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Tin Universe Daily #279

#279

The Crow Store Discs, Part Two

The Humanity Review

The following is part of a larger collection of writings found on floppy discs, in a metal box, in a Vancouver bus station. All together there were seven novels, several books of poetry, film scripts, TV pilots, and many other forms of storytelling, everything from song lyrics to church hymns.

They have gone on to be a famous group of writings that has grown in its following when they were first typed up by the man who found them and placed them on the internet.

Whether they are the writing of a professional writer who lost his discs or a failed writer who gave up and tossed his dream away no one knows.

Now a huge legal battle is brewing over the movie rights to the writings.

Chapter One:

The night started off innocent enough for Jason Nievor. He left his Florida low down high rent apartment at 8pm out by request from his girlfriend Julie and her best friend Royal.

He thought things may turn out good in two ways from having to spend $15.95 on Captain Morgan.

One good thing that could happen is the two beautiful young ladies may get drunk and all three of them end up fucking until they pass out.

The second good thing that could happen from him getting the two beautiful ladies drunk is that they both may shut up long enough after drinking themselves into silence for him to have time to catch up on paperwork from his business. He owns a small publishing business.

Julie made her and Royal’s drinks, 1 shot of Captain and 1 can of Coke.

Jason sat drinking Guinness while his friends quoted Mean Girls and Thomas Paine while drinking drink after drink.

After hours of drinking, burning CDs, and watching episodes of South Park all three of these young people found themselves passed out in different parts of the apartment. Julie and Royal naked on the kitchen floor, Jason on the living room love seat.

The Beast came through the lights to watch.

He once tried to fuck a cactus at age 12 while living with his father in Houston. That was really the only painful moment of his life.

Terry Steel worked his daily life hard and alone. He sales soap online and does nothing else with his life but sleep, order carryout, ship out soap, and watch porn. A man is torturing himself by watching porn when he cannot even function enough to masturbate.

Terry has contact with only one person outside the internet, his mailman Jackson Role.

Jackson Role, a 20 something former med student kicked out for raping a teacher who gave him a failing grade. The 80-year-old professor two years later hanged himself. Jackson moved from Boston to Florida and a cousin got him a job at the Post Office.

Jackson had been careful the past year and only speaking with those people on his route as he delivered their mail.

Jackson saw Terry as a debased cell and like all of those like him Terry was not worthy of life in any form of happiness while those like himself have been cast aside in jealousy for their worth to all of humanity.

Today Jackson moves from cast aside intelligence to hero of creation. Well, at least those were the thoughts in his mind as he knocked on #843B.

Terry came to the door wearing his favorite Reboot t-shirt as he invited Jackson inside for a Coke as he gathered up all of his outgoing packages.

Jackson came in as he usually does on Thursday, placed his mailbag on the couch, and walked into the kitchen.

The refrigerator was full of nothing but cans of soda and frozen microwave pizzas. Jackson grabbed two cans and walked into the living room.

Terry came out of the backroom which was a 2^nd bedroom, ‘I only have two packages going out today.’

Terry put the packages beside Jackson’s mailbag as Jackson handed him a soda, ‘Thank you.’

‘Business slow?’

‘Not really, just a normal random dip in sal…’

Jackson without warning punched Terry in the face.

Terry looked up at him with a bloody nose like a child who had just been slapped.

Jackson knelt down in front of him, ‘Sorry but I just suck at small talk. Best get on with it.’

‘On with what?’

Jackson stood and kicked Terry in the face, ‘I plan to kill you Terry.’

Terry starts to cry, ‘Why?’

Jackson smilef, ‘Because you are happy. Pathetic, lonely, and weird, but you are happy. Though mostly I hate my job. I’m going to kill you because being a mailman sucks.’

Jackson pulled a pocket knife from his jacket and lunged forward stabbing Terry in the throat. He pushed and twisted the knife until Terry was laying against the floor and his body stopped convulsing.

The Beast enters through the water to possess.

East of somewhere stands a very old, pretty large home which sits upon the grounds were many an ancient ritual took place and under those grounds of dirt, rock, and clay lays buried a skeleton.

The bones of the skeleton should have decayed centuries ago. What was once a great Warlock of birth of blood evil but of deeds noble now is a relic of power.

The home belongs to the Dean family and has since it was a castle once belonging to Sir Dean who was given it as a prize for his service in The Crusades.

Sir Dean was also given a duty, a protect. He and all generations of his family would protect the lands his castle sat on and God would give the family power and influence for their service to God and King.

And for ages the Dean family have protected The Green Addler Estate and shaped the course of British history. Today only three members of the immediate family are living: Milanda Dean and her two children Shannon and Shaun.

Milanda heads one of the top media companies in the world, called Super Sur. With their own television channel- Nine Codes, their own newspaper- Challenge London, a recording company- Sound Crisis, and 100 plus more multi-media companies. Some have said Super Sur controls all information in Britain. Those people are not far off on their thinking.

Shannon Dean runs all internet operations for Super Sur and recently ran across a case of pissing off the government when she had and is known as one of holders of one of the largest information database in the world under The Auto Hole Information Storage company which just recently gained a government contract that is unknown to the general public.

Shaun Dean is the spoiled rich playboy of the family, just like his father Daniel. Spending most of his time at the family condo in Miami Florida, in the United States.

At the moment Shaun is on his way from Miami to St. Augustine Florida, but first he wants to stop off in Palm Bay, also in Florida, for a beer with his friend Jason Nievor.

Chapter Two:

Jackson today has a day off and after the stress of yesterday he is spending it at home watching C-Span.

Sitting on his couch in his uniform drinking orange juice and soda Jackson closes his eyes when he thinks about Terry. Terry’s decapitated head just sits on the couch beside him…giving Jackson a mean look.

Jackson rolled his eyes and Terry’s head opened its eyes wider in anger, ‘Do not roll your eyes at me mortal shell.’

Julie and Royal cannot get enough of each other since waking up in each other’s arms a few days ago. They satisfied Jason’s being a little pissed off about them being together by letting him masturbate while they pleasured each other.

Today they are spending the day at the Mall while across walls, under feet, and behind themselves The Beast watches from shadows.

The Humanity Review

Chapter One

The night started off simple enough for Jason Nievor. His life has always been simple enough

Frank’s face. Well, it would if Frank’s nose would move a bit. Instead he just rolled eyes at the Fog Hat t-shirt in his hands. He grabbed a Dali shirt instead and a pair of denim shorts. The shirt must have moved its way from Agatha’s closet because the closes thing Daven got to Dali was when he once attended a lecture on Tex Avery’s art with his little brother Kevin.

Walking out from the bedroom he caught the scent of his sister’s special four cheese chili.

“Are you going to change?”

“Nay, I don’t mind being wet.”

Frank sat down on his sister’s black fake leather couch grabbing the huge remote that operates their super television of entertainment.

“Agie, don’t talk dirty with your brother.”

“Shut up Franklin. What do you want to drink with your chili?”

“I’ll take a beer.”

“You’ll get a Pepsi.”

“I’ll take a Pepsi.”

Frank is flipping through channels when the power goes out in the apartment.

“I hate living in Florida. Fucks with your movie watching obsessions.”

“Shut up, I’m looking for our emergency flashlight.”

“Could you get me an emergency beer?”

“I’m going to give you a critical need kick in the ass unless you shut up.”

“Do you think the hurricane turned?”

“I don’t know.”

It did by the way. The hurricane, named Rachel has made an unappreciable and violent turn towards Palm Bay. The Bay is about to get slammed. Slammed hard, really hard.

Agatha found the emergency flashlights. Now she was sitting with her brother in the bedroom, in the dark playing checkers.

“Wouldn’t chess be more interesting?”

“Yes, if you had ever sat still long enough for me to teach you.”

A loud thud against the side of the apartment building caused both Agatha and Frank to jump.

Frank looks at his sister.

“Daver is lucky he’s in Vancouver.”

“No, Daver is lucky he is in Vancouver working alongside Allison Hannigan. I would stand in the middle of a hurricane to be near her.”

