The Slicer Chronicles Character Interview: Hector Alejondro Diaz

Hector Alejondro Diaz
Five Year Psychiatric Evaluation.
Interviewer: INT Charles Cameron.

* * * * * *

INT: Ready, sir? Please state your name for the record, alongside any nicknames you may have had or currently have.

-My name is Captain Hector Alejondro Diaz. I answer to Hector or Sir. Call me by my middle name and I gut you.

INT: Please state your eye and hair color.

-Blue and Black, respectively. Height is 6'4", skin is light tan.

INT: Do you have any distinguishing facial features, sir?

-I can always be distinguished by my beard. I've had it since secondary school. (INT: And why is that?) (shrugs) I just did. Liked the way I looked then, still do now.

INT: Do you have any birthmarks or scars?

-Scar by my left wrist from an incident with a cauterizer scalpel. No tattoos or birthmarks.

INT: Who are your friends and family? Who do you surround herself with? Who are the people you're closest to? Who do you wish you were closest to?

-Nope. Ran from home my senior year of secondary. They can all kiss my ass. Closest to family I have are the two NetCops under my command, Agent Kyra Marston and Agent David Hadley. They're like my little siblings.

INT: Where were you born? Where have you lived since then? Where do you call home?

-Born and raised in East Texas. When I ran, I came to New Orleans, and I've been here since.

INT: Where do you go when you're angry?

-The hospital. (laughs for minutes) Most of the time, I just retreat to my studio and paint. It helps.

INT: What is your biggest fear? Who have you told this to? Who would you never tell this to? Why?

-Losing my temper. I can get real angry at times. It's an open secret by now, I think.

INT: Do you have a secret?

-(INT note: Throughout this answer, Cpt. Diaz's eyes flick continually up and to the right. Make note.) I can't think of anything that would be qualified as a secret, no.

INT: What makes you laugh?

-Not much. One of my charges, Hadley, is a pretty funny guy, but he pushes the jokes too far and he ends up coming across as annoying to a fault half the time.

INT: Have you ever been in love? Had a broken heart?

-Never been in a steady relationship, man. (leans back) If I need to get laid, it's one-nighters for me.

INT: What is in your refrigerator right now? On your bedroom floor? On your nightstand? In your garbage can?

-That's pretty personal, man. (INT: I realize that, but I have to--) I know you do. And I'm stating for the record that that is a question I'm uncomfortable with. (INT: I still need an answer, sir.) I know. Fridge needs to be cleaned out, but it's not a science experiment yet. Bedroom needs to be cleaned up. Garbage is empty. Next.

INT: What type of shoes or coverings do you wear on a day-to-day basis?

-I like the old styles, as you can see. (holds out foot) They used to call these "Chucks". Everybody wore 'em. There's still a few companies making them, but it's a specialty now.

INT: When you think of your childhood kitchen, what smell do you associate with it? Why is that smell so resonant for you?

-Beer and pot. My dad was NetPD, but the man was a loser. He'd get drunk and wasted and pass out on the table before mom could finish making dinner. We'd always eat in the sitting room.

INT: Let's say you're doing intense spring cleaning. What is easy for you to throw out? What is difficult for you to part with? Why?

-I could throw out some of my older paintings. My studio's cluttered, and I wouldn't hauck that shit on anyone. Other than that, I think I'm pretty good.

INT: It’s noon on a Saturday. What are you normally doing? Please be specific.

-I'm either plugged in or hanging out with Marston and Hadley. They're good people. Might have a beer or two.

INT: What is one strong memory that has stuck with you from childhood? Why is it so powerful and lasting?

-My dad. He never treated us right. One day, man got drunk, took a swing at my mom. I stopped him. Laid him out cold, right there on the kitchen floor. I think I even broke his VI switch. That was the day I left. Mom followed my trip online, and sent me a "thank you" when I settled down here. Dad tried to hunt me down. (INT: Did he find you?) Yeah. Found me while I was enrolled in NCLA. We sat down, had a few beers. Told me about his life coming up. He's an asshole, but at least he's honest, I'll give him that. Haven't seen either of 'em since.

INT: You're getting ready for a night out. Where are you going? What do you wear? Who will you be with?

-I'm probably just putting on my jeans and boots and going to a pub. There's one on Clearview I like, Sammy's Place. Quiet, respectful. Good people.

INT: What is your favorite occupation?

-If I weren't NPD, I would love to be a professional artist. But I love doing the NetCop thing, so I'm good.

INT: What is your most treasured possession?

-I think it's my collection of antique computer hardware. I love to keep it around, see how far we've come.

INT: What do you consider your greatest achievement?

-Becoming Region Chief after being a low-level agent for so long. That was cool. Something my dad never did, so I've officially one-upped the fucker. (laughs)

INT: What is your idea of perfect happiness?

