’s temple.  His broken hand screamed a protest at him that threatened to knock him out, but Ed’s friend adrenaline block for him.  Ed heard the flat packing sound as the gun butt slammed home.  For a split second he could see the man’s surprise before the spark of consciousness in his eyes was shut off like a light, and he fell to the floor.  Ed could hear the guy breathing though, so he was still alive

Ed knew he didn’t have long before the guy woke up.  To give him a little more time, and because it felt like the right thing to do, Ed kicked him hard in the back of the head. He then ran to a nearby workstation, looking for anything he could use to tie this guy up.  He found some heavy duty zip-ties and went back to the unconscious guard.  Doing the best he could, he used four of them to hog-tie the big bastard.

Only once that was done did Ed take a moment to catch his breath.  Then he thought how close he actually came to being ventilated.  His hand, which hadn’t stopped hurting was now on fire.  Ed looked down at his captive and realized he just got a treasure trove on information.  How do I fit him in the van?

20th June 2013


Attempt at Noir, Part III

For a multi-million dollar a year company, Putnam Gummy had laughably inadequate locks.  Ed crept around corners, winding his way through the loading dock.  The place was air-conditioned which gave him a much appreciated respite from the crushing humidity outside.  He’d left the lights turned off to make it harder for any internal security cameras to identify him.  While Lorraine would have kept him out of any serious trouble, he didn’t want to risk Howard warning whoever owned the mysterious moving van that someone was on to them.  Unfortunately, leaving the lights out made navigation a nightmare.  In the back of his mind he imagined a scenario where he got lost in this darkened labyrinth, his body being found weeks later, trapped beneath a fallen gummy crate, and having scratched out all the eyes of the slightly disturbing Putnam Gummy cartoon mascot worms that were painted on the boxes.

Ed continued his journey through the rows of snack containers until he found the staging area for packages that were to be shipped tomorrow.  He looked around for any clue as to where the van’s cargo may have been hidden, assuming that it was.  Ed thought it would be about now that Humphrey Bogart would find some recent drag mark on the ground or a blood splatter that would lead him right to his goal.  Too bad life doesn’t often throw lucky breaks like that.  Ed looked around and found nothing.  The floor was covered in drag marks but there were so many he couldn’t decipher any useful data, and there wasn’t a blood spatter in sight.  Ed was  partly glad for that.  The last thing he wanted was to pick up Hepatitis in a candy factory.

He continued his search for some sign, any sign, while fighting to remain methodical in the face of mounting frustration.  After what seemed like ages, Ed finally gave in and punched a box.  Instead of striking what should have been the soft, forgiving squishiness of a box loaded with gummy worms, he felt a harsh impact run up his arm and a slight *pop* in his fingers and wrist.  Then the pain hit like a meteor.  It was blinding.  Ed let slip a sharp, hard yelp then quickly shut himself up cradling his wounded arm while tears welled up in his eyes.

Trying to let everyone and their mother know you’re here, idiot?  Ed thought to himself.  He watched the tiny bubbles race around his eye balls with a detached interest until they started to clear and his vision slowly returned.  When he was confident he could actually see what he was doing,  Ed stepped over to an adjacent box and kicked it.  The box broke and a bag of gummy worms, slightly disturbing mascot and all, fell out of the fresh hole.  Ed went back to the box he’d broken his and upon and delivered the same swift kick.  A dull thud greeted his efforts.

Maybe lucky breaks do happen every once in a while, Ed thought and, despite the pain, couldn’t help but grin at the terrible pun.  Unsure if he’d hit pay dirt but feeling his rising expectation, Ed unsheathed his K-Bar that he carried.  The heavy blade made short work of the scotch tape that held the top of the box closed.  He found a small step ladder propped up against another one of the boxes, and he dragged it over to peek inside the box he’d just opened.  He starred down at what he had uncovered and found a solid oak crate starring back at him.  Once again using the heavy knife blade, Ed popped open the top of the crate, and his eyes opened wide.  He re-sheathed the K-Bar and reached for his camera.  He had in fact hit pay dirt in the form of a crate full of Kalashnikovs and plastic explosive.

Ed took a few quick snap shots of the crate’s contents, and his heart was jumping around in his chest.  His elation was however, short lived.  From behind Ed heard the characteristic *Ching-Chak* of a pump action shotgun.  A deep, husky voice asked in concert with the shotgun, “Who the fuck are you?”

