Magic Lessons: part 3

It had been almost ten years since my mother had died. Now, I was married and living with Kiera while Lucy and my father still lived in the house I grew up in. It had been pretty rough in the immediate aftershock, but Danny, my father, and I had coped relatively well with my mother’s death. We had some help from my grandparents, but my father and I worked together to try and take care of Danny and Lucy by ourselves as much as possible. My father would work long hours as a carpenter (which wouldn’t have been so long if he had just shifted his material into finished pieces), while I would babysit and take care of dinner after school. Danny took over my place once I moved out and started college, but I still helped on a regular basis. We worked together on a lot for Lucy’s sake. The only thing we didn’t do together very often was magic.

            Due to the stress of becoming a widow and a single parent all at once, my father had to put my magic lessons on hold. He offered to start back up again once he started teaching Danny, but by then I had started getting lessons from Kiera’s family. He wasn’t too happy about that, but he didn’t have the energy to fight me anymore. Occasionally, he would test me to make sure I was wherever I needed to be in my training or, even more rarely, to prove I was mature enough to make certain decisions. The last such test had been a demonstration of a complex fusion of styles two years prior to prove I was ready to propose to Kiera.

We were having Sunday family dinner at my dad’s house. It was me, my father, Kiera and Lucy. Danny couldn’t come home from school for the weekend. We had a good meal and were sitting back letting it digest while Lucy regaled us with her stories of her fourth grade adventures. My father leaned over and quietly confided to me, “I’m starting Lucy’s lessons next month.” Kiera heard as well, and the two of us shared a look. “Why don’t you show me that new make-up kit you were telling me about?” Kiera offered to Lucy, and they left us alone to talk.

I chose my opener carefully. “Dad, Kiera and I have been talking. We want to offer to be the ones to teach Lucy magic. We think we have a better…” “Not another word,” he interrupted, “it’s my right and my obligation to teach my little girl her magics. Why would you deny me that?” “We just think that Kiera’s family has more references to use. You’re just one teacher. Kiera’s family has dozens of experienced magicians that would be happy to help,” I pleadingly insisted. “No,” he refused, “I won’t have those people filling another of my children’s head with nonsense about druids and leprechauns.” “It’s what you learned from your parents,” I shot back. “Besides, is that any worse than telling her she’s some saint in training?”

            I endured one of the infamous intent stares for several moments. Finally he stood up, started clearing the table and, without looking at me, said “Test first.” I followed his lead on the cleaning and started washing the dishes he pulled off the table. “A test?” I asked, exasperated. “Dad, my lessons ended a few years ago. I have nothing new to show you.” “This isn’t a test of knowledge and education,” he explained without emotion, “this is a test of skill and power.”

            My eyes narrowed. “And how do you propose to test that?” I asked. He presented me with a butter knife he was bringing to the sink. “Shift this” he demanded. “Shifting?” I asked, unimpressed. “I’m not ten any more, Dad. I don’t need to shift when I can conjure.” “Let me finish,” he proposed, the familiar twinkle coming to his eye. “Shift this…using me as your tool.”

            “That’s impossible,” I laughed. “You know the truth. It won’t work.” Without another word, he held up the knife between his thumb and index finger. Hiding the bottom edge with his fingers, he slid the knife down with his other hand. As his hand came down from behind his fingers, I saw that he wasn’t holding a metal knife, but an ornately decorated strip of parchment paper. He handed it to me, smiling smugly. There, on this pretty piece of paper decorated with green Celtic runes and shamrocks, in my handwriting, was scrawled the words “I can’t shift using him as a tool.” That was the exact thought and wording going through my head before he demonstrated.

            “How?” I asked dumbfounded. “Oh, no!” he shot back. “Your lessons are done. Remember? You don’t need me to teach you this.” “And how do I know I was your tool? How do I know you’re not lying to me so you get what you want?” I challenged. He gently grasped my shoulders and regarded me with earnest. “I may bend perceptions, boy. I may omit some truths. I may even tell a real lie in a desperate situation. But I never lie to you.” He dropped his arms and then folded them as he stepped back and leaned against the sink.

            I studied him. Kiera’s family never mentioned using someone aware of the secret as a tool in any kind of magic. I couldn’t trick him. I couldn’t tell him a lie. The only thing I could think of was to use what he was thinking. I crushed the piece of paper in my hand and, using guessing magic, let go of the restored butter knife. My father looked at me expectantly.

            I stared him right in the eye and held the knife the way he just had. Without averting my gaze, I slowly pulled the knife down. As my hand came down, it brought with it a strip of leather. The moment I saw a twinkle enter my father’s eye, I redirected my focus of tool, and yanked my treasure the rest of the way down. I held in my open hand a beautiful leather-strapped wrist-watch.

            My father’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t think you understand it,” he sighed. “Look at the strap,” I suggested with a twinkle in my eye. He looked closely at the strap. Comprehension running across his face, he threw his head back and heartily laughed. He slapped the watch on his wrist, pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the forehead.

            A month later, on the first Sunday after her tenth birthday, Lucy sat at the dining room table eagerly awaiting her first magic lesson. “Science, my dear Lucy,” I started “is a matter of facts.” “Magic,” my father continued, “is a matter of ideas.” On his wrist, he was wearing the watch I shifted for him. And stamped into the leather strap, in the style of his handwriting, was scrawled the message “that’s my boy!"

Magic Lessons: part 2

When I was fifteen, I reached a new level of my training: self-altering. “Now, this particular style of magic,” my father explained, “can be used to change what you look like, what you sound like, even what you’re able to do. As always, don’t use this for your own carnal pleasures and personal gains. This magic can be very dangerous.” “But why?” I asked. “Because if you do it wrong, you could hurt yourself. This can be hard,” he replied without breaking his stride. “No,” I interrupted again, “Why can’t I use it for myself?” Until then, I had never asked a question. I never asked for an explanation. I just took what my father said for the gospel truth and trusted I’d understand it later.

            My father studied me intently, his curious look narrowing his eyebrows more and more until they turned his look into a scowl. “Because we weren’t given this ability so we could serve and please ourselves. The good Lord doesn’t bless us with gifts so that we can keep blessing ourselves.” I went for a second question, “Who do we bless with it then?” “Others,” he was quick to respond, “we are to use the gift of magic to help those who can’t help themselves.” “Who says?” I asked (this question thing was pretty easy), “it’s not like the Pope is giving speeches on the responsibilities in magic.” His cheeks reddened. “I say. The word of your father should be enough.” “And why should I trust you?” That may have been one question too many.

            Fights like that became more and more frequent. Most of them stemmed from the urge for self-serving magic. Another big chunk was due to my questioning of the origin of the gift. I didn’t understand how this could be a gift from God, if the church didn’t believe in magic. “They’re just miniature miracles,” my father tried to explain, “taught to the prophets by God and to the apostles by Christ.” It still didn’t sit right with me. I still received my lessons, but more often than not, they would end with a fight and a sentence to church to pray for forgiveness. My relationship with Kiera would be the final straw.

