Third Person Thursday: Dirty Little Secrets

Each morning for three months while he breathed steam across the surface of his cup of coffee between sips, Gregory stared out across the frozen expanse. Anytime a new inch or two fell, he liked watching the loose powder slide across, up and over the largest drifts which had turned to solid hills of ice long ago. He thought of Carl Sandburg’s description of fog whenever he saw it.

That’ll be frozen soon enough too, he would think.

Despite the monotony, he admired the majesty of such a large rolling field of nothing, a surface where you could lose yourself and your sense of perspective if you looked at it long enough. He had to remind himself to look away, blink and rub his eyes now and then.

Snow-blind, he would mumble to himself as he did this and then take another sip of coffee as it had already begun to cool.

He used this routine as a way to clear his mind and relax at the beginning of the day. He imagined that his day started the same way the landscape looked, a blank white canvass. Yet every day, as he looked out the window at the pure, sprawling sheet of white, Gregory knew there were secrets beneath it all. He knew that things were buried below the ice and snow that not man nor creature would reach until Mother Nature had decided to allow them access via thaw.

He knew of the mess and the filth that someone had left beneath the snow, concealing it where nobody would find it for months. And each day, Gregory wondered how soon it would reveal itself. When would the pure snow that he looked at one day recede and expose the disgusting truth that lie beneath? He knew the day came ever closer, but it was impossible to know how long it would take.

And so, Gregory waited. He had learned years ago to enjoy the scenery while he could before it was sullied. Too soon, he would have to deal with the truth. That day always arrived before he would have liked, but it was inevitable.

The worst part came when he began to just see parts of them peeking out through the melting ice and snow. When it first began to warm, the rotting, decayed remains would still be frozen to the ground. There was no point in trying to dispose of them. This was when he stopped enjoying his coffee at the window. During the weeks when he waited for the thaw to grip the ground fully, Gregory peeked out to look at the progress and then retreated to his desk with his coffee. He didn’t want his appetite ruined.

But he could only avoid it for so long. The bits and pieces had to be retrieved and properly disposed of or people would begin to talk. He could only imagine the complaints.

It was then that the yearly ritual would commence. Gregory would don his rubber boots, pull on latex gloves, stuff the oversized pockets of his coat with as many heavy duty trash bags as they could carry, throw the old rusted shovel over his shoulder and go out to do the dirty work. It fell to him to clean up the mess that had been left behind because somebody had to do it. He realized his friend couldn’t help himself, but he wished there were a better way for him to satisfy his urges. There was no changing that now, however, and Gregory would set to his duty.

“Going out honey?” his wife called to him, somehow oblivious as to what had gone on behind their home every winter for the last several years.

Gregory cringed. He didn’t want to explain to her the disgusting task that lay before him. Yet, he didn’t know what to say. To his horror, before he could figure anything out, the truth was escaping from his lips.

“Gotta go clean up the dog crap in the yard,” he shouted up the stairs, “be back in an hour or two.”

Just Put the Lotion Where it Belongs, Forget About the Basket

When I sat at my desk and started reorganizing it, I spent at least 85% of the time sorting through old bills. One pile was to be shredded. This pile was about two feet high. Another pile was bills that had been paid but which I wanted to file away. This pile expanded beyond the limits of measurement available to me at the time (my tape measure only extends to twenty-four feet).

You see, once the bills were paid, I had procrastinated filing them. This led to the problem of a swirling void of useless paperwork which occupied the corner of my desk and slowly grew as it fed on junk mail and my desire to procrastinate. The pile of paper itself was unsightly but not all that bad of itself. The existence of this pile, however, led to me needing to create a third category for a new pile of papers. This was the Holy Crap How Did That Get In There pile.

There was the occasional gift card received as a rebate for a purchase. A few mementos like Father’s Day poems with my sons’ handprints in finger-paint on them were recovered. I felt a bit embarrassed that I had let my organizational skills fall in to such disarray (have you ever watched the show Hoarders?), but I reckoned at least I was getting it taken care of.

Then I found something that really embarrassed me. I found a sizable check that a company had sent us to correct an overpayment balance. This is money that could have definitely been used. It wasn’t enough to buy that lake house I’ve always wanted, but it was large enough that some holiday spending stress could have been relieved. Ok, so it wasn’t a six-month-old slice of pizza that growled at me for disturbing its slumber and it wasn’t the remain of a long lost family pet we had sworn had run away, but the fact that it could have been worse had no soothing effect on my pride.