19th June 2013


Attempt at Noir, Part II

It had been a few days since Ed’s encounter with the woman in the pale red dress.  It turns out her name was Lorraine Putnam, of local Putnam Gummy Candy fame.  If you could call that fame.  Purveyors of candies aren’t exactly in the public eye like say, professional football players or teachers who advocate prayer in school.  You’d think that as much as people complain about things, they’d pay more attention to who’s making the stuff they cram into their faces.

Ed was in his detested van.  it was a 2008 Chevy Express with rust up under the wheel wells.  Living near the ocean just isn’t kind on things made of steel, and the salt air had certainly taken its toll on Ed’s Chevy.  Ed had probably sunk what the vehicle was worth back into it to turn the van into the ultimate surveillance vehicle: audio and video processing computers, multiple GPS hook ups, storage for a variety of cameras, microphones, and range finders, backup generators, and an extra fuel tank.  He especially congratulated himself on installing a functioning refrigerator and microwave.  It had anything and everything that could help a determined detective avoid going back to the office for days.  To be honest, Ed was proud of his van.  He just hated how much time he spent in it.  Thus it was detested.

He was parked about a quarter of a mile away from the Putnam Gummy distribution plant on yet another stake out.  Fortunately, this time, he was looking for an actual criminal instead of just a moral deviant.  You see, Mrs. Putnam, in all her frost gazing glory, had been noticing several discrepancies in her paperwork for the past few months.  It seems that outgoing shipments were headed to their destinations lighter in their manifests than they should have been.  Those same shipments were also taking longer than usual and the company’s fuel expenditure was steadily rising because of it.  Lorraine had tried to keep everything in house, but whoever or whatever was responsible for Putnam’s monetary hemorrhage was fairly good at covering his, her, or its tracks.  Mrs. Putnam had hired Ed to find the culprit.

This isn’t a rare occurrence.  Many times that a company should probably call the police to investigate for them, they don’t.  This decision stems from the reasoning that a major company runs a high risk of turning a police investigation into a media circus.  This also has the affect of alerting the perpetrator that their corporate victim is onto them.  The company’s sales plummet, and next thing you know, a once proud member of the private sector community is lucky to be selling lemonade next to fifth grade girl.  Instead, companies call private investigators to do three things: find out the information they need, be discrete in their process, and, most importantly, keep their mouth shut.  Ed had never run a corporate case before, and the paycheck was great.  He was given  five thousand up front with the promise of ten thousand upon completion.

The downside to this job was that it promised to be just as boring as a “Mr. Infidelity/ Ms. Intern/ Mrs. Infidelity” love triangle.  Ed had been parked here for the better part of two days staring through binoculars at the comings and goings of trucks that were supposedly loaded with nothing more malevolent than gummy worms.  Ed lit up another cigarette.  He’d gone through two packs already since this stake out started.  His parabolic microphone hadn’t picked up anything worthy of note.  Only two things that seemed out of the ordinary had happened over the past two days.  On the first day, a hobo had relieved himself in a dumpster on the far side of the parking lot, and tonight the plant manager was staying far longer that he did last night.  The great thing about modern thermal optics is that with them you can see damn near anything.  The bad thing is that includes private bodily functions.

Ed took a deep draw off of the Camel red he’d sparked up, savoring the bitter, acrid taste and thinking that this was the single most lucrative waste of time he’d ever engaged in.  Then a truck that he’d never seen before pulled into the parking lot.  This wasn’t one of the tractor trailers that have been coming and going.  It looked like a moving van with a beefed up suspension, tinted windows, and an extended cargo pod.  The driver was doing his best to look inconspicuous.  He was about as inconspicuous as you can be in a thirty foot box truck.  He also seemed to be doing everything possible to avoid hitting the copious number of pot holes in the parking lot.  Ed tracked his thermals onto the van to try and get a glimpse at what was inside it.

Ed could see into the cab plain enough.  There were two occupants, both with lit cigarettes.  Other than the brief middle finger to one another they were both quite still.  When Ed tried to look into the cargo space, but it was a dead zone.  Nothing was coming off of that thing.  I could see that hobo taking a crap in a dumpster.  What needs that kind of shielding? Ed thought.

