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Another Peek Behind the Curtain.

July 1, 2021 / / 0 Comments

This one’s another in my using the blog as a chronicle of my life.

After months of lies and delays, The Wife and I got fed up and told the furniture store to go fuck themselves, cancel our order, and give us back our money. Good news, we had our cash back. Bad news, we still needed a couch for the upstairs family room. Off to furniture store’s competitors. We wanted a leather sofa or loveseat that didn’t recline or have electronics. And something we could expect to be delivered in less than six months. Sweet FSM, you’d think we were looking for an antique from the colonial period.

One of the competitors said they might have something. Salesperson shows us a floor model of a discontinued line. It’s orange. Very orange. Burnt orange. Not something we’d thought would ever go into our house. We sit down. Damn. Comfy. Very comfy. He takes us around to a couple more that are more traditional in color, but won’t be available for weeks to months. None as comfy as the orange couch. He sees we’re leaning to the orange, but are are still a little leery. Takes us to the sleeper sofas.

It’s gray, so definitely more traditional. But it’s a sleeper. But it has a nifty way of rolling out into the bed that tickles that same part of my mind as my transformer toys. But not as comfy as the orange couch. But we wanted a sleeper sofa. But in the guest room downstairs, not the upstairs family room. But it’s not a bad price. Yeah, not a bad price. In fact, we had some money set aside for the guest room. Calculator. Uh, yeah, we’re taking both.

Actually, the orange couch looks pretty good up there.

Sometimes You Come Back On Your Shield

June 30, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Instead of with it. John Hurley stepped up and stopped a madman bent on killing police. Unfortunately, he was killed by responding officers who mistook him for the madman. First, let me offer my condolences to his family and friends. Mr. Hurley did a courageous thing, and I hope that offers them some comfort in their grief.

Yet, like many tragedies, this is a good incident to examine for lessons. J. KB over at Gunfreezone has a good examination of the event. I agree that Mr. Hurley should not have picked up the madman’s rifle. Also, making yourself as much a non-threat when the cops roll up is also a good lesson to take to heart.

However, you can still do everything right and end up shot by the cops. You may not know the danger is over and are still scanning for threats. They are rolling into an extreme situation. Adrenaline is pumping on all sides.

Understand that. You can do everything right and still end up dead. That’s another lesson that needs to be learned.

Monday Fiction – Zombie Strike – Part 8 – Chapter 77

June 28, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Kirkwood, Missouri, 3 June 2011, 2300 hours local; Countdown: 6 months, 27 days

Evan Torrelli waited in the shadow of a large tree. The fifteen-year-old’s shotgun was tucked in the crook of his arm. His dad would skin him alive if he knew Evan was toting the coach gun around on his bike. Evan hoped his dad would understand. The email said Evan would be safe waiting in the park, but Evan needed the extra reassurance. He’d seen too much in the last two days.

Evan didn’t much care for living so close to St. Louis. He was a farm boy, and he liked the wide open spaces. The city felt confined, almost to the point of claustrophobic. Evan understood Dad couldn’t run the farm anymore after his heart attack. They needed to go where the family could make a living. Teaching at a small Christian school wasn’t much, but the family was making it. Evan did his best to adjust.

Evans looked up into the night sky as he heard what sounded like a crop duster coming in close. He could barely see the darkened shape in the night sky. It looked like a sleeker version of the Osprey tilt-rotor helicopter Evans had seen at an airshow. A bullet shaped body with two huge props at the end of the straight wings. The sound of the props roared as they rotated up. The tilt-rotor came down in the park’s open area. Red light spilled out of the back of the plane as a ramp came down. Ten dark-clad figures and what looked like a big dog tromped down the ramp. Almost before all of them were off, the tilt-rotor levitated back into the sky. As soon as it was above the trees, the props came back down, and it shot off into the night sky.

"Easy with that scattergun, son," a voice whispered in Evan’s ear. Evan froze in surprise. He didn’t even notice one of the figures slipping around him. A strong hand snatched the coach gun from under his arm. Evan turned around. The man was a foot taller than Evan, maybe six foot even. The man looked exactly like Evans imagined a spec ops soldier would look like. The soldier’s own weapon was slung as he unloaded Evan’s shotgun.

"Took a chance coming out here with a shotgun," the man said with a low baritone voice, "What would you have done if you’d come across those guys you told us about?"

"Run like hell and only shoot if I didn’t have a choice," Evan answered. The soldier smiled, his ivory teeth distorting the black streaks across his face.

"Good answer kid," the soldier said. He handed the shotgun and shells back to Evan before motioning to the others. Evan’s eyes went wide as he recognized a few of the faces. Evan had been a huge fan of Zombie Strike! Well, at least until his mom couldn’t take the sight of undead anymore and banned it. The events of the last year didn’t help Evan’s pleading to watch the reruns. Still, he recognized three of the people. Quentin McLintock, Steve "The Steve" Mountain, and Mateo Cortez were all champions of the reality show. Evan swallowed and tried to keep cool. He wanted to impress his heroes. He didn’t recognize the others, but they looked a lot like the soldier who took away his shotgun. Except for the guy with the cowboy hat. Then his eyes locked on the face of the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. His mind froze in shock. Any chance of keeping his cool was shot as he stared at the girl for a long moment.