            Kiera wasn’t the first girl I dated, but she was definitely my first girlfriend. My father loved her when they met. How could he not? She came from a large Irish family, went to Catholic school with me, and even called David Copperfield an idiot. That first family dinner we had with her had been a huge success. At the end, my parents watched as I walked Kiera to her waiting mom’s car. After fondly watching us (and surreptitiously looking away when I kissed her cheek) my parents sat me down for a talk.

            My mother sat down gingerly at the kitchen table and signaled for me to join her. “We need to talk, Matty,” she began as my father walked in and stood behind her. “A girlfriend is a big responsibility.” “I’m not about to get the talk again, am I?” I asked, dreading the prospect. “Do you need it again?” my father asked with his familiar twinkle. “What we need to talk about,” my mother continued, ignoring the pair of us, “is what you two talk about, specifically about your special talents.” “You mean armpit farts and nose-playing?” I asked in an evasive tone. “You know what we mean, boy,” my father shot back, his twinkle dimming.

            “You are not to mention, nor use magic, in front your girl,” my father said sternly. “What! Are you serious?” I protested, “I’ve spent five years hiding an incredible gift from everyone I know. I couldn’t even tell Danny until two years ago. Haven’t I earned the right to tell who I want? This is my secret, so isn’t it my secret to share?” “This isn’t a bloody piece of cake,” he said threateningly. “This isn’t just your secret. It belongs to me, your mother, and your siblings. You give up yours, you give up everyone’s” “Still, it’s my choice. I can— wait… ‘Siblings?’ plural? As in ‘more than Danny’?” I asked confused. My mother’s lips pursed as her eyes widened. A smile widened across my father’s face, increasing his twinkle exponentially.

            My mother was due to have her first daughter in mid-April. Among other things the pregnancy helped bring peace between my father and me. Aside from being in generally better moods, we were deterred from fighting by my mother’s fragile state. She would exploit her pregnancy by coyly asking “you wouldn’t want to upset me in my delicate condition, would you?” We backed off for her, but we appreciated the respite. It worked pretty well until March rolled around.

            The first Sunday of March, my father was teaching me the concept of guessing magic in the living room. “There’re going to be a lot of times when you have no target; you’re alone, with other magicians, stuck with a bloody idiot; but you still need to use magic. The thing is there is always someone somewhere that believes that whatever you’re going to do is possible. It’s a simple concept, like most of what I’ve taught you, but difficult to put into practical use. You still need your tool. As long as you can get a good approximation of who might believe what you need to do.” His lecture lost steam when he noticed I was preoccupied with a key-chain I was shifting into a locket. His face reddened and he snatched the trinket just as I shifted it back. I had never ignored a lesson.

            “If you want to return to the basics, we can just ignore this impossibly useful practice and go back to candy bars,” my father seethed. It’d been months since we went a couple rounds so the pressure was building, but I was able to keep my cool. “I just wanted a gift for Kiera when I go to her parents’ St. Patrick’s Day party, and you still won’t let me use magic outside of lessons.” “Because if you still need lessons then you’re not ready to use it on your own. And what’s this about a party? I never gave permission. You’re not going to some irreverent excuse for getting drunk that insults my country and religion.” Well, there went my cool. “What? Mom already gave me permission. What’s the harm? It’s not like I’m going to drink. Besides, it’s an Irish tradition.” “No! My heritage is an Irish tradition. American St. Patrick’s Day is an excuse to drink and mock a great culture.”

            “Boys, please stop,” my mother moaned from her bed. The pregnancy had forced her to take frequent naps. “Sean, I talked to Kiera’s parents. Minors never get served, and the party is just a family get-together. But Matty, if you’re father says no, you can’t go.” “Then you’re not going,” he said calmly so my mother wouldn’t hear and get upset. I glared at him for several long moments, but pushed down my anger for the sake of my mother. “What if I made you a deal?” I offered when a compromise occurred to me. He studied me a little then nodded for me to continue. “You test me to prove I can do everything I’ve learned so far. I pass; I go to the party. I fail; I go to sunrise Mass with you instead.” As he considered it, a smug smile and his usual twinkle marked his face. He nodded and agreed.

            My test was to excessively use at least three magic styles to pour a glass of water. The catch was that we couldn’t leave the house to find unwitting tools, which meant I had to use the guessing process I had just learned. I got to finish the lecture, but no demonstration. I took the day to devise a plan and then, satisfied with what I had, I presented my abilities. My father set down a glass and pitcher of water and sat back with his twinkle.

            First, I showed my father Danny’s empty backpack and then reached in and pulled out a plastic action figure of the Thing from Fantastic Four. I then covered it with a white handkerchief (knowing full well the stage flourish would irritate him) and whipped it back to reveal it was now made of actual rock. Finally, I scribbled a command to pour some water and placed it the stone mouth. After closing the little jaw, the figure sprang to life and lifted the relatively giant pitcher to pour a glass. I grabbed the hero and tossed him back in the bag. It was back to being a plastic toy before it reached the bottom of the bag.

            “Explain it,” my father demanded, the lack of slyness in his speech not lost on me. “Magic is simple, right?” I asked challengingly. “Danny lost a toy he borrowed and the kid doesn’t know it’s missing yet. I used him to teleport the toy to the bag. There are kids all over the world that not only believe their action figures are real but also that their Thing toys are truly made of rock. I used that to shift the plastic to actual stone. Lastly, there are plenty of Jewish people that believe in golems. Take a stone man, place a written command in his mouth, and watch him carry out your every whim. All I had to do was write a message and I could animate him. The real problem was figuring out the necessary Hebrew. I couldn’t get past the language barrier of the myth.” My father stared at me hard and then finally grumbled, “Fine, you can go.” Unfortunately that would be the last lesson I would get from him.

            A couple weeks later, I was in Kiera’s grandmother’s basement with the rest of the “children.” Turns out my mother was right; half a dozen teenagers and not one of us could get a drink. It’s not like any of the adults would notice if we had a little, but not one of us was able to get to and from the liquor cabinet with anything good. After hours of whining and grousing, I decided to take a leap and save the party. I broke one of my father’s cardinal rules and prepared my first solo public practice of magic.

            The Canaan wedding wine pour is probably one of the easiest tricks I know. All you need is a convincing container and a convincible audience. You don’t even need water to shift if you’re good enough. I snuck upstairs and waited until one of Kiera’s uncles finished off a bottle of whiskey. “I can rinse that out and put it in the recycling for you,” I cheerily offered before filling the bottle for a rinse but not dumping the water. After that, I made a big production of “sneaking” back into the basement. What was my father thinking? I used magic in public, and I was a hero.

            After pouring several glasses I turned around to see Kiera wide-eyed and shocked. “How did you do that?” she whispered urgently. “That bottle was empty, and all you put in it was water.” Before I could say anything she poured some of the bottle’s contents into her glass; it was just water. Then she offered to top off her cousins glass: perfectly aged whiskey. I was baffled. “How did you,” I started to ask. “How did you do that,” she interrupted; her whisper getting heavier. She stared intently into my eyes, scrutinizing me, looking for something. “You’re a descendant!” she gasped.

            I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I- I’m what?” I stammered. “You know what,” she shot back, accusingly but excitedly. “You’re a great-great-great-great whatever of Irish spirits: druids, pookas, leprechauns. Their abilities and skills passed down parents to kids, keeping hidden to hide from religious fanatics. You’re just like me.” She pressed up close and whispered faintly in my ear, “you know magic.” It wasn’t a question.

