GENERATION OF A GOD #00

GENERATION OF A GOD #00

By Brian C. Williams

Copyright 2017 Brian C. Williams

System Publishing

Blogger Edition

MEXICAN COFFEE

Every beginning has a lot of chaos. And the chaos never fully goes away. That is the terror and joy life offers. A powerful young woman has ripped this from the God Mark. A reality created from a childhood dream…

Setting the atmosphere was a noise which was sounding out down State Road 406 with a monstrous echo for the scenery. The road was vibrating like titanium grinding on nickel. The sound was like a swarm of loud metal bees but not in any way like the metal bees of Quoit within The Empire of Steam, but that was meaningless to mention since this is not Quoit, not a Quoit story, and is in fact the planet Earth, and not Mexico either despite the title mislead, but in fact Florida in the United States of America.

Go Manatees!

Go badly formed run on sentences to start a story!

Not to slow things down right off the bat but people say America or U.S. but does anyone actually say United States of America out loud? …I didn’t think so. I’m going to stop writing it.

There, I’ve made a stance in the first story of this series. I'm like Hamilton or some other musical from history class.

The whole ‘Mexican’ tie to the story from the title will come into being explained later but right now we find ourselves dealing with rice burners racing down a Florida road at speeds not recommended for anyone with a lick of sense or without a decent extra ordinary healing factor.

The rice burners as some would call them, though isn’t that a little racist, because it deals with the country of origin where some of these bikes where manufactured, in a not so nice way?

Something to think about?

These motorcycles were racing down the road at dangerous speeds, but when you travel through time and realities, constantly stepping up for danger, doing anything in less than thought out ways is par the course.

Take a breath…

Par the course?

I guess it’s better than birdie the course?

I never really understood that expression or how golf is considered a sport or why I have to ramble at times when writing……

So if you don’t call them rice burners what would you call them? Crotch Rockets as a term is probably just as worse in some circles? … Sport bikes? Ok, should have known that. 

Thanks Twitter friends.

The sport bikes were on a ride against time and the bipolar Florida weather. The riders, who most diffidently were not dressed for the mode of transportation they had chosen, pulled into the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge and parked in the Visitor Centers parking lot, each to one side of an over sized black pickup truck with historical dates painted all over it in tiny blue numbering to the point it was actually really hard to take notice of them.

A voice came from the truck, ‘I guess there is a story as to why both of you are wearing wetsuits? Not a fashion choice I hope.’ A young man, named Brubaker, in his early twenties, with a extreme amount of scars on his face, jumps down from the truck dressed like a redneck bar patron with a hint of I Will Fuck You Up If You Call Me A Redneck, ‘Glade you two could make it, wet as you are.’

‘Shut it Brubaker,’ Olivia

The former lovers hug as Green stands by grinning at her young friends with her long blood red hair looking like some sort of animals nest, brought to that state by the fast drive down Florida roads.

Olivia and Brubaker both once traveled together with Green. Traveled through realities, from planet to planet, and time jumping like a living set of empty history books. They came up against evil of all types, experienced the joys of a Medusa Summer, and once all three of them were turned into monkeys on their way to finding out how a solid golden helicopter ended up in the rain forest.

But all of that was before the second breakup.

‘I like the bikes. Two Honda CB750’s right?’ Brubaker asked.

‘We traded for them at a bar in Miami. It was Green’s idea, an idea full of awesome sauce. She also wouldn’t let me eat the fish and chips there so not everything was great,’ Olivia

‘I protect you from all forms of evil,’ Green

‘Still a little hungry,’ Olivia

‘Evil is the American fish and chip meal,' Green

Brubaker was looking the bikes over ignoring the second rate banter, ‘These are in great shape and probably cost a good dollar to rebuild. What did you trade for them?’

‘Haven’t a clue, she tossed each biker guy a small box?’ She gave Green a questioning look when she started to ask herself the same question internally, ‘What did you trade those dirty bikers?’

‘They looked the type so I traded each of them a box of Hell ashes,’ Green

‘Like as in, Hell Ash?’ Brubaker asked.

‘Yes, from the fires of Hell. They have a definite healing effect on certain kinds of injuries and illnesses. Sort of cool when you think about it. The first Pledge taught me that little secret of existence,’ Green

‘So what about the wet suits? Explain the wet suits,’ Brubaker is always with the questions.

