He's a Kenyan

Cigar in mouth, dripping hot ash in the grass of the football field, barrel shaped Limbaugh put an arm on Obama's shoulders.

"You'll do great," the pundit said, puffing out an asthmatic cloud of smog.

Obama, standing out in the cold on the track in shorts looked at his competitors. "I don't see why I have to go through with this."

"The American people need to know," Rush replied. "They deserve to know. The race is to ensure that you, my Hawaiian friend, are . . uh . . . fit for office."

"Oh come on Rush," Obama complained, "an hour of basketball a morning doesn't count?"

Rush blew another grey smoke cloud into the cold morning fog. "Oh it helps, but this allows us to quantify. Get on the track!"

Obama took his place. Next to him was a Kenyan. And another Kenyan. Then it dawned on the President, they were all Kenyan. Obama looked at his competition in wonder. What stunt were the neocons pulling now?

Limbaugh pulled out a gun, pointed it straight in the air and pulled the trigger. The race had begun. Obama put his whole body into it, Nike sneakers propelling him forward with all his might. He found that he could stay with the pack, but was unable to pass the leader. And soon, it was all over. Fifth place.

"The results are in," Limbaugh said. "you were only point nine three seconds off from the lead. You are most assuredly Kenyan. The impeachment trial begins tomorrow."

Authors note: It actually sickens me that the neocons are pushing this ridiculous conspiracy on the President

Don't Call Me Suzie

Suzetta's twin swords lie uselessly on the ground, ten feet away from her. Three ruffians stood at close range, pointing swords at her. Her back was to a stone wall, her hands clenched into fists. She could smell the alcoholic stench of their breath. Her heart was beating rapidly. Suzetta was sweating, fear had gripped her, fear and something worse. Anger. A blood red haze distorted her vision.

Blood dripped from a cut on her forehead.

"Looky what we caught ourselves here!" said one ruffian.
"And ain't she a beaut, oh I am going to enjoy her tonight," the second one sneered.
"After I'm done with her," the first replied. "Whats your name pretty girl?"

She spat in his face. He laughed, a rancorous halting sound.

"Her name's Suzetta," the third one said, "she work's for Tomas's crime ring. I use to work for that bastard."
"Aw, he won't mind if we borrow the young lass for the night." the first returned.
"No matter, I ain't afraid of Tomas, little Suzie here is gonna provide us with a good night tonight." The second ruffian grinned, revealing gaped yellow teeth.

She snapped. Catlike, she pounced, hands and feet becoming weapons. Within a second it was over. She had the ruffian in a lock, with his sword pressed against his neck.

"Don't call me Suzie," she snarled in his ear, and then slit his throat. He slumped to the ground. The other two ran after her. She rolled out of the way and picked up her twin swords. She slash off the hand of the first ruffian and before he could scream, plunged her second sword through his heart. The third one swung at her but she easily parried and impaled him through the stomach. Eyes wide, he gasped and collapsed, clutching his stomach, his hands reddening with blood.

"Don't call me Suzie," she repeated.

And then left.

Author's note: Suzetta is a character of a much larger story. She is a thief and an assassin. This particular scene came to mind as I was writing her larger story, but it really doesn't have a home, so I put it here. I might use it, I might not.

Victory for the God of Murder

The Warrior Priest named Nathasius stood looking out a window in a chamber, high in a tower, overlooking the ruined realm of Reikland. From the window, he could see the encampments of the evil followers of the Raven God. The Chaos warhost host was here. the city of Praag was burning. He could see the smoke from his window. He could hear the relentless screams of agony. He could smell the blood and the fire. Reikland was falling. Praag was the last line of defense before Altdorf, the capital, the shining beacon of light and hope. A beacon of justice under the blessings of Sigmar. But the warhost had come and was now within miles of Altdorf.