“Yes, my sister, the reformed lesbian.”

“I’ll reform you with my flashlight.”

Another thud hits, followed by the sound of broken glass. From the sounds it must have been Agatha’s upstairs neighbors. Agatha sighed. Her upstairs neighbors are an old couple. Really nice but a little nosey. She hopes they at their daughters in Tampa.

Frank grabbed his sisters hand and as they grasped each other’s hands a trash can slammed through Agatha’s bedroom window. Frank and Agatha dived onto the floor. Flying now through the broken window was trash, branches, squirrels, and a dead dumpster cat.

Frank and Agatha crawled on all fours into the living room and ended up leaning against the kitchen pantry door.

“Wonder if the chili is done?”

Frank shined his flashlight into his sister’s face. She wasn’t smiling at his joke. She was crying. He was also but his tears were hidden in the darkness of the apartment.

“Agie, this really is only beginning to suck isn’t it?”

“If the hurricane turned and it is still a category 4 we haven’t seen anything yet.”

“I love you sis. Always at the ready with information.”

Rachel was sitting over Palm Bay and most of Florida for that matter. Agatha was right, it was a category 4 storm but now it Category 5 and most of Central Florida is being wiped off the maps.

In a housing area basically over a fence from Agatha’s apartment complex two people are doing everything they can to get through this hurricane. Everything includes two bottles of wine, a couple sex toys, and two very peaked rolling young ladies.

The house belongs to the blonde on the right. Her name is Mary Payne and the one holding the dildo and grinning is Catherine Pass. As you can see both of them are naked. Matter of fact they are drunk, high on E, and sweating from just finishing. They had just boarded up their house a week ago when Rachal first got her name.

Catherine was holding a flashlight walking into the kitchen when a car, Mary’s car in fact, exploded for some unknown reason. The car was parked against the outside kitchen wall. The explosion destroyed half the house and set the rest ablaze.

Mary was screaming from the bedroom, “Cathy!?”

The rain and the fire were battling each other as Mary makes her way into what was her living room, “Cathy?!”

Mary found Catherine face down in a rain soaked area of carpet. Mary fell to her knees beside her, rolled her over and began CPR after checking and seeing Catherine was not breathing.

Catherine opened her eyes to see Mary crying over her. At this moment she noticed two things. One that they both were soaking wet and it took her a second or two before she saw she was not outside.

The second thing she noticed was the partial roof which was above them, ablaze, and ready to collapse. As Catherine sat up and Mary was ready to hug her Catherine grabbed her and rolled them away as the fiery ceiling collapsed down onto the spot they had been previously.

“So what do we do now Ms. Pass?”

“Try to find a good samaritan to let us in.”

“So we are doomed.”

Frank was finishing off his third soda in a row as Agatha was getting the emergency radio up and broadcasting.

“…please stay in door…”

Check out all other Tin Universe releases at the below places:

SMASHWORDS:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/20576

Also can be found in Barnes&Noble Nook Store, iTunes, and many more places to buy ebooks.

The sale of this book without its cover….well, is, sort of, impossible since it really doesn’t 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 put my hand down we can continue with the credits and copyright and legal and stuff that people just don’t ever pay attention to unless it is pumping their own horn.

An Original Publication of System* Publishing, a Tin Universe 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.

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2015, Brian C. Williams, System*Productions. Tin Universe Daily, 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. For more information on Tin Universe Daily, the artists who contributed to this book, and Tin Universe contact System*Productions at hangofwednesday@gmail.com

Written by Brian C. Williams

Edited by Brian C. Williams

Tin Universe Daily #278

#278

Standing Ready

BREAKING NEWS: Poll shows Klu Klux Klan more popular than Martin Luther King in some states in the U.S…

BREAKING NEWS: In a sign of its continued ability to govern with intelligence Florida passes more mandates without funding…

BREAKING NEWS: U.S. Senator says Judges who rule in the favor of whistleblowers should be seen as supporters of spies and tried as accomplices…

The dominant collect power like comic book fans in the late 80’s and early 90’s collected chrome covers.

They could be sitting in their chairs with every desire, every want, even the twisted ones at their fingertips, at the ready if they say go, but the power they don’t have or the chance that others might gain any standing or power themselves finds them considering it a threat on their place in the world.

That’s the people that collect power, not the 80’s/90’s comic book fans, we were just pretty stupid back then.

The powerful people, the ones with their boots on the necks of those below them also want the best footwear for the task. They want an economic system that shields them from stupid business practices. They want laws that put a clear barrier between old and new power.

The people who have all the control are obsessed with keeping control at any cost.

They look at the word NEW like friends of mine look at the word CUNT.

They see technology as a risky tool, risky because it can be used by the masses.

Science, literature, critical thinking of any kind is a threat to them keeping the control in order.

These groups also create false knowledge; throw away possessions, so we will use up all our power to one- possesses things that will fill up our lives but give us no power and two- to give up our own searches for true power such as individual happiness and a thirst for truth.

The powerful are usually collectors and not just in money and gold bars. I mean from Alexander The Great to the Nazis to the largest of the organized religions and the little TV freak ones, the powerful are hoarders of items that add to their power either in status, control, or force.

Yes I did draw a related line from Alexander to Hitler to the Pope and then to Pat Robertson.

These powerful forces, whether they are a government, a religion, or company, they gather together powerful objects for their store houses and vaults, many never to see the light of day again.

Underneath homes, underneath cities, and underneath the surface of the world are the tombs of influence, store houses of the dominant.

One of the largest of these secret depositories is under Vatican City.

The top three are the Vatican City Vaults, the United States Safe, and the Mormon Church Caves on an FYI.

Among the Vatican City Vaults, you can find so many things interesting, boring, and powerful such as the Armor Of Beowulf, the Sword Mimung, the Sword Hrunting, Hades Pitchfork, and Cupids Bow.

Hades Pitchfork would cause so much destruction in the wrong hands; so in some cases no matter if the church is a hate mongering ass show it is also trying to protect people. That’s why Hades left it behind when he left with the other old Gods. He wanted it to screw up the world.

You might ask yourself, or might have thought along the lines in the past, what keeps other countries from just wiping out Vatican City? Most of the world’s governments and dark groups aren’t too keen to attack a place with all of those ancient weapons of mass destructions. And there are so many more that I didn’t mention, because this isn’t a fucking auction catalog.

And it’s not just weapons in the normal kind that those vaults hold that’s very dangerous. You would be a really short sighted person in the brain box if the only thing you considered a weapon was spank material found in Guns & Ammo.

The books in the Vatican vaults alone are dangerous enough to scare the people who have full knowledge of their existence. One sentence read from Scigabain would send the person who read from it and everyone they know to another reality.

The scrolls are also pretty fucking bleak. Some of them list the locations of Heaven in the sky. The burial places of saints and demons alike. The very nature of the making of a scroll is supernatural in origin because it’s said that the first words spoken in this reality was from a scroll from another reality, thus scrolls were the first form of knowledge gathered to exist.

A couple parchments bring on Death with just a glance, like The Sunflower Parchments. Knowing the difference between a parchment and a scroll is a search on Google and as easy as that.

But the holy relics, the objects of power, the weapons of might, that’s what secretly makes Vatican City one of the biggest military powers in the world. Even if that’s not a fact known to the general population of the planet.

And unlike some other influential nations, Vatican City doesn’t send its agents and representatives out with powerful objects in their pockets to be taken from them or found by the extremely wrong hands. The extremely wrong hands being someone who has no clue what they are or what they could do.

But there are a couple exceptions to this general rule when it comes to Vatican objects being allowed outside the vaults.

You know the Popes attire? The fancy pansy gold and jewel laden elaborate looks like something out of a sci-fi movie stuff? Nothing of it is special and hold no power outside if you hocked it at a pawn shop.

But that’s just me taking a cheap shot at the Pope’s dress style.

The exception to the general rule comes in the form of The Indigenous. They are a seven man secret group that has existed as part of the church from the beginning, ordained as Gods hands to reach out into the world to retrieve powerful objects for the churches vaults.