‘We were swimming in The Black Ocean of Quoit when Green got it up her nose to leave. You know how it works.’

‘During times of high stress the crystals that help me travel have a mind of their own. Not my fault. Probably some sort of defense mechanism? I must have been asleep that day in class. Not the best way to escape a group of Wallachian humans bent on thinking we were Redtail Mer People I’ll admit but it worked out in the end,’ Green raised her eyebrows and tilted her head, ‘For the most part.’

I guess mentioning Quoit this much means I have to write a story about it one day?

{Editors Note: Or hire someone to write those stories but how about you just get on with this one.}

‘Wait, wait, wait. You’re wearing wetsuits?’

‘Yes.’

 ‘Where did you keep the boxes of ash you traded for the bikes?’

‘Well, we made a quick stop off at Record’s house for some odds and ends,’ Green  mentioned Record without thinking about the effect it would have on Brubaker. And without knowing the effect of what she had said she drifted off into reading a magazine Brubaker had in the front seat of his truck.

Brubaker’s eyes closed for a few seconds remembering the past. Olivia noticed this, ‘Do you miss it?’ He opened his eyes to see Olivia was smiling from ear to ear in a way that was only adding anger to his thoughts.

‘I miss you two but not the traveling.’

‘There was a time you loved nothing more.’

‘There was also a time I loved nothing more than you.’

Olivia turned away briefly from eye contact with Brubaker and saw Green looking up from the magazine she was reading. They have come a long way in mending past pains to start up old troubles all over again.

‘So what fun do you have in store for us today Mr. Brubaker?’ Green

‘In those outfits?’

Green stepped out from sitting in Breakers’ truck with the door open, ‘We will be stared at,’ Stretches her arms up into the sky, ‘But that isn’t really unusual for the three of us, defiantly not unusual for me.’ And just like the crack of a firecracker she had snapped back full of energy and was rocking back on her heels with the magazine folded up like a totem of life being held to her breasts. 

Brubaker knows her well enough to know this is a put on. Something Olivia has never fully grasped. But for their friendship he is playing along. It’s another reminder of how much her and Record are alike and how much he misses his friend. When you are around them you can’t help but feel the energy of life. Too bad you also need times to take in how much death there is in being alive to really live.

‘How much time do you have before you need to leave again?’ Brubaker asked both of them.

‘Enough hours. Though I need to drop Olivia home before a meet up with an Angel who owes me some loose cash. Enough hours,’ Green

‘But she is coming back for me so we can head back into the future. Haven’t gone forward in a long time,’ Olivia

Brubaker gave her a look with a half escaping smile.

‘What?’ Olivia

Her accidental puns use to always make him smile.

Brubaker gives a full smile but turns without Olivia noticing and gives Green a knowing look. He knows good and well how “I’ll come back for you” can turn into a year. She has a habit of forgetting people pretty quick while out traveling. Record was much the same.

Brubaker and Olivia met Green and started traveling with her after their friend Record died saving Brubaker from the very chaotic Wall Bound reality. You don’t want to go there. The place is a mess with chaos fractures and a planet of eternal war. 

You most defiantly don’t want me to talk about it. I start talking about the Wall Bound and next thing you know there are poetry collections and a four part story.

Brubaker and Olivia had been splits at the time they first met Green but then again technically from Olivia’s view point Brubaker had also been dead for a good year right before that so with life things change.

And when you travel with one of The 9 things are never not changing.

And are never not confusing. 

They started dating once again while with Green. Everyone knew it was a mistake and Green even tried to get Brubaker lost on a pleasure colony once for a few days to get his mind off Olivia when the heat between them was getting heavy. It didn’t work and they hit the sack together one night in Ancient Rome and the dating was on but a breakup wasn’t that far away either and Olivia took time off to get away from him.

A number of years after the breakup they ran into Olivia in Chicago in a story that involves werewolves but werewolves are so tired and boring and not worth talking about past this last sentence of a really long run on sentence but that was when he decided he was finished with traveling; so she left this time with Green leaving him behind.

Every since then every so often the three of them meet up together for what you might call “old times sake” or as some people call it trying with a lot of hope to capture something lost in the past.

 ‘We can start here at the Visitor Center. There’s lots of cool stuff inside. I know this sort of thing is right up your alley Green,’ Brubaker

Green smiled a most alien like smile. 

