Dancing between Light and Dark, it is neither Life nor Death, but the thin line between.
Illusory
Ever present
Hollow
Ordinary
Fleet
The flitting Shadow beckons, always near, yet never to be caught.
Hovering amongst Dreams and Nightmares, stoking Hope and fueling Fear.
Dangerous
Simple
Silent
Mysterious
Ambivalent
The Shadow serves, but the wary Master guards against deceit.
Doubting both Faith and Reason, it harbors neither Love nor Hate.
Lonely
Voracious
Irksome
Magnificent
Fractious
The Shadow seeks those that Tremble and breaks those who Dare.
Showing posts with label Zombie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Zombie. Show all posts
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
I, Zombie
I am Rusty Bones.
I am a being of the Shadow.
I walk between Light and Dark. I am of neither, at home with both.
My body is that of a zombie, of flesh and bone that once lived, of machine and magick that brought it back. My Spirit is free, though once it was trapped.
I gather the Shadow as my Mantle, my Shroud, so that I may stand vigil over the innocent.
I am Death incarnate.
I am Rusty Bones.
I am a being of the Shadow.
I walk between Light and Dark. I am of neither, at home with both.
My body is that of a zombie, of flesh and bone that once lived, of machine and magick that brought it back. My Spirit is free, though once it was trapped.
I gather the Shadow as my Mantle, my Shroud, so that I may stand vigil over the innocent.
I am Death incarnate.
I am Rusty Bones.
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Zombie King Revealed
In frigid night air, I crunched through the snow in the backyard of the Coop once more. I was alone, or at least as alone as a person with the partial memories and consciousnesses of hundreds of people inside him ever could be.
I brushed the snow off of the stone bench and had a seat just outside of the small stone circle that had served so many times as a makeshift transit point. I reached with my right hand to pull out the chain that held Drake’s ring. I needed to know more about the man we called El Diablito and Drake was the only person I knew who would have the knowledge I needed. The problem is, he had been giving me the silent treatment since I stopped honoring our deal. I hadn’t let him post any of his stories in quite some time.
I took the necklace off and held the ring in my left hand. Perhaps it was time to try a new approach.
“Alright Drake, I need to talk.”
No response.
“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you the time I promised before, but I really need some information about El Diablito.”
Still nothing.
“Would you stop being such a baby about this? I’ll start posting your story again in March.”
The bastard was being really stubborn now.
“OK, OK, I’ll talk to Naomi about letting you meet Alexa.”
Now I felt some stirrings of interest inside the cursed ring.
“But I’m not going to do that unless you start answering some damn questions.”
“What do you want to know about him, Bones?”
“Finally! I need to know who the Hell this guy is and how he came to be so damn strong! How did you meet this guy?”
His droll voice chuckled inside my head. “I have a lot of respect for that little man, Bones. He has made himself into perhaps the most powerful Caster of his generation.”
“So he wasn’t always this strong?”
“No.”
“Then how did he get so strong? We’ve recovered an artifact of his, a Soulscope, from his old shop in Hialeah. Does that have something to do with who he is now?”
“Very good, Bones. I’m almost impressed. When I met Dr. Juergen Klimm for the first time it was in Munich, Germany sometime in 1936 or 1937. He was a psychoanalyst by training, but a Caster of some small talent. Perhaps more importantly than all, he was an inventor who was trying desperately to mix his magickal talents with his mechanical and technological devices. He felt that magick and technology should not be exclusive of each other.”
“What did he do for the Nazis?”
Drake chuckled again. “Well, his is not my tale to tell. But I will say that he developed this Soulscope that you have mentioned, as well as several other devices. He used those devices to further the interests of the Third Reich by helping to eradicate doubt and fear in the minds of certain cadres of soldiers and guards, and by helping to subdue the Casters among the populations that the Germans were working to eradicate. His devices became quite instrumental in the operation of the concentration camps, where he spent a great deal of his time. He earned several nicknames in his time there. My favorite was ‘The Zombie King’. He was called that because when he finished with his victims, they were docile creatures, empty shells of their former selves.
“By using those tools of his, he was able to pacify those folks while at the same time he was stealing the talents and knowledge of his victims, making himself more and more powerful.”
“He sounds like an evil mother fucker.”
“I see that you have yet to learn any manners, Bones. Dr. Klimm did not see himself as evil, of course. Most humans cannot conceive of themselves as evil, even when they are committing the worst of atrocities. There is always a higher purpose that their actions serve, at least in their own minds. Dr. Klimm was no different. He definitely believed in the Third Reich and the concept of the Aryan Race as superior. But he also believed that in some small way that he was helping even his victims.”
“How could he think that even as he stole their powers, pieces of their soul?”
“He knew that the people in those camps were going to be exterminated, but he felt that some of their essence should live on, in him, if no one else. Just think, Bones, he did much the same thing that you have come to do with the power over the Shadow that you acquired from the creature you called Ma Grendel. You taking the memories of Dr. Bernstein was very similar to what did with the tools he created. You and Dr. Klimm…oh excuse me, El Diablito, are very much kindred spirits. How does that make you feel now?”
“Like I might have to renege some more on that deal if you keep it up. So how did he escape from Germany and how did you two come to work together again?”
“By the end of the war, we had gone our separate ways. I joined forces with the Americans, eventually going there to continue my own work. Dr. Klimm ended up fleeing to Argentina and working his way up the South American continent to Haiti and Cuba as he continued to develop his tools and his powers. By the time I was ready to start the Omega Project, I had learned of a powerful little man in Hialeah who was now known by the name of El Diablito and who claimed to have some expertise in creating zombies. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“It seems like you are leaving out enough facts to fill a library.”
“Like I said, Bones, his story is not mine to tell. I have given you all that I care to at this point. You will have to make good on your many empty promises before I offer you any further assistance. Don’t get yourself destroyed before you live up to your obligations.”
I let go of the ring itself, letting it dangle from the chain, ending our conversation.
The nerve of that prick!
I brushed the snow off of the stone bench and had a seat just outside of the small stone circle that had served so many times as a makeshift transit point. I reached with my right hand to pull out the chain that held Drake’s ring. I needed to know more about the man we called El Diablito and Drake was the only person I knew who would have the knowledge I needed. The problem is, he had been giving me the silent treatment since I stopped honoring our deal. I hadn’t let him post any of his stories in quite some time.
I took the necklace off and held the ring in my left hand. Perhaps it was time to try a new approach.
“Alright Drake, I need to talk.”
No response.
“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you the time I promised before, but I really need some information about El Diablito.”
Still nothing.
“Would you stop being such a baby about this? I’ll start posting your story again in March.”
The bastard was being really stubborn now.
“OK, OK, I’ll talk to Naomi about letting you meet Alexa.”
Now I felt some stirrings of interest inside the cursed ring.
“But I’m not going to do that unless you start answering some damn questions.”
“What do you want to know about him, Bones?”
“Finally! I need to know who the Hell this guy is and how he came to be so damn strong! How did you meet this guy?”
His droll voice chuckled inside my head. “I have a lot of respect for that little man, Bones. He has made himself into perhaps the most powerful Caster of his generation.”
“So he wasn’t always this strong?”
“No.”
“Then how did he get so strong? We’ve recovered an artifact of his, a Soulscope, from his old shop in Hialeah. Does that have something to do with who he is now?”
“Very good, Bones. I’m almost impressed. When I met Dr. Juergen Klimm for the first time it was in Munich, Germany sometime in 1936 or 1937. He was a psychoanalyst by training, but a Caster of some small talent. Perhaps more importantly than all, he was an inventor who was trying desperately to mix his magickal talents with his mechanical and technological devices. He felt that magick and technology should not be exclusive of each other.”
“What did he do for the Nazis?”
Drake chuckled again. “Well, his is not my tale to tell. But I will say that he developed this Soulscope that you have mentioned, as well as several other devices. He used those devices to further the interests of the Third Reich by helping to eradicate doubt and fear in the minds of certain cadres of soldiers and guards, and by helping to subdue the Casters among the populations that the Germans were working to eradicate. His devices became quite instrumental in the operation of the concentration camps, where he spent a great deal of his time. He earned several nicknames in his time there. My favorite was ‘The Zombie King’. He was called that because when he finished with his victims, they were docile creatures, empty shells of their former selves.
“By using those tools of his, he was able to pacify those folks while at the same time he was stealing the talents and knowledge of his victims, making himself more and more powerful.”
“He sounds like an evil mother fucker.”