-(long pause) Finding a wife. Being in love. After I left home, I was so focused on work, never found time to settle down. I don't want kids, and in any case finding someone in the motherhood program is like choosing between Cthulhu and Gojira. (INT: Beg your pardon?) -Nevermind. Next question.

INT: Okay. What is your current state of mind?

-Bored. Thirsty. Ready to get out of here so I can go visit Hadley in the hospital and go over some paperwork. (INT: What happened?) -I'd rather not say. Move on.

INT: What or who is the greatest love of your life?

-Don't have one.

INT: What is your favorite journey?

-The trip to New York for my promotion. That place is something out of science fiction, man. You know they have transport tubes there now? (INT: Yes, sir. I work there most of the time.) -Then you know. I've heard they're talking about putting the system in other cities, too. Wouldn't work here, though. (INT: Why not?) -(shrugs) Ground's too saturated. If they go the underground route, the tubes'll flood in a week, and I don't think we have the support for an overground system. I guess we'll see.

INT: What is your most marked characteristic?

-(laughs) The beard. Everyone loves it.

INT: When and where were you the happiest, sir?

-When I got on my own. I was free.

INT: What is it that you most dislike?

-I can't abide stupidity.

INT: What is your greatest fear?

-Haven't you already asked that question, man? (INT: Yes, I have. Sorry about that, moving on.)

INT: What is your greatest extravagance?

-Canvas and paint. I also like paper books, but it's few and far between that I splurge on them.

INT: Which living person do you most despise?

-Udo Ugundokov. I think he needs to die. (INT: Just like that?) -Have you ever heard of a man named Adolf Hitler? (INT: Yes, sir.) -Herr Hitler was a brilliant man. United a nation, even named Man Of The Year. But he was a sick fuck. Real sick. Hated his own heritage, and tried to wipe out everyone as compensation. (INT: What's that got to do with--) - I'm getting there. Ugundokov's the same way. United the Czech Republic, and a brilliant orator. Thing is, he's gathering power and national pride the old way: violence, propoganda, and wanton destruction. Even has his own private Riefenstahl on payroll. (leans back, stretches out legs) Man needs to die, or next thing you know we're looking at a second holocaust, plain and simple.

INT: What is your greatest regret?

-Probably not getting married. Should've done.

INT: Which talent would you most like to have?

-Don't know. That's a good one. (lowers head in thought, then looks up) I think I would love to be able to write. But all told, I'm pretty happy as is.

INT: Where would you like to live?

-I like it in New Orleans. Good people, good food. Maybe move back to Bushlands after I retire, but that's a ways off, I think.

INT: What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

-Again, that's a good one, man. Uh, I think watching your loved ones have their lives ripped apart by the one person who's supposed to be taking care of them, and knowing you're powerless to stop it. That's low. Lowest I've ever been, at least.

INT: What is the quality you most like in a man?

-Huge cock. (INT: Excuse me, sir?) -(laughs) Just jokin' with ya. A sense of duty, of doing what has to be done when the time comes.

INT: What is the quality you most like in a woman?

-Huge cock. (laughs hysterically) Really, the ability to cook. I'm a sucker for a home-cooked meal.

INT: What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

-I hate my temper. I fucking hate it.

INT: What is the trait you most deplore in others?

-Idiocy. Stupidity. You have a brain, peoples. Use it.

INT: What do you most value in your friends?

-Don't really have friends, man. (INT: But you said--) -That I hang out with my underlings. Ocassionally. Move on.

INT: Who is your favorite hero of fiction?

-Batman. (INT: The superhero?) -Yeah, the fictional one, not that asshole that popped up twenty years ago. Shame they cancelled the book.

INT: Whose are your heroes in real life?

-Don't have one.

INT: Which living person do you most admire?

-Probably my mother, for putting up with my dad's bullshit for so long, just to keep the family together.

INT: What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

-Forgiveness. Grudges are a time-honored tradition, man. (laughs)

INT: On what occasions do you lie?

-I try not to as best I can.

INT: Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

-Don't really use one phrase over the other too much. I say "man" a lot at the end of sentences, though.

INT: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

-I'd have settled down earlier. Gotten married.

INT: What are your favorite names?

-I like "Alicia". I think it's a wonderful female name. Boy's name would be "James".

INT: How would you like to die?

-I'd like to die suddenly. No pain, no build-up, just BLAM. Maybe saving a life.

INT: If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?

-A paintbrush would be cool. I would be used to create art forever.

INT: Final question. What is your motto?

-"You're either with me or against me." I've always loved that quote. Never found a practical use for it, but I love it all the same. (leans forward) So that's it? (INT: Yes sir. You're free to go.) Cool. Have a good one.

(Psych Eval Interview Concluded.)

NEWS UPDATE

Heyya, Guys/Gals/Betwixt...

It's been a few weeks since the release date for my first solo anthology, "Tales Of The Morbidly Macabre". In that time, lots of awesome stuff has happened. I have my first book signing set up for 11 July, I have my first Convention appearance set up for June 2013, etc. Things are groovy.

