it's my nature

Talk to the shepherds. I'm going to bed. Had a lovely long talk with my sweetie, and now I need sleep.

ni-nite.

et in arcadia ego.

.Rookie Bodine, you're

This here is a song of protest.
It's dedicated to my late friend, Croco.

It goes something like... this.

Hey Croco.... we're sorry that you're dead.
Hey Croco...your death was by vio-lencia
By that woman emma..... with a big fat GUNNN-uh
[everyone]
Hey Croco.... we're sorry that you're dead.

Yeeeeeha!

Thank you. Thank you kindly

(no subject)

I just saw William Shatner almost accidentally drive his spaceship into the sun, and somehow end up with webbed fingers. Yes, cable is now showing old Outer Limits episodes! Which tells me I should put some digital ink to digital paper, and spit out something. I wonder if I'll bother with cable in my new place, or get one of those fun little $79 satillite dishes.

My mind is awhirl with potential today. Something great will happen, though I'm not sure what....

A new apartment? Showered with pixie dust? A new, better, amazing job? Some scintillating new insight regarding the woman I love?

Heck, I don't know. I do know that this day is pregnant with possibility. I'm feeling good, very good about it.

plot seeds - germ stage

- Modern crash test dummies cost about $100,000 each, and every part of their construction is regulated by law. That's a lot of effort and money - for an item (entity?) that exists only to be destroyed.

- In the past, crash tests and the like used corpses, animals, or even living people as experimental subjects. In some respects, the dummy is the proxy for the living being that should be killed or hurt - possibly for the guy who developed the modern dummy, a researcher who used himself as a subject for crash tests.

- tie-ins to Roswell and Nazi Germany, but the program's still running.

Two possible artifacts:

- A dummy that's survived test after test; it never seems to 'die'. Now it acts as a protective artifact of sorts; drive with it your car, and you and the dummy will both escape unscathed. The cost, of course, is that the injuries don't disappear; they're just diverted to some other poor person.

- A dummy that's a proxy for a person; injure that person, and you injure the dummy instead. But the dummy becomes self-aware by experiencing pain - and when it finally comes alive, it wants revenge...

(no subject)

Sun shined through my slatted shades, and from above. My eyes drew open and I could see down an infinite hallway. Newton was striding towards me, perspective gone all arbitrary.

"You have been meddling with the primal forces of Nature, and you will atone! Hey, Scotto! What movie is that from?"
His nostrils flared and his eyes glittered with feverish hilarity. Closer now.

I went to sleep late last night, but I set my alarm for 10:30
I had fallen asleep.
I may have dropped discipline, but my training was still on duty. Dreaming 101. Look at your hands.
I looked at my hands.
Just like Don Juan taught Castaneda. People usually don't see their hands in dreams. Look at your hands and take control of the dream.
I slammed the door shut but knew it wouldn't hold long.

I was on my feet, with a days growth of beard. Khaki pants, green and white striped shirt, and for shade's sake, a USS Nautilus ball cap. The sun was a bright yellow beam of heat and light beaming into my room. I turned to Newton and said "So, what's the plan, little buddy?"

He looked me dead in the eye and said nothing.

word of the day - redolent

redolent \RED-uh-lunt\, adjective:

1. Having or exuding fragrance; scented; aromatic.
2. Full of fragrance; odorous; smelling (usually used with 'of' or 'with').
3. Serving to bring to mind; evocative; suggestive; reminiscent (usually used with 'of' or 'with').

Redolent derives from Latin redolens, -entis, present participle of redolere, "to emit a scent, to diffuse an odor," from red-, re- + olere, "to exhale an odor."

Clint Eastwood = testosterone

From under his serape, Clint drew two weapons that could only be described as Hawglegs. He seemed to grow larger, more vivid. He was a streetwise cop, a mountain-climbing assassin, and an American commando. He was a veteran Marine and a bare-knuckle boxer. He had taken a bullet for a president, come back from the dead and burned a town to the ground. He'd killed women and children. He'd killed just about every thing that walks or crawls.

"You've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk?"

And Clint cut him down with a storm of bullets.

It was that simple.

Before the body could fade away, Clint caught it in the eye with a well-aimed squirt of tobacco juice. "A man's got to know his limitations," he said.

Right turn, Clyde.

(no subject)

I put down a deposit on a new place... a one bedroom, with a kitchen nook, real fridge & oven, still no tub. Barring bad news, or a better place, I should be moving in there next week.

They like kitties, and the guy works for a major programming company in delray. I'll be giving him my resume on monday, too.

Any similarities to anyckirkman living or dead is purely chthon

It was too late, he thought as the waves twisted and warped, falling downwards even in the middle of the sea. Three centuries and more we had battled the forces of darkness, sometimes winning, sometimes not. But in the end, even when they lost it hadn't mattered.

People died and nations fell, but humanity had gone on.

But not this time. As he picked himself off the deck, he could see John Kirkman laughing his head off as he stood on the water as if it were land. It wasn't a pretty laugh, it was the laugh of the villains on the holos. Or rather, what the programmers strived for. A laugh that chilled the bone, that ate the soul. The situation was made even worse by the fact that the setting was beautiful. A warm August day in the middle of the ocean, even though too polluted to swim in the sea reflected the white sun's rays, unblocked by ozone, magnificently.

The hole in the ocean widened, and from it tentacles rose, in numbers beyond counting.. No, not tentacles. Cilia. Now a real tentacle came out, and it was horrible beyond words. And through it all, the same silence, with only Kirkman breaking it.

"I have done as you asked!" he screamed. "I have freed you, Great Cthulhu. Now, grant me my wish. Make me immortal, make me live forever."

I WILL GRANT YOUR WISH, YOUR TRUE WISH. YOU WISH TO ESCAPE FEAR OF DEATH, AND SUCH WILL I DO.

A tentacle came down, and crushed the sorcerer where he stood.

There was only one thing left to do. The agent fingered the item in his pocket. It was an unornamented bar made of some material he couldn't identify, and was his only hope. One of a kind, we had discovered it in 2035 and put it into a stasis field, waiting for the final battle. He threw it into the pit, in the way a dying man on Mars might struggle to suck on a bit of oxygen.

Now there was a scream, one on a million frequencies, one within the mind itself.

NO!! THIS CANNOT BE. THIS ISN'T THE WAY ITS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!! The rate of closure began to slow, as Cthulhu fought the power of the item. But it did not stop. Any Mythos creature hated the Elder Sign, and the item he had thrown in was the ultimate Elder Sign. A manufacturing error had created it, produced a material which by pure chance had a unique molecule which repeated the Elder Sign over and over, tens of millions of times. And every one of them was affecting Cthulhu.

The scream did not die away, but was cut off as if with a switch. But the agent knew he would remember that scream for the rest of his life.

Slowly he picked himself up, walked past the bodies of the rest of his unit, went to the quantaphone. He punched a number, and a face came up.

"Since we're not all dead, I presume you were successful."

"Yeah. But can I ask a question?"

"Depends on what it is."

"That item, what were they manufacturing, when they produced it by accident?"

"There's no harm in telling you. They were trying to produce cheese."

BEHOLD THE POWER OF CHEESE

(no subject)

Time for Bed, I'm getting up bright and early tomorrow to see my sweetheart off. She's going offline for about a week.... I think I'll get a lot of Handwriting in these next seven days....

I love her.