“I see that you have yet to learn any manners, Bones. Dr. Klimm did not see himself as evil, of course. Most humans cannot conceive of themselves as evil, even when they are committing the worst of atrocities. There is always a higher purpose that their actions serve, at least in their own minds. Dr. Klimm was no different. He definitely believed in the Third Reich and the concept of the Aryan Race as superior. But he also believed that in some small way that he was helping even his victims.”
“How could he think that even as he stole their powers, pieces of their soul?”
“He knew that the people in those camps were going to be exterminated, but he felt that some of their essence should live on, in him, if no one else. Just think, Bones, he did much the same thing that you have come to do with the power over the Shadow that you acquired from the creature you called Ma Grendel. You taking the memories of Dr. Bernstein was very similar to what did with the tools he created. You and Dr. Klimm…oh excuse me, El Diablito, are very much kindred spirits. How does that make you feel now?”
“Like I might have to renege some more on that deal if you keep it up. So how did he escape from Germany and how did you two come to work together again?”
“By the end of the war, we had gone our separate ways. I joined forces with the Americans, eventually going there to continue my own work. Dr. Klimm ended up fleeing to Argentina and working his way up the South American continent to Haiti and Cuba as he continued to develop his tools and his powers. By the time I was ready to start the Omega Project, I had learned of a powerful little man in Hialeah who was now known by the name of El Diablito and who claimed to have some expertise in creating zombies. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“It seems like you are leaving out enough facts to fill a library.”
“Like I said, Bones, his story is not mine to tell. I have given you all that I care to at this point. You will have to make good on your many empty promises before I offer you any further assistance. Don’t get yourself destroyed before you live up to your obligations.”
I let go of the ring itself, letting it dangle from the chain, ending our conversation.
The nerve of that prick!
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
A Little Zombie Love
Just a short little note to express my undying love to all of the luscious and inspirational ladies in my (un)life:
To Cerrydwen(Pat): My Soulmate Forever...
To Jasmine (Kerry): My Shining Light...
To Frau (Mom): My Strong Foundation...
To Ravyn (Candii): My Dear Friend...
Happy Valentines Day...
Next post due on Thursday, because tomorrow...(cue the cheesy 70's guitar music)...is for Zombie Lovin'....
Doug
To Cerrydwen(Pat): My Soulmate Forever...
To Jasmine (Kerry): My Shining Light...
To Frau (Mom): My Strong Foundation...
To Ravyn (Candii): My Dear Friend...
Happy Valentines Day...
Next post due on Thursday, because tomorrow...(cue the cheesy 70's guitar music)...is for Zombie Lovin'....
Doug
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Possible Lead
When I was at Greg's funeral, I met a number of fellow officers of his department. I made sure to take aside a detective who I knew to be one of his closest buddies and asked to be apprised of any meaningful developments in the hunt for his killer.
This morning I received a message on my home answering machine from this detective that the had a very good lead on who the killer is believed to be, but that the guy appears to have gone to ground and was making himself very scarce. It took all of my willpower not to get in my vehicle and start the long drive tonight when I got home and heard the message.
But I need to stick around here to keep an eye on Greg and his transition. Today, we laid out his body on this special metallic table that is very maneuverable--it can be moved relatively easily between the various large machines that are needed to complete the preparations of the body. They have started the chemical treatments on his skin and musculature. Later next week they will start on his bones. My window of opportunity to end this process is going to be short.
Today, I spent some more quiet time with communicating with Greg's spirit, trying to feel out how sure he is of his desire to end the process and move on to the next world. I tried to play Devil's Advocate with him to see if I could convince him to ride out these doubts. No dice. He desperately wants to move on and to be done with this whole process. The longer I spoke with him, the surer I became of the strength and depth of his feelings.
I want to help him. But something tells me that I need more info. I hope that detective can track down that killer and get some solid information from him. It would make my decision much easier.
Speaking of following up leads, I need to pick up my own case when I have a chance. After this situation with Greg plays out, I need to see about getting transferred back to Michigan so I can find my own killers and settle some debts that are way overdue.
I apologize for the disjointed nature of these last couple of entries...but with the decision about whether to help Greg in the way he wants me to weighing on my mind, I can't seem to focus properly.
This morning I received a message on my home answering machine from this detective that the had a very good lead on who the killer is believed to be, but that the guy appears to have gone to ground and was making himself very scarce. It took all of my willpower not to get in my vehicle and start the long drive tonight when I got home and heard the message.
But I need to stick around here to keep an eye on Greg and his transition. Today, we laid out his body on this special metallic table that is very maneuverable--it can be moved relatively easily between the various large machines that are needed to complete the preparations of the body. They have started the chemical treatments on his skin and musculature. Later next week they will start on his bones. My window of opportunity to end this process is going to be short.
Today, I spent some more quiet time with communicating with Greg's spirit, trying to feel out how sure he is of his desire to end the process and move on to the next world. I tried to play Devil's Advocate with him to see if I could convince him to ride out these doubts. No dice. He desperately wants to move on and to be done with this whole process. The longer I spoke with him, the surer I became of the strength and depth of his feelings.
I want to help him. But something tells me that I need more info. I hope that detective can track down that killer and get some solid information from him. It would make my decision much easier.
Speaking of following up leads, I need to pick up my own case when I have a chance. After this situation with Greg plays out, I need to see about getting transferred back to Michigan so I can find my own killers and settle some debts that are way overdue.
I apologize for the disjointed nature of these last couple of entries...but with the decision about whether to help Greg in the way he wants me to weighing on my mind, I can't seem to focus properly.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Mirror, Mirror...
I am not sure what to expect with the meeting with Drake scheduled for tomorrow, so I thought I would go a little bit lighter tonight and give you a little view of what I see when I look into a mirror. I know a number of you are curious as to what is so different about me, what I look like and what requirements I have to remain functional.
First, let me start with my outward appearance: I am bald, all of the hair was shaved from my head, and every other part of my body as well. I am fairly short and stockily built, I stand about 5'9" in my boots (that I never take off in public), and tip the scales at 320 pounds+, although that number is deceiving. My bones are much heavier than when I was alive, so I look more like a linebacker than a couch potato in general. I have wide shoulders, and very thick legs. My abdomen is not athletic thin, but I don't overhang the belt either, if you know what I mean. What's left of my skin is very tough and leathery looking--I've been told I am rough to the touch as well by the NecroLab geeks who worked on me. My abdomen is riddled with scars, one large one from the embalming where they removed all of my internal organs and remade me inside, and dozens of smaller scars that have been patched up from various bullet wounds, and more recently, the grenade blast in the Rocky Mountain raid.
My face is nothing pretty to look at either, it seems rougher boned, almost edgier than when I was alive, perhaps something to do with what they did to my bones in the first place. I have single scar on my forehead, which is unmistakably a sewn-up bullet wound, which I have to cover with a hat or a headband if I don't want to be answering questions or scaring the piss out of people. My eyes were brown when I was alive, but since they had to replace the eyeballs with something more durable and the technology wasn't the best, they now almost bulge from my sockets and seem to glow subtly red in most light. In darkness, they definitely glow red, as I benefit from having infra-red vision. My eyes also double as webcams that can be tied into certain Bureau surveilance systems, although I have the final control on what and when they actually record and transmit data. Needless to say, I wear wrap-around, reflective sun-glasses when I need to pass for 'normal'.
The skin on my hands has pretty much been stripped away, revealing a very robotic looking contrapition for hands, although most of it is my own bones, only modified with metals for strength, and wired together by many flexible little wires. My range of motion in my hands is not as fine as I would like it to be, but they are incredbily strong. I usually wear some very fine, and expensive, gloves to cover up that mess.
My feet are pretty much the same, very little in the way of actual skin left down there, so I tend to keep hard soled boots on most of the time. I do have some sock-like leather sleeves I can wear on my feet, but I prefer not to if I can avoid it.
On the inside, my bones are almost all modified...those that had marrow in them, have been filled with some sort of very heavy liquid metals that tend to fill in any cracks that develop and harden. The outside of most of my bones have also been coated wtih some fine metal sheathing. Most of my musculature remains intact, but has been altered chemically so as not to decompose, the muscles are activated somehow (I didn't understand it when they explained it to me) by my artifical neural network. Instead of a biological nervous system, I have been rewired with a series of very fine, almost invisible (inside my skin, of course) wires that connect the muscles and bones to the unit that serves as the home for my spirit and also serves as my brain (let's call this my Chakra--yes I've been doing some reading on this stuff now). That unit is buried deeply in my torso, and is shielded by multiple layers of kevlar, special steel, and other new fangled ceramic materials.