‘Afterwards we can head to Canaveral Seashore for a Ranger guided walk on the beach,’ Brubaker

‘Better than Botany,’ Green

And with that she was off walking towards the Visitor Center.

Brubaker turned to Olivia, ‘Has she found a new catch phrase?’

‘Yep.’ Olivia

Green raised her nose and smushed her lips at both of them in a playful “shut it” facial expression, even though they couldn't see, but she is also a little sad that this can’t be like the old times when they all traveled together, even if those days sometimes were like a sci-fi version of 90210 

THE ORIGINAL!!!

And now for something different. Richly different. Not completely different. I said now for something richly different. Don't sue.

The Tomb is one of the original realities created when the Creation Point, also called the Virgin Reality by some, expanded and gave life unto other realities. All of which exist right under the Creation Point in layers of existence. 

The whole thing is sort of like step children below a head child.  

That was about as apt as calling me an Astonishing Intellect. 

I will not go into overly detailed descriptions of each reality because I only need to discuss The Tomb for this story but I will give you a list; so enjoy if you like lists.

I like lists myself.

 I like lists so much I have a podcast about lists, it's called Shortlisted. You can find it on the Tin Pod Radio network.

I like lists and TV marathons, though these days they call five episodes in a row a marathon.

Marathon my ass. Unless you lose sleep, not a marathon.

Also what constitutes being a reality is sort of an up in the air definition. There ant no bibles for that sort of thing. 

At least I haven’t written one yet.

Yet.

The realities that live under the Creation Point are- Hell, The Dream Trail, The Tomb, The Tin Universe, The Orchid Secret, The Hate, The Crystal Dogma, The Blackest Omen, The Waste, The Glass, The Word, and The Original Sin.

Now that’s a long list of “The’s” 

There are also many unstable realities floating around. The ones known to exist are- The Interrupted Light, The Circle, The God Mark, The Turtle Edge, The Darkness Bite, The Collected, The Mocking, and The Wall Bound. The existence of these realities is very day to day and barley worth mentioning.

But I did.

And I know.

I’ve been told.

By many.

Are you in the happy that I did not go into great detail about each one of those? 

I thought so. They are in great detail in my brain though, and in a moleskin notebook. See what I have to walk around with in my head every day. 

Anyways, if you choose to keep reading this series you will find out a lot more about them, in time, in this series and in others books and others ways of bullshitting if I live long enough.

See now we have the improper bits of writing style behind us, now onto me trying to tell a story in the acceptably manner.

{EDITORS NOTE: Or as close as he can get to it.}

The Tomb is a reality set aside as a place for Angels to rest. All Angles of all kinds are welcome. No matter what Heaven or other place the Angels may be from. 

Only Angels can walk across the threshold of The Tomb and trying to enter when not an Angel or by an Angels will is really close to being dead really fast. 

No one has tried or been able to find out how The Tomb came to be and there are ancient races who take generations trying to find out about such things, such as this, but considering it is the only place in all of creation were Angels can go where Gods do not have sight into, some have put forth a theory that maybe creation felt sorry for these slaves to their Gods and created a place for them to rest, sleep, and be individual creatures with individuality; which is something that is against their Gods laws when they are within any other place in creation. It is the only place they can live, speak; and consume without fear of divine retribution.

That paragraph needed divine intervention.

The Tomb is sort of like the local pub after a long days work. Have a drink there with your mates and discuss Sunday’s football match.

But then again there are also those who say the place does not exist at all and that it is nothing more than a lot of bullocks talk from a lot of whiny Angels who are unhappy that in the whole good versus evil stick they got the short end of it altogether; while demons get to be free living, free basing, little shits of supernatural life.

The main appearance of The Tomb, for it does exist, trust me, I’m the writer, is in manifestation a very large bar or pub or whatever moniker they have for drinking stink holes where you maybe from. They just call them joints where I’m from. Well, not really but joint does sound better than bar. 

Notice how I got moniker back in there? That was me trying to be cleaver.

I promise not to try that again.

Outside of the structure it is nothing but forest lands with every kind of storm possible happening ever few feet like weather mine fields. 

The bars or whatever they may appear to be are stacked one upon the other like a mad game of Jenga. The look of this sight has made more than one mind go insane.