This caused me to undertake a massive change in method of sorting through bills and papers: No baskets!

It would seem that a receptacle in which to set something I didn’t feel like putting in its proper place just yet, spawned laziness and procrastination. Instead of dispatching business in a timely fashion, crossing the proverbial bridge as I came to it, I threw my problems into my good friend the To Be Filed basket, which quickly became the To Be Filed pile, which then became the To Be Filed area of my desk, so named because you could no longer even see that there was a basket underneath it. But I knew it was there. I knew.

So now, as soon as the mail comes in, it gets placed on the computer keyboard and I also leave no basket of inviting area that it might gravitate to nearby. This way, when I sit down to do something important, like play old NES games online, I have to get rid of the paperwork first, and the option of just throwing it into that basket which I will get to three years from now doesn’t even exist.

An even more effective technique occurs when I get a new comic book in the mail the same day. The comic book goes on the bottom. In order to obtain it for my reading pleasure, I must run the gamut of mundane, adult responsibility that lies above it.

So here’s to growing up a little more each day, or at least once every few months. Should I not post one day, feel free to picture me at my desk swearing over old papers in an effort to access my keayboard.

Let Your Love Take Flight on Valentine's Day

It's hard to imagine a better way to relax on Valentine's Day with your sweetheart than to put on some romantic music and stare longingly into one another's eyes. As I constantly strive to enhance the lives of my readers, I would like to provide you with a few songs which are perfect for this. Forgive the awkward nature of the links, but follow them and I'm sure you will enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xEcMG2Jvx3k

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhN93rFZuJs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pY8jaGs7xJ0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JT5AQIlmM0I

Enjoy. Those guys are the closest thing you will find to Barry White these days.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Our Weekly Features Are in the Mood For Love

Ah, love is in the air as Valentine's Day is mere hours away. Thus, our weekly features are all about love. We start with our top 5, which this week takes the top Valentine's Day gifts with a twist. They must all begin with the letter F.

5. Facial - Some spa time shows that you care about your significant other enough to provide them an excuse to get away from you and relax by themselves for awhile.

4. Fondue - Whether cheese or (preferably) chocolate, few things say romance like dipping various foodstuffs into the melted substance of your choice.

3. Fermented Grape Juice - Commonly known as wine, it is the lubricant that allows us to express those feelings deep within our hearts.

2. Fragrance - By this I mean perfume, not the intimacy of passing gas in front of one another. Just to be clear. Now you can't blame me.

1. Flowers - The most traditional way to go. Can't go wrong with red roses.

This week's cool-ass thing you will never own is your own vineyard. Not only would you have wine at your constant disposal and be able to name them after your favorite pretentious inside jokes, but you could make quite a handy living out of hosting parties and tours through your facility. People eat that stuff up.

This week's sign you are a nerd is that you make a point of only purchasing genetically modified flowers for your true love. Whether it's because you want them to have no thorns or reduced pollen so that they don't bother your allergies so much, the fact that you even know this can be done makes you a nerd.

This week's nemesis is shipping companies. You have three choices: too early, too late, or right on time for the low price of your left arm and first born child.

This week's lesson learned is to have multiple gifts prepared for a special occasion with your significant other. That way, if they manipulate you into giving them the main gift early, you'll still have something to ceremoniously present on the actual day of celebration.

This weeks equation does what was previously thought impossible. It measures love:

If you take the sum of years spent with your current love (y) and willingness on a scale from 1-10 to see their movie choice instead of your own (m) multiply that by the percent of time in one another's company in physical contact like holding hands (h), then that by the square root of the product of how much money you spent in US dollars on their Valentine's Day present (m) and the average length of your phone conversations while apart in minutes (p), then divide all that by the product of the percentage of time spent together on your smart phones (i) and the number of annoying things about them that you can list within 60 seconds (f) then you will arrive at a number that tells you how much you love said person. The best part is that this is a completely arbitrary number, so you can use this equation and say, "Honey, I scored a 97 on how much I love you!" and there is no scale of reference by which to decide if that is high or low.

Finally, this week's Star Wars quote is the immortal cool guy's version of expressing love. When someone tells you they love you, just look them in the eye and say, "I know."

Have a pleasant week and should you not have anyone to celebrate with tomorrow, just remember, Transformer Generation Dad loves you and always will.