Where my brain used to be, I have been told, are the optical and aural systems that allow me to see and hear. As I mentioned above, I can see in the infra-red spectrum as well as normal light. My infra-red system is much like modern night vision equipment which lacks proper depth perception, but it is better than being blind in the dark. My hearing is very sharp as well, I have been told that it is almost as good as many dogs, allowing me to hear in higher and lower frequencies than humans can. This can be distracting, as I am still learning to adjust to that.
I have absolutely no senses of smell or taste--apparently these were not given a very high priority by the Lab Geeks or the Necromancers who came up with this design. Probably just as well, because it would be Hell on me if I could taste or smell food, and then not be able to drink or eat it.
Touch is a little different. I don't have any true senstivity, and cannot feel pain, heat, or cold, but I can 'feel' contact in a disconnected sort of way. I am still learning not too mash down on my keyboard too much, and have difficulty when opening doors or other fine motor skills based on touch. I am learning to adjust, and have avoided shaking hands much or touching others outside of combat in fear of actually hurting them by accident.
My speech is made possible by drawing in air into some mini-lungs they installed in the upper part of my chest, and then exhaling through my modified vocal chords. My voice does sound duller and lacks the rane Iused to have, but I also don't need to breathe in order to function, only to speak relatively normally. I do have a backup speech system that is a computer generated voice if my lungs don't functions for some reason.
As you saw with the lab incident, I am very strong physically, and can easily lift two or three times what even very strong human weightlifters of my size can. I can do it repeatedly, without tiring as well, as long as I stock up on fuel ahead of time.
So how do I fuel my body? Well everyone who knew me before I died wondered how I could drink as much Coca-Cola as I did, and many often joked about affixing an IV to my arm to avoid having to actually drink the stuff. Well, now I pretty much get to do that. It doesn't have to be Coke per se, but can be any soda or juice product that is not diet. The fluid goes into what is left of my circulatory system, and the calories are burned up by special chemical processes within my body to fuel it. I generally hook up a two liter bottle to a special IV rig that flushes some of the old out and infuses me with the new each morning before heading out. I have found though, that I can actually go several days without replenishing this, but have been advised that I should 'flush and gush' once every 24 hours for optimal performance. Pretty amazing huh? I still need my caffeine (at least psychologically-since I don't actually need caffeine-just calories) each morning. There is a small pump near my Chakra that moves this fluid around, but it is very small and slow, I don't think the beat is discernible, it is a steady rate of slightly less than one squish per minute, whether I am active or not.
Because of the fluid going through my body, I do actually 'bleed' now when I am shot (or blown up), but its really only the leftover liquid from whatever I shot into my system earlier...I think the total capacity to fill me up is around 8 liters...that's a lot of caffeine, but its pretty damn cheap energy to keep me going!
Well, that's about it for tonight, I have some further research to do before the big meeting tomorrow. I also need to get in touch with the guys who haven't died yet, and apprise them of some of the danger they may be in, if they haven't figured it out for themselves yet.
Hopefully, I will be able to give a decent accounting of that meeting tomorrow evening. Wish me luck!
First, let me start with my outward appearance: I am bald, all of the hair was shaved from my head, and every other part of my body as well. I am fairly short and stockily built, I stand about 5'9" in my boots (that I never take off in public), and tip the scales at 320 pounds+, although that number is deceiving. My bones are much heavier than when I was alive, so I look more like a linebacker than a couch potato in general. I have wide shoulders, and very thick legs. My abdomen is not athletic thin, but I don't overhang the belt either, if you know what I mean. What's left of my skin is very tough and leathery looking--I've been told I am rough to the touch as well by the NecroLab geeks who worked on me. My abdomen is riddled with scars, one large one from the embalming where they removed all of my internal organs and remade me inside, and dozens of smaller scars that have been patched up from various bullet wounds, and more recently, the grenade blast in the Rocky Mountain raid.
My face is nothing pretty to look at either, it seems rougher boned, almost edgier than when I was alive, perhaps something to do with what they did to my bones in the first place. I have single scar on my forehead, which is unmistakably a sewn-up bullet wound, which I have to cover with a hat or a headband if I don't want to be answering questions or scaring the piss out of people. My eyes were brown when I was alive, but since they had to replace the eyeballs with something more durable and the technology wasn't the best, they now almost bulge from my sockets and seem to glow subtly red in most light. In darkness, they definitely glow red, as I benefit from having infra-red vision. My eyes also double as webcams that can be tied into certain Bureau surveilance systems, although I have the final control on what and when they actually record and transmit data. Needless to say, I wear wrap-around, reflective sun-glasses when I need to pass for 'normal'.
The skin on my hands has pretty much been stripped away, revealing a very robotic looking contrapition for hands, although most of it is my own bones, only modified with metals for strength, and wired together by many flexible little wires. My range of motion in my hands is not as fine as I would like it to be, but they are incredbily strong. I usually wear some very fine, and expensive, gloves to cover up that mess.
My feet are pretty much the same, very little in the way of actual skin left down there, so I tend to keep hard soled boots on most of the time. I do have some sock-like leather sleeves I can wear on my feet, but I prefer not to if I can avoid it.
On the inside, my bones are almost all modified...those that had marrow in them, have been filled with some sort of very heavy liquid metals that tend to fill in any cracks that develop and harden. The outside of most of my bones have also been coated wtih some fine metal sheathing. Most of my musculature remains intact, but has been altered chemically so as not to decompose, the muscles are activated somehow (I didn't understand it when they explained it to me) by my artifical neural network. Instead of a biological nervous system, I have been rewired with a series of very fine, almost invisible (inside my skin, of course) wires that connect the muscles and bones to the unit that serves as the home for my spirit and also serves as my brain (let's call this my Chakra--yes I've been doing some reading on this stuff now). That unit is buried deeply in my torso, and is shielded by multiple layers of kevlar, special steel, and other new fangled ceramic materials.
Where my brain used to be, I have been told, are the optical and aural systems that allow me to see and hear. As I mentioned above, I can see in the infra-red spectrum as well as normal light. My infra-red system is much like modern night vision equipment which lacks proper depth perception, but it is better than being blind in the dark. My hearing is very sharp as well, I have been told that it is almost as good as many dogs, allowing me to hear in higher and lower frequencies than humans can. This can be distracting, as I am still learning to adjust to that.
I have absolutely no senses of smell or taste--apparently these were not given a very high priority by the Lab Geeks or the Necromancers who came up with this design. Probably just as well, because it would be Hell on me if I could taste or smell food, and then not be able to drink or eat it.
Touch is a little different. I don't have any true senstivity, and cannot feel pain, heat, or cold, but I can 'feel' contact in a disconnected sort of way. I am still learning not too mash down on my keyboard too much, and have difficulty when opening doors or other fine motor skills based on touch. I am learning to adjust, and have avoided shaking hands much or touching others outside of combat in fear of actually hurting them by accident.
My speech is made possible by drawing in air into some mini-lungs they installed in the upper part of my chest, and then exhaling through my modified vocal chords. My voice does sound duller and lacks the rane Iused to have, but I also don't need to breathe in order to function, only to speak relatively normally. I do have a backup speech system that is a computer generated voice if my lungs don't functions for some reason.
As you saw with the lab incident, I am very strong physically, and can easily lift two or three times what even very strong human weightlifters of my size can. I can do it repeatedly, without tiring as well, as long as I stock up on fuel ahead of time.
So how do I fuel my body? Well everyone who knew me before I died wondered how I could drink as much Coca-Cola as I did, and many often joked about affixing an IV to my arm to avoid having to actually drink the stuff. Well, now I pretty much get to do that. It doesn't have to be Coke per se, but can be any soda or juice product that is not diet. The fluid goes into what is left of my circulatory system, and the calories are burned up by special chemical processes within my body to fuel it. I generally hook up a two liter bottle to a special IV rig that flushes some of the old out and infuses me with the new each morning before heading out. I have found though, that I can actually go several days without replenishing this, but have been advised that I should 'flush and gush' once every 24 hours for optimal performance. Pretty amazing huh? I still need my caffeine (at least psychologically-since I don't actually need caffeine-just calories) each morning. There is a small pump near my Chakra that moves this fluid around, but it is very small and slow, I don't think the beat is discernible, it is a steady rate of slightly less than one squish per minute, whether I am active or not.
Because of the fluid going through my body, I do actually 'bleed' now when I am shot (or blown up), but its really only the leftover liquid from whatever I shot into my system earlier...I think the total capacity to fill me up is around 8 liters...that's a lot of caffeine, but its pretty damn cheap energy to keep me going!
Well, that's about it for tonight, I have some further research to do before the big meeting tomorrow. I also need to get in touch with the guys who haven't died yet, and apprise them of some of the danger they may be in, if they haven't figured it out for themselves yet.