If you were standing outside looking at the drinking establishments you would see a bar stacked on top of a pub, on top of a wine house, on top of a juice bar, on top of a coffee house, on top of a coffee bar, and so on and so on, up floor after floor into the sky and out of sight. 

The very top is a speakeasy.

We do not speak of that speakeasy in polite company.

Like I said the very nature of looking at the structure gives you headaches just thinking about it. Sort of like the feeling you can get when trying to get your head around reading my descriptions.

The coffee houses tend to get the most business because Angels seem to have a taste for coffee, especially Mexican Coffee; which is the same as Irish Coffee, or at least what my grandmother called Irish Coffee, which was any coffee with any liquor poured in. 

My poor auntie had a taste for all liquors. She also had a knack for snapping the necks of chickens. We didn’t piss off auntie. Added to more than one reason why I think I was adopted because I’m not a liquor man and I only touch chickens who have already visited the Colonel.

And did you notice the Mexican title thing came in there hard and fast.

Don’t care?

Ok…

Asshole.

Mexican Coffee also contains any brand of coffee the same as Irish Coffee but Mexican Coffee can only be served with Tequila into the mix. 

Against the beliefs of some out there preaching and making movies Angels can get drunk and really enjoy doing so but it is solely their choice to be intoxicated or not; so if I was you I would never try to get an Angel drunk to try and take advantage of them. More than likely this would not turn out in your favor.

Don’t do it.

The Mexican Coffee house is crammed full today with Wings, a nickname for Angels, and the chatter talk today was all about one of their kind who had to enter The Word. The Angel in question was an Angel of the Song named Wuft who was called to the place of Gods soul to be punished for the offense of dreaming. 

Just imagine a huge crowd complaining about their boss after someone they all liked had just been fired and that is enough said about the tone of the conversations going on within the coffee house. It is scuttlebutt all around, Mexican Coffee all around, and fruit bowls on every table.

Based off a dream what we have here are a few small brief moments to talk about. Good thing this is a small brief story, and not just a good thing because of quality issues either. These moments which floated through the mind of an Angel before he was called to The Word’s glory are fragments and fragments are another word for mystery.

The Word’s “glory” and that is a matter of open debate and opinion is referring to The Word which as detailed earlier is the place of God’s voice, soul, spirit, and general Old Testament fury. It’s perfect for all of you who love the fire and brimstone but don’t go in for all of that love your neighbor stuff.

These moments are in actuality a detail per detail look at the dream. The most natural of things for any living creature to have is a dream but it’s something Angels are capable of but forbidden to partake in. This forbiddance is only for one reason and that is because dreams are one of the most powerful forces in all of existence and the moment a slave starts gaining power they may even some day develop aspirations beyond their slave masters.

The only thing that could not be remembered from the Angel’s dream is who was narrating the narrative bits. Is it the Angel himself or is it someone else? Like me? Those that walk The Dream Trail, the dreaming reality, remember it being a familiar voice, but who? No one can really say. I have my suspicions it was a young man named Damon Silverstone but he could not be reached for comment. 

The Angel himself awoke from the dream and wrote it down on the back of the light from a bit of hope to keep it safe from his Gods wrath. A bit of hope light combined with an Angel’s dream is the cream custard of possibilities.

Dreams are feelings and they will not crawl like a dirt animal because they are told not to exist, even by Gods; so, those who control dreams along with The Dream Healer Mash took from the Angel this dream suspended within a bit of hope just before he entered The Word to protect it from Gods destructive temperament and placed it for a week on the desktop of a computer where it lived asking to be retold.  

Is the act of dreaming itself about what it’s like to be a living intelligent life form? And what can be answered as this question is asked? Most humans stand on their own two feet, other life forms stand on more, less, or no feet at all, but back to humans. Humans let their dreams live free on their own no matter if they are dreams about love, fear, hate, anger, jealousy; or anything else and the dreams are not afraid of anything. Maybe that is why God felt fear when the first Angel found a dream. 

Maybe God is afraid Angels are growing too close to humanity?

This story can just be called cleanly a story about a dream. If you want to push past all of the storyteller’s bullshit you can call it simply that. Within this warped little Anime, Morrison Fairytale, Greek tragedy, confusing piece of a story can we find meaning? Maybe or maybe it is just a simple little story with a bit of confusion and we should only take it as that.

Loneliness? 

Love? 

Lust? 