Just as the van pulled into a parking spot, a man in a suit came out of the plant’s office.  Even from a quarter mile away Ed could tell two things about this man.  First, he was the plant manager, Howard Clint.  Second, Howard was bowel voidingly terrified.  He walked across the parking lot like a mouse doing his best not to wake a cat that was sleeping in a corner.  Howard’s path led him to the passenger side of the van. Ed had the sneaking suspicion that he was forgetting something as he watched Mr. Clint wilt and nod repeatedly then give a for the van to drive to one of the loading docks.  Ed was listening to his parbolic while he was watching, but any voice that he picked up he couldn’t separate from the growl of the van’s engine.  Looks like I’ll have to sort through the recording.  Shouldn’t be that hard.

The van crept out of its parking space to follow the plant manager’s direction.  It docked, the van’s engine was shut off, and the driver and passenger climbed out of the van followed by a thick haze of smoke.  As they climbed out they both lit up fresh cigarettes and continued their conversation.  One of them was a Buccaneers fan and the other was a Rays fan.  Even though they were different sports altogether didn’t stop them from arguing for a half hour chain smoking the whole time.  The conversation had escalated from near-friendly small talk and was spiraling to an inevitable violent encounter.  Before the first punch could be thrown a man came out of the loading dock via a side door.  The newcomer’s arrival had brought the potential belligerents out of their nicotine fueled rage.  “The stuff is loaded up.  Get out of here before anyone else notices you’re here.  Go on.  Leave,” the third man said.  Not needing to be told twice, the smokers got back into the van, started it up, and drove off much less cautiously than when they arrived.

Ed stayed at his post and continued to watch as Howard Clint sped off into the night a few minutes later.  During the whole event, Ed had smoked a few more cigarettes himself.  He got up and walked into the back of the van to go over the recordings his parabolic had taken.  He wanted to get started sifting through the audio to maybe find out what was in that moving truck.  His eyes shot open with horror then immediately closed with dismay as he immediately saw what he had forgotten.  While the parabolic microphone was on, the recording switch was in the “off” position.

Ed knew, like he knew his bones were made of calcium, that van’s contents were a necessary part to cracking his case.  He couldn’t wait for the normal truck traffic to come back and haul away his evidence the next day.  Hating what he decided he had to do, Ed grabbed a small bag that he kept his lock picks in, stepped out out of his van, and started the trek to the distribution plant.

19th June 2013


Attempt at Noir, Part I

It had been a slow couple of years.  Not dead, but not exactly exciting.  Just slow.  Ed reflected on all the slow cases he’d been commissioned for.  They were mostly cheating spouses intermixed with over protective parents trying to keep their kids from being kids.  Ed didn’t exactly care.  Those people paid his bills and as long they kept paying, he’d keep spying for them.  Ed ad eaten more bad Chinese take out than he’d thought possible without needing a triple bypass.  Being a private detective is not what those old Humphrey Bogart movies made it out to be.  There were a lot fewer hot dames and a lot more feeling like a sick voyeur.

Ed at the moment wasn’t, thankfully, sitting in an unmarked van outside some sleazeball’s house waiting to see if Mr. Infidelity really was porking Ms. Single Intern.  No, right now he was at his desk putting together the files and pictures for Mrs. Infidelity to take to her future divorce proceedings.

Thank God for scotch, Ed thought.  For some reason the combined tastes of Glennlivett and Cheez-its helped him put his thoughts in order while assembling case files.  Too bad that vending machine only had the white cheddar flavor.  The texture doesn’t do the scotch justice.

At that moment, the door to E’d office opened and a feminine scent filled the air.  Surprised, Ed looked up to see who had interrupted his filing ritual and saw a slender woman in a pale red dress.  Not pink, just a soft red.  Thinking that this is new, he brushed the Cheez-it crumbs off his shirt and started to stand to make his introduction.

"Excuse me, but who are you and I hope you noticed this office is currently closed," Ed said as he stood up.  At the same time he noticed he went a little overboard on the scotch this time and had to catch himself on his desk.  The woman’s expression said that she didn’t notice so he acted like he didn’t either.

That’s when he actually saw the face beneath her expression.  Her face was sculpted.  Not in a blocky or obtuse way.  It was as if a master sculptor decided to make the face of a woman and created the earthly equivalent of Venus.  It was also a face that looked very angry at the person it beheld.