"Eyes back in the head kid," the soldier said, slapping Evan in the back of the head.

"Sorry," Evan said, sheepishly. He could feel his ears burning with embarrassment. He didn’t feel any better when the others laughed. All except the girl. She just gave him a polite smile.

"Evan, I’m Mateo Cortez," one of his heroes said, and outstretched his hand. Evan snatched it greedily. Mateo wasn’t flashy or had some gimmick. He was the everyman of Zombie Strike!, and Evan was a fan.

"I know," Evan blurted, and then stopped. Cool, he needed to play this cool. Especially with that girl watching him. He tried not to look back over at her.

"Good. Are the vehicles parked where they were supposed to be?" Mateo asked.

"Yes sir," Evan answered, "Right outside the park." Evan pointed to where the three vans were parked.

"Good, you’re riding with me," Mateo said, "Jim, you’re driving. Chief, get the others divvied up." The soldier nodded. Mateo led Evan away from the group. The guy in the cowboy hat followed closely behind him.

"Did you actually see a zombie?" Mateo asked in a low voice. It took Evan a moment to realize the question was directed at him.

"Yes sir. There were a bunch of them," Evan answered, remembering back to two nights ago.

"Can you remember how many you saw?" Mateo asked. Evan concentrated hard. He stumbled onto the guys in black raising zombies. He wasn’t trying to count the zombies. He was trying to run away. He settled down and framed the last image in his head.

"Ten or fifteen or so," Evan finally answered.

"You sure?" Mateo asked. Mateo’s eyes bored into Evan’s. The boy swallowed hard and steeled himself.

"Yes sir," Evan said, squeezing every ounce of confidence into his voice.

"Well, hell kid, you might just be useful," the cowboy said, his light words filled with twang.

"Stow it Jim," Mateo ordered. "Evan, I’m going to need you to take us back to exactly where you saw the men." Evan nodded, trying to keep his fear from showing on his face. If Mateo saw past Evan’s façade, he didn’t say anything.

Mateo, Jim, and Evan climbed into the first van. Evan clung tightly to the seat at the cowboy sped through the streets following Evan’s instructions. Evan closed his eyes and waited for the van to roll over as Jim took a turn at nearly fifty miles an hour. The ride was mercifully short. In less than ten minutes, the van pulled up to the Christian school where his parents taught.

The cowboy unslung his big rifle as he stepped out of the van. Mateo unslung his M4 carbine. Evan loaded his shotgun. The cowboy looked over at the noise of the shotgun clicking closed and smiled. Evan led them around the converted church and through a small playground enclosed by a chain link fence. Maybe a hundred yards beyond the chain link fence was an old graveyard. Some of the older students snuck out to hang out amongst the gravestones. Evan liked to come out there at night. It was the only place that felt open enough and quiet enough to remind him of nights on the farm. Evan froze. They were back. In the moonlight, Evan could clearly see the four black-clad figures and the over twenty zombies. The undead were standing as if statues made of decaying flesh. They weren’t even moaning. The four figures were darting about the graveyard. It looked like they were searching for something.

"We have contact," Mateo whispered into his mike. He had his M4 up and trained at the figures in the graveyard. "Four minions, maybe two dozen zombies." Evan’s eyebrow quirked upward. Minions? Minions of who? Mateo listened for a moment and then made a hand motion to Jim. The big cowboy moved maybe thirty yards to the right before crouching down and aiming his big rifle. Evan was about to ask Mateo what to do. He stopped when his eyes caught movement behind the three of them. He turned back around, his shotgun coming to his shoulder. His shoulders tensed, like they did right before that hog had come out of the bush on his last hunting trip. It was something in the playground. Evans took a step closer, and something leapt into the air. Its screech broke the night’s silence. Evan pulled both triggers.

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 78

Friday Quote – David Bowie

June 25, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Discipline doesn’t mean you make sure you have breakfast at eight o’clock in the morning and you’re out of the house at half-past eight. Discipline means that when you conceive something, you decide whether or not it is worth following through, and if it’s worth following through, then follow it through to its logical conclusion – and do it to the best of your ability.

Can We Just Celebrate?

June 23, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Last week President Biden signed legislation designating Juneteenth as the newest federal holiday. Of course, like everything in the news, this gets politicized. I’m kinda getting tired of it. We commemorate momentous events. Please explain to me how the end of slavery is not a momentous event. Yes, technically, slavery wasn’t officially ended until the ratification of the Thirteenth Amendment. However, that’s not the tradition that has arisen. Kind of like how we celebrate Independence Day on July 4 instead of September 3.

So, instead of letting the chattering class whip up dissent, how about we remember those who suffered under that terrible institution and those who fought and died to end it.