But THIS.

This blog, Fiction Is Stranger Than Truth, is a bit of a mystery to me. See, when I first started writing, I created it as a way for people to see my stories. Then, upon having my stories published by Schlock! Webzine, I just linked to them there and then put them up on here the next week (after the stories were archived at Schlock!). But now that the book is out containing updated and revised versions of the stories featured on here (plus many more), I'm at a bit of a crossroads regarding this... thing... you are now reading. Do I keep it up? Do I pull the plug? Well, I think I have the answer.

Work has begun on my first full-length novel, "The Slicer Chronicles: No Way Home" (tentative title). So I plan on using this monstrosity of a blogsite and post behind-the-scenes material as it comes available. First up will be character interviews, allowing my fans and readers to get to know my characters from the Slicer Chronicles better than before, and it will all be kicked off by my brand-new lead character: Tasha Jade Williams. Expect her interview to be up later today, and the rest (David Hadley, Hector Diaz, and Kyra Marston) to follow upon completion.


This is Fiction Is Stranger Than Truth 2.0, peoples. Dig it.


Cheers!
-C. Priest Brumley


P.S.: You can get copies of my anthology "Tales Of The Morbidly Macabre" at http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Morbidly-Macabre-Priest-Brumley/dp/1477634924/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1

One Night In Hell, A Short Story

A bit of a note before you read this story:

On 27 May 2012, this blog hit 1,000 pageviews. I was (and still am) absolutely flabbergasted that that many people would view my stories, even if it is a cumulative number across the entirety of my offerings. So, in appreciation of that mark being hit, I did a drawing on my official Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/cpriestbrumley), with the winner receiving a custom-written story starring themselves, in the genre of their choice.

Well, it didn't quite work out that way.

The chosen winner, Chris Reid, opted instead for me to write a post-apocalyptic war story centered upon a few of his popular characters from the site "Last Days Journal", Richard Faust and Cpt. Alan Dryfter. So, in the spirit of the contest, I reimagined the characters, trying my best to remain true to their core, all the while incorporating new life in to the Zombie mythos surrounding them.

I hope you all enjoy.

Cheers!
-C. Priest Brumley, 31 May 2012

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"These earplugs aren't working for shit, Faust."

"Nor mine, mate."

The sound of a thousand human voices hung in the air, an orchestra of pain and mortal danger in an unstopped crescendo surrounding the two men. The first to talk hefted his gun, an un-modified AK-47, on to his lap and threw his head back in frustration.

"Jesus H, if I have to hear this non-stop moaning bull all night, I'm gonna lose my cool!"

"Same, I'm afraid."


Clink. Clink.

"Well, you can take solace in knowing that I'll stop you and burn you before you can turn."

"You'd really do that, Alan? Shoot me, I mean."

A tired sigh floated through the dark air between the two men, unheard. "No, I wouldn't. Just trying to cheer you up some."

"Good soddin' luck. My nerves are on edge here, mate."

"Hard to argue right now. Still no word from H-Q?"

The second man's voice sounded strained, his accent thickening from stress. "None yet. I've tried fixing the receiver best I can, but the most I'm still getting is white noise and the occasional snip from a football replay. Apparently, Man-U's up on Galaxy three to one."

Clink. Clink.

Alan looked up, eyebrows raised in surprise. "They're still playing football?"

"Replay, mate. From what I can get, this one's three years on."

Another tired sigh. Alan shifted in his spot to relieve the numb feeling caused by the rubble they were perched on. "Damn. I was hoping they still had a spot safe enough, too."

"Same here, I tell you."

Clink. Clink.

"What the hell are you doing over there?"

Faust smiled for the first time that evening. "Counting."

"Counting what?"

"Bullets."

"Oh."

"According to my estimate, you have about sixty-seven left."

Alan broke out in a wide grin. "I like the sound of those words!"

"You're not going to like the next ones, then. I'm skint, mate."

Alan cursed under his breath, a sound lost under the continual stream of moans that issued from beneath them. He ran his hand through his coarse, short hair as a gesture of contemplation, then looked up, an idea gleaming in his eye.

"How are we on fourties?"

"Haven't got there yet, but I know we have six or seven loaded clips in your bag. Speaking on, chuck it at us, will you?" Alan slid the pack off with one smooth motion and threw it, one-handed, to Faust. "The faster I count, the faster we can institute a cunning plan of escape."

The desk, set on end in the corner of the room to block the stairwell, gave a shake, a fresh stream of moans pouring in through the gaps.

"Guess the first and second floors didn't take, eh?" The false chipper note on Faust's tongue did not go unnoticed.

"Guess so." Alan patted his chest, followed by his pockets, then cursed again. "Hey, while you're in there, see if you can find a pack? I can't find mine." A half-used pack of cigarettes flew through the air between the men, and was caught just before impact by Alan's quick hand. "Thanks. Where were they?"