This...Is...SPARTA! (note: this is not sparta)

It is time to celebrate the number 300. No, not the ab-shredding workout that inspired the movie that inspired the graphic novel (note: I may have the order wrong on that), but the fact that the words you are reading at this very moment represent my 300^th post on Transformer Generation Dad.

I know! You sound almost as excited as I am. Of course that isn’t saying much because I’m only mildly impressed with myself and am actually somewhat annoyed by feeling obliged to write an entire post about how many posts I’ve written.

But in all seriousness (note: following words will lack seriousness) when I started this blog, it was as an exercise in writing consistently. I wanted to have something that I was writing on a near daily basis, something that would get me off my ass and force me to produce something. Something that would speak to the masses and inspire them to be better than they ever believed they could be. But instead I wrote this blog.

Reading the recent thoughts of friend and fellow blogger, Ironsalsa (note: go vote on his survey) (note: vote for him, the blog author ought to have the most votes, it’s only right), I realized that a lot of people blog in order to just write their own thoughts. It often (please don’t pronounce the t, that annoys me) isn’t until after they are writing for a while that they are aware of trying to please an audience. Sadly, I wanted to attract an audience and entertain them from the beginning. I thought and still hold on to my delusion that other parents out there who struggle with being nerds and wanting to act more like children than their children would enjoy reading and taking comfort in my words. I thought a (semi-)weekly fictional story would spread enjoyment throughout the land. I have even worked diligently on weekly features and surveys and all sorts of pertinent information that you can see in the left-hand column, pandering to my quite possibly fictional audience.

What do you mean you never noticed the stuff in the left hand column? Are you kidding me? Where have you been? I’ve been busting my ass doing all this just so…(ahem)…sorry. If you’ve never noticed the features in the left-hand column of this blog before, please take a look at them now (note: this is said with a big phony smile that hides 300 posts worth of repressed anger behind it).

Anyway, in a little less than a year, I have managed to knock out 300 posts and I think that’s a pretty decent record. I calculate it as an 84% posting rate. Yay, me! This blog has done one of the two things I set out for it to do: it has kept me writing regularly. Now, as far as entertaining and informing all of you, I’m sorry and promise to try harder with the next 300 posts (note: studies show people enjoy self-deprecating humor, see, I’m trying already).

This Year, Show Your Loved One You Care About Them By Buying Yourself Something Nice

Surprising your loved one on Valentine’s Day can be difficult. If you plan on going out to dinner or having flowers or chocolates delivered, all you need to do is plan far enough ahead. These aren’t the most original ideas, but I respect tradition, so props go out to all those who are taking their significant others out for a romantic evening.

However, those of you who decide to put a bit more thought and effort into your sweetheart’s gift selection might find keeping your gift of choice secret prior to the big reveal tough. You finally found that Snoopy Snow Cone Maker that your girlfriend always talks about using with her siblings when they were little, but the mom and pop toy store that it was available from online is going to charge you $832 in shipping and handling in order to send you the $20 gift on the exact day you need it. Choose a standard shipping method and you have no way of guaranteeing its arrival date. She may intercept and open the package before you do or it may not arrive on time. Suddenly, your plans to give an untraditional gift that displays how closely you listen to the stories she tells over and over again are in jeopardy.

There is a method that you can use that would give you the upper hand in this game of lovers’ surprises. The trick is to order yourself items on a consistent basis. I suggest you make sure a package or two arrives for you every month. That way, your gift’s target will not suspect anything when a package suddenly arrives and you walk off with it without saying anything.

I order a box of Lego Minifigures every now and then, a collectable action figure or several graphic novels. When you are questioned about what’s in the box, go into excruciating detail about how excited you are that the Captain America Marvel Legends Icons 12-inch figure has over thirty points of articulation. Go on for as long as she’ll listen, pulling up your eBay account to show her the gory details of the bidding war you were in with fanboy397 and begin searching for the same item from other sellers and explaining that the version you have has his mask in place which makes it far more valuable than the unmasked Steve Rogers. If you need to, drop some history on her and mention how the Toy Biz manufactured figures are far higher quality than the later generations produced by Hasbro. Be sure that by the time you finish she will have learned her lesson not to ask what it is you bought yourself ever again.

In fact, just because she may become more suspicious around the middle of February, it’s good form to make an even higher number of self-centered purchases than average. A great way to throw her off is to arrange for her gift to arrive in the same package as something else you’ve bought.