Hopefully, I will be able to give a decent accounting of that meeting tomorrow evening. Wish me luck!
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Back in Action-Sort of...
Greetings again. I am glad to be back in my little apartment and to have a chance to renew my posting here in this blog.
I have had a very rough week. After the raid I described in my last post, we returned to our basecamp at an old firefighting campsite in the woods not too far from the actual location of the raid. Things seemed to be going OK at first, when I wrote that last post. However, all Hell broke loose when some of the prisoners who had been hurt in the action found a way to take some of the medical people and their guards captive in the makeshift MedTent. Unfortunately, things didn't go as smooth in taking back control of the situation, as they had in the raid. Abu Majid led the prisoners in taking the hostages, and somehow got ahold of a grenade while one of the others had gotten some sidearms.
The immediate reaction was to try to negotiate with Majid, but he was having none of that, he kept increasing his demands from freeing all of his people to outrageous sums of money and weapons, he knew that none of these demands could be granted. After several hours of a stand-off situation, I was tasked with leading the assault team. It was my assignment to find a way of getting to that grenade and neutralizing it at all costs.
My memories of the assault are actually less than clear, since I did succeed in getting to that grenade. When we rushed into the tent, we were immediately accompanied by a couple of extremely loud sonic blasts that were intended to throw the hostage takers off balance, our guys had been given special ear plugs and a warning of when it would come. The blasts did succeed in their stated goal, as Majid was holding the grenade when I burst through the door, but dropped it just as he was getting ready to throw it at me when the sonic blasts occurred. He recovered quickly enough to try to kick the grenade in my direction, but I was already leaping towards it as the SWAT members following behind me started sniping the terrorists still left standing after the blasts. I was able to scoop the grenade in my arms and fall down directly on top of it, like I had read about so many brave soldiers doing in WWII in order to save their comrades. Of course, I cannot accept any such accolades, since I would feel no pain, and would suffer few consequences, or so I thought.
The blast from the grenade did a significant amount of damage to my body, shredding much of the skin I had left, breaking a couple of bones in my chest, and severing a bunch of my neural pathways. Luckily my body was solid enough to absorb enough of the impact that my fellow officers were unharmed. The terrorists were quickly neutralized, and only one of the med techs had been killed (apparently in the initial hostage taking) and two officers slightly wounded.
After this second assault was over, I found I could not walk, and had very limited movement in my right arm. I had to be loaded onto a special stretcher, and flown back to Virginia for the repairs to be undertaken.
The majority of last week was spent in own special repair bay as the techs had to repair my severed neural pathways, patch on some replacement skin, and mend the broken bones. They also spent additional time reinforcing certain weaknesses from blast impacts, in the hope that I can be of even more use in explosive related cases. So the end result is that I am heavier and sturdier than I was before, since they have started the up-armoring process that will make it more difficult for stray bullets or fragments from explosions to damage my body.
Drake was in his glory when he came to see me, he told me receiving 'high honors' for implementing the program that created me, and has been given the green light to recruit, train, and 'raise' more officers like me. I think the government is really looking into whether or not the process that created me can be used to create a special cadre of elite troops to be used in places like Iraq.
Anyway, I have just returned home, and I am still getting used to balancing as I walk and move. I have been given the next week off, pending any crisis that arises, and intend to do some serious blogging over the next few days. I hope to be able to finish the story of how I came to be, and explore some of the issues that are of new importance to me. You will probably be seeing multiple posts a day this weekend, and more frequent entries during the next week.
Well, I need to think back that first meeting with Drake when he broke out some of the details of this program, and I will get into that later this evening.
I have had a very rough week. After the raid I described in my last post, we returned to our basecamp at an old firefighting campsite in the woods not too far from the actual location of the raid. Things seemed to be going OK at first, when I wrote that last post. However, all Hell broke loose when some of the prisoners who had been hurt in the action found a way to take some of the medical people and their guards captive in the makeshift MedTent. Unfortunately, things didn't go as smooth in taking back control of the situation, as they had in the raid. Abu Majid led the prisoners in taking the hostages, and somehow got ahold of a grenade while one of the others had gotten some sidearms.
The immediate reaction was to try to negotiate with Majid, but he was having none of that, he kept increasing his demands from freeing all of his people to outrageous sums of money and weapons, he knew that none of these demands could be granted. After several hours of a stand-off situation, I was tasked with leading the assault team. It was my assignment to find a way of getting to that grenade and neutralizing it at all costs.
My memories of the assault are actually less than clear, since I did succeed in getting to that grenade. When we rushed into the tent, we were immediately accompanied by a couple of extremely loud sonic blasts that were intended to throw the hostage takers off balance, our guys had been given special ear plugs and a warning of when it would come. The blasts did succeed in their stated goal, as Majid was holding the grenade when I burst through the door, but dropped it just as he was getting ready to throw it at me when the sonic blasts occurred. He recovered quickly enough to try to kick the grenade in my direction, but I was already leaping towards it as the SWAT members following behind me started sniping the terrorists still left standing after the blasts. I was able to scoop the grenade in my arms and fall down directly on top of it, like I had read about so many brave soldiers doing in WWII in order to save their comrades. Of course, I cannot accept any such accolades, since I would feel no pain, and would suffer few consequences, or so I thought.
The blast from the grenade did a significant amount of damage to my body, shredding much of the skin I had left, breaking a couple of bones in my chest, and severing a bunch of my neural pathways. Luckily my body was solid enough to absorb enough of the impact that my fellow officers were unharmed. The terrorists were quickly neutralized, and only one of the med techs had been killed (apparently in the initial hostage taking) and two officers slightly wounded.
After this second assault was over, I found I could not walk, and had very limited movement in my right arm. I had to be loaded onto a special stretcher, and flown back to Virginia for the repairs to be undertaken.
The majority of last week was spent in own special repair bay as the techs had to repair my severed neural pathways, patch on some replacement skin, and mend the broken bones. They also spent additional time reinforcing certain weaknesses from blast impacts, in the hope that I can be of even more use in explosive related cases. So the end result is that I am heavier and sturdier than I was before, since they have started the up-armoring process that will make it more difficult for stray bullets or fragments from explosions to damage my body.
Drake was in his glory when he came to see me, he told me receiving 'high honors' for implementing the program that created me, and has been given the green light to recruit, train, and 'raise' more officers like me. I think the government is really looking into whether or not the process that created me can be used to create a special cadre of elite troops to be used in places like Iraq.
Anyway, I have just returned home, and I am still getting used to balancing as I walk and move. I have been given the next week off, pending any crisis that arises, and intend to do some serious blogging over the next few days. I hope to be able to finish the story of how I came to be, and explore some of the issues that are of new importance to me. You will probably be seeing multiple posts a day this weekend, and more frequent entries during the next week.
Well, I need to think back that first meeting with Drake when he broke out some of the details of this program, and I will get into that later this evening.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The Politics of (Un)Death
This will likely be a short post tonight, as I have just returned from a mission brieifing, and will soon be travelling to the (currently) undisclosed location for this mission. I will be sure to blog the mission once it is operationally safe to do so, and I may be able to make some other entries with my shiny new laptop, so I will be not be absent for any period of time...
But one thing that has been bothering me, with the upcoming vote in Iraq, and the inaugurationin DC coming up next week...I didn't get to vote for the first time in my life (or death)!
You see, since I was officially declared dead, I cannot vote using my prior identity, since that person is now legally dead. But I also don't have a birth certificate or any other identification for my present incarnation, other than the credentials issued to me by the Bureau. I am essentially a legal non-entity.
I don't know how he was able to pull it off, but I did twist Drake's nuts hard enough to make him keep paying me a salary to a special account at a bank where I can do all of my banking online. This allows me some freedom to have my own place, and to decorate in my own new and eclectic style--I do most of my shopping online at places like eBay and Amazon.
But it really chaps my ass that I couldn't vote in this past election. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not usually very politically active, I actually hate politicians of all parties. I usually vote against the incumbent in every election, since I don't want those candyass politicians to get too comfortable in their cushy jobs, you know? I guess every vote I ever cast was pretty much a protest vote...vote all of the bums out I say!
Now I don't even get to do that. Maybe that is why I find myself blogging these experiences, in the hopes of having my voice heard by someone, somewhere. Maybe I should move to Chicago, or Lousiana, I hear those places let the dead folks vote too!