"I hope you don’t try to shoo away all potential paying customers like that," she said.  It was then that Ed felt a chill come off of her.  It could probably freeze helium if left to its own devices.  That chill was unlike anything Ed had ever felt.  He now understood what it felt like to have someone walk over your grave if by " walk" they meant "excavate it with a backhoe."  He stood there feeling naked in Antarctica.

After a moment, Ed shook himself in the hopes of throwing off the woman’s aura of heat-death and responded, “Not typically, but people seeking my services typically show up during business hours.  Not two hours till midnight on a weekend.  Please come back between the hours of eight AM and four PM on Monday.  Also call ahead next time.”  Under normal circumstances, Ed may have tried to coax a woman who looked like her out of that pale red dress.  These were not normal circumstances.  Between her interrupting his filing ritual, her veiled insult to his client handling techniques, and her absolute zero temperature, Ed just wanted her out of his office.

Ed started to sit back down and return to his filing ritual.  He was confident that he’d made his position clear.  He was looking forward to turning up the thermostat when the implacable female strode over to him, pulled a thick yellow envelope out of her purse, and threw it on the desk in front of him.  It spilled open, scattering his files and small pieces of paper over the floor.  There was only so much he could take, even from a beautiful woman.  Ed was about to protest and demand she remove herself until he noticed that each of those small pieces of paper had green tinted portraits of Benjamin Franklin staring at him.  The machinery that kept his brain going screeched to a halt.  After a moment that seemed to take up what remained of the years until he retired, Ed’s mind got going again and he looked back at her.

Her eyes bored into his with the unstoppable certainty and temperature of a glacier and she said, “Mr. Hampton you may find I’m not your typical customer and I have work for you to do.”

Tagged: ProseFictionNoir

18th June 2013


One Of My Few Attempts at Writing Fiction

The Dagger’s Tip


            “Fox Three!”-a split second later, the Lieutenant Colonel squeezed the trigger on his control stick and an AIM -120 AMRAAM, a hundred and fifty-two kilogram chunk of rocket propellant and explosive warhead, leaped away from his F-22 Raptor, and careened away on a suicide course.  Lieutenant Colonel Swartzman was sure this one would splash the bandit he and his flight had been stalking for the better part of six hours, but his target immediately started to dart off in a direction that no earthly craft could have ever matched.  It increased speed and gained altitude while banking around to the right.  The missile that he’d been sure would hit couldn’t keep an intercept course on the jet black, thick arrowhead shaped vehicle. That thing must be pulling twenty or thirty gees, Swartzman thought to himself with horrified surprise.  The Lieutenant Colonel’s flight scattered trying to get away from their prey turned predator.  Just then the LTC noticed that this thing was starting to settle in behind him.

            Swartzman popped his countermeasures and veered away just in time to see white hot streams of burning atmosphere streak past him through the sky he used to occupy.  Even over the roar of his turbines and through the polymer glass of his cockpit canopy he could hear the thunderclap of whatever the alien craft was shooting.  He pulled his F-22 through a series of lazy “S”s dodging the incoming fire and setting his flares to continuous release as he contemplated a way to get out of this predicament.

            No one was sure why flares worked against the targeting systems of enemy aircraft.  The only theory the eggheads had been able to come up with was that they used an infrared lidar system for ranging. The flares must burn at just the right temperature that scrambled the return image.  Unfortunately, their fighters were maneuverable enough to dodge even the AIM 120.  The only times that the Arrowheads were ever shot down in air-to-air combat were killed with cannons or sheer overwhelming missile fire.  If twenty Raptors were shot down and succeeded in killing one Arrowhead, the mission was a success.   On top of that, each Arrowhead that had been splashed had been too damaged for the eggheads to study its components. 

            Swartzman continued his escape from the Arrowhead, desperately diving for more speed.  He was now resigned to die at the hands of something he’d never seen outside of its devilishly effective aircraft.  The longer he lasted against his enemy the longer his flight would have to get away.  At least he’d sacrifice himself to save the people under his command.  The numbers on Swartzman’s altimeter plummeted and the suburban landscape below his battleground was swelling quickly to life size.  The Raptor’s airframe shuttered ever so slightly as he passed the sound barrier.  Just as the Lieutenant Colonel was about to pull up, he had an idea and stopped his flares for a split second and his fingers flew over the cockpit’s keypad.