“What is it, honey?” She’ll ask as you retrieve the box from your front porch.

“Just needed a few things,” you’ll say nonchalantly, but that won’t be enough.

“Is it something for me?” she’ll say coyly with the intention of making you give the gift enclosed within to her early, yet still expecting more on Valentine’s Day (you’ll already be able to envision her cute, pouty-lipped disappointed face when you explain she already forced you to give her her Valentine’s gift and how the card with your heartfelt sentiments as penned by Hallmark and the “I love you” isn’t enough).

At this point, had you not used the suggested technique, you have a choice to make. You can either stiff arm her like a Heisman candidate and rush past in order to hide the box before she can grab it or accept the fact that you will need to find and order another gift and pay $3,000 for next day shipping so that it arrives in time to replace the gift you just gave her. But you, clever reader, planned ahead per my suggestion and you’ll tear the box open right in front of her and confidently produce a package of size 14 tube socks.

“All mine have holes in them,” you’ll explain as you hold them up for her inspection. She’ll never suspect that the skimpy lingerie you hope she’ll wear Monday night rests just underneath in the very same box.

So good luck with your surprise plans this year. I’ll have to put together a lot of Lego sets that I’ve had delivered for myself this year just to keep my wife off the scent of what I bought her. Such is the burden of love.

Third Person Thursday: The Massacre

Rose waited her turn. She was past the point of fearing death.

She’d seen so many around her die already. Horribly gruesome death after death. And it was always the same way. Cut completely in half and the top half taken away to God knows where for God knows what purpose.

Rose wondered if their mutilated remains were being displayed somewhere in order to serve as a warning to others. Rose wondered what that warning could possibly be seeing as none of the decent lives around her seemed to be taken for any reason. Nothing was said to them and they had done nothing differently today than they had their whole lives, yet here they were being massacred one by one.

The only thing that she was sure of is that it was all very unfair. Nothing had been done to deserve this.

As she thought this, the executioner stood before their group. He looked them over for a good while first. He stared and analyzed them quietly, even gently caressing a few of them. He didn’t touch Rose and she was glad he didn’t. The whole process seemed to make it all that much more cruel.

Then, silently and suddenly, he began to take them. He started behind Rose as she stayed perfectly still. When he’d cut about a dozen of them in half, he took them away, always the top half to do what ever it was he did with them and the rest of the group was left to wonder how long they had before it was their turn.

This was the time that bothered Rose the most. It was the minutes that dragged on for hours as she hoped that the madness would end. She prayed that the man would not return to take any more lives.

But, inevitably, he always did. She had already witnessed the other groups, all around her, just like hers decimated. Family members separated from one another at first, only to be reunited eventually in whatever macabre display was being made of them all. And just as she hoped that enough lives had been lost, they would come back for more.

At this point, she reasoned he would not be satisfied until he took them all. Not until he had carried away every single one of them would he stop. Rose merely waited her turn.

When he returned this time, he worked quickly. There was no more inspection, no perusal. He worked coldly and methodically, slicing his way through the crowd. Those on either side of her were cut down with a swoosh and Rose tried not to notice as the fluids oozed out from where their upper halves used to be.

And before she knew it, her time came. The steel blade descended upon her faster than it had appeared to with the other. Just as she began to welcome the end and the sweet relief, the end of the fear, that it would bring it was over, and Rose saw only darkness.

Rose was sent off with eleven others from her group. They were delivered in a glass vase the next morning and a heavy-set woman in her fifties smiled widely at them on her doorstep. It was a smile that Rose never saw. Rose was the last to be cut down and in what came to be known amongst her kind as the Valentine’s Day Massacre.

A Company That Fit My Needs to a T(-Shirt)

I wanted to write a quick post today to pass on some valuable information to anyone who might unfortunately wander across this venue for my meandering thoughts. I figured you might at least take something away from the experience, so I'd like to pass on a recommendation. Keep in mind that I am in no way being compensated by the company which I am about to suggest you do business with, I was simply happy with their product.

My wife recently decided that t-shirts were in order. This is exceptionally unusual (as much so as that description is redundant) because she is constantly giving me a hard time for the number of t-shirts that I own. I dare say 50% of my wardrobe consists of t-shirts with underwear and socks taking up 40% more and jeans taking up 9%, leaving a mere 1% for that suit I wear to funerals.