            I ran the whole way home. After talking with Kiera for a couple hours, I learned some shocking things. She knew as much magic as I did: shifting, teleporting, vanishing. All of it. Apparently, her family had been teaching magic to each other for generations. When I brought up the idea of it being a gift from god, she got confused. “We don’t dare reveal this to the church,” she explained. “My gran says the Vatican is good, but they wouldn’t appreciate us associating our skills with God.” I had a lot of questions for my father.

            I stormed through the front door. “A gift from god?” I shouted, not noticing his red eyes or tear-stained cheeks. “Is that what you said our ability is? ‘A God given gift worthy of the saints and prophets,’ that’s what we have right?” He didn’t say a word. He just stared at me expressionless. “Why the hell was I just told that everything I can do is because somewhere in our ancestry we have elves and leprechaun and who knows what else? Why did you lie to me? Why did lead me to believe I’m something special when I’m just some damned witch-breed halfling?” He stood slowly; still no expression on his face, approached me, and gave me one hard slap across the face. He then immediately lost all calmness and broke down sobbing, pulling me in close for a hug.

            Soon after that, I found out my mother when into early labor. There were complications and she died during child-birth. The baby girl survived. My father named her Lucy Marie Lynch.

Magic Lessons: part 1

            I was ten years old when my father started giving me magic lessons. He was a devout Irish-Catholic who insisted that I was comfortable with God and had shared in my first communion before I learned anything that might make me question Him. I was seven when he sat me down after Mass and told me that magic existed and eight when he demonstrated his own skill in the art. But it wasn’t until my tenth birthday that the teachings began.

            “Science, my dear Matthew, is a matter of facts. Magic, however,” he said with his eye twinkling the way it only did when he had a secret, “is a matter of ideas.” He pulled two bags from his pocket: an empty Skittles container and a sandwich baggie filled with small pebbles. He emptied the pebbles into the Skittles bag plainly and then called my brother Daniel in. My father shook the bag for Daniel so that the contents clearly rattled. Daniel held his hand out, his four-year-old eyes widening with excitement, politely saying “pease” as he had been taught. Without the gaudy flourish you might expect from a stage magician, my father poured brightly colored candy into my brother’s hand.

            My father hated stage magicians, or the “bloody attention-seeking liars” as he called them, for the perversion of his sacred art. To him, the performers who called themselves magicians rarely were. Most of them used smoke, mirrors and sleight-of-hand. And the few who did use real magic made it even more of a production by “speaking against our Lord and Savior with all their witch talk and devil worshiping.” He believed that if you were going to use mysticism to make a profit (which he wasn’t too fond of overall) at the very least don’t draw attention to it. He constantly praised the works of Disney and Henson for their subtle magic doubling as entertainment (and it helped that they were good Irish boys, even if Henson was a hippie).

            I was given a week to imitate the candy switch. It took me a month. It didn’t have to be pebbles into Skittles necessarily, but I needed to somehow take an ordinary object and give my brother candy. I tried bouncy balls into gumballs, coins into sweet-tarts, and even my father’s cigarettes into candy cigarettes (lost TV privileges for a week after that one). It didn’t help that all I had to work with was “magic is a matter of ideas.” My father wouldn’t teach me any more until I accomplished the goal, despite my whining that I needed more lessons first. “You don’t need more lessons, you want more lessons,” he curtly explained, tired of my constant protests. “You have everything you need to accomplish this task.” I finally earned my second lesson when I took a scoop of mud and gave Daniel a chocolate bar.

            That following Sunday, I excitedly explained to my father how I had shaped the mud into a bar, wrapped it in foil, and left it where Daniel could find it. He smiled proudly but had that twinkle in his eye. “And how did you change the mud into chocolate?” I was perplexed at his question. I had just explained the whole story. What else was I supposed to say? The longer he stared at me, the more his proud smile started to look smug. “Every effect comes from a cause, Matthew, even in magic. We don’t always understand it, but even magic has a process. You used a tool to make that chocolate. What was it?” I studied his face trying to find some hint as to what the answer was. After several minutes I blindly guessed “Daniel?” He nodded, seemingly impressed.

            My father explained the magical process using baking as an analogy. “Think of how your mother bakes a cake. She has four basic necessities she uses to make a cake: ingredients, utensils, tools, and energy. The ingredients are raw materials that are unimportant on their own. It could be anything, rocks, toys, even thin air. Your mother uses cake mix and eggs; you used mud. Utensils are used to prepare the ingredients. A whisk beats batter while aluminum foil looks like a chocolate wrapper. That leaves the tool and the energy. The tool shapes the ingredients while the energy causes the actual change. Your mother puts her batter in a pan in the hot oven. Now, we know that Daniel was the tool that shaped your ingredients, but where did the energy come from?” It had become obvious to me that most of my father’s questions were best answered by first instincts. “From me,” I said hopefully. “Yes, Matthew,” my father whispered as he moved in close, “and that is something you must remember; magic cannot be done by one person. One person can do a lot, but you need more to do something magical.”

            We exhausted Daniel as a tool pretty quickly. If we wanted to produce more than candy, we were going to need more than a four-year-old. About five months after the first lesson, we started staying after Mass for coffee and donuts which we never did before (“the Lord’s day is not meant for finagling a free breakfast.”) But we needed more mature marks, not to mention multiple subjects for my training. “Now the trick to mystifying adults,” he explained as he put a tie on me before church, “is to never to tell them a lie. That might work on children, but adults are more likely to trust their assumptions than anything they might be told. Do you understand?” It was a simple concept, but I was still confused. “I understand that, but… is this going to make God mad? Doing magic in a church, I mean. I can’t imagine He’d like us working against Him in His own house.” My father chuckled as he smoothed out my shirt and wiped some dirt of my face. “’Working against Him?’ Where do you think we get our ability to begin with?”

            My mother wasn’t too fond of my magic lessons. She had no ability herself, but she did respect the art. What she didn’t like was that I was being taught how to trick and lie. I remember when I eavesdropped on my father assuring her magic lessons were important. “You knew our kids would have these talents, Marie. I have to make sure he knows how to do this properly.” “But through tricks and lies, Sean? Matthew’s an innocent boy. That means he’s corruptible. Teach him to lie for a reward, and who knows how it’ll affect him.” I heard what sounded like a kiss and then my father’s voice in a gentler tone saying, “That’s why I’m teaching him my way, instead of my parents’.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I trusted my father too much to ever question him.

After that my mother helped out with my lessons in her own way. While my father taught the “math and science” of magic, my mother taught the “arts and literature.” Which I found out meant, to my pleasure, watching old TV shows to see magic in action. We’d watch Muppets and Disney of course, but I learned so much more from Lucy.

I was the only ten year old who knew every episode of  “I Love Lucy.” My mother explained that “talking animals and goofy monsters are impressive, Matty, but that’s for children. You want intelligent enchantment, just watch Lucy.” Every night, my mother would feed us kids, bathe us, put us in pajamas, and turn on Nick at Night. My father even approved of this (again, it helps Lucy was an Irish girl.) Every episode, Lucy would drag Ethel into some crazy plot or situation that would always end OK, if not pleasantly. There was nothing “magical” about them, but these were impossible situations and Lucy had us believing them every night.