            The Arrowhead straightened its course, lining up the shot that would finish the Lieutenant Colonel off.  Swartzman, in the back of his mind felt the searing beams of energy that seemed destined to burn him and his one hundred and fifty million dollar aircraft out of the sky.  At the very last moment before the ground would have claimed him instead of the Arrowhead, Swartzman popped off every single flare he had.  He pulled back on the stick as hard as he could and felt the blood being pushed out of his brain by the nine or ten gees crushing him into his seat.  His vision started to fade and his head was pounding from the lack of oxygen.  He tensed knowing that if his plan didn’t work he only had moments before he was turned into an expanding cloud of gas.  But he kept right on breathing.  He leveled out his fighter and turned back to see what exactly had happened.

            Amid the storefronts and abandoned homes there was a streak of brown earth with none of the fire that would have come from a jet crashing.  The streak stretched for about a half mile.  Swartzman followed it with his eyes to a parking lot right across the street from a Denny’s diner.  Lying in the parking lot like a crippled bird of prey was his pursuer.  The Arrowhead that had been chasing him was now half buried in the earth and its nose pointing defiantly toward the sky and its starboard side hidden by the concrete wreckage of the parking lot.

            Swartzman wasn’t sure who was more surprised between him and the enemy pilot.  Once his heart rate had returned to something approaching normal, Lieutenant Colonel Swartzman, United States Air Force, broke radio silence and transmitted a brief message.  “Kraken Command this is Dagger Six.  We may have just captured our first Arrowhead, over.”

Tagged: prosefiction

6th May 2013

Post with 2 notes

Behold I am Shiva, destroyer of worlds

Ok.  So I’ve been looking at the numbers on Relativistic Kill Vehicles.  For those of you who don’t know, a relativistic kill vehicle is a theoretical weapon (If you couldn’t get that from the name alone) that works off the simple principle of ramming one object into another at high speed.  It’s the same as a bullet really.  Just imagine that the bullet masses around one hundred thousand metric tonnes and it’s velocity is easiest to say in fractions of the speed of light (see .8”c”).  So I did the math on this mother using the lowly kinetic energy formula K.E. = .5m*v^2=.5(200,000,000kg)*[(.8)(299000000m/s)^2] (of course using meters per second for velocity and kilograms for mass.  Fuck Imperial units.)  That gave me the joules created in the impact which was around 5.72*10^(24) joules.  That is a massive amount of energy.  That is a FUCK EVERYTHING amount of energy. 

Thinking that maybe I was just being intimidated by the numbers and that maybe it wasn’t THAT much because, in terms of explosive yield, a metric tonne of TNT, when detonated, makes a bang produces about 4.184 billion (with a “b”) joules.  I took that Fuck Everything number up there and divided it by the number a joules equal to a metric tonne of TNT going off giving me the yield tonnes or what we use to measure thermonuclear warheads.  What I got was shocking.  1.37*10^(15) yield tonnes.  To give you an historical example Little Boy, the bomb that leveled Hiroshima was 2.2*10^(4) or 22 thousand yield tonnes.

To put this simply a craft that masses one hundred thousand metric tonnes hitting a planetary surface at 80% of the speed of light would release an absolute minimum of 1.37 tehtrillion yield tonnes of impact force.  Over 62 billion (once again, with a “b”) times the power of Little Boy.  It could also be said as 67% of the energy released by the sun in one second.

If the human race ever encounter aliens, I hope we have these things first.

Tagged: sciencephysicsweaponsprose

19th July 2012


The Results of My School Mandated Personality Test

Your Signature Themes


"Red Phister"

Many years of research conducted by The Gallup Organization suggest that the most effective people are those who understand their strengths and behaviors. These people are best able to develop strategies to meet and exceed the demands of their daily lives, their careers, and their families.

A review of the knowledge and skills you have acquired can provide a basic sense of your abilities, but an awareness and understanding of your natural talents will provide true insight into the core reasons behind your consistent successes.

Your Signature Themes report presents your five most dominant themes of talent, in the rank order revealed by your responses to StrengthsFinder. Of the 34 themes measured, these are your “top five.”

Your Signature Themes are very important in maximizing the talents that lead to your successes. By focusing on your Signature Themes, separately and in combination, you can identify your talents, build them into strengths, and enjoy personal and career success through consistent, near-perfect performance.