Monday Fiction – Zombie Strike – Part 8 – Chapter 76

June 21, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Johannesburg, South Africa, 1 June 2011, 2100 hours local; Countdown: 7 months

The man known as Castle studied the report on his tablet. Zombie outbreaks caused by the Truth’s sorcerers and Champions were pushing the world just as he expected. The panicked populaces were demanding strong and capable men and women to lead them through these troubled times. Men and women the Truth was more than willing to provide, even if the populaces didn’t know who their true benefactor was. With the report in his hands, Castle’s chosen acolytes were now in control of Africa, Latin America, most of Asia (with the noticeable exception of China), and nearly all of the old Soviet bloc in Europe. Even in those nations not under the direct control of the Truth, Castle’s people held key positions in business, governments, and the media.

Commentators were calling it the second rise of the dictators. Many were trying to bring back the ghosts of Stalin, Hitler, and all those other ruthless dictators that slaughtered their own citizens in job lots. Most people didn’t really care. There were zombies rising and wiping out entire towns. Even the mighty Americans couldn’t protect the world from this threat. As far as most of the world cared, protection from zombies was far more important than little things like freedom and the rule of law. Well, if everything worked as prophesized, in seven months the zombies will no longer be needed. The Truth will have saved the world from the Great Death, and the Truth would take its rightful place as the supreme religion of the world. Castle took a sip of the rum from the crystal tumbler and smiled. Most men never saw the dawning of a new age, much less led the change, albeit from the shadows.

Alan walked into the office without knocking. Castle swallowed his annoyance as his head sorcerer strode into the room and plopped into a leather chair. Of all of his direct subordinates, Alan was probably the most arrogant, brash, and outspoken. Castle ignored all of that because Alan was perhaps the greatest sorcerer the Truth had produced. The Flayed One liked this American for some reason, and Castle wasn’t about to cross his god’s apparent wishes.

"Flayed One, I’ll be glad when I can get these bandages off," Alan said. Half of the man’s face was covered in thick white bandages. "If I ever get my hands on that Brit with the grenade launcher…" Alan’s voice trailed off.

"At least Zombie Strike didn’t succeed," Castle said. The freelance zombie hunters were becoming a real problem for the Truth. In the time since the Little Death escaped into this world, Zombie Strike had been hitting Truth installations all over the globe. Several key operations were disrupted and two nations were kept from coming under Castle’s dominance. All Castle could do was have them branded as terrorists in most of the world.

"Has Mikhail had any luck in running down the mole?" Castle asked. Castle was convinced there was a mole in the Truth. Zombie Strike was just hitting too many targets at the most opportune time.

"Actually, I think we’re trying to hunt down the viper," Alan said dismissively.

"What do you mean?" Castle asked, confused by the statement.

"Old GI Joe episode. One of the Joes keeps getting telephone calls from someone in a thick accent that calls himself the Viper and leaves cryptic messages. The Joes end up crashing a whole slew of Cobra ops. Everyone keeps wondering who this wonderful source of intel is. Turns out it was a little old man who was coming to wash the windows. I’ve come to vipe your vindows."

"As charming as that sounds, what is your point?" Castle asked, his reservoir of patience quickly draining.

"I asked our computer guys to see what files were being dumped first from the last three times Zombie Strike hit us," Alan said, "Want to guess?" Castle gave Alan a weary expression.

"Files regarding the prophecies," Alan announced. "I think that they’re focusing on getting the prophecies, and all the disruption to our activities is just a byproduct." Castle’s eyebrow crooked upward. As much as he hated it, Alan’s theory was plausible. The prophecies surrounding the Great Death were some of the Truth’s most guarded secrets, and as a consequence, were stored in the same places that many of their other sensitive activities were occurring.

"Assuming you’re correct, do we know how much of the prophecies they have acquired?" Castle asked.

"We should know in a few days," Alan said, "I handed it over to Frederick." Castle nodded in agreement. Frederick was the Truth’s head security specialist. He knew what resources to use for this kind of investigation.

"We’ll give Frederick some time to run this theory of yours down a bit," Castle said, "I want your people to use that time to prepare. If he confirms your theory, then I want to move quickly on our next operation. Zombie Strike must still be recovering from the last battle, and I don’t want them involved if we can help it."

"What operation?" Alan asked, "Why wasn’t I told about this?"

"Because you were still recovering from the Brit’s white phosphorous grenade," Castle explained. "I did most of the work while I’ve been here." Alan smirked, and then groaned in pain. The same attack where Alan was wounded also nearly revealed Castle to Zombie Strike. The Truth’s leader fled to the safehouse in Johannesburg. It was secure, but it lacked many of the luxuries the Truth’s headquarters in Lisbon possessed.

"So what’s the plan?" Alan asked. Castle brought up a map on the tablet and showed it to Alan. The sorcerer let out an off-key whistle. "That’s a bit on the audacious side, isn’t it? Did you consult the Flayed One about this?"

"Are you questioning my ability?" Castle snapped. Alan held up his hands in mock surrender.

"No, relax," Alan said, "I think it’s a good operation, but for something this big, we’ll need the Flayed One’s blessing. If for no other reason than to increase the ability of my people."

"I see your point," Castle conceded, "Yes, we have his blessing. If all goes well, then we will fulfill another stanza of the prophecy, and we will control the United States."

Zombie Strike Part 8 Chapter 77