By my eleventh birthday, I had pretty much mastered switches: mud into chocolate, the Canaan wedding wine pour (juice only until I got older), paper into dollar bills (immediately put in the church donation box), and anything else I could get someone else to think of. Despite all of the possibilities that switching offered, I still had plenty to learn. My father had mentioned conjuring, vanishing, teleporting, and more complicated magic styles. As hard as the first year was, my father told me it’d take another ten to fifteen years to finish my training.

The Peasant Painter

In celebration of the kingdom's harvest festival, the king decided to give his wife, his brother, and his daughter each a painting of the proceedings. He called upon his servants and told them to bring him the three most unique artists in the lands. Within the hour the servants returned with the royal portraitist, an architect, and a street painter from the slums. He informed the three men that he wished to purchase from them paintings of the festivals key points. When they were finished, they were to bring their work back to the palace so that the queen, the prince, and the princess could pick their favorites. Since it was most important to the king that the princess be happy, he promised an additional three bags of gold to the creator of her chosen piece. He sent them off and ordered them to return before sundown the day after the festival.

The festival came and the King wandered around the town to check in on the three artists to see how their work was coming. He found the portraitist inside the palace capturing the nobles enjoying their private feast. Outside, he discovered the architect studying the special carts and kiosks used by the merchants for the festival. He searched for the street painter as he made his rounds, but found him nowhere. He was concerned about the peasant's progress, but decided he would just see the finished product.

The day after the festival, the king waited for the paintings with his family. Around lunch, the Portraitist arrived first with his piece. It was a bright and colorful display of the nobles with focus on their clothes and jewelry. The garments popped, the gems sparkled, and the faces were spot on. The setting seemed to fall flat and the background was plain. All-in-all, the queen found it pleasing as it captured her perfectly and showed off her possessions. The queen requested the painting should the princess not want it.

By mid-afternoon, the architect arrived with his piece. It was a superbly technical display of architecture and design. The buildings and carts were drawn crisply and perfectly with proper shading for the mid-day sun. The people, however, were too stiff and had no warmth. All-in-all, the prince was drawn to it's technical aspects and requested it should the princess not desire it.

Then they waited for the peasant. And waited. And waited. Finally, just as the sun touched the horizon, the street painter arrived with his piece. As he uncovered it, the royal family gasped. It was perfect. The peasant had captured the entire festival from the top of a building. He captured the nobles leaving the palace in their fine dress. He captured the merchants' carts and kiosks set perfectly throughout the square. He captured the people dancing in the streets. He captured the fields, freshly reaped, off in the distance. He captured everything one would think would be there at the festival and more. The queen and prince didn't even bother to request it as the princess claimed it immediately.

The king congratulated the peasant and presented him with his reward. As the artists left, the portraitist and the architect asked the peasant how he became so talented at painting.

"I don't paint," he told them. "I just look at everything I think is most important and put it on the canvas."

"But you got everything," they complained. "What was the most important."

"I got everything, didn't I?"  The peasant then gave each of them a bag of gold and went on his way.

"Wait," they called. "Don't you want these?"

"Maybe," he said over his shoulder, "but I don't need them."

Meet the Ol' Empian Family

I'm going to take a break from Harry Cleese and the ol' Empian family for a little while so I can play with some other forms and genres (and let's face it adapting greek myths to modern crime drama isn't exactly easy). But before I do, I wanted to give you a look at the bosses and lieutenants of the family and their original Greek/Roman godly counterparts.

Big Zed Empian= Zeus/Jupiter
Big Zed is an energy baron who has a monopoly on local utilities. He used his power and influence to take control of the ol' Empian family because his father, Sal (Kronos/Saturn), did not trust control of the family to his children. A strong leader but morally questionable man, Zed has many children out of wedlock. This is especially hard on his wife June (Hera/Juno) who, as the family matriarch, plans weddings and is a marriage counselor.

June Empian= Hera/Juno
As mentioned, the matriarch to the ol' Empian family and wedding planner. This may seem like a frivolous job, but June actually oversees proper pairings and unions in and out of the family to keep or create peace with the rest of the criminal underworld. She is fond of peacock print but not her husband's mistresses or bastard children. She is known to be petty and malicious to everyone involved in the infidelity except for Zed. She's not dumb enough to challenge a crime lord, even if she is his wife.

Paul Cyrus Empian= Poseidon/Neptune
Big Zed's older brother who captain's a smuggling ship for the family. He, Zed, and their eldest brother Hardy (Hades/Pluto) gambled on who would oversee what major operations after overthrowing their father. Zed won first choice and took over the front business, a thriving airplane parts factory and warehouse, along with general family management and his energy monopoly. Paul won second and took what was his first choice with the smuggling ship, preferring the vast freedom of the ocean. He's known to have anger problems but also a soft spot for horses and storm-watching.

Hardy Empian= Hades/Pluto
The oldest brother of the current generation leading the family, Hardy feels entitled to run it and is unhappy and bitter about his position in the operations. Hardy runs a morgue and funeral parlor specializing in foreign body recovery. This is a front and cover for the actual operation, which is hiding the contraband for Paul's smuggling ship. He is widely despised for forcing Zed's sister-in-law Demi's (Demeter) barely-legal daughter Steph (Persephone) to marry him.

Demi Turner= Demeter/Ceres
June's sister who runs a restaurant as a front for the family. Some-what considered ineffectual for the most part, Demi does control one important thing in the family. As a prenuptial agreement, Steph only stays with Hardy six months of the year. The rest of her time is spent with Demi at the restaurant where she is the star chef. Her cooking brings in many more customers which greatly assists in money laundering. Time without Steph is a financial winter for the family.

April Empian= Aphrodite/Venus
An outsider to the family who was married to Heywood (Hephaestus/Vulcan) as a political strategy by June to fold April's operation into the family. April is a madame who pairs certain important persons with her girls to cause trouble and to keep an upper hand on local officials. April is as notoriously unfaithful as Big Zed. Her preferred boy-toy is Aaron (Ares) who Heywood repeatedly catches and tries to exploit.

Heywood Empian= Hephaestus/Vulcan
One of Big Zed's few children with June, Heywood was guaranteed a spot at the family table. Heywood was born with a deformity and was initially shunned by the family. Proving himself by designing and building various weapons and devices for the family generals, he won respect if not adoration. Some of his best known creations are Big Zed's bolts, throwing blades equipped with stun-gun capabilities; Hardy's camo cap, a simple balaclava equipped with a device that disrupts electrical lighting systems allowing him to blend into the shadows; and Paul's tri-pole, a deep sea fishing pole that conceals a three-bladed staff perfect for retrieving contraband in those hard to reach smugglers' hallows.

Aaron Empian= Ares/Mars
Heywood's full brother and April's boyfriend (that's awkward). Aaron is the top enforcer and field commander of the family. Dishonorably discharged from the military for "excessive brutality" (fuckin' people up), Aaron puts his misplaced anger to good use for the family. A frightening father figure, he teaches each of his kids specific war tactics and ideals. His son Damien (Deimos) is practiced in puffery to put dread in his opponents while his other son Foss (Phobos) fills them with fear. His daughter Adrian (Adrestia) does nothing unless it's for revenge.