"Front pocket. Hang on--" The red glow of the lighter flared as Faust started one for himself, then threw the lighter on the same trajectory as the pack before it. "--There you are."

The same glow illuminated Alan's face for a moment, grizzled features thrown in relief by the dancing light. He pulled a deep drag, letting the nicotine run its course, then turned his mind to the pressing issue.

"So. You're out, but I'm good on both of mine. Brilliant."

"Technically speaking, yes, but even with you being 'good', I think we can only count on half for kill shots. So I'm thinking we can hold off the horde out the door, but we're right screwed after, mate."

"Damn it. We need something, Faust. At this point, I'll take anything."

Faust shifted on his pile of rubble and returned to sifting through the rucksack set between his boots, flicking the dead ashes from the end of his cigarette on occasion. Alan, for his part, stayed silent, finishing his cigarette well before Faust and flicking it out of the open hole in the wall to fall to the hording mass below. After a few more minutes of sorting, Faust straightened out, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

"Talk to me."

"My dearest Captain, we are saved."

"How saved are you talking, Faust? Napalming the 'Cong saved or 'Shot heard 'round the world' saved?"

Faust gave a soft laugh, barely audible in the cacophony. "How dramatic do you like your victories, Alan?"

"Yes!" Alan stood up, punching the air in excitement, the AK-47 laying across his lap falling to the ground with a metallic clatter. "You found one?"

"Just the one. If you can clear out the surrounding horde a mo, I can eyeball the bastard and call this one a win, eh?"

Alan scooped down and grabbed the strap of the AK-47, hefting it on to his shoulder. "Cut 'em or kill 'em?"

"Kill. If I miss the runt, we're dead off. We need as many down for good as we can get."

Faust straightened up, tossing the backpack to Alan with one hand while he unshouldered his sniper rifle with the other. Alan caught the bag, shouldered his gun, and started to root for clips. "Can do. Where do you think he's at?"

"My guess is the slight break in the mass, right--" Faust stood and walked to the gaping hole, scanning the gathered horde below until he spotted what he was looking for. "--Right there." He pointed at a small gap in the midst of a tight-packed group, barely visible in the light of the full moon shining overhead.

Alan strode the few steps to stand by Faust, pocketing the loaded clips in his hand, and scoped the area below, picking out the opening almost at once. "Right there. You loaded?"

Faust slipped the length of dark metal off of his shoulder, opened the chamber, and loaded the sole round in the span of a single second. "Done. You?"

"Ready when you are."

"Then give me an opening, Cap--"

CRASH.

The oaken desk that had been blocking the stairway in the corner gave way, spilling the oncoming horde in to the war-ravaged room. Alan and Faust both spun at the same time, Faust grabbing the semi-automatic pistol strapped to Alan's side as it passed and dropping the sniper rifle in a single movement.

"Kill shots only!" Alan's voice rang out over the moans of the horde as he and Faust levelled their weapons at the creatures' heads, gunshots ringing in rapid succession dropping the horde as they approached en mass, bodies crawling over bodies crawling over more bodies, blood painting the brick surfaces around them in a grisly shade of putrefied black as the stench of the reanimated dead still approached, a hundred corpses moving toward the only fresh food in a hundred miles, the wall of bodies growing taller...

"I'm out!" Alan's voice rang out a minute later, barely heard over the ringing in their ears from the utter din of the weapons and assailants. The wall of bodies had grown too tall for the horde to climb over, but the movements behind the wall were growing in intensity as the horde continued to push, unabated, knowing that nothing is entirely unmoveable.

"We have to off that controller, Alan!"

"And how do you propose we do that? Want me to pull a Nathan Lane, dress in drag, and do the hula?"

"What?"

"It's a joke, for Christ sake!"

"Now is not the time for a sodding joke! Take this!" Faust flipped the handgun through the air at Alan, who caught it by the hot muzzle and flipped it to grip the handle, dropped the clip, and slammed in a new one brought up by his other hand from his pocket. "I need space to get to the controller, mate. Make it happen!"

Alan brought the sight up to his eye, took aim, and fired, again, and again, the protective cluster around the controller being reduced one by one. On the fourteenth shot, Alan turned to Faust, intending on cracking wise.

He opted for silence instead.

The long, dark sniper rifle was set up and being aimed directly at the exposed controller: a child, no more than four feet in height, the result of evolution's sickening attempt at protecting the ruling caste of these mindless creatures. Faust had done this before, dozens of times, but it was a mark of his humanity that it unsettled him each and every... and now was not the exception. Fighting the rising bile in his throat, he squeezed the trigger, loosing the sole round they had left for the gun.

His aim was true, and the head of the child exploded outward, crumpling the controller's body as Faust lost the fight against the combined force of his conscience and stomach.