If what was done to me happens to many more people, they are going to have to figure out how to handle shit like this. I mean, I can always lean on the Bureau to make something happen, although they fell on their faces on the voting issue, but what if this process is used by the private sector, for profit? What rights will those people (monsters?) have? Will we need an amendment to protect the rights of the Undead? And how the hell do you handle life insurance payments to family members when the dead guy gets up and goes back to work after the funeral?
How will they handle it when someone (something) like me commits a crime? What about a life sentence? Or a death sentence? I think I am already serving that one.
Hey maybe now people can serve multiple life sentences, and be brought back to serve each of them in teeny, tiny cells, staring at a blank wall...what a horror!
How long do I even have? Drake sure as hell doesn't know. He's not even completely sure how this actually worked. 'It's magick, Agent Bones, it's magick,' is all he says when I ask him. I do know that I wasn't the first guy they tried this on, I am reasonably sure though, that I am the first one it actually worked on...lucky me.
Well, looks like my ride is here...packing sure is easy, grab my laptop and duffle with a spare hat, some extra hands (gloves to go over my skeletal looking fingers), and away I go!
But one thing that has been bothering me, with the upcoming vote in Iraq, and the inaugurationin DC coming up next week...I didn't get to vote for the first time in my life (or death)!
You see, since I was officially declared dead, I cannot vote using my prior identity, since that person is now legally dead. But I also don't have a birth certificate or any other identification for my present incarnation, other than the credentials issued to me by the Bureau. I am essentially a legal non-entity.
I don't know how he was able to pull it off, but I did twist Drake's nuts hard enough to make him keep paying me a salary to a special account at a bank where I can do all of my banking online. This allows me some freedom to have my own place, and to decorate in my own new and eclectic style--I do most of my shopping online at places like eBay and Amazon.
But it really chaps my ass that I couldn't vote in this past election. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not usually very politically active, I actually hate politicians of all parties. I usually vote against the incumbent in every election, since I don't want those candyass politicians to get too comfortable in their cushy jobs, you know? I guess every vote I ever cast was pretty much a protest vote...vote all of the bums out I say!
Now I don't even get to do that. Maybe that is why I find myself blogging these experiences, in the hopes of having my voice heard by someone, somewhere. Maybe I should move to Chicago, or Lousiana, I hear those places let the dead folks vote too!
If what was done to me happens to many more people, they are going to have to figure out how to handle shit like this. I mean, I can always lean on the Bureau to make something happen, although they fell on their faces on the voting issue, but what if this process is used by the private sector, for profit? What rights will those people (monsters?) have? Will we need an amendment to protect the rights of the Undead? And how the hell do you handle life insurance payments to family members when the dead guy gets up and goes back to work after the funeral?
How will they handle it when someone (something) like me commits a crime? What about a life sentence? Or a death sentence? I think I am already serving that one.
Hey maybe now people can serve multiple life sentences, and be brought back to serve each of them in teeny, tiny cells, staring at a blank wall...what a horror!
How long do I even have? Drake sure as hell doesn't know. He's not even completely sure how this actually worked. 'It's magick, Agent Bones, it's magick,' is all he says when I ask him. I do know that I wasn't the first guy they tried this on, I am reasonably sure though, that I am the first one it actually worked on...lucky me.
Well, looks like my ride is here...packing sure is easy, grab my laptop and duffle with a spare hat, some extra hands (gloves to go over my skeletal looking fingers), and away I go!
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
In the Beginning...
Sorry for the delay on my posting, I had them remove the skin from my fingers and hands and replace it with these special gloves. Much more supple, much better fine motor control. For the first time, I am able to actually type with my fingers and don’t have to use those damn pencils. Perhaps my posts can be more detailed and longer, as needed.
So, I promised on my last entry to mention more about the Beginning, how I came to be in this unique (I hope) position of being undead.
Drake Kampmann, a powerful man running a secret division of the FBI, had approached my chief in the summer of 1998 looking for good cops with no religious affiliations and a need for cash, and my good buddy the chief had narturally thought of me (thanks Chief). Kampmann had laid the deal out before me, essentially join this open-ended task force with the stated goal of being in a position to respond to religious extremists of any stripe in the United States. The deal looked too good to be true, the department got some badly needed cash, and I was offered a nice lure of up to $25,000 a year extra in my salary, directly from the DOJ. Of course there were ‘additional details’ to be divulged once I was on board...but I lost track of any strings that were mentioned when I heard about the extra money. I was married with two kids approaching college age, and a wife who was always trying to squeeze our pennies to make ends meet. But I am sure many of you have been in a similar position and can appreciate the lure of extra cash for what seemed a nice little assignment.
So what was the price of my soul? Well, up to the date of my death, approximately $125,000.
Hmmm...doesn’t seem like such a great deal anymore.
After signing the contracts and memorandums of understanding offered by Kampmann, I was placed on leave for two weeks by my department and sent the following Monday to Omega Project Headquarters, located in a suburban office complex in Fairfax, Virginia. I had a fairly intensive two week training session on dangers posed by various religious extremist groups and their growing influence in politics both inside and outside of the United States. There were about thirty other officers from all over the country in those sessions, all of them professing to be non-religious in any way.
Through the course of those early sessions, I can recognize now through hindsight, we were being evaluated in by our instructors and by unseen individuals as they watched our responses to the training materials and our post-training debates. We were being secretly vetted to make absolutely sure that we were truly unbelievers in any known faith. One guy admitted to being a pagan, from some group called Wiccans, I think, and he was here because his chief considered him a heathen . But he was the first guy shipped back. Strangely, there weren’t any women in this initial group...probably too smart to fall for the lures that prick Drake was casting.
(BTW-he hates it when I use his first name, which is of course why I keep throwing it out there. He prefers Director Kampmann, to which I say, ‘Blow me, Drake.’-he had me by the balls with his money when I was alive, but now I am his showpiece, proof that his horseshit theories actually can work, but I make sure he pays a hefty price for my cooperation now!)
In all, ten of the first thirty were weeded out in the first training session. Those that got shipped back still got to keep their first little incentive checks, but had to sign all sorts of anti-disclosure agreements, to keep the whole project quiet. Amazing how a little $ can work some magic.
Shit, I was sure going to learn the truth of that, over time.
After that first session, we were given a shit load of reading materials and training videos to watch, all pretty pedestrian crap, but we were told that we would be taking some tests and that the first team chosen would consist of twelve officers, so if we wanted to keep the bonuses flowing, we would have to bone up on material and score well. We were also told to keep our noses clean, and stay the Hell out of trouble, both with our departments and with the real world in general. A single bad shooting, or abuse investigation, or even a DUI charge, and we would be booted, no questions asked or answered.
Over the next year, we were weeded down to that first team of twelve. I must say, that we were a pretty tight and sharp group. After the team was set, we entered the tactical phase of our training, and received special training sessions with Tactical Ops teams at a secret location in the Arizona desert, which was some pretty high speed shit. it was during this phase though, that things began to change, gradually. We were fed a special diet of supposed high-protein, highly nutritious food that was filled with all sorts of shit I hadn’t heard of, at least since Advanced Chemistry in high school. We were also given these nasty-ass tasting high protein shakes that we were told to drink everyday back in the real world. Let me tell you, these things almost made me quit right there, but the mighty dollar still held me in its sway, and I choked the things down as required.
Now I know that these things were designed to toughen up my bones and to make small, gradual changes in my body chemistry that would make my body more usable when I died. The better prepared the body is for the things they do to it after you die, the better for Drake’s damn Necromancers, as I call them.
Anyway, by the end of 2000, things were heating up. We had passed all of the tactical training, and had even been called into handle a couple of situations before they became big, public messes. Once the new administration was sworn in, there must have been some sort of green light given for the next phase, because that was when Drake called each us into his office for special one day private meetings.
I’ll stop there, since I want to show Drake in all of his glory with my next post on the subject, we’ll see when i can do justice to that. Meanwhile, I would like to offer to answer any questions you might have (within the boundaries that I am constrained by). You can send those questions by e-mail, or post them as comments. I will try to post at least one response to questions with each post I make, if I receive any.
So, I promised on my last entry to mention more about the Beginning, how I came to be in this unique (I hope) position of being undead.
Drake Kampmann, a powerful man running a secret division of the FBI, had approached my chief in the summer of 1998 looking for good cops with no religious affiliations and a need for cash, and my good buddy the chief had narturally thought of me (thanks Chief). Kampmann had laid the deal out before me, essentially join this open-ended task force with the stated goal of being in a position to respond to religious extremists of any stripe in the United States. The deal looked too good to be true, the department got some badly needed cash, and I was offered a nice lure of up to $25,000 a year extra in my salary, directly from the DOJ. Of course there were ‘additional details’ to be divulged once I was on board...but I lost track of any strings that were mentioned when I heard about the extra money. I was married with two kids approaching college age, and a wife who was always trying to squeeze our pennies to make ends meet. But I am sure many of you have been in a similar position and can appreciate the lure of extra cash for what seemed a nice little assignment.