Missy Arte= Artemis/Diana
The daughter of Big Zed and an illegal immigrant named Lydia Arte (Leto). June is jealous of all of Big Zed's mistresses, but Lydia in particular threatened her power. Lydia was the daughter of the boss of an Italian crime syndicate that could bear Zed children with rights to both families. To keep Lydia from giving birth on American soil and therefore claiming citizenship, June had her deported. Due to the unexpected interference of a rogue fisherman (also known as Paul) Lydia's ship did not make it out of U.S. waters before she gave birth to her twins Missy and Palo (Apollo). Missy has been mistreated far too many times by men to trust them anymore. She is an avid hunter and uses it to help rehabilitate young battered woman.

Palo Arte= Apollo
The twin brother of Missy. Palo is the family's resident arsonist, poisoner, and medic. Like his sister, he is a perfect shot and used often as a sniper. He is also known to be very proud and vengeful when it comes to his mother. When it was rumored that June put a hit out on Lydia, he killed the supposed assassin without verifying. Further still, when Naia Bello (Niobe) claimed Lydia left home out of shame for only having two children who didn't even contribute to the Arte family, Palo murdered all seven of Naia's sons.

Minnie Empian= Athena/Minerva
The daughter of Big Zed and an unknown mother. Given her intelligence, Big Zed likes to claim she just came out of his head. The smartest of his kids, Minnie is Big Zed's personal strategist. She claims to have no time for men and as a result has never had one. When Big Zed had an some property he couldn't manage, a stretch of boardwalk restaurants and front businesses, Minnie and Paul fought over ownership. Tired of their arguing, Big Zed left the decision to the employees. Paul offered to put a pool in just for employees while Minnie offered free food for them at the restaurants. Deciding free food was more important than a pool on the beach, Minnie was chosen as their matron. Thus was created "Minnie's Boardwalk."

Herm Essex= Hermes/Mercury
Another of Big Zed's bastard children, Herm is the family's fence and product runner. He spends most of his time on the road, but caused some trouble when he was younger. When he was a boy his mother, May (Maia), forbade him from family operations. Herm snuck out his window and decided to pull off a heist at a music shop. He wasn't caught but didn't realize that Palo had been planning to hit the shop himself. Seeing him flee, Palo followed Herm home planning to beat him for his insolence. When Palo got there he discovered Herm playing an early Gibson Les Paul that had been secured in the owner's private vault. Palo was so impressed that he asked for the guitar in exchange for forgiveness for the rest.

Dino Cease= Dionysus/Bacchus
The youngest of Big Zed's children to sit at the table, Dino almost wasn't born. His mother, Millie Cease, was a woman unaware of Big Zed's criminal actions. Disguised as an old woman at the hair salon, June convinced Millie to walk in on a heist to see for herself. Millie, not believing for a second that Big Zed would do such things, stepped right in the middle of a stand-off between the Empian's and a rival team. Millie was gunned down instantly. Having already lost the mother, Big Zed huddled around her in an attempt to save the fetus. An ambulance eventually showed up and the small Dino was born prematurely thanks to the efforts of his father.

Thanks for reading. I highly suggest researching Greek mythology on your own. It's a hobby that satisfies several interests: literature, anthropology, theology, history, and many others. I do plan to finish adapting the rest of the twelve labors of Heracles (if you're just now realizing that's what Harry Cleese is, you really need to study mythology), but I need a break to work on other things. So keep an eye out for the eventual post of Harry Cleese: Part 5 "Cry for Kieran".

Harry Cleese: Part 4 "A Favor From Missy Arte"

Gene spit out his wine when Cleese walked into Dino's bar, The Back Up, carrying Larry Neenan. "You weren't supposed to survive-" Gene started to sputter but caught himself. "I mean, how did you manage to get to Neenan? After you left I found out he was using the the Hired Serpents." Cleese ignored him as he accepted the beer he didn't need to order from Dino. After draining the mug in a few swallows, he wiped his mouth and muttered "Elias took out the tech."

Gene shuddered with anger and got ready to yell when something occurred to him. He gave Cleese that creepy smile. "Well, Elias has done a service to the ol' Empian family," Gene said in his oily voice, "and we thank him, but you still have nine more favors to pay towards your debt." Cleese stood to his full height and towered over Gene.

"I've only got eight left," Cleese growled, "I already did two."

Gene gulped but held his ground. "Actually, you did one and Elias did one for you, but I understand a brute like you can have trouble counting." Cleese raised his hand, and Gene flinched, but it was just to signal for another drink. Cleese smirked at the reaction and sat back down. "So what's my second job then," he asked as he threw back his second beer.

"Oh! you think I just sit around thinking about you and your problems," Gene asked angrily. "You'll get your job when I'm good and ready to give it to you. But next time don't hide behind your little butt-buddy. Now get out of here." Cleese glared at his cousin, set down his empty mug, paid Dino, and left.

June came from the ladies room wearing her usual peacock print dress. Dino excused himself from his step-mother's presence. Her hair was put up ornately, befitting the matronly look of a mob boss' wife. "He shouldn't have survived Larry Neenan's Hired Serpents," she observed coolly. "That was a nice touch giving credit to the kid so we have another chance. I thought he would be too proud to ask for help, but now he won't for fear of losing credit."

"But what are we going to do now," Gene whined. "obviously, he can handle himself against our competition. I mean, shit, you hired the best security team out of the states, and he still survived. I don't know anyone outside of the family that can take him out."

"Then maybe we stay inside of the family," June suggested. "We won't get an Empian to willingly take him out; most of them are fellow bastard children of Big Zed, and Harry is too popular with them anyway. But what if we took that popularity away? Missy Arte is up north at her cabin deer hunting. She's not going to take out her half brother... unless he pisses her off. For example, if he were to take one of her "maidens" that she says she's training to hunt, but we all know what's really going on... The bitch is the best shot we have. He'll be taken care of." Gene smiled cruelly and raised his glass to his partner.

Cleese was called to Gene's office at the tire shop. "I've got you're next job," Gene explained, "Your uncle Paul just brought in a boat with too many packages for Herm to handle so we need some extra runners. This is some hot shit so they need to be the best. Serena Hinds is the only one we can't seem to get on board with us. She's the fastest runner around next to Herm, so you need to get her... by any means necessary."

Cleese sensed a set up but didn't say anything about it as he went on his way. He knew that when you see a trap, you don't draw attention to it. You alter it and use it against the trapper. Serena Hinds was a good girl who was taken in by his sister Missy. Missy had a habit of rescuing girls from abusive men, but the fact that she didn't help males started some rumors about what she might be doing with those girls. Cleese sympathized with her. His close relationship with Elias got him some looks. Nothing wrong with the way others swing, but these were kids. Gay or straight, that's not a line you cross.

After a long drive north, Cleese pulled into the driveway of Missy's palatial cabin around midnight. Missy was on the porch in her shorts and hunting vest enjoying the moonlight. She nodded her half-brother in, and after hearing his story told him, "I want to help you, but I can't let you take Serena. Just let me talk to Eugene. I'm a lieutenant to dad, he can't ignore me."