Yet, despite the fact that I am the only one who can properly close the t-shirt drawer(s) of my dresser, she thought ordering some t-shirts online with the URL of my blog across them to wear out in public and promote it might be a good idea. She instantly knew which website to go to and, while I'm not sure how she heard of it originally, it turned out to be the right place to go.

My wife went to http://www.cafepress.com/. She then custom designed several fairly elaborate t-shirts over the course of the evening and placed the order. Less than a week later, they arrived. I am, in fact, wearing mine now. It looks great, which is awesome, and it is comfortable, which was my main concern. So often, when you order custom t-shirts they are stiff and itchy. They remind me of the shirt I had as a kid that I insisted on putting the iron-on He-Man picture onto. The rest of the shirt was fine, but the area with the He-Man graphic covering it felt perpetually like I was wearing a metal plate over my chest as if I was paranoid of being stabbed in the chest by one of my first grade classmates.

So, I heartily recommend http://www.cafepress.com/ for all your custom t-shirt needs. They were everything we wanted. Easy to design, quick on delivery and comfortable.

On a side not, I think the mere ordering of these shirts, with this blog's address emblazoned across them may have piqued the interest of the employees at cafepress because I have discovered a sudden upswing in visits to this site. I think they may have looked at the order and wondered what the hell the URL belonged to. If this is the case, I welcome you, cafepress employees. I am impressed by your curious nature and need to explore what you see further and I also thank you for the wonderful shirts.

It should also be noted that, though I received no compensation of discount of any kind for this recommendation, I would welcome the opportunity to further champion the efforts of cafepress while receiving monetary incentive in the future.

I'm just saying.

Most of Yesterday Sucked, But This Didn't

If you even glanced at the left hand column of this blog, you surely saw this week's top 5. And if you had the patience to read it and allow your brain to process it, you know that I am no fan of the Super Bowl commercials these days.

It would seem that the quality of these spots has been steadily declining for years now. For every clever ad, you get a dozen that leave you wondering what the hell the events on the television screen had to do with the company it was an advertisement for. Granted, beer commercials do this all the time, but at least they are usually funny. I'm reminded of the commercial that featured cat herders years back. If anyone can remember which company that commercial was for, you win a prize (a thoroughly disappointing prize that has yet to be determined, most likely that tiny screw I found the other day whose proper placement is a mystery, but a prize nonetheless).

I long for the days when I was excited about Super Bowl commercials. As a kid, I knew that even if I didn't care about the teams that were playing (which was most certainly the case this year) I would at least remember the commercials and talk about them with my friends the next day at school. Who could forget the classic match-ups that we watched in the Bud Bowl, with the heroic performances of the stubby brothers, Billy and Bobby Bud? And when the Freezer stepped in to carry the ball reminiscent of William Perry I, for one, stood up and applauded. Alas, the days of these commercials seem a distant memory.

However, clever production aside, every now and again you still get a commercial that gets you excited. Often it is less about the delivery and more about the product it is advertising. That happened with one commercial yesterday. If you don't already know which one I'm talking about, you probably should leave this page and never return. I'm just kidding, please don't leave. Keep reading. I forgive you for your ignorance.

Marvel ran a preview of Captain America: The First Avenger and it was nothing short of amazing, incredible, fantastic, uncanny and...invincible? It was short, of course, as most teaser trailers are, but powerful. And the best part of it was Dr. Erskine's plea to a scrawny Steve Rogers (note, spelled the right way with no d, unlike a certain winning quarterback from last night whom I will continue to hate despite his MVP award which should be given to him in belt form...jerk) to remain a good man no matter what happens. With all the hype and Hollywood flash given to movies I'm pleased, to say the least, that this essential part of Cap's personality was already highlighted in the first commercial.

So I offer a hearty Thank You to the people at Marvel for saving my evening yesterday. It seems that giving me purpose is something that Marvel excels at. Most of what happened sucked last night, but at least Captain America was there for me, as he always has been.

Super Sunday Weekly Features

It's Super Bowl Sunday. The most important thing going on today is obviously the updating of our weekly features. Since that's obviously what you've been waiting all week for, I won't keep you waiting any longer.

This week's top 5 list is reasons not to watch the Super Bowl:

5. The Black Eyed Peas will probably perform their song that rips off the Dirty Dancing theme.

4. The commercials suck these days.

3. Ben Roethlisberger is a scumbag.

2. Aaron Rodgers will probably make that stupid heavyweight belt gesture at some point.

1. No Bears - Yes, I'm pouting. So sue me.

This week's cool-ass thing you will never own is the Vince Lombardi trophy. Although the coolest of the many that have been handed out is the one from Super Bowl XX, any of them would be pretty cool to own. Alas, it's going to take a lot to purchase an NFL franchise and I don't think the collective bargaining agreement will make this any easier.