Nathasius was getting old. Like most of the priests, he was bald, but his short beard was white with age. His eyes were wizened and worry had wrinkled his brow. But he wasn't useless. Over his bloodred robes, he wore a steal breastplate and pauldrons. His ornate warhammer leaned against the wall, ready for his calloused and war-hardened hands

Nathasius left the window and returned to his desk. He consulted scripture, desperately seeking away to turn back these vile Chaos cultists. The power of Sigmar could not be undone by the Raven god! It could not be undone! He opened the book and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. With reflexes like a cat, he had his hands on his warhammer, and he caught the blow of two sharp, bloodstained swords with its metal handle. Nathasius and his assailant were locked together for a short moment that lasted an eternity.

She was a dark elf. She was tall and pale, taller than Nathasius and Nathasius was considered tall by human standards. She was chillingly beautiful. Her white hair flowed down to the small of her back. Some of it was tied up into a ponytail. Two thin braids hung down past her pointed ears. Her eyes were a chilling yellow. She wore dark blue robes, stained with blood, and her steel swords, cruel instruments of torture, dripped onto the wooden floor. Nathasius could actually see the blood haze in the elf's eyes. Those yellow eyes that branded her as a Disciple of Khaine, the dark god of murder.

He pushed back. She stepped back. He swung. She parried with one sword and he dodged as she struck out with the other. She swung again and again they were locked together, holy warhammer against twin blasphemous blades. Her foot shot out and caught Nathasius in the stomach. The man smashed through the walls of the chamber, bricks and mortar collapsed and Nathasius fell, the ground below him hundreds of feet away. He cried a quick plea to Sigmar and then felt a gentle breeze that let him down. He landed on his feet in a courtyard, where a Raven zealot still hung from the gallows. He looked in horror at the bodies of the dead lying strewn about the courtyard. The stones were slick with red blood. She had killed them all.

From the hole in the wall, he saw her standing, her swords at her side. Furious to see that her quarry was still alive, she jumped. By some evil grace, she landed like a cat.

"Sigmar always saves those who have faith," the priest said, almost in a whisper.
"He won't save you," the disciple replied in a snarl.

She assaulted. Her savage blows came one after another, her speed and agility was almost too much for Nathasius. But still he held on. He jumped onto the stone steps leading back into the tower and swung at her head, but she ducked out of the way. One of her swords ripped into his thigh. He cried out as blood poored from the wounds. The jagged weapon ripped into more flesh as she yanked it out. He collapsed and toppled down the steps. She stood over him triumphantly, about to make the killing blow. He blocked it with his warhammer. Calling for Sigmar's grace, he hit her, square in the chest and she flew into a daze against the gallows. The gallows cracked and collapsed, bringing the dead cultist down with it.

She cursed and invoked Khaine's wrath and struggled up. Nathasius was there. He took a mighty swing at her. But then stopped as her sword entered his stomach. The warhammer dropped with a thud.

"Khaine!" she shrieked victoriously. She yanked her sword out hard. Nathasius collapsed, his eyes widening to the excrutiating pain ripped into him. One bloodied hand clutched his entrails as he lie on the courtyard dying. As his vision faded, he watched the Disciple of Khaine leave the courtyard, as if she was on a summer stroll. Sigmar would not save Altdorf.

Nothing would save Altdorf.

At least the pain had ceased.

Author's note: This event was inspired by a quest in Warhammer. I was tasked to kill this computer-controlled guy in a tower on my character, a Disciple of Khaine, which I did. As I was doing it, I was wondering about Nathasius (the guy I was tasked to kill) and what his perspective would be if some evil dark elf had come into the door intent on killing him. Unfortunately, the game's physics didn't allow me to kick him through a wall.

The Disciple of Khaine and the Warrior Priest are mirror classes for Destruction and Order factions in the game. They both are front line, melee/healer types with a few variations on the theme that make them unique. As such, you'll notice they both pray/invoke to their respective gods to help them during during the fight, they both have similar abilities and yet at the same time are opposites. Nathasius is good, the Disciple is evil. Sigmar is benevolent, Khaine, malevolent. Nathasius stands for justice and light, the disciple stands for death and darkness.