"Thank you," Cleese said sincerely, "but I'm pretty sure Eugene gave me this job so I can't get help. I'm not as good as you, but I'm still good hunter. I know a trap when I see one. You and I both know Herm doesn't need any help running product. I'm pretty sure he was hoping you'd kill me if I tried to take Serena, but if you just let me take her, the favor wouldn't count and I'd still be left with nine suicidal missions."

"I didn't think Eugene is smart enough to come up with a plan like that."

"He's not. I'm pretty sure June is helping him out. Which doesn't bode well for me."

They sat in silence for a while until Missy perked up. "What if I did just let you take her?"

"I told you, the favor won't count if you help. He won't accept it if she shows up without of sign of a struggle."

"Then let's show him a struggle. He won't believe I helped you if she's bruised."

"I'm not going to hurt the girl."

"You don't have to. I'm calling the Mewes sisters to come give her a make-over and a few acting lessons."

A week later, Cleese dragged Serena into Gene's office. She looked a little beat up but not so much that she couldn't do a job. Gene scowled at Cleese. "You didn't have to mess with Missy," Gene asked incredulously.

"She was out on a hunt and I found this girl in the cabin. Just take her."

Gene stepped forward to take the girl. When Gene was just inches from her Cleese let her go. Serena kicked at Gene's shin and bolted out the door. Seconds later the men heard a car screeching away. "Well, you wanted a fast runner," Cleese explained as he walked out. "I'll be back later for my third job."

First Week Not Weak

I wanted to take a break from our buddy Cleese, to thank you you all, for a great first week. I didn't expect anyone to really care about this blog, but the page view count has been decent. I'm just a hopeful young writer who got a "D" in creative writing (twice!) because of trouble with motivation and focus. Just knowing someone had seen my work fired me up to want to do more, but the feedback actually made it happen. I've had people tell me that they're actually fans. Fans of my work. I've received compliments, but have never had a fan (that I know of). The whole situation has opened my eyes.

Fandom in general (yes, I'm done bragging) is very good for art, entertainment, and pop-culture. Being a fan promotes production, quality, and frequency of the things we love (but please, for the love of cheese, do not tell the makers of Jersey Shore that you're a fan.) If you're going to love something show it.

There was a song that was performed at Jim Henson's funeral that had been performed many times by the Muppets and was originally written for "Snoopy! The Musical" called "Just One Person." Basically, it tells us that if even just one person believes in you and shows enough passion, they won't be the only one for long and you'll even believe in yourself. Eventually great things will happen just because of that one person believing in your efforts. That's incredible! Just enjoying something can change the world for the better.

So I urge you if you have something you like, enjoy, or love: tell the creator, share what you've found, spread your happiness. Especially if you're the first fan or others have spoken against it. You have the power to shape your world and to improve someone else's. So do it!

One last thing. This blog is getting a lot of much appreciated love and support, but it could use some more. If you're a fan, please subscribe or like it on stumbleupon. Get the word out so we can create more fans. As always, more to come.

Harry Cleese: Part 3 "The Hired Serpents"

Eugene sneered as Harry walked in dragging Leo Nimmies body and wearing his body suit. He and June had been hoping Leo would wipe Cleese out, but that obviously didn't work out. Big Zed had allowed Gene only ten jobs he could give Cleese. Which meant he and June only had ten chances to set him up for death. June had some influence, and Gene had imagination, but would it be enough to stump Harry?

"So you succeeded," Gene stated with no enthusiasm "and with a week to spare. That's good. I already have another job for you. Larry Neenan has been busy. He's always been a snake, but he's been going after folks under ol' Empian protection; arson, poison, and other untraceable things. There's even word that he's hired outside contractors for his personal bodyguards. This isn't your garden variety security; they use some high-tech shit. Take him out before he can do anymore damage."

Cleese started to leave but hesitated. "If the hits have been untraceable, how do you know they're Neenan's?"

"MIND YOUR FUCKIN' BUSINESS! THAT"S HOW!"

Cleese just shook his head and went on his way. Finding Neenan would be easy enough; he had a hideout in the old water-control building on the river. It was a big place with plenty of corridors to navigate, but that didn't bother Cleese. What bothered him was the warning of the high-tech security detail. Cleese was an old-school enforcer. He was definitely clever, but he solved problems by hitting them, not messing with computers or fancy gadgets. Luckily he had someone to do that for him.

Cleese pulled up to his brother Pip's house. Pip was always the "iffy" Cleese, but his boy Elias had promise. Cleese saw Elias' legs sticking out from under a '98 Mitsubishi Chariot. "Damn, this is a piece of shit, boy," Cleese teased. Elias popped out from under the car covered in oil. "I garuntee it's better than your's. Nothing can beat my chariot. I've decked it out with the best technology available." Harry crouched down next to him. "That's precisely why I need your help."

"So what do you know about this security detail," Elias asked as he drove the chariot towards the river. "I did my research," his uncle responded. "They're a foreign mercenary group that specializes in 'body-doubling'. Basically, they surround their clients with look-alikes to confuse any attackers. I don't speak the language, but the company name roughly translates to 'The Hired Serpents'."

"Not that I'm complaining," Elias explained, "but you can handle yourself against a group. Why do you need me?" Cleese sighed. "Because even though I'm having trouble translating these foreign military reports, it's very clear they have some sort of unique protocol involving wi-fi techno-jobbies. I want you nearby with your wi-fi techno-jobbies to jump in if needed." Elias grunted in understanding.

They arrived at the abondoned water-control building as the sun was setting, which made the old place look like a monster's cave. It kind of was. As Elias set up shop in the back of the chariot, Cleese suited up in Leo's armor. "Whoa," Elias cautioned as he checked one of his doo-hickeys. "There is some serious toxicity coming from that building. Just breathing it could make you sick; God help us if it's being weaponized." Cleese checked the mask of the armor. There were air-filter pads stitched into the front. Elias handed him a bluetooth earpiece. "I'm going to run scanners from here," he told Cleese. "If I can figure out what their gimick is, I'll let you know a game plan." Cleese nodded as he pulled the mask over his head and ran for the building.

Cleese fired some warning shots in the front door. Immediately, two Larry Neenan's emerged, holding strange cannister weapons. One of them pointed their weapon at Cleese and pulled. A wild plume of fire shot out, lighting the darkening sky. Cleese dove through the flame, protected by his armor, and struck down the attacker. Two more Larry Neenans came out of the building as the other one readied his weapon. Cleese advanced expecting another flame, but side-stepped just in time to avoid a stream of liquid that ate away at the grass it landed on. Acid. Cleese wasn't curious enough to see if the armor held up to it. He took out the second Neenan and turned around to see two more joining the others. Three more kills later, Cleese was facing off against seven angry Neenan's.

"Stop killing them!" Elias shouted in Cleese's ear. "Every time one dies, a vitals moniter goes off and calls for reinforcement. Kill one and two more take his place. I'll see what I can do to stop it, but don't kill another one until you know it's the real one."

"And how do I tell that?" Cleese growled.

"It'll probably be the one who isn't sticking his neck out to fight you," Elias retorted.