Before you ask I don’t really think there is any kind of great meaning behind their name. Probably just a word that sounded mysterious enough for them to start using. In the beginning they went by several unofficial titles such as The Seven Hands and The Seven Ones Of Knowing.

One of the Indigenous seven is called Donor as with all of these secret society types they have to have stupid nonsensical names. The only other of the seven he has even met is Japan’s Rushten. They met when Rushten came to the U.S. to recruit Donor and took him back to the Vatican to supervise his training.

The Indigenous are spread out at different locations all over the world. The other five members of the Indigenous also have funny names and are young white European guys.

Donor is a former choirboy from Chicago who now handles Indigenous operations in North America.

Yeah, North America, we get him.

Actually he’s not that bad for a churchy sort.

The thing is you would expect most agents of the Vatican to be all devote but that’s just not the case. A number of atheist and some of devotion to other religions. The thing is the church to get things done knows it has to work with all kinds of people. Too bad its overall views and practices aren’t as open.

The past few years, in that he has only been a full member of Indigenous for a few years, Donor has found himself in Florida so much he bought a house in Merritt Island to enforce cover and make it the base of his operations…at least for the time being.

Most of the deep cover variety in Florida tend to go the snowbird route but that ends up full of holes so he made a better choice.

Since setting up in Merritt Island his investigations haven’t turned up any artifacts, yet, and mainly uncovered only information the church already knew but 80 percent of most investigations turn up dead ends. Trails aren’t as clean as in the movies.

If he had wanted to be obvious he would have bought a house in St. Augustine. Anyways there are too many standing points in that city that might hinder and get in the way of some of his investigations so Merritt Island seemed in the whole of Florida’s shadows and weird to be a sort of calm spot to sit down within.

Right now he’s just getting back to his Marriot Island deep cover home after yet another of the many trips to America’s oldest city he has undertaken.

Going to St. Augustine even for work though, because it’s so cool, will quite down most of any complaints anyone could have about visiting.

His snowbird home is located along a stretch of very well off residences across the road for water because, you know, Merritt Island is, you know, an island.

Many of these homes are owned by lawyers, politicians, actors, and company CEO’s. They are new and old and with the way storms hit Florida the old is not really old and along the lines of new.

His cover identity is that of a young Jasper Mcguire. The cover story goes that he married into old European money and divorce settled out of it into a life of leisure. There were even a few stories planted in tabloids and the internet to help push this identity forward.

The house Donor bought as Jasper previously belonged to a gambling boat high roller who fell off one of the local gambling boats drunk one night after some bad luck had hit him.

It was really bad luck, he lost almost everything, and bad luck brought on by Donor slipping a cursed shard of The Cross Of Saint Peter into his pocket while buying him a drink in one of the lounges.

The shards are just one of the things members of The Indigenous have access to. Each one also is allowed to pick out a personal weapon for protection.

As long as it’s nothing as showy as Hades Pitchfork.

Donor chose as his personal weapon, Carnwennan, said to be the dagger King Arthur used to kill a number of Black Night Witches one night when they invaded Camelot.

The dagger can cut through just about anything, doesn’t dull, and causes wounds that are hard to heal.

Carnwennan also grants its welder the ability to sometimes see supernatural things most humans cannot see and a form of invisibility in the shadows and at night.

Donor keeps the dagger on his person at all times, strapped to the middle of his chest in an upside down holster.

The Carnwennan dagger like a lot of magical blades can change its weight and appearance to suit its owner. It’s one of the things that separate a weapon artifact from a supernatural weapon.

It can appear as it was crafted to look or it can be changed to look like anything from a butter knife to a bowie knife, or even a full length sword.

Its magic after all, isn’t it, so no use playing magic and do it boring.

Having hit a dead end that led to nothing on his most recent trip to St. Augustine, Donor was ready to relax with a good book and a couple days of nothing but fish & chips.

Florida has plenty of fish and also plenty of places that claim to be pubs with British flags in the windows and fish & chips on the menu.

But he won’t get the chance for a good book or the good book or fish & chips as a text just came across his phone with coordinates for his next investigation.

The Indigenous are pointed towards supernatural anomalies. By whom or what within the Vatican they don’t know but almost always they are going in virtually blind to what they will be looking for.

This time the coordinates pointed Donor to State Road A1A to the beach entrance of Bonsteel Park, which is part of the Archie Carr Wildlife Refuge, a good place for surf fishing, surfing (though surfing around big fishing poles is kind of risky), unguarded swimming, and one or two crabs that will sneak up on you and pinch you on the toes.

The drive to Bonsteel Park from Merritt Island was long, more so than normal because of traffic as families tried to get in another day of beach fun before school started back, and the drive time had Donor thinking about the one word that also came with the coordinates in the text message, Gennaro.

He started his thinking that Gennaro must refer to Saint Januarius. Saint Januarius being a Bishop of Naples, a martyr of the church. Not many historical facts are widely known about his life, even from the knowledge contained within the vaults.

Januarius is the patron saint of Naples in fact. Even to this day the people of Naples gather three times a year at Naples Cathedral to witness the liquefaction of his blood; which is kept in a special large ampoule.

The blood was saved by what legend calls a “warrior wife” who was called Eusebia.

The Vatican Vaults already contain the blood of John The Baptist, taken from the monastery of San Greporio Armeno and the blood of Saint Pantaleon from Ravello.

All taken and brought back to the vaults by members of The Ingenious. All known as acts of simple thievery by the general public.

The church sees these blood relics as the last remaining rudiments of the Christian Blood Cults and must be taken from history and be only in their position.

The Vatican has decided in secret that all Saintly blood must be brought within their walls for safe keeping because of the powers they can grant in the wrong hands or even in the right hands. The church has an attitude that only they should have this power in their grasp because if it wasn’t about power in the end then why don’t they destroy the blood and why don’t they destroy a great number of things in the vaults.

But when the blood of Saint Januarius was stolen in 2000 the church had nothing to do with it and has been searching for it ever since worried greatly about the possibilities of who could have stolen it and what they might have an idea for its use.

The major shrine to Saint Januarius, the Church Of The Most Precious Blood is said to be the secret hiding location of the bone fragments that had been previously kept with the blood in Naples Cathedral.

The Church Of The Most Precious Blood is now off limits to anyone but its core council. It has grown inward and cut itself off from the outside world. It’s now a closed off monastery in an attempt to protect the last relics of Saint Januarius.

Donor couldn’t help but wonder if he had been put on the trail of The Blood Of San Gennaro and if he had the boring last few months was going to look so very good when all of this begins to unfold.

To a member of The Ingenious anything involving saintly blood just whispers in your ear, the shits about to hit the fan.

Donor pulled into the parking lot of The Barrier Island Center and found a parking spot for his white 2013 Porsche Cayenne Turbo S beside a blue minivan covered in Kill The Poor stickers and a brown Hummer with one lonely save the turtles bumper decal.

The only other car in the parking lot was a beat up old Mini that looked like it was on its last legs. It had no bunker sticker philosophy but did have a lot of outlines of where bumper stickers once where.

He went inside the center building first before heading to the beach thinking he might as well start there first. This is actually his second time here, having visited once before looking into reports of white turtles being born.

Plus, he does like to check out the gift shop because who doesn’t like a gift shop.

The center was a nicely designed building, including a gift shop, a ton of displays, and a good size film viewing room.

Even though there weren’t any other building near it the building had a shape like something wedged into a space.

The operations of the building were environmentally friendly in it being powered by solar panels with bathrooms that used recycled water.

The whole place is a nice learning facility for conservation, seat turtle preservation, and a great place to eat your lunch after a relaxing early day at the beach.

He skipped the normal exhibits and after buying a center t-shirt he went out onto the centers patio area which wrapped around one side of the building and overlooked the beach.

The patio area was large and contained four picnic tables and two big whale skulls. The wood they built the thing out of seemed more like a sponge plastic than wood. Probably something with environmental tendencies.

Oh, you wanted to know more about the whale skulls?

Sorry, have no clue, they’re just there.

Donor sat down at one of the picnic tables to take in the feelings being given off by his surroundings. He was trained in how to get to know his locations beyond what a normal person can.