The Old Guitarist

I was rather impressed with the old guitarist I met the other day. He was at a bonfire in the park at night, playing some old Woodie Guthrie songs. It was just him and his guitar, the melodies drifted into the soft cool night, a perfect blend of human voice and guitar string.

He was selling tapes. But no CD's. Nothing digital. Being 2008, I was shocked to see that. I wasn't even sure if cassette decks still existed in stores anywhere.

I told him he should burn his music onto a CD.

He asked me why he'd want to burn a CD? He asked me, is it better than firewood?

I looked at him odd. I then explained to him that burning a CD is the act of putting music onto one.

He nodded as if he understood. I handed him a blank CD and was about to tell him how it worked, but suddenly, he threw the disk into the fire. He pulled out his guitar and started singing into the fire.

Maidenform

You'd think I'd be embarrassed by working at a store like Maidenform and being a guy, but it was the only job available in town and I have college bills. It actually isn't so bad, I run the counter and stock the shelves. They obviously don't let me in the changing rooms. If a girl needs to try something on, there's another female employee around to help out.

So one day I'm behind the counter bored as hell. I'd listen to my iPod but the manager's a bit of prick and doesn't allow such amenities, even though it's a Thursday morning and there hasn't been a customer in thirty minutes. She was out back busy with paperwork. The door chimed and a large fat man came in. He wore a plain black tee-shirt and jeans. Paul Bunyan could have poked three holes in him and used him as a bowling ball. He went over to the racks where the large bras were. Not the Pamela Anderson large, but the fat opera singer large. He picked out several bras, some of them pink and frilly and then came up to me at the counter.

"Those for the wife?" I asked genially, making small talk.
"No," he said in all seriousness and without an ounce of shame, "I'd like to try these on."
I paused.
"Fitting rooms are behind the um . . . what?"
"I'd like to try these on."
"Behind the racks over there," I pointed. I wanted to laugh or cry but couldn't.
"I'd like your assistance," he said.
I no longer wanted to laugh. Just cry.
"It's uh, against policy for uh, male employees to go into the fitting rooms. Yeah, policy."
"Oh cut that out," the man replied. "You made that up."
"Look man, I wouldn't know how to put on a bra! Take one off, yeah sure, but . . . why me?"
"I just need someone who can see that they'll fit."
"I uh . . . there are mirrors."
"But I need to know how they look."
"How they look . . . not to be mean but . . . you're a guy . . . in a bra. . . Shannon?"
The manager came out.
"Whats the problem?" she asked.
"This gentlemen would like to try on some bras, but needs assistance."
"Look in the policies, only members of the same sex can share stalls, you go with him."

This job sucks.

The Five Pointed Condom

"Holy crap!" Jeff cried out, pointing to a pile of latex that sat on the counter. "Look at that there condom! Man, I didn't know a feller could come equiped like that! You could do five girls simultaneously! Five! Holy Jesus, havin' five peckers!"
"Uh that's a latex glove . . ." I muttered.
Jeff was silent a moment.
"Oh. Well shoot."

***********

I was headed down the street when I ran into Sarah.
"Hi! You missed me at the supermarket!" she gushed.
"Missed? More like, 'narrowly avoided'" I replied.
Somehow, that upset her.

***********

FAR 91.15 states that no pilot in command of a civil aircraft may drop an object from an aircraft in flight that can cause a hazard. However, this section does not prohibit the dropping of objects if reasonable precaution is taken to avoid injury or damage.

So I shouted "Look out below" from my Skyhawk before I dropped the toilet paper rolls.

That's a reasonable precaution.

Isn't it?

***********

"Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob and Ann! Don't eat my ham! Bob bob bob, Bob and Ann, don't take my ham!" He was singing.

"Those aren't the words!" I said.

Brian Wilson rolled in his grave.

And he isn't even dead yet.