The effects were immediate. The horde that had gathered around the building dropped, one at a time at first, then by twos and threes, then more, a ripple of reanimated corpses falling dead again from the loss of their reanimator, originating from the center point of the controller and working out from there.

The wall of bodies stopped shifting as the remaining horde beyond it fell down. Alan holstered his gun and clicked the strap over the back end, then scooped to grab the AK-47 from its resting place below on the ground and reshouldered it next to his rucksack. Faust spat out the remnants of the vomit in his mouth to the rubble pile, trying to ignore the sharp stench wafting up to his nostrils, and reshouldered his rifle. Both men met at the center of the room, watching the sky lighten through the gaping bombshell hole in the wall.

"Did it again?"

"I think I'll be worried when I don't, Alan."

"And that's why I keep you around, man. Best shot in the world and you're still more humane than anyone back at camp."

"Speaking on, let's start moving this pile, mate. Haven't eaten since we left to scout."

"I heard that, brother."

The sun broke out over the horizon in the distance.

Reminiscences Of My Childhood, An Autobiographical Essay

You want to know why I am who I am today?

First and foremost, I blame my parents. They did this to me, you see.

My parents were a weird sort. Not weird like, "Granola and TinFoil hats" weird. Their particular flavour of weird was closer to "Let's strap on hand-made armour and/or hand-made period clothing and re-enact the middle ages using modern conveniences such as bathrooms, running water, electricity, etc."

(For those of you who just guessed I was an S.C.A. Brat, you get bonus points. For those of you who said Renn Fair Brat, close this blog, go outside, close your eyes, and play in traffic. Or deep-throat a cactus, take your pick.)

The S.C.A. was, at the time, the greatest thing that could ever happen to my life. Once a month, I was allowed to get dressed up in costume and run around huge campgrounds and recreation areas, meeting new people constantly, learning about everything from sword fighting to calligraphy and back again. I learned how to cook, to barter, play the djimba and didgeridoo, and so much more before I even hit puberty. I learned of a myriad of alternate lifestyles and religions, all of which seemed awesome and exciting to a child my age. Hell, my S.C.A. name, Kveld Ulfr Des Fjords (Old Norse for "Evening Wolf of the Waters"), was so synonymous with who I was that (at times) I answered more readily to Kveld than Chris!

It was a great time of my life. But the weird influences did not even begin there, and they certainly did not end as we packed up from events.

While I was in the womb, my mother would put earphones on her baby bump and play Queen, Jethro Tull, and Alice Cooper. Immediately out of the womb, my father's influence was added, with Pink Floyd, Heart, Huey Lewis and the News, and more joining my previous affiliations. To this day, I maintain that these are the reasons music has been such a big factor in my life, and the foundation given to me in those formative days has only led my natural progression to current tastes, such as Dommin, Megadeth, and Iced Earth.

As well, through the interactions of my parents and their assorted friends, I was exposed to Elvira, early Doctor Who (we used to man the phones during Doctor Who marathons for LPB), and Mystery Science Theater 3000 (colloquially known as MST3K), as well as other cult features such as Army Of Darkness and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. My father, upon seeing my enthusiasm for these features, proceeded to feed them to me on a regular basis, which included all-night viewings of TNT's "Monstervision" where I viewed some of the greatest (and worst) horror movies ever made weekly, further shaping my tastes for decades to come.

And there's more. My parents and their friends also gave to me what I now consider my greatest assets: my "geek cred", as it were. I watched, intrigued, as men I had known my entire life played the original Beta release of Magic: The Gathering on our kitchen table, learning the rules for the first time. I listened to and watched games of D&D unfold before my eyes. I marveled at my father's dedication to playing and beating (with my mother as his "navigator") Final Fantasy, Dragon Warrior 1-3, and more. Star Wars was omnipresent alongside Excalibur and Labyrinth and The Princess Bride. Comics were ingrained in my DNA.

This is all not to say I was not interested in typical things in my youth; on the contrary, I was a fan of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Masters Of The Universe, Voltron, G.I. Joe, and Transformers, same as every child in those days. I played Nintendo, had (and still maintain) a massive Lego collection, and used my father's flashlights as lightsabers. My childhood just had a few extra... perks.

After leaving the S.C.A. in my teen years (long story, but let's just say my personal involvement ended with my cursing out an entire e-mail list full of adults with language that would make a sailor blush), I found myself the odd man out. No one else I knew was interested in Norse mythology, or sword fighting, or cheap Sci-Fi. They were far more interested in professional wrestling, and cars, and heavy metal. So I tried to fit in, coming to appreciate wrestling (at the time). But the fundamentals instilled in me during those formative years in the S.C.A. never disappeared.

I still believe in chivalry.

I still believe that every man should learn how to handle a sword properly.

I still believe that cooking a feast and eating a meal together with dozens of your closest friends and family is tantamount to what others would call "Heaven".

I still believe in friends being family.