The Florida sun was beaming and the air smelled of the sea. There was a hint of suntan lotion that probably had become a permanent part of the smells of this place from all the people passing through. He could taste of what we sometimes forget being a non-tainted by mankind world.

Donor has found out, through experience, that sometimes the best thing to do first in these investigations is to watch, pay attention, and let things come to him.

His teachers at first didn’t think having an American among their number was a good idea. They believed Americans lacked the focus for the tasks and circumstances that a member of The Ingenious had to face.

Over time during his training and on missions he was shadowed on he proved he could do everything everyone else could do. Plus, him being an American has proven good because Americans are really good at stumbling into cluster fucked situations.

But this time, nothing and nothing; so after a quick walk on the beach where he spotted a few fishermen, a couple drunks, one of the Potentials To The Mantle Of The Pledge, and a retired warlock, he went back to the parking lot.

He tossed his beach shoes and towel in his ride and put his backpack in the backseat but when he went to shut the door he found it wouldn’t shut shut.

He tried it a few times but the latch wasn’t catching. He sighed because he had just bought the thing a year ago and it’s basically brand new. He reopened the trunk because he kept things that answer questions in his trunk. He pulled out a buggy board and opened a hidden compartment that usually contained tire repair equipment but now contained what looked to be a child sized robot knight in armor.

He gently as if it was a real child took the knight out from the trunk and shut it with his foot.

Coming in through the other back door he put the knight in the seat by the door that wouldn’t shut. He then put several gold coins into the things head and the sound of working gears could be heard.

‘Hold the door shut,’ Donor ordered.

The knight reached out its small hands and grasped the door and pulled it shut.

‘Keep that closed until I tell you otherwise.’

The Knights Templar had a craftsman among its ranks, a Muslim they met during The Crusades. I’m not saying “a Muslim” without a name to marginalize him but the truth is the Templars may have been progressive in many ways but how they viewed other religions was still very much in line with their times and he was a slave to them.

Among many things the Muslim craftsman created for the Templars, he once created an automaton as a playmate and body guard to the last Pledge during his early training.

It had the brain of an eternity of numbers and our appetite for knowledge.

The knight was taken from the grave of a Templar in Paris by one of The Indigenous.

It came into Donor’s possession when he was investigating child demons at an orphanage in Montreal.

Donor’s car was still under warranty so he took it back to the dealer. This is the excellent side of this sort of work actually, when being truthful, these type of moments are among the few things that make someone like him feel normal, a vacation if you will from all the other things that take up almost every minute of every day.

On the way to the dealer he didn’t even glance back once to see if the knight was still holding the door shut. He knew it wouldn’t fail him, it never has in the past. Plus, that thing is as strong as twelve good size normal adult males.

So without any worries about the door flying open and hitting some shit walking on the causeway he listened to the radio for the hour and half drive to where he purchased his car.

He had been there several times actually since buying the car. Twice for simple malfunctions, once for a tire steam that was busted, and another time for a recall involving the engine. Each time they gave him the spill about new cars having their own personalities but had no answers when he asked if this cars personality was broken.

Right before pulling into the dealership the child sized knight, which is named Putt by the way, was back into the trunk through one of the collapsible backseats. Back resting in its spot waiting to be called into service once again.

He arrived at the place about 30 minutes before it was supposed to close so most of the garage workers had already left for the day. Luckily one of them was just walking out to his motorcycle and was called back to take a look at Donor’s car to see if he had any idea about what could be wrong.

The biker guy looked like a biker guy and he looked over Donor like he was a spoiled rich guy, which is good because that meant his cover as Jasper was working.

‘I don’t know the exact reason but they should be able to fix it if we have the parts.’

Biker guy walked away but not before giving Donor another side eyed I hate rich boys look.

The manager of the garage, ‘We’ll take it in and see what we can do today for you. Hopefully we can get it going without much of a delay.’

‘Cool,’ Donor

‘There’s coffee in the waiting area and water also. We’ll let you know once we find out what the issue is and what we can do.’

‘Thanks,’ Donor walked away from the garage attendants hearing them wondering how he drove all the way from the beach by himself and kept the door shut the whole time.

If you are worried the garage hands might discover some of Donor’s hidden compartments. They are all shut up by a thumb print system and in itself is also hidden. It’s actually the same system drug smugglers and people trying to protect their main stereo system use so it wouldn’t look unusual even if they discovered it.

Any waiting area, be it in a garage or hospital, has to include a few things because of universal law. No up to date magazines, used gum on the floors, cold coffee in pots, a soda machine that doesn’t work, and a TV tuned to something no one ever watching except when in a waiting room or when high.

But in Florida all you care about is if it has air conditioning.

This air conditioned waiting area had a TV that was stuck on a Food Network show about failing restaurants with a guy who looks more like a pro-wrestling star than chef.

No one else was in the waiting area so Donor found a seat with the back of the chair against a corner of the room, sat his backpack by his feet, and pulled out a book to read while waiting to see how much this was going to cost him and if they were going to stick him with a crappy temp car if they can’t do it today.

About an hour passed and he was near the point in his book were the heroine is raped to make the male hero stronger in his quest for revenge when the dealership waiting room started to be overtaken by the smell of burnt flesh.

The smell of burnt flesh is just a smell of meat cooking. To any the smell of the flesh of its kind burning twists things down and primal inside. Things that say to you something bad is happening and it might also happen to you soon so stomach up.

Donor put his book away in his backpack, zipped it up, and put it behind the chair he was sitting in, in case he needs to come back for it later. The backpack doesn’t contain any sensitive materials but its fireproof and has self-destruct threads lining all through it. All to protect his books and stuffs.

Into the waiting room walked a short stocky man dressed like a trucker stereotype with a graying goatee and 70’s cop sunglasses that reflected every light in the room to hide his eyes to give the impression you were looking into a mirror.

A Gartanlength is a result of a human ingesting the blood of a saint. Unlike something like a Golem, the Gartanlength has no purpose of defense or justice and are created only to swarm the world with chaos until stopped.

Donor sat back down in his chair and crossed his legs to give a relaxed appearance.

The easiest way to spot a Gartanlength are its yellow and black eyes and the overwhelming smell of burning flesh when it’s nearby.

You might be or might not be surprised at this but the Venn Diagram of powerful supernatural creatures and powerful supernatural creatures that stink to high heaven is a circle.

If you run into a Gartanlength in your travels, try to stay alive.

That’s lesson one and the primary lesson.

The creation of the first Gartanlength was a last ditch effort during the Crusades to take back the Holy Land and taught a lesson that some things shouldn’t be used, even in war, even for “Gods people” to get their way.

They are the primary reason the church has been trying to gather up all saintly blood but since they have tried to cover up their use of Gartanlengths that bit of information is buried deep in the vaults.

Donor knew all this from his studies as he was doing a bit of exploring digging through every inch of the vaults that he was allowed to explore.

 This was most definitely a Gartanlength but who created it? It takes two to create one, one person to ingest the blood and another to perform the ritual. It’s a really twisted sort of ritual also involving days old fish, flies, and old fingers and toes.

But any questions will have to come after, first he had to get out of this alive and a Gartanlength is near impossible to kill, they are really strong but usually nothing beyond the strongest normal human, and they can cause things, and people among the things, to burst into flames at a touch.

Donor stood from his chair, reached under his shirt, and pulled out Carnwennan. He brandished his blade with a smile as he liked to do. The dagger changed from its original state to that of a Roman short sword.

The Gartanlength walked over to the door to the waiting area and placed his palm on the metal door and within a few minutes the door had fused into the metal doorway also causing the room to be filled with a form of semi toxic metal burning mist.

At this Carnwennan changed from a Roman short sword to a fill in the blank larger kind of sword.

‘You can’t talk, can you?’ Donor asked seeing if he could get any information before this got started.

The Gartanlength grunted in response to him or maybe at nothing at all.

‘So says you.’

The Gartanlength responded this time with a primal scream that was most assuredly directed at Donor.