So what was the price of my soul? Well, up to the date of my death, approximately $125,000.
Hmmm...doesn’t seem like such a great deal anymore.
After signing the contracts and memorandums of understanding offered by Kampmann, I was placed on leave for two weeks by my department and sent the following Monday to Omega Project Headquarters, located in a suburban office complex in Fairfax, Virginia. I had a fairly intensive two week training session on dangers posed by various religious extremist groups and their growing influence in politics both inside and outside of the United States. There were about thirty other officers from all over the country in those sessions, all of them professing to be non-religious in any way.
Through the course of those early sessions, I can recognize now through hindsight, we were being evaluated in by our instructors and by unseen individuals as they watched our responses to the training materials and our post-training debates. We were being secretly vetted to make absolutely sure that we were truly unbelievers in any known faith. One guy admitted to being a pagan, from some group called Wiccans, I think, and he was here because his chief considered him a heathen . But he was the first guy shipped back. Strangely, there weren’t any women in this initial group...probably too smart to fall for the lures that prick Drake was casting.
(BTW-he hates it when I use his first name, which is of course why I keep throwing it out there. He prefers Director Kampmann, to which I say, ‘Blow me, Drake.’-he had me by the balls with his money when I was alive, but now I am his showpiece, proof that his horseshit theories actually can work, but I make sure he pays a hefty price for my cooperation now!)
In all, ten of the first thirty were weeded out in the first training session. Those that got shipped back still got to keep their first little incentive checks, but had to sign all sorts of anti-disclosure agreements, to keep the whole project quiet. Amazing how a little $ can work some magic.
Shit, I was sure going to learn the truth of that, over time.
After that first session, we were given a shit load of reading materials and training videos to watch, all pretty pedestrian crap, but we were told that we would be taking some tests and that the first team chosen would consist of twelve officers, so if we wanted to keep the bonuses flowing, we would have to bone up on material and score well. We were also told to keep our noses clean, and stay the Hell out of trouble, both with our departments and with the real world in general. A single bad shooting, or abuse investigation, or even a DUI charge, and we would be booted, no questions asked or answered.
Over the next year, we were weeded down to that first team of twelve. I must say, that we were a pretty tight and sharp group. After the team was set, we entered the tactical phase of our training, and received special training sessions with Tactical Ops teams at a secret location in the Arizona desert, which was some pretty high speed shit. it was during this phase though, that things began to change, gradually. We were fed a special diet of supposed high-protein, highly nutritious food that was filled with all sorts of shit I hadn’t heard of, at least since Advanced Chemistry in high school. We were also given these nasty-ass tasting high protein shakes that we were told to drink everyday back in the real world. Let me tell you, these things almost made me quit right there, but the mighty dollar still held me in its sway, and I choked the things down as required.
Now I know that these things were designed to toughen up my bones and to make small, gradual changes in my body chemistry that would make my body more usable when I died. The better prepared the body is for the things they do to it after you die, the better for Drake’s damn Necromancers, as I call them.
Anyway, by the end of 2000, things were heating up. We had passed all of the tactical training, and had even been called into handle a couple of situations before they became big, public messes. Once the new administration was sworn in, there must have been some sort of green light given for the next phase, because that was when Drake called each us into his office for special one day private meetings.
I’ll stop there, since I want to show Drake in all of his glory with my next post on the subject, we’ll see when i can do justice to that. Meanwhile, I would like to offer to answer any questions you might have (within the boundaries that I am constrained by). You can send those questions by e-mail, or post them as comments. I will try to post at least one response to questions with each post I make, if I receive any.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Stumblin' and Bumblin'
I have just returned from my first surveillance assignment. I have been told that this is the kind of assignment that I may expect to see lot of in the future. I must admit that I am very well suited to this kind of work right now.
In my prior life, surveillance was a drag. It comprises about 99% boredom, and 1% heartpounding excitement. It was always a struggle to stay awake long enough so as not to miss any important details. Of course now, I no longer have to worry about hunger, stiffening joints (they are always stiff-but at least I can’t feel it!), or feeling tired. Shit, I don’t even need to blink!
So last night I was assigned to sit and watch this house in a very bad urban neighborhood that is possibly connected to some serious drug dealing. I was made to look like a drunken stumblebum (not a very far stretch, if I do say so myself), and had to wear a natty old hat to cover my obviously fatal bullet hole scar in my forehead and some other tattered clothing to complete the outfit. I was then dropped off a couple of blocks down the street by an obviously distressed cabbie, who sped off like a bat-out-of-Hell when I loudly threw my empty 40 ounce bottle at him. I staggered down the street, mumbling and muttering in the kind of crazy, disjointed talk of many unfortunate street-dwellers, and made my way to just across the street from the target house. There I found a nice pile of abandoned furniture and garabge to strategically collapse into and feign unconsciousness.
I was out there all night and into this morning. I was amazed at the sheer variety of cars and customers that made their way to and then away from that house. They came from all over to this place, from suburban housewives driving their minivans, to sporty little cars driven by middle-aged businessman. Of course, there were plenty of jalopies and hoopdies mixed in there as well, and more than a few strung out addicts walking up to the place for their next fix.
A definite drug dealing location. There were always a couple of semi-obvious lookouts hanging out on various corners of the block, I was able to pick up on the signals they used to indicate potential customers or squad cars. There was also usually a pair of tough guys who would hang out near the door, playing cards and loud music, while barely concealed bulges gave away the locations of their guns.
Before, I prided myself on being a pretty observant cop, one who could pick out a likely perp from a croud of innocents better than the next guy, but I have never before been able to concentrate and observe the kinds of details I picked up on last night. I can literally remember the nicknames of the gangmembers as they greeted one another. I could also pick out many of the customers from a random lineup, and I even memorized the license plates and makes and models of most of the cars I saw. I have never been one to have a photographic memory before, but...this can be a curse as well. It is almost impossible for me to forget anything anymore, and there sure is an awful lot of shit I’d like to forget. You know the really sad thing,..I find I am remembering all sorts of shit I said and did in my prior life. Ain’t that a bitch? Now I get to recall all of the shitty things I said to my ex when we were heading towards divorce, and Hell, all of the things that I said and did before she gave up on my ass and took me to the cleaners. Of course that also means I get to relive all of the shit that was said to me, all the way back into friggin’ grade school. Ugh.
Sorry about that, I’m pretty sure you don’t want read about the nasty things I said to Sally Jensen in the thrid grade, or the things her bigger brother did to me in the boys’ room after that. I’ll try to stick to the story at hand, and try to bring some order to my musings. I just got overwhelmed for a second.
Back to the crack house surveillance. By this morning, one of the lookouts from the western end of the block passed by my body, and actually stopped to take anything of value I might have. I didn’t even stir as he rifled through my pockets taking the $3.89 I had placed in them before I had left the apartment. He kicked my lifeless body and cursed at my rather foul smell. He, or another of the lookouts, must have called in to dispatch about the dead body out front of their house, because they quickly packed in the rest of the scouts and the put up the card game, just before a couple of squad cars and an ambulance showed up. Luckily, the locals had been aware of the surveillance, and played it straight. They loaded me into a body bag, and threw me in the back of the coroner’s van when that arrived later. The bastards didn’t need to zip the damn bag up all the way though, I didn’t like that feeling of being in pitch darkness again, it reminded too much of my first death. As soon as I was safely in the van, and we were rolling away, I ripped that thing open and was figuratively breathed a sigh of relief.
I had to brief the locals in charge of the surveillance operation, and give them the list of license plates and vehicles to run through their systems. I also ran through a couple of photo arrays, and picked out 5 of the principles in the drug ring as being present in the operation.
I am not sure how much they can use my surveillance for court purposes however, since I am unlikely to be called to testify at any trial. One look at my ugly mug, and any defendant is gonna be set free by a jury. I don’t know how well this identity will hold up in a court of law either. I doubt that bastard Drake will allow me the chance to find out either.
In my next entry, I will endeavor to continue the story of how I came to be this way, and hopefully fill in a few more blanks. I am running short on time today, as this hunting and pecking away with two pencils is taking longer than I would like. I must go and rattle Drake’s cage to see if he can get me any more dexterity in these claw-like hands of mine. I can’t even hold a gun yet, and working any small device takes a great deal of time. I fear I am junking up this keyboard even now, and will need to replace it soon.