This week's sign you are a nerd is that the Super Bowl only serves as a scouting opportunity for your fantasy league next season.

This week's nemesis is Cheetos snacks. Tasty as they are, They end up leaving your fingers and, subsequently, most items in your house, streaked with bright orange artificially flavored cheese powder.

This week's lesson learned is that if you find a side of cole slaw in your refrigerator and you don't remember ordering anything recently that it could have come with, you should assume it is past its prime and not eat it.

This week's equation compares a classic cartoon without speaking to a classic comic without words:

We see here that if you take the Pink Panther (p squared) and add weapons (w) and explosions (x) then remove color (c), you get Spy vs. Spy (s squared).

Our Star Wars quote of the week is: "Your tauntaun will freeze before you reach the first marker." "Then I'll see you in Hell!"

Thanks for reading.

+10 Geek-Level Dexterity

I’ve figured that since I still play video games, watch cartoons, love crossword puzzles and read books that aren’t required as part of a syllabus, that it’s a pretty solid bet that I am a nerd. The action figures displayed on the shelf of my office (all out of their packages, some because I received them as a kid and others because I couldn’t resist the urge to play with them even as an adult) only make this case stronger and the fact that I don’t need my sons to be in the same state to enjoy assembling a Lego set clinches it.

But a big part of this blog has been owning my inner nerd and being proud of it. My youngest son said to me, “Dad, you and the people at GameStop know everything,” and I consider it one of the best compliments I have ever received (see Best…Compliment…Ever).

With my nerdiness now thoroughly documented, I need to clarify that there is a difference between a nerd and a geek. While I can’t quantify it, it is my general impression that the status of nerd is a base, a middle ground if you will. The geek, I think, begins as a nerd, then becomes so obsessed with a certain trade or hobby that they immerse themselves in it, sacrificing even more social skills than the nerd in order to master said skill. The result is a more socially awkward, sheltered, sun-deprived individual, but they have a specific in-depth knowledge of something useful like computer programming, physics or chemistry. A nerd can correct your grammar. A geek can do it in seven different languages.

I never committed myself to a specific technical skill. I know enough about computers to get them running, install new software and sync numerous iDevices. However, when our Internet connection is experiencing trouble that requires fixing beyond turning everything off and back on again, I need to get on the phone with tech support. The nerd needs to call a geek.

Yet the other day, while facing the reality that a new desktop may be in order, yours truly decided to try and take matters into his own hands. In a last ditch effort to put off spending money, I valiantly stepped far beyond the boundaries of my skill set and attempted to clean the old machine up a bit. I deleted programs, properly uninstalling them with cold precision like a surgeon wielding a scalpel. I cross-referenced operating systems with requirements and upgraded versions of existing programs when available and necessary. Finally, I defragmented. Okay, the PC did that itself, but I’m proud of the fact that I realized it needed to be done, committed the time (it took nearly 24 hours) to let it happen and gave the executive order.

In the end, our old desktop ran faster. I dare say it runs like new. I am proud that I performed closer to geek level regarding computer maintenance than I ever had before. I’m pretty sure the experience gained me some much needed dexterity points.

It’s just a shame that I can’t think of a way to broadcast my achievements on any other forum but this blog. If you could only see me now, you would see that I am exuding pride and confidence, my head held high and my chest stuck out. Although if you were all looking at me, I would probably become suddenly more introverted, begin slouching and stare down at the floor. Maybe it’s for the best.

Third Person Thursday: Lost in the Storm

He had focused so much on the task in front of him that he hadn't thought about the return trip. He was regretting that now.

As Butch turned to begin his trek back home after dropping off his package, he didn't recognize a thing. The snow blew sideways and swirled past his face, leaving him barely able to see a foot in front of his nose. He saw everything in shades of grey, and now mostly white. Even the tracks he had left behind on his journey had been blown over by the drifting snow. There was no trace that he had ever traveled this way. Butch suspected that if he stood still much longer, he might be drifted over as well.