‘Oh, just come at me you abomination,’ Donor said with a confident tone…that may have been real….and not an act.

Said abomination charged across the waiting room. It moved a lot faster than Donor was expecting so it tackled him into a group of coffee pots before he could swing his blade. He barely even had time to get his hands up so he could fight the creature off.

As he struggled with it he thought coffee must have trickled on him but those burnt areas of flesh were where the creature was touching him. Instantly his skin was as if scolded by a very hot liquid.

It hurt. Some people who can take a lot of pain and still feel pain and that hurt.

Without warning Donor was tossed across the room with ease and crashed against a group of chairs. His back and sides hit the wooden arms on the chairs and he was lucky he didn’t crack a few ribs or worse.

He was hoping this didn’t mean his cover had been blown but that had to be the case. Why else was this thing attacking him here, now? But to be honest coherent thinking wasn’t the dish at the moment in his brain.

A puzzle of why would be there if he survived this.

Right now he was trying to calculate his next move.

During the thrown across the room travel Donor lost hold of Carnwennan which slide under a chair as a dagger once again.

If he had Holy Water it wouldn’t have done anything against the Gartanlength.

If he had had garlic from the hills of Transylvania it wouldn’t have done anything against the Gartanlength.

If he had a Song Singer it would have been good, but he didn’t have one.

What he did have was a glass wall at his back behind the chairs he had crashed into. As he grabbed a chair the Gartanlength knelt down and touched the floor with its palms combusting the room’s old cheap carpet into flames.

By this time Donor had tossed the chair through the window and dived after it.

He stood on the other side of the broken window and called for Carnwennan and it flew to his hand.

‘I love that bit,’ Donor

He watched the Gartanlength start to be engulfed by flames in the waiting room before running towards the garages because he could swear the thing was enjoying it and that’s pretty messed up.

His car had other weapons he could us. He had others things besides a coin operated knight in his trunk and in many other hidden places throughout that car. It had been tricked out smuggler and spy style by some of the best.

He was stopped during his run toward the garage area by the creature jumping through another window in the waiting room.

Now that it was blocking his path he turned and ran towards the dealerships showroom because these types of situations are about knowing when is the best time to stand and fight, and when it’s best to run and try to make the situation turn more to your favor.

Fire alarms were ringing out and sprinkler systems had already gone off in the location and fire trucks were on their way so everyone was evacuated as Donor found himself in the showroom alone.

He was hiding behind an overpriced sports car when his nose noticed a scent of burnt flesh and burnt hair approaching.

The Gartanlength grabbed one of the showrooms smaller vehicles and flipped it end over end out through the glass front of the building taking out a large chunk of the roof also as it made its exit.

The car spun in the air before coming down and crushing a couple salesman who had been gathered outside with everyone else but they had gathered in their own little suit group away from the grease monkeys and office workers so it only got them.

Donor ran for the outside, a thrown desk narrowly missed his head. He had never read anything about these things being this strong and that worried him. What other information did he have wrong about them?

He stopped his dash when he spotted his mechanic in the gathered crowd still stunned at what had just had happen to some of their co-workers. He put away his dagger and calmly asked, ‘Any estimate when my car will be ready?’

Before the mechanic could say anything car after car started flying out of the showroom, thrown like toys, but landing like really large masses of metal tossed by a supernatural creature in the direction of soft fleshy human beings.

People were scattering, people were getting crushed, and people were pissing themselves as the Gartanlength stepped out into the parking lot to give those who could see it no question as to what was causing all of this destruction.

The Gartanlength had gone from the appearance of a normal human to a walking, smoking, humanoid of bbq meat thingee.

‘It’s a Beyond Human!’ screamed someone hiding under a nearby semi-truck in a way that seemed very unnatural but was in fact a bad writing attempt of world building.

A pickup truck was driving by the car lot. Donor darted out to stop it, pulled out the pimply faced driver in his hipster sandals with tube socks, jumped in the driver’s seat, and drove off. He did all of it in such a quick secession of moves you wouldn’t know he was winging it.

He got about ten yards before the Gartanlength had jumped into the back of the pickup but he just floored the truck heading down Wickham Road cranking up the radio all the way so he didn’t have to hear the guttural roars the thing was letting now.

Via the review mirror Donor was able to see the creature was pulling back its fist with an attention to punch through the truck bed window so he swerved and turned suddenly down John Roads Boulevard sending the thing crashing down onto its burnt ass in the back of the truck.

Before the creature could regain its footing again he turned again heading down a dirt road that led to the local flea market.

This was a non-open day for the market so he rammed through the main gates. He had never done that before and it actually made him smile. Must be a guy thing.

The front windshield of the truck was busted out as he pushed it all the way down to the floor and he drove it through the outside fruit stands, one after the other.

The truck didn’t slow down in the least as it destroyed Top Sock City, On TV Junk, Racist Airbrushing, Stink Another Way Incense, The Tuck, and Comic Books And Cigarettes.

But then everything including the truck was stopped suddenly by the Mini Doughnut Attic.

The unexpected impact of the truck hitting M.D.A., a local favorite of many in the area, sent the Gartanlength flying down about twelve stalls in measure bouncing and not bouncing like the huge mass of burnt meat that it was.

Donor fell out of the driver’s side of the truck unceremoniously thinking things usually go better than this for him. He has his suspicions this thing was also emitting chaos energy, screwing with luck and destiny lines, but it still was suck upon suck.

He was on his knees when he got a crazy idea. He could see the creature was getting back up so he crawled over and stabbed the trucks gas tank with Carnwennan.

The Gartanlength was slowly making its way back to the truck crash site.

Donor stood up, brushed off his clothes, put his dagger away, and looked around before running across from the truck and diving through the window of a store called Edge Of The Flame, a lighter store, which also sold key chains, key chains of sports teams.

Once inside and finding what he was looking for he walked up to the broken store window, the site of his entrance, waited for his enemy to get close to the truck, flicked a Generation Of A God lighter and tossed it under the pickup.

He forgot to duck.

?

How in these situations does someone forget to duck and cover?

How does someone who has been trained like he has been trained forget to duck and cover?

The explosion sent him flying back out of the back window of the lighter store and into the pool area usually used for Gator Kissing.

That and mud wrestling on the 4^th Of July.

The rest of the flea market slowly exploded booth by booth, store by store, as almost every one of them had their own propane tank. This would be on the news for days and the social scene in Melbourne had just been dealt a major blow.

Check out all other Tin Universe releases at the below places:

SMASHWORDS:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/20576

Also can be found in Barnes&Noble Nook Store, iTunes, and many more places to buy ebooks.

The sale of this book without its cover….well, is, sort of, impossible since it really doesn’t 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 put my hand down we can continue with the credits and copyright and legal and stuff that people just don’t ever pay attention to unless it is pumping their own horn.

An Original Publication of System* Publishing, a Tin Universe 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.

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2015, Brian C. Williams, System*Productions. Tin Universe Daily, 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. For more information on Tin Universe Daily, the artists who contributed to this book, and Tin Universe contact System*Productions at hangofwednesday@gmail.com

Written by Brian C. Williams

Edited by Brian C. Williams

Tin Universe Daily #277

#277

A First Shot Fired

Part 10

BREAKING NEWS: Did the CIA target rescuers at sites of drone attacks in Afghanistan? …

BREAKING NEWS: Nebraska candidate for governor blames rape of three elderly women on too relaxed laws on Beyond Humans even though the men caught who raped them have been proven to have no Beyond Human abilities…

BREAKING NEWS: Being unemployed sucks, being called for jury duty when you had a chance at a job interview really sucks…

Some would say the very nature of trying to live in the modern world is an adaption to chaos. It’s about being able to shape your steps without the formula of what has directed the course of the past. Our questions for surviving the future may have to do with how well we can finger paint turmoil and not come out of it with it being an exercise for the insane.

The fear of this has more and more people reaching for some sort of uniformity to make them feel comfortable about the way the course of history is going. Human nature has always been one of safety within a comfort zone. That’s why hunger, bigotry, and imperial nationalism still exists.