In my prior life, surveillance was a drag. It comprises about 99% boredom, and 1% heartpounding excitement. It was always a struggle to stay awake long enough so as not to miss any important details. Of course now, I no longer have to worry about hunger, stiffening joints (they are always stiff-but at least I can’t feel it!), or feeling tired. Shit, I don’t even need to blink!
So last night I was assigned to sit and watch this house in a very bad urban neighborhood that is possibly connected to some serious drug dealing. I was made to look like a drunken stumblebum (not a very far stretch, if I do say so myself), and had to wear a natty old hat to cover my obviously fatal bullet hole scar in my forehead and some other tattered clothing to complete the outfit. I was then dropped off a couple of blocks down the street by an obviously distressed cabbie, who sped off like a bat-out-of-Hell when I loudly threw my empty 40 ounce bottle at him. I staggered down the street, mumbling and muttering in the kind of crazy, disjointed talk of many unfortunate street-dwellers, and made my way to just across the street from the target house. There I found a nice pile of abandoned furniture and garabge to strategically collapse into and feign unconsciousness.
I was out there all night and into this morning. I was amazed at the sheer variety of cars and customers that made their way to and then away from that house. They came from all over to this place, from suburban housewives driving their minivans, to sporty little cars driven by middle-aged businessman. Of course, there were plenty of jalopies and hoopdies mixed in there as well, and more than a few strung out addicts walking up to the place for their next fix.
A definite drug dealing location. There were always a couple of semi-obvious lookouts hanging out on various corners of the block, I was able to pick up on the signals they used to indicate potential customers or squad cars. There was also usually a pair of tough guys who would hang out near the door, playing cards and loud music, while barely concealed bulges gave away the locations of their guns.
Before, I prided myself on being a pretty observant cop, one who could pick out a likely perp from a croud of innocents better than the next guy, but I have never before been able to concentrate and observe the kinds of details I picked up on last night. I can literally remember the nicknames of the gangmembers as they greeted one another. I could also pick out many of the customers from a random lineup, and I even memorized the license plates and makes and models of most of the cars I saw. I have never been one to have a photographic memory before, but...this can be a curse as well. It is almost impossible for me to forget anything anymore, and there sure is an awful lot of shit I’d like to forget. You know the really sad thing,..I find I am remembering all sorts of shit I said and did in my prior life. Ain’t that a bitch? Now I get to recall all of the shitty things I said to my ex when we were heading towards divorce, and Hell, all of the things that I said and did before she gave up on my ass and took me to the cleaners. Of course that also means I get to relive all of the shit that was said to me, all the way back into friggin’ grade school. Ugh.
Sorry about that, I’m pretty sure you don’t want read about the nasty things I said to Sally Jensen in the thrid grade, or the things her bigger brother did to me in the boys’ room after that. I’ll try to stick to the story at hand, and try to bring some order to my musings. I just got overwhelmed for a second.
Back to the crack house surveillance. By this morning, one of the lookouts from the western end of the block passed by my body, and actually stopped to take anything of value I might have. I didn’t even stir as he rifled through my pockets taking the $3.89 I had placed in them before I had left the apartment. He kicked my lifeless body and cursed at my rather foul smell. He, or another of the lookouts, must have called in to dispatch about the dead body out front of their house, because they quickly packed in the rest of the scouts and the put up the card game, just before a couple of squad cars and an ambulance showed up. Luckily, the locals had been aware of the surveillance, and played it straight. They loaded me into a body bag, and threw me in the back of the coroner’s van when that arrived later. The bastards didn’t need to zip the damn bag up all the way though, I didn’t like that feeling of being in pitch darkness again, it reminded too much of my first death. As soon as I was safely in the van, and we were rolling away, I ripped that thing open and was figuratively breathed a sigh of relief.
I had to brief the locals in charge of the surveillance operation, and give them the list of license plates and vehicles to run through their systems. I also ran through a couple of photo arrays, and picked out 5 of the principles in the drug ring as being present in the operation.
I am not sure how much they can use my surveillance for court purposes however, since I am unlikely to be called to testify at any trial. One look at my ugly mug, and any defendant is gonna be set free by a jury. I don’t know how well this identity will hold up in a court of law either. I doubt that bastard Drake will allow me the chance to find out either.
In my next entry, I will endeavor to continue the story of how I came to be this way, and hopefully fill in a few more blanks. I am running short on time today, as this hunting and pecking away with two pencils is taking longer than I would like. I must go and rattle Drake’s cage to see if he can get me any more dexterity in these claw-like hands of mine. I can’t even hold a gun yet, and working any small device takes a great deal of time. I fear I am junking up this keyboard even now, and will need to replace it soon.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Braaaiinss
You should have seen the look on that crankhead's face! By the time I finished with him, he was begging to be arrested by the police, babbling about zombies trying to eat his brains!
I was summoned last night to help out in a nasty hostage situation that some locals had gotten into when they chased a pair of robbers from an armored car heist. The pricks had killed the driver and one other guard was badly wounded. But they didn't notice the local news copter that had seen the heist and called in the law (but not before airing it for their viewers and getting that all important exclusive footage). Once the jig was up the robbers had fled into a nearby house and were holding the old lady and her grandson hostage, threatening to kill 'em if the locals didn't let 'em slip away.
I was called in and sent towards the house as an unarmed police hostage in exchange for the boy. As soon as those bastards saw me lurching up the driveway, things started to go sideways in a hurry. The boy freaked when he saw me and bolted for the cops. The taller of the two crooks took a step outside to shoot the kid, and was dropped by a sniper with a well placed shot. I stepped over his body and into the house to see the fat, balding crook holding the old lady in an armlock with a big ass Desert Eagle .44 Magnum held to her temple. As soon as he got a look at my nasty mug, the bastard went from the flushed red of exertion to pale-as-a-sheet white. He looked into my eyes, and brought the gun up towards my chest. The old lady had some spunk in her as she bit into his other wrist, and did a mule kick into his balls. Dentures and curses went flying, but he never took his eyes off me. He managed one shot before I closed on him, arms extended in my best Frankenstein pose, as I muttered "Braaaiinss". The impact of the bullet was barely noticeable as I grabbed the gun and broke his wrist with one hand, and reached for his neck with the other.
When the local SWAT team stormed in, they found him in a fetal position clutching his nuts in his good hand, barely coherent. I was in the process of handing the lady back her teeth when I had to catch her in mid-faint.
It took a few hours today to debrief and get all the appropriate paperwork signed and the bullet holes plugged up again, but I am finally free to relax here with you, my gentle readers.
It sure is weird going into a situation knowing that I can't be hurt. Sure is different from being a beat cop. Hell even the SWAT goons aren't invincible. There just isn't enough body armor to keep even the bravest officer from getting the shakes after a shootout. Yet here I was, shot through the chest cavity by one of the biggest, nastiest guns out there, and I didn't feel anything other than a shift in my momentum from the impact. I can look at the whole incident with a clarity unclouded by the adrenaline I would've felt just two years ago.
No dry throat. No shakes after realizing what could have happened. No exhilaration at surviving a tough struggle. No real sense of victory or accomplishment. Just a plain, clear knowledge that two lives were saved, and one was avenged.
But what is vengeance when there is no beating heart to burn with the need for it? What have they done to me? What have I become?
Perhaps there are no real answers to these questions, but I am going to find them if they exist. I know with a certainty that I am an experiment. I was the first dumb bastard to successfully fufill that weird contract for them by getting killed, and then be raised back up again. But I know of others who signed up for this too. I owe it to myself, to those other poor saps and to all the living to find out what kind of monster I have become.
It would be too easy to become an impersonal killing machine. The perfect soldier. The perfect robot. A machine with the intelligence and the...soul?...of a man. But a creature who can shed no tears, suffer no pain, feel no love.
The really bad part, the part that no robot would ever face, is the memory of all that is now gone. Oh that bastard Drake says he is working on a better neural system for me, that they are still refining systems that may bring some sense of things like touch back to me, but how can that be the same?
In my past life, I wasn't much for books or even deep thought. Mine was a life that was experienced, both good and bad and everything else in between. Now I must find meaning in my thoughts and in the wisdom of others.
What a strange damn journey is ahead of us. Are you ready for that? Am I?
I was summoned last night to help out in a nasty hostage situation that some locals had gotten into when they chased a pair of robbers from an armored car heist. The pricks had killed the driver and one other guard was badly wounded. But they didn't notice the local news copter that had seen the heist and called in the law (but not before airing it for their viewers and getting that all important exclusive footage). Once the jig was up the robbers had fled into a nearby house and were holding the old lady and her grandson hostage, threatening to kill 'em if the locals didn't let 'em slip away.