The Fall of Caledor

Orissa Darksoul stood at the end of the white stone bridge, looking across it. It spanned from the shrine to the hills beyond, crossing a deep gorge where a river flowed. The lush green hills were rent with screams of agony and grey billowing smoke rising from the fortress beyond. The keep was lost and already hundreds were racing across the bridge, the last defense before the hated forces of Order crossed en mass, a final rallying point before the whole of Caledor was lost.

Preparing herself, the Dark Elf began grasping at the Winds of Chaos, building up her Dhar and absorbing its energies. Orissa stood tall, like most elves. Her robes, if you could call them that, were a dark purple and made of rich silk, embroidered with dark designs of Chaos. The warm wind brushed against her skin, the robes did little for modesty. She was almost nude, but for the skirt and loincloth around her legs, and the ornate vest around her chest. She wore knee-high leather boots and above her flowing black hair, she wore a crown encrusted in jewels. Orissa was pale. What little warmth was left in her was her passion for power, her lust for magic and her hate for self-righteous High Elves who stole the throne of Ulthuan from Malekith, the Witch King and the rightful heir.

Beside her, the Witch Elves sharpened their deadly, blood and poison encrusted daggers. Standing tall and beautiful, the brides of Khaine wore even less than Orissa, only the bare minimums of modesty were met for the Witch Elves used their alluring beauty as their most potent weapon. Around her, the Greenskins of the Bloody Sun Boyz and the agents of Chaos, the dubious allies of the Druchii (the Dark Elves) were also preparing. The imposing green monsters, the Black Orcs, sharpened their choppas while the Chaos zealots prepared their dark rituals.

The storm was coming. The braying of horns sounded. Orissa could barely see them as they came charging down the hill towards the bridge to the shrine. Order was here. Dwarves, Humans and High Elves mixed together. Behind her, Black Orcs and goblins banged their shields and cried out "WAAAGH!" Orcs, Chaos and Druchii alike crashed into the forces of Order upon the bridge, the sounds of swords and axes and shields renting the air. Orissa released her Dhar, blowing several Order off the span, into the gorge below. But the enemy kept coming.

Arrows rained across the gorge. The hated Shadow Warriors fired arrow after arrow. Orissa jumped to the ground, the wooden shaft narrowly missing her. She unleashed her magic upon them and threw them to the ground. Chaos continued to hold the bridge, a steady line of defense. Orissa wove threads of chaos around a troublesome Bright Wizard. He responded by sending a flaming fireball at her, but she brushed it aside and tore him into pieces. But the forces of Order were numerous and Chaos was falling behind.

A Chosen took off the head of a warrior priest and then sunk his claymore into a stunty's chest but then he went down as sword and spear alike penetrated his thick armor. The Witch Elves, the lithe brides of Khaine, left their sacrifices dead on the battlefield, but arrows, bullets and Aqshy's fire were too much. The ranks on the bridge broke and a great melee broke out around the shrine.

Orissa continued to rip through the ranks of Order, tearing at the threads of chaotic magic, but slowly she felt her control of magic slip and it began to tear at her. Very painfully, she kept control over her dhar, lest it rip her apart. She unleashed the pent up magic on a dwarf, blowing his broken body into the gorge. Still, the Order crossed the bridge in great strength.

A sharp hot pain hit her shoulder and she collapsed with a cry. Ahead of her a crafty dwarf engineer was shooting at everything he could with a well built blunderbuss. With a wave of her hand, she destroyed him.

But the shrine, she could tell was lost. The grass was soaked with blood and bodies and for every dead chaos, lie ten dead Order. Chaos was losing ground. A Witch Hunter, the inquisitorial men of the Empire who hunted and destroyed Chaos with a feared zealotry, chased towards Orissa. She froze him in spot and ran, her control over her Dhar diminishing. The Witch Hunter caught her. She cried out in agony as his blade struck through her back and plunged out of her chest. She collapsed to the ground in a heap. Order carelessly trampled her lifeless body as they charged across the shrine. Caledor had fallen.

The Respawn Screen came up on the computer. I looked at the clock. 6:00 PM. My character had died and it was about time for dinner. So I logged off and went to the caf.