You look back. You look back because that is where the answers lie. You look back to understand the present. From your vantage point the present is unstable, a confusing clamor of competing voices. It is only by casting your mind back to an earlier time, a time when the plans were being drawn up, that the present regains its stability. The earlier time was a simpler time. It was a time of blueprints. As you look back, you begin to see these blueprints emerge. You realize what the initial intentions were. These blueprints or intentions have since become so embellished that they are almost unrecognizable, but now this Context theme reveals them again. This understanding brings you confidence. No longer disoriented, you make better decisions because you sense the underlying structure. You become a better partner because you understand how your colleagues came to be who they are. And counterintuitively you become wiser about the future because you saw its seeds being sown in the past. Faced with new people and new situations, it will take you a little time to orient yourself, but you must give yourself this time. You must discipline yourself to ask the questions and allow the blueprints to emerge because no matter what the situation, if you haven’t seen the blueprints, you will have less confidence in your decisions.


Command leads you to take charge. Unlike some people, you feel no discomfort with imposing your views on others. On the contrary, once your opinion is formed, you need to share it with others. Once your goal is set, you feel restless until you have aligned others with you. You are not frightened by confrontation; rather, you know that confrontation is the first step toward resolution. Whereas others may avoid facing up to life’s unpleasantness, you feel compelled to present the facts or the truth, no matter how unpleasant it may be. You need things to be clear between people and challenge them to be clear-eyed and honest. You push them to take risks. You may even intimidate them. And while some may resent this, labeling you opinionated, they often willingly hand you the reins. People are drawn toward those who take a stance and ask them to move in a certain direction. Therefore, people will be drawn to you. You have presence. You have Command.


“When can we start?” This is a recurring question in your life. You are impatient for action. You may concede that analysis has its uses or that debate and discussion can occasionally yield some valuable insights, but deep down you know that only action is real. Only action can make things happen. Only action leads to performance. Once a decision is made, you cannot not act. Others may worry that “there are still some things we don’t know,” but this doesn’t seem to slow you. If the decision has been made to go across town, you know that the fastest way to get there is to go stoplight to stoplight. You are not going to sit around waiting until all the lights have turned green. Besides, in your view, action and thinking are not opposites. In fact, guided by your Activator theme, you believe that action is the best device for learning. You make a decision, you take action, you look at the result, and you learn. This learning informs your next action and your next. How can you grow if you have nothing to react to? Well, you believe you can’t. You must put yourself out there. You must take the next step. It is the only way to keep your thinking fresh and informed. The bottom line is this: You know you will be judged not by what you say, not by what you think, but by what you get done. This does not frighten you. It pleases you.


You are fascinated by ideas. What is an idea? An idea is a concept, the best explanation of the most events. You are delighted when you discover beneath the complex surface an elegantly simple concept to explain why things are the way they are. An idea is a connection. Yours is the kind of mind that is always looking for connections, and so you are intrigued when seemingly disparate phenomena can be linked by an obscure connection. An idea is a new perspective on familiar challenges. You revel in taking the world we all know and turning it around so we can view it from a strange but strangely enlightening angle. You love all these ideas because they are profound, because they are novel, because they are clarifying, because they are contrary, because they are bizarre. For all these reasons you derive a jolt of energy whenever a new idea occurs to you. Others may label you creative or original or conceptual or even smart. Perhaps you are all of these. Who can be sure? What you are sure of is that ideas are thrilling. And on most days this is enough.


You play out alternative scenarios, always asking, “What if this happened? Okay, well what if this happened?” This recurring question helps you see around the next corner. There you can evaluate accurately the potential obstacles. Guided by where you see each path leading, you start to make selections. You discard the paths that lead nowhere. You discard the paths that lead straight into resistance. You discard the paths that lead into a fog of confusion. You cull and make selections until you arrive at the chosen path—your strategy. Armed with your strategy, you strike forward. This is your Strategic theme at work: “What if?” Select. Strike.

335737840 (Red Phister)

© 2000, 2006-2012 Gallup, Inc. All rights reserved.

18th July 2012


Into the Rabbit Whole

Burn. Burn.
For Every Turn There Must Be Another.
Spread The Justice.
This is your burning hand.
Crimson Armor.
Its just heavier than air nerve gas.