I was called in and sent towards the house as an unarmed police hostage in exchange for the boy. As soon as those bastards saw me lurching up the driveway, things started to go sideways in a hurry. The boy freaked when he saw me and bolted for the cops. The taller of the two crooks took a step outside to shoot the kid, and was dropped by a sniper with a well placed shot. I stepped over his body and into the house to see the fat, balding crook holding the old lady in an armlock with a big ass Desert Eagle .44 Magnum held to her temple. As soon as he got a look at my nasty mug, the bastard went from the flushed red of exertion to pale-as-a-sheet white. He looked into my eyes, and brought the gun up towards my chest. The old lady had some spunk in her as she bit into his other wrist, and did a mule kick into his balls. Dentures and curses went flying, but he never took his eyes off me. He managed one shot before I closed on him, arms extended in my best Frankenstein pose, as I muttered "Braaaiinss". The impact of the bullet was barely noticeable as I grabbed the gun and broke his wrist with one hand, and reached for his neck with the other.
When the local SWAT team stormed in, they found him in a fetal position clutching his nuts in his good hand, barely coherent. I was in the process of handing the lady back her teeth when I had to catch her in mid-faint.
It took a few hours today to debrief and get all the appropriate paperwork signed and the bullet holes plugged up again, but I am finally free to relax here with you, my gentle readers.
It sure is weird going into a situation knowing that I can't be hurt. Sure is different from being a beat cop. Hell even the SWAT goons aren't invincible. There just isn't enough body armor to keep even the bravest officer from getting the shakes after a shootout. Yet here I was, shot through the chest cavity by one of the biggest, nastiest guns out there, and I didn't feel anything other than a shift in my momentum from the impact. I can look at the whole incident with a clarity unclouded by the adrenaline I would've felt just two years ago.
No dry throat. No shakes after realizing what could have happened. No exhilaration at surviving a tough struggle. No real sense of victory or accomplishment. Just a plain, clear knowledge that two lives were saved, and one was avenged.
But what is vengeance when there is no beating heart to burn with the need for it? What have they done to me? What have I become?
Perhaps there are no real answers to these questions, but I am going to find them if they exist. I know with a certainty that I am an experiment. I was the first dumb bastard to successfully fufill that weird contract for them by getting killed, and then be raised back up again. But I know of others who signed up for this too. I owe it to myself, to those other poor saps and to all the living to find out what kind of monster I have become.
It would be too easy to become an impersonal killing machine. The perfect soldier. The perfect robot. A machine with the intelligence and the...soul?...of a man. But a creature who can shed no tears, suffer no pain, feel no love.
The really bad part, the part that no robot would ever face, is the memory of all that is now gone. Oh that bastard Drake says he is working on a better neural system for me, that they are still refining systems that may bring some sense of things like touch back to me, but how can that be the same?
In my past life, I wasn't much for books or even deep thought. Mine was a life that was experienced, both good and bad and everything else in between. Now I must find meaning in my thoughts and in the wisdom of others.
What a strange damn journey is ahead of us. Are you ready for that? Am I?
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Journal, my ass...
The Bureau shrink suggested that I keep a journal of my experiences, so that I 'could work out my issues' with my new existence. I don't think he, or my handlers, will appreciate the public forum that I am now using to do just that. But hey, what can they do now, fire me? I don't think so.
You see, when you are already dead, you get an attitude. Maybe its the freedom from all of the expectations and worries of living, or maybe I'm just pissed because I feel trapped in this shell of a body they have set me up with.
I guess I shouldn't complain too much, since this is essentially the same body I died with. Maybe if I had been a little better at taking care of myself when I was alive, I wouldn't be so disgusted at what I see in the mirror, but I don't know how good they can make a body look that's been dead for more than a year after being shot in the forehead.
So, by now you must be pretty confused. I probably should explain a little bit about myself, but this will be difficult since many of the details of my existence are considered top secret, and even I don't have clearance to know all of the details.
I can reveal that the name that I am using here was assigned to me when they 'woke me up'. I was a cop, and a damn good one, before I was killed in the line of duty on October 31, 2003. My life hadn't been a bed of roses, but things were just starting to get good again before that night. I had just finished with a nasty divorce where she got almost everything except my balls, but I was looking so forward to actually using those things again! I had finally sobered up and was in line for a promotion that would have had me sitting pretty until retirement, maybe ten years down the line...damn it all, hold on, my lens is fogging up....
Alright, so maybe I still smoked too much, but a man's gotta have at least one vice, no? So much for worrying about cancer. If I had known I would have ended up like this, I sure would have smoked a few more Cubans. I had this great connection, a fellow cop from Canada. He'd score the Cubans for me, and I'd hook him with the occasional Red Wings tickets. But there was always the nagging, 'You'll stink up the house', or 'You're gonna make the kids sick'. Bah.
Anyway, I was a local cop see, and I made the dumb ass mistake a few years back of signing up for this top-secret experiment with the DOJ. Seems like they had this horseshit theory about keeping a persons soul around after they died. They said they would be able to transfer your soul into a machine, or some hyped up version of your body again, and you could theoretically live forever. Now I didn't believe any of this voodoo bullshit, but they were offering an annual bonus every friggin year you stayed in the program, and as long as you did their little rituals and wore this special little doodad (sorry classified material here) all the time.
Hey, I wasn't religious, figured I had nothing lose, and the extra money sure helped out when things got tight, like they always do. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I woke the hell up in the morgue with all of the bastards in suits and one strange dude in robes looking down at my ass!
Whoah, talk about strange. Last thing I remembered was staring down the barrel of my own damn gun that the punks had taken in the course of the struggle, there was a flash and bang and sudden pain. They were all wearing masks of presidents, and it just figured I'd get whacked by Shrubya.
Hold on, I am getting paged. Looks like I need to wrap this up tonight. I've got so much more to tell you about, but I am on call 24/7/365, and there is stuff that only I can do.
You see, when you are already dead, you get an attitude. Maybe its the freedom from all of the expectations and worries of living, or maybe I'm just pissed because I feel trapped in this shell of a body they have set me up with.
I guess I shouldn't complain too much, since this is essentially the same body I died with. Maybe if I had been a little better at taking care of myself when I was alive, I wouldn't be so disgusted at what I see in the mirror, but I don't know how good they can make a body look that's been dead for more than a year after being shot in the forehead.
So, by now you must be pretty confused. I probably should explain a little bit about myself, but this will be difficult since many of the details of my existence are considered top secret, and even I don't have clearance to know all of the details.
I can reveal that the name that I am using here was assigned to me when they 'woke me up'. I was a cop, and a damn good one, before I was killed in the line of duty on October 31, 2003. My life hadn't been a bed of roses, but things were just starting to get good again before that night. I had just finished with a nasty divorce where she got almost everything except my balls, but I was looking so forward to actually using those things again! I had finally sobered up and was in line for a promotion that would have had me sitting pretty until retirement, maybe ten years down the line...damn it all, hold on, my lens is fogging up....
Alright, so maybe I still smoked too much, but a man's gotta have at least one vice, no? So much for worrying about cancer. If I had known I would have ended up like this, I sure would have smoked a few more Cubans. I had this great connection, a fellow cop from Canada. He'd score the Cubans for me, and I'd hook him with the occasional Red Wings tickets. But there was always the nagging, 'You'll stink up the house', or 'You're gonna make the kids sick'. Bah.
Anyway, I was a local cop see, and I made the dumb ass mistake a few years back of signing up for this top-secret experiment with the DOJ. Seems like they had this horseshit theory about keeping a persons soul around after they died. They said they would be able to transfer your soul into a machine, or some hyped up version of your body again, and you could theoretically live forever. Now I didn't believe any of this voodoo bullshit, but they were offering an annual bonus every friggin year you stayed in the program, and as long as you did their little rituals and wore this special little doodad (sorry classified material here) all the time.
Hey, I wasn't religious, figured I had nothing lose, and the extra money sure helped out when things got tight, like they always do. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I woke the hell up in the morgue with all of the bastards in suits and one strange dude in robes looking down at my ass!
Whoah, talk about strange. Last thing I remembered was staring down the barrel of my own damn gun that the punks had taken in the course of the struggle, there was a flash and bang and sudden pain. They were all wearing masks of presidents, and it just figured I'd get whacked by Shrubya.
Hold on, I am getting paged. Looks like I need to wrap this up tonight. I've got so much more to tell you about, but I am on call 24/7/365, and there is stuff that only I can do.
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