Uniformity just sounds like a bad word doesn’t it? Well, it does to me. Just one of those words when spoken, heard, or read tweeks at the things that tell you this isn’t right. Ok, it doesn’t affect you in that way but it does really bother others in extremes. It has that effect on Chris Friday also.

And that’s the way a lot of other humans see it. Just get over yourself because that is the way a lot of humans see it. Seems that a lot of the discourse in the world today is about whether adaption and a giving up identity are worth security and protection.

The reasons behind a lot of human conflict and violence can come down to some sort of fight against some form or another of uniformity, even though most of the time these fights lead to an embracement of another form of uniformity to try and accomplish goals.

Humans are just a strange.

To a lot of us any talk of uniform… it just irks. It’s nasty and compels you to rebel against even using it in a sentence. This reaction is just something that exists within some people and maybe at the core of what drives humanities progress and has always been since the first chemical reaction.

When you play around with the definition of Uniformitarianism, “An assumption that the same natural laws and processes that operate in the universe now have operated in the universe in the past and apply everywhere in the universe.” You might come out of that definition knowing why uniformity is such an attraction to so many and also why it’s such a repellant to so many others.

Uniformitarianism was coined by William Whewell. You can Wikipedia him, I did, then I forgot most of what I read about him. He is the same theologian who came up with the term catastrophism as a set of ideas that the Earth is shaped by a series of sudden violent acts.

When I think of that with Uniformity I think about a society that preaches individuality but not at the price of a strong uniform system, no matter if said system is broken or corrupt. Denying our basic way of being, which is that violent causes a sort of violence that lives in uniformity, lives in stagnation.

We wear uniformity comfortably because we deny the violent nature that shapes our lives. It’s an imprisonment of hope. From giving in to the slow turn to losing rights right out from under us to the lies of depression.

The military functions on uniformity, a lot of jobs are done well only by the way of uniformity. But it’s not just in the military and our jobs where we confirm. You can see why uniformity is needed in those places, hell the whole social contract is confirmed to a set way of living life.

We confirm in what knowledge we except out of stupidity, in our beliefs out of fear, and in the things that entertain us… well, also out of stupidity. Why else would reality TV be so popular.

In the modern world we have disguised uniformity in false individuality as we strive to create a personal brand identity in hopes that others will like it and dress themselves in our personal skins. For examples see Twitter, Facebook, Cafépress, Blogger. One of the biggest goals a lot of people have is celebrity, to be part of a pack of superstars.

So out of that culture mindset they are those who might just be one of our few hopes left of true individuality. They are schisms in the box that so many are agreeing to live within.

Banks, Darryl, and Faith are creatures of identity destruction. Even though they don’t have any Beyond Human powers as such, they are very comparable to legendary Chameleons, though Chameleons with dissociative identity disorder.

They change almost everything they are on a daily basis. This is how they have survived off the grid for so long. Around their few friends the changes are mainly of cloths, like/dislikes, and stories of their pasts.

If Chris or Sergeant Luke want a straight answer they have to use a daily code word giving to each of them every morning, otherwise it’s a task of interacting with a different person, a stranger, who you have a day to get to know and get inside to see how they operate every day.

This at first drove Sergeant Luke crazy but slowly he has been seeing the possibilities this might offer them in the future.

How they got to this way of living isn’t known. They aren’t sharing and even if they did you probably couldn’t believe them. The two other friends of theirs that Chris might both had two different stories. One that they are all siblings wanted by the government, the other that they escaped a government facility and are now on the run.

Neither of those are the truth but let’s play in a little mystery from time to time for fun.

One of the few character traits they keep with each identity is loyalty to their few friends.

I just thought about it but what do you think, wouldn’t Identity Destruction make a great rock band name?

Whether either Banks, Darryl, and Faith actually suffer from dissociative identity disorder is unknown but Chris doesn’t think so because they talk about the switches of identity traits from time to time like it’s a character they are portraying in a 24/7 play but a different role each day.

Sergeant Luke wished his undercover cops were even close to this good adapting a new identity as these three were.

Since getting a straight answer from any of them, even when using the given code word, about their pasts is near impossible he hasn’t even thought much about if they are this way because of a severe trauma. His personal theory is the world has just cracked them in a different way than it cracked him or Chris.

No matter what one thing remains the same about each of them and that is Banks is a doctor and sometimes a nurse, Darryl is an all-around genius, and Faith is a hacker beyond measure.

Chris had meet each of them, several times each in fact, before a mutual friend introduced them at an underground club for hackers and those trying to stay away from Big Brother Reach and the like.

Big Brother Reach being the codename for the N.S.A.’s raw information gathering operation that is also developing an A.I. component.

But I’m just telling you that as an FYI and because it’s something I’d like to explore sometime in the future.

Today has been mainly a rest day for Chris after pretty much day after day of training in one shape or form but it is also a day that he has been eyeing for a while now.

Ever since they put together their base team Sergeant Luke has been avoiding Banks, Darryl, and Faith as much as he can.

He has had to work with them a lot but honestly they creep him out a lot.

So with a few days off from training Chris has used the time to try, as much as he can, to get to know his team and lunch is always good for conversation, even if you are having lunch with an unfamiliar person each time you sit down.

‘It’s been a weekend since…,’ Chris

‘You and the sergeant went all fisticuffs.,’ Banks

‘Yea, and I’m still bruised all over,’ Chris

Chris and Banks were eating in the Popeys Pillar base cafeteria. A baby blue painted large room with lots of tables and chairs and a well-stocked kitchen. Once it offered meals to military men, now its meals go towards five individuals on a mission of their own.

People talk about an army marching on its stomach and that’s one of the reasons the cafeteria was one of the first sections of the base Sergeant Luke wanted to get back up and running like new.

It took three days for Sergeant Luke to get everything cleaned up and ready to work. Darryl helped a lot with that. Though having a helpful technician one day and a pig headed one the next did slow down things a bit. Good thing all were still geniuses either way.

They all cook from time to time but Darryl has become the main cook adapting a different chef personality for each day’s menu when he cooked. A genius in the kitchen can be a truly amazing thing no matter what he’s cooking because cooking is chemistry after all.

The piss angry British stereotype chef personality is one that they never like when one of those pops up. It always has everyone deciding on cereal, hotdogs, and instant noodles on those days.

Today for lunch is southern fried chicken with smashed bacon tators and beers.

‘You have nothing broken except for a slightly cracked rib,’ Banks said from her sports doctor personality of today.

‘Slightly cracked says the person who doesn’t have a cracked rib,’ Chris

‘Just need to needle you up at game time is all,’ Banks

Darryl brings their food and sits down with them, ‘Eat up, a lot of good lard in that chicken.’

Like any good southern chef he ate as he cooked and tested the food.

Banks started in on her plate but Chris was just staring at his. He wasn’t distracted with a fear kind of worry but a possible embarrassment sort of worry. Very high school.

‘Today, isn’t it uniform day?’ Darryl

‘I’ve been dreading this,’ Chris as he played with his smashed tators.

The intercom system whistled on, ‘Chris, I need you in the Staging Area.’

Chris chugged his beer in one go and then stood, ‘I’m surprised Faith isn’t around for this?’

‘No matter the personality, hackers are never very social,’ Banks said showing one of the signs that cropped up that they totally understand what they’re doing.

Chris exited the cafeteria heading for the Staging Area. He should have eaten earlier, that fried chicken looked good and it’s never as good the next day.

The Staging Area is the place you go before heading out on a mission. A place to check your equipment and get any last minute instructions. Also called a Go Area or a Time To Puke Area as a lot of people do that right before a mission.

Chris couldn’t help but see the symbolism in the place where Sergeant Luke would be showing him his combat uniform. After all symbolism is the whole point of him wearing a uniform in the first place.

On the walk there Chris thought about how all of this started. About the lessons, the bruises, and the long overnight talks about what they were going. What could happen, what was probably going to happen, good and bad.

Today is the beginning of tomorrow and tomorrow being chaos, tomorrow is the fight against the uniformity of good enough.