His first instinct was to call out. Immediately after doing so, he thought about how silly he was to think it would help. The rest of his party was safe and warm. He was the one who had insisted on venturing out in such conditions. He was the one who absolutely had to make that drop off. He was the one that couldn't wait.

His next step was to begin moving in the direction he thought was right. As he did, he sank into drift after drift. He had to use all of his strength to bound over the hills of snow and more kept piling on top.

Before he knew it, he had reached a wall. He knew it wasn't the way he came from and began to panic. Having obviously already headed the wrong way, he had now thrown off his sense of direction even further.

He called out again in fear.

All hope seemed lost. Anger began to well inside of Butch. He pictured the rest of his group huddled in the warmth. They never should have let him go out in these conditions. Not by himself.

He called out again and again. He had no idea what else to do. Butch was certain that he would be lost forever, his frozen body encased in a mountain of snow only to be found in the Spring thaw.

That's when he heard something. His eyesight and sense of smell were useless in the blizzard, but his impeccable hearing picked something up. He moved instinctively toward the sound.

It came again. He still couldn't make out what it was, but he had to keep moving toward it. He had to hope that it was something that could save him. He had nothing else left. While trudging forward, his legs burning, his eyes straining to make out something in the haze of grey and white, the frigid winds bit at his nose and ears.

Just as he was about to give up and lie on his side in the snow to await an icy grave, he was able to make out a figure in the distance, through the blustering snow. The hazy outline of the figure stood as if it was waiting for him. With the rest of his remaining strength, he moved toward it.

"Come on, damn it, it's cold out here," the voice from the figure shouted. "If you're done taking your crap, get inside and quit barking."

Butch didn't mind being spoken to that way. He was just happy to see his master again. He stopped quickly to lick his master's hand then ran into the house where the warm pillow with his name embroidered upon it waited next to the heating vent for him.

Dog Chops with Red Wine

When you were a kid, if you lived in the Midwest, chances are you looked forward to snow in the winter. You hoped there would be enough to go sledding. You hoped it was sticky enough to make a snowman. You absolutely prayed for so much snow that the doors to the school were blocked four feet high and they had to cancel. Then you couldn’t wait to meet your friends outside and have a huge neighborhood snowball fight and use that hopefully sticky snow to plaster that kid you always hated that sits next to you in Math with a slushball to his face.

And if you didn’t look forward to all of this, you at least looked forward to an excuse to stay home and in bed, maybe with some hot chocolate if you were lucky, maybe with a video game controller in your hands most of the day if you were even luckier.

But let’s be devil’s advocates for a moment and pretend you never looked forward to snow as a kid in the Midwest. Let’s pretend that you sat at home, worrying about the gas bill and how much homework you were going to have to make up while you watched soap operas all day. Let’s entertain the thought that you were the lamest kid ever to live north of forty degrees latitude. Even then, you at least expected that it would snow during the winter and that said snow might cause you some level of inconvenience some time between late November and early March.

So when did everyone seem to completely lose that instinct? At what age does the very mention that we might receive a foot of snow start driving everyone over the deep end? How is it that our preparedness actually decreases as we get older on this issue and we begin to panic?

Everybody seems so surprised at the mere possibility of snow. The news comes up with the most terrifying depictions possible for winter storms with headlines like SNOWPOCALYPSE, SNOWMAGEDDON, WHITE DEATH FROM ABOVE or WINTER MASSACRE 2011: WHAT YOU CAN DO TO SURVIVE? NOTHING! They spend hours covering the mad rush to the grocery stores (which puts a real damper in a guy’s plans to just go pick up a case of beer, let me tell you) and the painful details of how every single shovel and ice scraper within a five hundred mile radius has already been purchased and you’ll have to get on a waiting list just to get one by April. Then you get the ridiculous interview with the poor guy at the gas station:

“Sir, are you stocking up on gas now because of the impending blizzard?”

“Um…I was just under a quarter of a tank and figured I ought to fill up.”

The guy is probably confused because the same reporter has been spewing warnings all week about staying indoors, avoiding frostbite and remaining hydrated as if he’s Bear Grylls giving out extreme survival tips to everybody. If we’re supposed to avoid traveling, why should we be running out to get gas?

I sometimes wish I would be the one to be asked such stupid questions by a reporter: “Yes, sir. I’m currently in the process of hoarding as much fuel as possible. That way, when our society crumbles as a result of our complete ineptitude in the face of some winter precipitation, I’ll be the one calling the shots. Ever see The Road Warrior?”