Three L’s that have always haunted creatures of all manner of form and thought.

A deep rooted love for Mexican Coffee maybe the dreams meaning also? Who am I to say?

 Angels are whores for a good cup of coffee but then again so are quite a few of my friends.

And former lovers.

The alcoholic Angels are mostly Archangels. I thought I would throw that in just to take another stab at one of the symbols of the religion of my youth, my myths alongside superheroes.

Anyone who has read the Heavenly Records know what happens when Angels dream. Their dreams tend to be reality split, surreal, episodic like in ways, and so in the end should anyone read anything into these escapes for a slave race? The answer is yes, if you wish just as in your own dreams, you may wish to seek to see meaning, get confused, be angry if it gives you those feelings, because in the end is that not the joy of dreams? Dreams are little gene drips from our spirits about our lives. They are the mind trying to translate the soul and that is like a hillbilly trying to translate the maths.

I know of what I speak.

At times the only way a living being can communicate to others is through the writing down of one’s dreams. 

This dream that is this conversation went from a bit of hope to a human soul.

And what follows next is that dream.

The Dream Trail…

The world is crumbling down to its core. Nothing is working but is functioning differently in its death. These are the contradictions in destruction. 

Keys to life are no longer keys and those who have survived the destruction are spending their time trying to save lives just so they can die in a few days time anyways. 

Or they are spending the last moments of time holding someone they love or holding someone they may not love. But in the end we all need someone to hold and so now we ask how much love really matters when time comes knocking at our doors? 

Not really but there is a knocking at the door in this dream.

A young man is drinking a canned soda and he’s smoking a rum flavored cigar as his apartment burns around him. Also burning around him are old college textbooks, boxes of baseball cards, Pulpy posters, and copies of black and white family photos. Floating through the air were the charred remains of a claw machine monkey and the last remaining copy of 875 Ways to Tell a Super-Villain That He’s A Dick by The Refugee Pack.

An uninvited guest who just came knocking to the door of this last man standing is bugging the shit out of him and has been doing so for the past two hours.

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘You want me to talk to you about love? Of all times, now and with you?’

‘It is only the end of the world and…..’

‘It’s a dream from a night of Mexican C...’

‘It is the end of the world in a dream. When would be a better time for a demon to learn about something that we are not asked to understand than in these moments?’

The young man picks up a burning notebook off the heated up floor. He opens the notebook as pages burn away to an eye catching page where he sees the name Mash written in a sloppy cursive handwriting. He rips out the page, curls it up tight into a slender funnel, and lights another cigar with it as it bursts into nothing but flame.

Then the young man walks calmly into his living room from his bedroom and finds a piece of furniture not in flames yet. A couch hat was given to him by his supervisor at a factory job he was fired from. 

He sits down on the couch as flames are surrounding him like vultures in search of a meal. The flames begin to touch his hair and skin as if lightly picking at some meat. This allows the demon to get a glimpse into this man’s mind and that makes the demon from Hell smile. 

Let us start with narrator person ranting on the subject of love for a few paragraphs. 

Love is not about shapes and shadows. It is not images of someone sucking on parts of someone else or grinding with hips moving and sweet pouring, hair looking down on a face with eyes looking up, and that is known to be fun, but that in its authentic gist is not in the lasting. And hopefully we are done with all the- “that though’s.”  I really have a problem over using- “that though’s.”

And “though’s” in general.

When you run past the goal you see what the race gave you. That is when you know you truly did love someone as that someone is no longer around being part of your life. This happens usually when someone you cared for died or is gone from your life or has moved away from you in body or spirit or some other way. When you see that the reasons for that love racing by was just then watching love move by, lasting love too late is long gone. Love confused is confused. Love young is young. Love gone is bye bye.

Back to the set scene of flames, ‘Once when everyone should have been out enjoying the sunshine for the whole day two people sat outside a circuit board factory building they worked within enjoying the sun a little during a brake and they talked. One smoked and the other over thought. Both with their addictions.’

These two people, they were friends, and he wondered why she considered him such, and she wondered why he could not see what others did and that was that he was not simple but was very unique. At least that is what he thought she more than likely was thinking. 

God, I think that was another sentence that would make an editor run from the room. Isn’t it great I don’t have one? I just pull my own hair out.

Here’s hoping I can find an editor so they can pull their own hair out. I’m going bald anyways. No lose for me.