Cleese shut up and let him work as he dodged the Neenan's and entered the building. Even with the filter's, the air was noxious. It must have been caused by the acid. He darted through the corridors, avoiding sporadic flames and acid streams. Eventually he found an old conference room occupied by eight Neenans. Seven of them huddled around the unarmed eighth. Bingo.

Cleese sparred with the group while trying not to incite a further unevening of the odds against him. No matter what he did, he couldn't make progress towards the real Neenan. "I think I got it," Elias crowed triumphantly. "Go ahead and take out a guard." Cleese shrugged and thunked one with his trusty baton. The guard dropped, and Cleese watched for more to come but they never did.

"Perfect!" Elias cackled. "I've cracked the frequency their moniters call on. Now every time they try to send a signal, it's going to hit one of my firewalls. Even if they do get through, I've scrambled the G.P.S. signals, so they can't find each other."

"In English!" Cleese shouted as he slipped past an acid stream.

"Take one down, and no more will come."

Cleese growled, pleased. He started advancing toward the unarmed Neenan, absentmindedly striking down guards as they tried to intercept him. They made strange sizzling noises as they fell; their moniters overworking to fight the firewalls. He stepped up to the last Neenan, who was cowering against the wall, and slit his throat with his hunting knife. Cleese started to carry the body out when he noticed one of the acid cannisters. He grabbed it, certain he would find a use for it.

Harry Cleese: Part 2 "Slaying Leo Nimmie"

Cleese nursed his beer. He had to sit up straight on his barstool because slouching hurt the his bruises. Three weeks of going after Leo Nimmie had earned him three cracked ribs, a dislocated arm, and a blotchy blue and purple torso. It wasn't the pain that bothered Cleese; he could just shrug that off. What bothered him was that he was the one attacking Leo, and yet Leo had no marks or injuries. Meanwhile, Cleese couldn't take off his shirt because of his bruised abs. And he used to love showing off his abs.

It was that damn body armor. Cleese figured there had to be at least one exposed area he could exploit: eye spots, joints, something, but Leo was invulnerable. Cleese had no idea what that hide was made of, but everywhere he shot or stabbed just glanced off. Leo would just roar in anger and maul Cleese with his giant fists, his pointed knuckledusters glistening like claws.

A woman slinked up to Cleese's side and took a seat next to him, her foot strategically settling on his leg. Cleese instinctively flexed his muscles and spread his legs to give her a better peek. "You're Harry Cleese, aren't you," she asked demurely. Cleese just nodded while he checked the woman out. "Big Zed's son," she continued, "enforcer for the ol' Empian family, one of the team that pulled off the heist against the Argos family." Cleese just nodded along as he was absorbed in the woman's curves. The woman leaned in close and whispered, "currently after a hit on Leo Nimmie."

Cleese snapped out of his daze and lifted the woman by her throat with one hand. The bartender, Dino, was a member of the family so he nonchalantly clicked the "closed" sign and pulled the blinds. "Who are you," Cleese snarled. "Someone who's willing to help in exchange for help," the woman choked. Cleese dropped her and she crumpled to the floor. "Talk," he demanded.

"I've been living with Leo for a few months," the woman explained. "He was exciting at first: that wild mane of hair, those deep eyes looking at me like I was his prey. But the man's a beast. I was done after two weeks and was ready to leave. But you can't just leave a man like Leo. I figured if I helped you with your job, it would ultimately help me." "And what can you do," Cleese asked suspiciously. The woman stood and brushed herself off. "I can get you in his house."

As they entered the bedroom, Cleese took notice of everything in the room: queen-sized bed in the corner with a side table, a small chest of drawers, and a small closet. It was all pretty basic, but something seemed off to Cleese. He forgot about it when the woman came in close and started unbuttoning his shirt. "You know," she purred as she slipped his shirt and shoulder holster down his arms, "Leo won't be home for another few hours. Maybe we can find a way to pass the time together." She leaned in and kissed him as she pulled his shirt and holster all the way off, leaving him with just his pants and a wife-beater. "I think I need to change first," she whispered as she walked towards the bathroom still holding his shirt and weapons.

Cleese sat down on the bed as he watched her walk away. He relaxed on the bed and studied the room more closely. What was wrong with this room? He rolled over to other side of the bed and hit the wall, and then something else hit him. Why would a two person bed be against the wall? He sat up slowly and called out to the woman, "what time does Leo usually get home?' "How would she know," a strange voice growled back. "She doesn't live here."

Leo's large body emerged from the bathroom. He was covered head-to-toe in his armored hide. He flew at Cleese with a roar. Cleese rolled off the bed, just avoiding the gleaming edges of Leo's knuckledusters. He tried to throw a punch up as Leo flew overhead, but it glanced off the armor. Leo circled him like a cat. They grabbed each other in wrestling holds, but neither could get the advantage. Their faces were right up against each other, Leo's breath hot in Cleese's ear. Cleese was wondering how he could breathe through that material when it hit him. Armor or not, the guy still needed to breathe.

With new vigor, Cleese adjusted his hold and got a firm grip around his throat. Leo took a couple swipes at him, but Cleese just twisted around him. The armor had a stiff collar protecting the neck but it was still flexible enough to allow movement. Cleese put all the strength he had on the throat until the collar bent inward and Leo slowly lost his energy. Cleese released the body, and it fell to the floor. Nothing left but to remove the armor and take the body to Gene.

Cleese found his holster in the bathroom which was expectedly free of any curvaceous women. He pulled his knife to cut off the armor since he couldn't find any openings. The knife, of course, couldn't slice the impenetrable armor. He tried everything, but eventually had call for help. His sister Minnie, suggested using one of Leo's own blades. "No sense in creating armor you yourself can't destroy" she reasoned. That's why she led tactics for the family. Cleese pulled Leo's knuckledusters off his fingers and used the short blades to slice easily through the hide. He slipped into the armor himself and dragged Leo out by his wild mane.

*More to come in Part 3 "The Hired Serpents"

Harry Cleese: Part 1 "The Sentence"

Cleese stood sloemnly before his cousin. Gene gave him that wierd smile that somehow mixed condescension and fear. "You've hurt the family deeply, Cleese," Gene explained in a voice that didn't sound so hurt. "The loss of your kids is one thing, but a murder charge against the son of one of the biggest bosses in town? Tch tch tch- it's not good. Now if you want the support of the ol' Empian family, you're gonna have to do some favors. Big Zed didn't feel right overseeing your labors, so your- ahem- "stepmother" June, put me in charge."

Cleese was willing to atone for his crime but to do so at the bidding of this cowardly prick. And by June's suggestion? He would admit to being drunk, but something else had been done to him. Getting a little handsy or obnoxious after a few bottles was one thing, but Cleese knew no amount of alcohol would put him into a murderous rage. And he certainly wouldn't kill his boys of his own accord. He had been slipped something and knew, without a doubt, that June had something to do with it.

Harriet June Empian was a jealous and petty woman. Her husband, Big Zed constantly cheated on her, but she wasn't stupid enough to move against the most powerful crime boss in li'l Greece. Instead, she used her power and status to torture his mistresses and their children. For the most part, it was little things-- poor Irene O'Bovy couldn't seem to get away from that creepy guy with the eye tattoos. But when Alice Minnie Cleese had the gall to name her son after June, the boy Harry Alex Cleese would draw the wrath of the Empian queen.