I still believe in faded "Highlander" shirts and B.Y.O.E. (Bring Your Own Everything) parties and multi-day games of Uno and proudly displaying that sword you found that goes great with your persona.

I still believe in my childhood.


Cheers!
-C. Priest Brumley

The Radfield Conspiracy, Part 3

Where am I, and what the hell is this, now?

The swaying, bumpy ride awoke Commander Radfield. His senses returned one-by-one, vision and sound dampened to anything outside of the blackout bag placed over his head but still there, as far as Christian could ascertain. With it on, he could only gather few details from his situation:

A) He was being held in a transport of some kind. The jostling of the vehicle had made him wonder, albeit briefly, just how he could have slept at all with the jarring motion.

B) He had been kidnapped, drugged, and handcuffed against his will, that in itself being a federal crime when committed against an undecorated civilian. Committed against an authority figure, it was grounds for automatic sanctioning.

A large bump in the road knocked Christian from his seat and his thoughts, landing him hard on the floor. The blackout bag, made of a vibration-absorbent soundproofing fabric, slipped off his head as he went face-down, allowing Commander Radfield to see his surroundings in part for the first time since the kidnapping. The first thing he noticed was the grey-black plastic along the bottom of the bench seat he had been perched upon. He admired the sterility of it, the cleanliness that was so imperative of--

I know who have me. Damn it! Why didn't I see this before?

Without preamble, he called out, "Who's the senior officer here?"

"No senior here, boy," came a rough voice nearby. Christian was unable to locate the direction; between the remnants of the blackout bag near his head and the vibro-proof armor plating that coated the interior of the transport, determining the location of a sound was next to impossible.

"What do you mean, 'no senior', guy? This is an A-Class Federal Transport Van, utilized only on the authority of the Sanction Corps, am I correct?" Christian sat through the barrage of stammers and jabbering before he decided to press on. "Let me tell ya something asshole, what you're doing is illegal! See this here? This is grounds for sanctioning, man! You could get kill..."

He never saw the boot coming for his face. But he did feel the impact. Lucky for Christian, the pain didn't last long before unconsciousness took over.

* * * * * *

He awoke again some time later, the throbbing on his left temple having reached a fever pitch. His sight was the first to return this time, as his head lacked the blackout bag, but he still saw nothing at first but murky shadows that alternated between grays and reds. His vision was improving by the minute; vague shadows grew more defined in their outlines, and he was sure that, given time, it would restore to functionable. He put that fear to rest and began to check his other facilities. He was handcuffed and shackled, kneeling on a rough floor of unknown substance, but couldn't tell if he was chained in place or not.

He could hear the sounds of civilization nearby, of people walking to and fro, and even make out snippets of conversation when they passed close to where he was. Screaming could be heard faint in the background, piercing sounds crying out in the darkness around Commander Radfield and filling the air of the area with hopelessness.

He needed to leave. Now.

The metal hand cuffs and leg cuffs that held him in place rattled as he tried to stand up, echoes reverberating throughout the confined space until the sound was overwhelming. Christian stopped, fear of alerting any sentries on duty guiding his caution, and the rattle of the chains died away at once. All was still and quiet while Christian planned his next move. He could try for a forced escape, using what charge he had left in his ElektriShok implants to break the chains and attempt a blind run while his eyes came to. Or, alternatively, he could scream for a guard to come see him, his voice joining the chorus of those seeking retribution for the crime they felt was committed against them. Time to weigh options.

The former was too dicey; if he tried running blind, he could inflict harm on an unwitting bystander, or, should the presumably rogue officer be nearby, he could walk right in to his arms and invite death quite by accident. The latter would be tantamount to giving up, the situation rife with the potential for being at the mercy of his captor (Captor or Captors? I don't even know how many there are, Christian noted with a sigh). Instead, he opted to wait it out and see what would happen, hoping for an opportunity to present itself.

What seemed to be hours passed while Commander Radfield waited for his chance. He whiled away the time meditating on his predicament, on the sequence of events that led him to this point, and, after dozing once or twice, trying to remember his favorite films in as much clarity as was possible.

The tell-tale tapping of Federal issue boots pulled Christian from his memories, bringing him to the here and now. His muscles began to tense when the tapping stopped close to his cell. Christian turned his head to face the noise, vision still not returned in full, and waited for whatever was to come. Three clicks, followed by a scraping noise as the door swung open to admit the intruders.

"Christian T. Radfield, Commander: Nuevos Refugios Peace Department. Given prisoner number C-L-P-one-one-three-eight. Can you confirm your identity?” The voice was as sterile as the air he emitted.

“Yes,” Christian croaked. His voice was scratched and raw from disuse. How long have I been captive? “Confirm everything except the prisoner number. Didn't know that beforehand. Hell, I didn't even know I was being taken legally!” He felt his voice grow stronger the more he used it. Bolstered by the sound of his voice returning to its normal tenor, he started shouting in the perceived direction of the officer. “What kind of freakin' gestapo tactics are Sanctions using now-days? Kidnapping? Christ Jesus, man!”