‘I once loved her, once kissed her. One time I was alone in my apartment and I begged God for her and offered up my soul to the Devil for another moment with her. I also masturbated a lot in those days thinking about her.’

He said it, I didn’t.

I mean the narrator said it, I didn’t.

I mean…..

The demon nodded and I continued, ‘She once kissed me. One time she wrote something for me and in doing that little thing she did something that no other person had ever done for me. She acknowledged my life as meaning something to someone else.’

Two people talked on that sunny day. They said meaningless things that meant everything and just made smiles out of things that should not be smiled about and joked about things that contained just too much information but made laughter burst out.

‘It was people as what love is meant to be.’ the young man

‘Would you define love as having sex?’ the demon

‘We only kissed.’

‘Would you define love as faith?’

‘Her family was Jewish and mine was Internet Buddhist. Both of us were atheists.’

‘Would you define love as marriage?’

‘Nope. Marriage barley approaches love. A shared Starbucks card is more proof of love.’

‘Would you define love as blood?’

‘Only if your mom is cute.’

‘Would you define love as friendship?’

‘You’re getting close.’

‘Ok, then what is love?’

The young man bounced his plastic Pepsi bottle off the forehead of the demon and continued, ‘On that day we finished our addictions. For that moment outside. Then we went back to work. We went about our lives.’

They were never going to get much done on that day. She was recovering from a Friday out with friends and he was recovering from another night alone with himself. 

That was hard work sometimes also. 

Yeaah, ok, moving on. 

Her desk was in front of his, his in front of hers. He shared a desk with another. She had the biggest in the building and all her own but not for any other reason than that was the only desk not being used in the storage building.

They sat at their desks and talked about things they would do, things they would never find a way to do. They continued talking until the clock found its way to where it showed it was time to go for the day.

Her mother called on this day and she left to spend time with her family, her son, things that are tough, and things that made sense. 

‘I walked all the way home and wished for parts of her that she didn’t like. I went into my apartment to sit down and I listened too little, too late to thoughts of what I wanted to do over again. Maybe I should have stood straighter around her? Maybe that would have made me appear…?...more…….? Maybe I shouldn’t have written so many bad poems to her the bad quality of such probably drove her nuts? Maybe I should have taken more dance chances? Maybe that would have made me look better in front of her? Maybe I should have, should have, should…?’

The young man smiles and with his smiles he stops his thoughts and lets out a little laugh. The laugh ends as his jaw drops off and at this moment he finally understands. Love is not about anything except for what this day he was remembering had given him. This day he remembers in his soul.

‘Before this dream ends you want me to tell you what love is, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re inside my mind? You’re swimming around my soul? You have wrapped your claws into my spirit? What keeps me going no matter what? What keeps me fighting?’

‘Memories but they aren’t real. They do not touch your flesh. They are keeping your spirit planted here without pain so you can continue to speak with me.’

‘This whole thing is your doing?’

‘My doing.’

The horrific but still human sight standing in front of the demon is silent for a minute and then, ‘Love is what shines into the darkest places in this world. People don’t understand it. People certainly can’t define it. Human beings feel it. I’m standing here in this dream that was about the end of the world. A world that ended because a love stopped caring but you know what Mister Tails And I’m A Demon Be Scared of Me? It’s not about that. True love sometimes is never truly understood until it ends but all we have to do is look close during our daily lives to see it. That’s what guys like you want to try and confuse us about.’

The demon creates a chair out of the flames with a wave of his hand and sits down, ‘You think you have won some kind of battle by these words don’t you? You are still a lonely man who has not had a calm moment in four years. You still cut your arms when you find you have failed at something like being a baseball player. You are still someone who over thinks everything and cries himself to sleep every other night. You have won nothing during this dream. This dream is not even your own, it was a little piece of hope being tucked away by the Dream Healer that I got a glimpse of.’

The young man took a strong step towards the demon with his flesh burning from the bone and struggling to move as much as he was struggling to get words from his mouth. Now that the demons influence on his memories and body was fading so came about the final destruction. The flames have turned the apartment into a furnace now and nothing human remained here or anywhere else on the planet.