Check out all other Tin Universe releases at the below places:

SMASHWORDS:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/20576

Also can be found in Barnes&Noble Nook Store, iTunes, and many more places to buy ebooks.

The sale of this book without its cover….well, is, sort of, impossible since it really doesn’t 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 put my hand down we can continue with the credits and copyright and legal and stuff that people just don’t ever pay attention to unless it is pumping their own horn.

An Original Publication of System* Publishing, a Tin Universe 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.

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2015, Brian C. Williams, System*Productions. Tin Universe Daily, 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. For more information on Tin Universe Daily, the artists who contributed to this book, and Tin Universe contact System*Productions at hangofwednesday@gmail.com

Written by Brian C. Williams

Edited by Brian C. Williams

Tin Universe Daily #276

#276

Splendor Of The Precious Jade

BREAKING NEWS: Politicians says donating to political parties is more important than three meals a day for the benefit of the nation as a whole…

BREAKING NEWS: Indiana representative pushes for Beyond Human discussion gag law that would make it illegal for students or teachers to discuss Beyond Human rights in classrooms. Experts say the law is so vague in its wording that students and teachers who signed on might be held by its rules for the rest of their lives even after they have left the schools they were attending and working at...

BREAKING NEWS: The “renegade” scientific think tank group Mentally holds a press conference through their internet video channel that there is a great deal of signs in nature which are pointing to something that is stirring up the soup of creation…

BREAKING NEWS: Uruguay government says they have found the bones of the first human being and it will give their people the power to rise up to the level of the most powerful nations on the planet. In other news Uruguay have also set a course to legalizing marijuana. And in after thought news many wonder what they are smoking…

It’s stupid when I’m sitting here writing something to start a vignette with in an attempt to make it stretch into a short story. That’s the laziest of writing and so shameful I’m going to go eat something terrible for my body just to punish myself.

Speaking of that shame writing something. Something like the rudeness of someone picking a fight with you in a bar to test and see what the rest of your gang might do. Not that I have a gang or part of a gang or even have enough friends for a threesome… how did we get onto threesomes?

You have such a dirty mind you people.

Writing something like how I never got to go to see the local roller derby team and discuss how I think it was actually invented by Aztecs; which could lead to a few paragraphs, but padding a story never gets a writer anywhere, it never does anyone any good, and it in the end is best just to get on with things as it unfolds naturally.

Something like those paragraphs never happens to good writers.

Something that did happen but shifting a little to the side: The old Gods did leave the Earth for a destination of The Edge Of The Universe to wait for humanity to die out.

Well, one group stayed at reduced powers and another went to sleep. This all happen a while back but most of the Gods covered in Mythology classes are no longer around.

Yes, including the guy with a hate on for nails and crosses.

Something that did not happen: The Mayan End Of The World Prediction. We didn’t even get any good end of the world movies out of it. Nothing but crap shit and once again I had something else take spotlight away from my birthday. Isn’t it enough that wanker Jesus has done it every year since my year one.

Something that almost never happens is Pulpy, the most powerful being on the planet, flying through the sky and being suddenly knocked out of said sky like a lucky God finger had flicked a fly.

Something that in normal circumstances looked like a rather graceful image. That something being Pulpy flying. But the sight of what just happen had to be pretty unusual to see if a person who been looking up at the sky at that point of sight, at that point of time, had seens it.

Something unusual in his everyday nature, no matter how long he has been flying through the skies of our world is a man, six feet in height, though when flying it’s more in length. A man with hair that flows behind him and when standing it sits on his shoulders with an end tip touch. It’s actually a very 1980’s haircut. His uniform covers almost his whole body in a one-piece body suit except for his hands, thighs down, and his head. The remaining bits of the uniform is made up of boots that are further than dull and a cape connected to his uniform by shoulder pads attached to each shoulder. The uniform is also decorated in what looks like metal stars the size of a normal man’s palm but are actually a great deal more than just decoration and are in fact control discs that enhance and grant him most of his abilities.

With all of that this standout figure has a tattoo which looks like a lightning bolt that goes from his forehead, down over his right eye, and stops at his chin. Many think that tattoo is just a tattoo but it’s actually a rank, and not really a lightning bolt but instead a stripe of honor and a symbol of his true name.

Something knocked Pulpy out of the sky and sent him tumbling in the air for miles. It really isn’t that easy to catch him off guard considering one of those discs I spoke of before enhances all of his senses to a superh… Beyond Human level. Plus, all of his movements are tracked by a radar unit that is part of Operation Pulpy, which is basically another branch of the U.S. military.

 Something like two minutes passed during those miles were he was actually unconscious; which is really saying something hit him really hard.

To catch him off guard, that’s an accomplishment that many haven’t been able to do, knocking him unconscious even for a few minutes, this means you are something beyond the normal that he has encountered.

Wonder if I can start every paragraph in this story with “Something?”

Ooops, cocked that up in rewrites.

Pulpy was on his way to Mexico when he was attacked. He always liked the times he had spent in Mexico that didn’t involve him punching something or being a tool of intimidation.

To him he has never quite understood the hostility between United States towards Mexico. Even historically it really doesn’t make any sense. America has always set itself up as a people of the soil, a hard working nation, but if you look those same ways of thinking could also be applied to Mexico.

But with relations between the U.S. and Mexico at its most hostile status Pulpy had not found the chance to visit it in a long time.

As far as Pulpy taking part in the affairs of the Mexican government, he doesn’t, most of the time they act like they don’t want him involved in their affairs. Well, that’s until there’s a Beyond Human wreaking havoc or to clean up after a really big ass global warming storm.

The Mexican government in this circumstance asked the United States if Pulpy could help with a cruise ship collision that’s happen right off the coast and because their government is collapsing they didn’t have one ship or plane that could have come close to handling the situation.

Not the first time a Mexican cruise ship has made the news of late and will not be the last since a company in the country bought a number of no longer being used cruise ships out of Florida and gave them a new paint job and sent them out. Since then it has been one bad story after another.

The first one was the “shit ship” as a lot of headlines came to address it as. 1,200 people trapped on a ship, that to begin with didn’t stock enough food for its four-day voyage, and after two days out at sea the engines cut out shutting down every function of the ship such as running water, running electricity, and running toilets.

Take a cruise, the adventure might be in how you find a way of surviving the voyage.

Maybe I’ll write a story based on a cruise ship one day but I’m still pissed about the crappy cruise we went on, wounds are still too open to even write something within those thoughts yet.

The second the impact hit Pulpy the first sensory reaction that his body took in was a slight smell of very old human feces. I’m talking very old. That scent that has a little smell of cannibalism in it.

Our first reaction to just about any situation is usually one of odor. Most of the time we don’t notice it but it’s true.

The missile like object which hit him was made of a special clay mixture and contained a cocktail of ancient drugs, plagues, human excrement, and Angel spit.

Pulpy finally landed in a crash landing manner, very roughly near a pond, and his bad day continued to get worse as he noticed right away that he cracked one of his uniform discs, the one that allowed him breathe in a vacuum. He still could hold his breath for a good while but a long sustained campaign was a no go.

He will have to put faith in his team to try and reconstruct a new disc to replace it but that’s something to worry about later.

He lifted himself up and out of the impression his impact made in the mud that circled the pond.

You might call that a shoreline but I say beach like area, what can I say, I’ve lived in Florida for too long.

He just hoped no newspaper cameras or any cell phones with cameras were around because it is always meme city for months whenever he gets his uniform messy. People are still sharing that one from California last year on Facebook. It just won’t go away.

Being the focus of memes and such internet nonsense for years was never something he cared for but he was unseated from that honor as most memed by Jennifer Lawrence, Michael Fessbender, and that guy who plays Loki.

He stopped wiping the mud off his uniform when he noticed it was unnaturally quite where he had fallen out of the sky. Not just no sounds of cameras but no sounds of bugs or other nosey noises that show you things are alive around you.

You might stand somewhere and think there are is no sound but when Pulpy is standing around and there are no sounds whatsoever it’s not a good thing.

No tree branches brisling in the wind, no sounds of pond waves, and no sound of anything that is normal for a man who has heightened hearing to notice.