“Commander Radfield, we advise you to please lower both your tone and the harshness of the language used, as all conversations are currently being recorded.” Typical bureaucratic pipesmoke, Christian thought in the direction of the voice. “To answer your accusations, you were taken in a legal and binding manner; having been on the run from Sanctions units for the past three days-” Three days? How long have I been out of it, now? And on the run from Sanctions? What kind of icejob is this? “-bounty tactics were granted for your capture and reclaimation in this instance. However, instant Sanction rights were repealed on direct order from the Senate.” The orator stopped his bureaucratic cadence, evidently waiting for a response.

“What the hell are you saying?” Christian raised his head to the voice. "I was apprehended by Lieutenant Hetlich of MY department in response to my assassination of a Zuqqamogg gang leader, not by Sanctions! What the hell hallucinogen are you on, man?"

The tapping of the shoes was near nonexistent as the faceless bureaucrat flew forward and pressed his face near Christian's, close enough that Radfield could start to make out the encroacher's features through his still hazy vision. His breathe was a reflection of the inner putresence the bureaucrat held, gagging Christian with a scent that could draw flies.

"Commander, once more I do advise you to shut the hell up. We have no record of an assassination in your area of command. This is misdirection and lies. As your adviser on affairs, I suggest you stick to the real facts and not a daydream, understood?" His breath held, allowing Christian a moment of respite from the maelstrom of halitosis. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the clear air.

"I am sticking to the facts, you pompous dick!" Voice growing stronger still, eyesight growing sharper. The Adviser took an involuntary step back from Commander Radfield as he sprung forward, veins bulging in rage. "This is bullshit! This is a freakin' icejob and you know it!"

"I am sticking to the facts as they are presented to me, Commander. I--" A new set of footfalls sounded in the enclosed space, the sound radiating upwards as they approached the Advisor. Christian could make out a short exchange of whispers and a brief grunt of approval. The muddled form of the Other walked away then, with the sound of footfalls fading at a rapid pace.

"It seems you have a visitor, Commander." Radfield could practically hear the smug smirk on the Adviser's face. "The Zuqqamogg Ambassador has heard your admittance of assassination and has requested to meet with you in person. As your Adviser, I will remain present to assist in any matter what might be brought up. Agreed?"

"Do I really have an option?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Well then, bring on the king bug. Maybe he'llactually believe what the hell I'm saying."

"That's warning number three, Commander. A fourth will result in immediate expungency of your trial, an automatic 'guilty' verdict, and automatic sanctioning, are we clear?"

"No, we are not!" The new voice entered the room in a flash like lightning, his voice the bass of thunder, audibly rattling the chains holding Christian down. The thunder reverberated, pressure in everyone's skulls reaching a tempest pitch until the final vibrations cleared moments later. The voice must have sensed the damage being done, Christian thought, for he lowered his pitch for the next words spoken. "He is not to be sanctioned. I have him under my protection from this point forward, including the authorization to release him from this wretched facility."

"Now wait just one blasted minute!" Christian smiled at the Adviser's rage. "He is a Federal prisoner! I have him under orders--"

"--That have just been rescinded on grounds of political sanctuary. He is now a member of the Zuqqamogg peoples until such time as we release him from sanctuary at his request or our discretion. Stand down, human."

"This is preposterous."

"Be that as it may, he is mine now. Release him or join in his sentence."

The Advisor stepped forward, the jingling of keys now added to the staccato footfalls. In a moment the heavy cuffs were released from his wrists and ankles, a burden he hadn't realized was weighing him until they were gone. He unfolded himself gingerly from his kneeling position, the screaming in his knees plaguing his every microsecond of movement until the painful stiffness eased away. The urge to stretch seized him on a whim and he obliged, joints popping with the slow movements.

Christian looked around, hoping to see the visage of his savior; instead he found his vision still obscured long after it should have returned from a basic head injury. Wiping at his eyes to try and kick-start the return of his vision, instead he pulled away a mass of air-light gel, weightless and transparent, obviously designed to keep the vision of the victim to a minimum. He shook it off of his hand on to the floor and pulled off more gel, less than before, and noticed his vision becoming more defined. Three more wipes removed the rest of the gel, returning his entire sense of sight to normal, and allowing him to gaze upon his accuser and his savior for the first time.

The Adviser was a slight man of later years and reminded him forcibly of the old Nazi scientists he read about in his Criminology courses, with a well-cared for combover and a ruled moustache, all gray and wispy. His well-tailored suit was crisp at the seams and still retained its original color, an amazing feat given what Commander Radfield knew of Federal budgets for its lower-level employees. He turned to the newer voice and took an involuntary step back, impressed by the awesome size of the creature before him. It appeared much like the gang leader he had destroyed earlier, but simply bigger, impossibly larger in scale, topping 3 meters tall easily. Where the fifth arm was in the center of the chest of a normal Bug, he had 2 arms instead, both radiating from the central joint and covered at the base in thorn-like spikes. The second set of pincers under its “chin” were also covered in the thorns, giving him the dangerous look of an unevolved giant ready to tear apart all in its path. The Ambassador started to vibrate with deep laughter, its center arms clasping together in amusement at Christian's awe.