But with that strong step he surprised this demon who knew how much spirit that truly took, ‘You might be right demon,’ speaks a voice from within the flames speaking half sentences with pauses between each, ‘but when I wake I will write this down. When I type this on my computer as I open my eyes fully. When I e-mail this to my friends when I get to work tomorrow. When I do these things I am done. I will have by doing so worked through another piece of pain and will be doing so with a new notion in my soul. Not one of a total change of who I am but one of doing my fucking best to understand the things I do have. Take that back to your true masters you low level Spider Demon and tell them to try to understand this powerful word, Nine. Tell them that is from The First Walker with love and I hope the fuckers chokes on what is coming.’

The Tomb… 

This place was very busy today. The bartender who was one of The Fallen who ended up here in a fashion worthy of a drunken Saturday night of cocktails and big fib stories was wiping down floor after floor of bar counters, tables, bathrooms, and vomitus holes.

This bartender was an Angel without any sort of wings who looked like a very tall basketball player with a fetish interest in 1950’s housewife fashion. 

After rolling his eyes at some dirty limericks left on some cocktail napkins he stops by one table and lets out a curse when he discovers someone had carved something into one of the tables in the Tangerine Juice Bar.

‘And what the hell does ‘Canon Shits’ mean?’

‘It’s a fandom thing.’

The bartender turned to see something he has always been expecting but is still a beyond rare sight within The Tomb; which was a living being that wasn’t an Angel standing in the bars doorway.

‘I was expecting you earlier Green. Like a few centuries earlier.’

Green smiled at her friend standing posed in her biker boots, brown overalls, black t-shirt, and long Russian military winter jacket. 

She walked up to the bar as the bartender moved behind it and entered the room behind the bar room were all the secrets of drink mixing were kept. They were talking the whole time like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years; which is nowhere near the amount of time it haD actually been since the last time they were in each other’s company.

‘I got distracted,’ Green

‘Your type gets distracted and empires fall,’ Wahlev

‘Your type gets distracted and it inspires bad Hollywood action movies.’

‘You cannot blame those movies on us. There might be Angels of Inspiration but only the Muses ever truly inspire creation.’

‘I’ve missed your Angel snark which isn’t really snark at all.’

‘You just want your cash.’

‘Yes, like Angels keep two tens and a fiver in their wallets. I want what was bet.’

The bartender returns from a trip to the backroom and places a pint glass in front of Green that was really dusty, ‘Still a Guinness drinker?’

‘Not as much as I once was but for old times sake I’ll take one.’

The bartender filled the glass without wiping it clean of dust from the last time they met, ‘That contest was so long ago and you were so young then I had hoped you had forgotten.’

‘I had just learned what my existence held for me. Between then and now I have learned many lessons. I want the names of the rest of The 9. You had it. Have it. It’s going to be mine now because you suck at cards.’

‘There is a lot of power in those names.’

Green takes a big drink from her glass, wipes the foam from her upper lip with her hand, ‘You need all the edges you can get out there and I plan to dive into the universe with a lot more adventure from now on.’

It was your rules, 

At the start, 

No wonder I came out with scars, 

Your money, 

Your plans, 

I'll burn in Hell before I walk those sands again,

*if you liked this story come back tomorrow for another chapter in Generation Of A God.

The sale of this book without its cover….well, is, sort of, impossible since it really does not have a cover but let us go through the legal spray out anyways. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Hands up to you who have books like this in your collection? Now that I have put my hand down we can continue with the credits and copyright and legal and stuff that people just do not ever pay attention to unless it is pumping their own horn.

An Original Publication of BLOODWASTE BOOKS

A Bloodwaste Books book published by

System*Publishing, a division of System*Productions

Melbourne, Florida

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead or living dead, is entirely and very much so in the coincidental. 

Copyright © 2011, Brian C. Williams, System*Productions. Chaos Read #1, MEXICAN COFFEE and all related titles, characters, and elements are trademarks of System*Productions. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. While unauthorized reproduction is sometimes needed, please remember us writers types are for the most part a poor lot just in search of a ways to tell our stories and enough money to add to our Doctor Who collections….well, at least that fits me.

First Bloodwaste Books ebook edition September 30th, 2011

For more information on Mexican Coffee, the artists who contributed to this book, and The God Mark, The Tomb; The Dream Trail please contact System*Productions at billy.was.here@gmail.com

Written/Edited by Brian C. Williams

Cover Photography/Digital Work by Brian C. Williams

Author Photo by Nancy Collins

Tin Universe Logo by Vinny Bove