Like I said, when he isn’t hearing anything it means something is very wrong.

The silence was starting to unnerve him a bit, a shock to the system, like you waking up in the morning all of a sudden with no hearing at all and no sight and no sense of smell. Imagine that and you could start to try to know why he is unnerved.

Then there came sound once again into his hearing at first as a low decimal buzz and then slowly other natural things kicked back in like a formerly stopped soundtrack.

Catching his eyes, and taking his attention away from the newly restarted soundtrack, was the sight of many breeds of birds circling above his head. Way above his head, not just barely above like in an old school cartoon…. Never mind.

Before he could get his bearings about anything, including the unusual variety of gathering bird species, one of the many discs on his uniform and implanted within his body, one of the ones still working, was telling him his body was under attack by an unknown substance on a cellarer level.

There were hardly any viruses or germs or the like on Earth that affected him in any way. The guy eats uncured sushi beef for God’s sake; so this again was something else to take a piss on his normal state of things.

His focus on that bit of information was interrupted as he looked down at his feet to find them covered in snakes. That most defiantly was starting to feel like someone was testing him to see what things would maybe fuck with his mind.

That or the snakes was part of him being trapped in a cheap 1970’s horror film.

But the snakes weren’t from a horror film and he like Eve wasn’t afraid of snakes mainly because their bites couldn’t break through his uniform more less his skin.

Eve is just a badass in general.

But the sight was of these snakes was creepy so he moved away from them and ended up backing into an eight-foot-tall bust statue of an old king.

Pulpy turned around when it started talking.

And thusly the weird continued.

‘This planet shouldn’t be any of your concern, you weren’t even born here,’ Big King Head Thingee spoke with a boom.

‘Were you the one who attacked me?’ Pulpy asked the unique sight speaking to him.

The head started hopping around in a weird route to the pond in a circling path, ‘That would be the Eagle Knights. They are our pantheons warriors.’

‘Pantheon, as in Gods?’ Pulpy inquired.

‘God is a varied term. There are a small growing group of humans who have taken to worshipping you.’

‘Misguided people.’

‘Some would say that is true of all people of any faith.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ Pulpy stated.

‘Good public relations answer.’

Pulpy ignored him as you really should a smart ass hopping giant king statue head.

‘Where can I find these Eagle Knights?’ Pulpy asked.

‘Not yet but soon enough as they are testing for the coming war.’

‘What? Just to warn you I hate riddles.’ Pulpy said as he was starting to anger.

‘There are no riddles in war.’

‘What war?’

‘They are coming back from a sleep to claim all the lands they have touched. I think you call them Mexico and South America. But don’t hold me to those lands, they didn’t have maps in my day.’

The head hopped into the pond while shouting something about returning the Earth to the clams.

As the head turned over and sank Pulpy was attacked by several Were-Jaguars, the name is a self-description description. Their fierceness was all up to your imagination.

I think they’re from Olmec Mythology.

That or from a bad dream after too much cake.

Every time Pulpy threw one of them off another one recovered and attacked again. The Were-Jaguars were quick and a pain in the ass to fight, and not just because of the smell that was like spoiled milk and the cackling growl, it was also because they were as mean as shit.

Were-Jaguars are as mean as shit. You should note that for future reference.

If it wasn’t out there in bold clear letters a Were-Jaguar was like a mixture of a wolf and a jaguar. Again those two are in the name but you can also mix in a little diseased pit fighting vulture. They sense when a strong enemy is at a weak point ready to be attacked. They get that from the little bit of vulture in their blood.

The attack from the Were-Jaguars stopped when a giant snake came up from under Pulpy’s feet and slowly started to swallow him, the snakes tongue wrapped around him keeping him from struggling away.

After the snake finished swallowing him and went back into the ground a man appeared in body armor and a big bird helmet.

Not that Big Bird, an in general big bird.

Pulpy blacked out for a length of time and forgot where he was and started thinking about the sword, his honor sword that had been missing ever since he first arrived on Earth.

A little voice, that of a child with an Irish accent, for some reason it had an Irish accent, whispered in his ears that he would find his sword one day, soon, but after he found it he would lose his honor.

When he came back from the whispers he was choking on his own saliva. The sensors built within his uniform kept telling him he was nowhere or maybe within a dwarf star. The sensors were confused.

The discs under his skin and on his uniform weren’t giving back much information at all but the translated gibberish of X’s and O’s were something like “This is fucked up.”

His eyes and ears were burning with the words of the undead. Every memory of death, every touch of killing from a flower to a human being to a member of his own race was being passed through his mind at a slow frame rate to make sure he didn’t miss the most painful parts.

He pushed out against the breathing flesh and once he got his arms in front of the rest of his body he started grabbing flesh and organs and pulling himself deeper and deeper into the snake’s insides.

It’s something he can only do once a day but this was a good time for something you can only do once a day so he used energy beams from his eyes to burn an opening into some flesh.

He climbed through the opening and found himself up against an egg, within a womb, and then after continuing the journey he was back inside another part of the snake’s belly where he finally found the anus and maneuvered himself out to find that he was now inside a chamber somewhere that was decorated with torches and skulls.

The chamber gave his whole body the feeling like the instant of being shocked after dragging your socked feet across the carpet.

The snake slithered off into a dark doorway after giving Pulpy a very pissed off look. Understandable, it may have tried to eat you but was burning a hole in its womb wall really a very a nice thing to do?

Pulpy was preoccupied trying to concentrate his body into pushing out the toxins that were messing with his mind. He had to risk maybe being caught off guard again to try to get a handle of what was happening to him.

As the snake left, through another doorway came hundreds of child sized skeletons holding knifes and giving out a creepy bone on bone rattling sound.

They attacked Pulpy taking him out of his concentrated state. Every time he hit one of them they screamed in pain and he felt their moment of death as if it was his own. This kept happening until he collapsed from psychic shared existences attacking him.

Feeling others pain isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Neither is being knocked out of the sky, being lectured by a hopping giant head, being attacked by Were-Jaguars, and being eaten by a giant snake.

Oh, forgot the kid’s skeletons.

Pulpy woke up on a random road in Mexico feeling like he was having the worst drug hangover ever. A feeling no one still living had ever felt the morning after really getting fucked up. Not that he knew what that hangover feeling was, his body didn’t allow him to get drunk or high but if he could this is the feeling if he was really fucked up from a seven-day drunk night or OD party.

His discs weren’t working at all and his uniform sensors were being very whinny; so he set about walking until they clicked back online. It’s sort of like pushing your truck to try and kickstart it.

Later when Pulpy got back in control of his discs and met up with some of his handlers at a nearby United States military base just over the border from Mexico.

‘So do you consider this a real threat?’ asked one of the handlers after Pulpy explained what he had experienced.

‘I believe a plan of watching and preparation is needed.’

‘Noted. We will assign more eyes to watching Mexico.’

As he was leaving the room Pulpy staggered a bit. Something that no one in this room had ever seen from him.

‘Maybe you should see one of our doctors?’

‘I’m fine, it’s all in my report. My medical disc will adapt from the information acquired and keep it from happening again. They won’t be able to attack me the same way.’

Riding up in an elevator from the underground meeting area he couldn’t help but wonder the words that had been spoken to him. So many ancient voices have spoken of what the future holds for him and humanity. He’s a soldier, he will be prepared. He is a warrior; he is always ready for a war.

Once he reached the surface as the elevator emptied out into a storage shed; which he walked from, he stood for a minute before launching himself up into the air back towards Mexico and back to the task of trying to save lives

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The sale of this book without its cover….well, is, sort of, impossible since it really doesn’t 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 put my hand down we can continue with the credits and copyright and legal and stuff that people just don’t ever pay attention to unless it is pumping their own horn.

An Original Publication of System* Publishing, a Tin Universe 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.

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2015, Brian C. Williams, System*Productions. Tin Universe Daily, 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. For more information on Tin Universe Daily, the artists who contributed to this book, and Tin Universe contact System*Productions at hangofwednesday@gmail.com

Written by Brian C. Williams

Edited by Brian C. Williams