"If we're going to do this, Eugene," Cleese growled, "then let's get it over with." Gene gave that creepy smile again. "Oh, we aren't doing anything, Harry. You, and you alone, are going to rid the family of some competition. Your first task is to take out Leo Nimmie. He's broken ties with the family and has been working indiscriminately; killing anyone for anyone but us."

Cleese was dumbfounded. "You want me to take out the slickest hit man the Empians have ever known? He can't be killed. He's got that hand-crafted kevlar shit he always wears. Nothing can pierce it: guns, knives, nothing. What do you expect me to do?"

"Is the greatest enforcer of the Empian family asking a lowly lieutenant for help," Gene asked with a sneer. "Yeah," Cleese responded, ignoring the sarcasm. "Leave," Gene shouted, "you have thirty days to bring me Leo Nimmie's body."


*Tune in tomorrow for Part 2 "Slaying Leo Nimmie"

Not Just for Supers

Vectis sat in the hero lounge fixing up his equipment after his latest patrol. He recharged the battery in his com-link, buffed out the scratches in his armor, and wiped the blood off his gloves. He liked doing maitenance after patrol. It gave him a chance to focus on one thing and do it, instead of the constant vigilance on patrol that split his attention twenty different ways. He didn't even notice when Aura floated in.

Vectis rolled his eyes and sighed. It wasn't that Vectis disliked Aura, it was just hard to feel sorry for supers who had all this great power and then bitched about the effort it took to live a normal life. They have super powers for crying out loud! Being able to stop bullets and bench-press planets more than makes up for a skin condition or restraint of ability for assimilation with "normals". Aura liked to whine about how the effect of his "emotional miasma" made it difficult to know what people genuinely felt about him. The guy can make supermodels fall in love with him, and that BOTHERS him?

Aura sat down on the couch and grimaced at the blood on Vectis' glove. "We need to talk," Aura stated plainly. He waited for Vectis to set aside the armor he was buffing, but the other hero just kept cleaning without looking up. "I suppose this is about the dead shooter," Vectis asked after several moments of silence. Aura was a little disappointed in the lack of regret in his voice.

"Actually, yes. Care to explain why he's dead?" Aura felt like a condescending prick, but the conversation was needed.

"Well. he had a hostage, a gun to her head, and nowhere to run. He was going to kill her. I had a knife, a clear shot at his head, and a near perfect throwing arm. I was going to save her. I ended a life, regretfully, but I saved an innocent one. That's something I don't regret."

Aura massaged his temple. "I get that. But superheroes don't kill. We're supposed to be better than that. We abide fully by the simple rules of morality to make up for all the people that can't. Our abilities afford us a rare chance to make up for the short-comings of our nature."

Vectis clenched and unclenched his fists as he struggled to keep from losing his cool. "That's great for supers. I"M not a super. I'm a camping enthusiast who used his knowledge of survivalism to become a costumed vigilante. I have no invulnerability to stop a bullet, or super speed to stop a trigger-pull, or emotion-altering clouds to change someone's mind. I'm one of those normal people that your abilities are making up for."

Aura studied him for a long solemn time. "Then that's why it's so important that you stick to the rules. We've given people an excuse not to be their best. I'm ashamed to say that you're right; morality has been monopolized by superheroes. I think it's time we shared the wealth. Starting with you. If you think you can do it."

Vectis picked up the bloodied glove. The shooter- he didn't even know his name- was disturbingly still when Vectis retrieved his knife from his eye socket. Never having to do that again sounded good to him. Vectis nodded once and left to wash the blood out.

Being Someone's Hero

I'm brand new to blogging. I've never even really looked at any before I started this one. I have no idea what I'm doing. Probably not something I should mention to my audience, but didn't I just say I'm brand new to this? SO GET OFF MY BACK!... Sorry, that was uncalled for. I'm just going to wing it and make up the rules as I go along. I've decided (in the few seconds since I started this post) that the first five "real" posts (as opposed to the imaginary one I did already)* will focus around heroes. Super, real-life, idols, fallen; whatever type strikes me when I start each post. So here it goes, the first of a series of five "hero posts".
*You may have noticed that I like to use a lot of asides for humor (it's an addiction)

This evening, after a family dinner at my parents, my three-year-old niece was giving out hugs before we all left to go to our respective homes. She went through the usual motions that she always does when my sister tells her it's time to go, giving a quick hug and saying goodbye, until she got to me. She held on tight, snuggled her head on my shoulder, and told me clearly "I love you, Joe. Have a happy Easter." Where did that come from? More importantly, what did I do to deserve special treatment? She has other aunts and uncles that I know she loves just as much.
I'm not saying that I'm her hero. That honor falls to either my father (affectionately called "Bop Bop") or Barney the dinosaur. But every time she reaches for me when she's sad, or gives me one of those heart-melting hugs, I have to wonder: "what heroic things have I done for this child that she treats me thusly?" I'm usually pretty out of my depth with kids. I don't have the energy it usually takes to entertain them. I just try to do my best and try to keep my patience until another adult can be in charge and I can take a break. I'm not trying win her affection, and who knows, that may be how I got it. Either way, I didn't realize I earned it. All in all, it makes me realize: my heroes didn't know they were my heroes.
My two biggest idols are Jim Henson, who's message of peace and love through entertainment touches something deep in my soul, and my father, which is something my niece and I have in common. Jim Henson had been dead 12 years when I was in the eighth grade and featured him in an oral essay on "Heroes". Obviously he didn't hear the news about his heroism, and even if he had been alive, I seriously doubt he would have heard about some random essay (I'm not saying he definitely wouldn't, just that it's doubtful.) And then there's my father, who is much too modest to think of himself in such a way (which actually plays a big part in my opinion of him.)
To the point; I'm pretty sure we all have someone who sees us as a hero whether we realize it or not. So what I hope you take from this is simple: Someone out there thinks you're heroic; prove them right.

Post One: And Thus Began Something Epic (Or So I Hope)

I want to be a writer. I want to come up with creative ideas and creative ways to express them and share them with the world. I want to create universes and inhabitants for said universes that become figurative homes and companions for unmet readers. The thing is, you probably don't give a shit. Nor should you. WHY should you? My dreams don't concern you, or involve you, or affect you... yet. That's why I'm sitting here at my computer with an open tab to dictionary.com (which I've already used to check if I should've used affect or effect in the last sentence) participating in the internet fad of 1999. I want to entertain you, inspire you, and occaisionally confuse you with my blatant attempts to get noticed by someone who would be willing to pay me to do more. I honestly have no idea what I'm going to put in this blog. Odds are that it'll be a smattering of random bits that have yet to find a home in a full story and concepts that closely resemble a 4-year-old explaining the make-believe game they're playing. Please be warned that I am a nerd and therefore commonly use refernces to movies, comic books, sci-fi/fantasy books, and generally nerdy pop-culture. If these references make no sense to you, I'm sorry... that you have bad taste. Please enjoy. I'm doing this to get noticed and eventually paid, but only so I can do it all the time.