“Commander,” it choked out between chuckles, “Do not be afraid. I am not here to harm you in any way.”

“But... but... You're not angry about the assassination?” Christian took another step back, feeling the involuntary tensing of his calf muscles start as he prepared to run from the behemoth before him.

“Did you not hear what I said before? Come!” His voice reverberated once more as he placed a claw on Christian's shoulder. “We have much to talk about, you and I.”

ANNOUNCEMENT: THE SLICER CHRONICLES Debuts!!!

Good Evening, Guys/Gals/(Insert Choice Here)!

This is a joyous occassion indeed. Today, a project debuted that I am extremely proud of. It has taken much of my time and energy as of late, pulling me away from my attempts at completing my first solo anthology (tentatively titled, "Tales Of The Morbidly Macabre"). It is being released in Schlock! Webzine (http://www.schlock.co.uk), where it will reside for the foreseeable future. And here it is:

C. Priest Brumley's THE SLICER CHRONICLES!

It is a Shared Universe Project, wherein a set of rigid rules are set down in regards to how the universe and its people work, then everyone's free to write a story within its boundaries! The stories are submitted to either me or Schlock! editor Gavin Chappell, where we will review them and decide on whether or not they follow the rules and are good enough to publish, then publish them one by one in weekly editions of the Webzine.

For universe details, the project Manifesto, rules, guidelines, and the introductory story ("The Road Everyone Travels", written by Yours Truly), please refer to the homepage of Schlock! Webzine, http://www.schlock.co.uk and enjoy!

Looking forward to seeing your contributions!

Yours in Departing,
-C. Priest Brumley

The Boy Who Cried "Science!", A Poem

There was a young boy who cried "Science!"
His mother thought it would be swell.
But when came the real test,
His subject of int'rest
The body he'd found in the well.

The next day, the boy who cried "Science!"
Took over the kitchen in whole.
His mother, she threatened
But then, the truth set in
He's trying to reverse Death's toll.

"We breathe through the power of Science!"
The boy did exclaim in his glee.
"And now I do wonder,
"When life's torn asunder
"How benevolent must 'God' be?"

And then the strange boy who cried "Science!"
An experiment he did start.
He whipped out battery,
Attached cables deftly,
Jumpstarted that poor corpse's heart.

"The corpse came alive, thanks to science!"
The little boy crowed to his mom.
He led her to see it,
But she had a right fit,
When got there, the body was gone.

"What happened?" said Boy who cried "Science!"
"I know not," said mother through tears.
"He can't really go far,
"He'd move like trapped in tar
"Muscles atrophied for years."

"We'll find him with Forensic Science!"
The boy started gathering tools.
Then they heard a low moan,
A click and a ring tone,
And scraping of the kitchen stool.

"My dear, I'm alive thanks to science!
"What do you mean where have I been?
"I walked on the Hike Trail
"I tripped on a low rail
"The small light above's last I've seen!"

"But then came this boy who loved science,
"He lifted me out of the well.
"Laid me on a table,
"Applied jumper cable,
"And that's all the story I'll tell!"

"I need to stop him using science,"
The little boy whispered in shame.
"I brought him back to life,
"Now it's causing you strife,
"So I need to clear my good name."

So he made a plan using science,
To reseparate corpse from life.
He snuck up behind it,
Then took his dad's drill bit
And stopped its short talk with its wife.

The corpse cried, "Dear boy who loves science,
"I seem in such an aweful state.
"My wife, Kate, remarried,
"Relationship buried,
"Give back my original fate!"

Complied tried the boy who loved science
With a tear clinging to his eye.
He steadied his weak nerves,
His hold on the cord sure,
Then aimed the drill bit true and high.

"I can't," cried the boy who loved science,
"For don't you see what I'd become?
"My conscience holds its sway,
"They would lock me away,
"The better for it I'd be none."

"I know that you do love your science,"
The boy's mother sobbed through her hands,
"But you better do this,
"Or so help me Purvis,
"I will tell your Dad of your plans!"

Purvis (the young boy who loved science)
Gathered all his strength for the blow.
He brought bit down with force,
Was true on lethal course,
And laid the poor man back down low.

"This is why you don't play with science,"
His mother proclaimed in a shout,
"You caused him naught but pain,
"Now you're done with this game.
"Make sure to get that corpse back out!"

So now, the boy no more loved science.
His mother had the final word:
"You tried for Frankenstein,
"You succeeded big time,
"This won't be the last of it heard..."