Honestly, we as a nation need to take it easy with our surprise over weather. Flights get cancelled, plans get changed. Our species has survived through much worse. Start remembering what it was like when you were a kid and how excited it would have been to anticipate so much snow.

If you feel like taking a few precautions would make you breathe easier, go ahead, just don’t go overboard.

Me, I’ve spent a little time reading back over The Walking Dead, so that I’m prepared to shoulder the emotional strain that the end of civilization as we know it will bring. I also sat down with my dog and had a long talk about how, if we should become stranded and detached from the rest of society, he is going to be our first alternative source of food once the canned goods run out. We’ve agreed it will be a respectable dinner. I picked up a nice bottle of red wine while I was getting the beer, just in case.

I'd Rather Be...Doing Something Other Than Coming Up With a New Poll

Per our now monthly tradition, the poll which has been featured along the left hand column of this blog is now closed and it is time to post a new one. However, in order to reward those who were interested enough to vote or at least check back regularly, please enjoy the following cheesy image:

The majority of the drivers whose minds we have invaded are thinking they'd like to be fishing as that was the result of our poll (do you see how it works now?) with a few people thinking about snorkeling and someone thinking of golfing. You may also notice a particularly distressed commuter at the bottom of the picture who would rather end it all than be in such terrible weather. I can't explain how that happened.

But onward to happier things.

With winter weather sweeping the nation and making headlines, I'd like to know how my readers take advantage of the excuse to remain inside on those particularly awful days. You have all month to vote and can choose more than one answer.

While there's an answer up there that some of you may hesitate to select, I'll know the truth when birth rate stats for next November become available...sinners.

Ready the Archers and Keep the Tar Hot! You'll Need Them in Castle Panic.

My sons go through streaks when they are absolutely mad about board games. Alas, their enthusiasm for pulling them off the shelf and setting them up changes suddenly into sullen disillusionment after the first move that places myself or their brother at even the slightest advantage toward eventual victory. Sometimes it's because one sent the Lego Minotaur in the other's direction and other times it's because one had their heart set on Illinois Avenue and the other is refusing to trade any of their property no matter how many railroads he is offered.

This puts quite a damper on things and everyone leaves the table holding grudges against one another. Except me. I remain at the table and put away the game, or often times, games, as well as all the pieces that end up strewn about.

Then, recently, I read Jonathan Liu's review of Castle Panic by Fireside Games on Wired magazine's Geek Dad blog.

As he notes, it isn't a new game, but the cooperative nature of it appealed to my desire to have my kids sit through a game together without either of them wanting to take the proverbial ball and go home. I figured that I would soon go online and try to purchase a copy of the game so that my sons could learn to sit at one place for more than five minutes without food being involved.

Then, on a fortuitous trip to Barnes & Noble, I discovered a copy sitting on a shelf in their game section. Within a few moments, I convinced my eldest son to ask his mother if it was okay for him to get it. When asked what I thought, I said it seemed pretty promising. With my manipulation, ahem...I mean, endorsement, my wife agreed and we took it home.

The premise is that you and your teammates occupy a castle, consisting of 6 towers contained within 6 walls and you must use your archers, knights and swordsmen to fend off attacking hoards of monsters who emerge from the surrounding forest.

The players need to work together, trading cards, predicting monster movements and solidifying their stronghold so that they can eradicate the goblins, orcs and trolls before all six of the towers are felled. The game starts inauspiciously enough with six monsters in the archer ring and as you wipe them off the board, you think it's going to be a piece of cake.

Ah, but you underestimated the panic in Castle Panic. Before you know it, instead of two new monsters leaping from the forest at the end of a turn, it becomes five. Then the trolls begin rolling giant boulders at your castle walls. The towers you were sure you could protect have been exposed and you are flanked by green-skinned beasts whose leaders push them forward and even replenish the hit points you took from them.

I certainly felt the tension in the room raise as my sons became very squirrely when an orc managed to enter our castle circle. They bounced up and down and had difficulty staying near the board. My youngest wanted to go hide under a blanket on the couch until it was his turn, forgetting that we needed him there to potentially trade weaponry with. In the end, on our first round, we managed to keep our castle intact. In fact, we've been able to do so every time we've payed thus far. It has never been easy, but it has always been fun.

This is a great game for the whole nerdy family. While the box suggests ages 10+, my sons are 8 and 6 and read well for their ages. They enjoy this game immensely. I haven't had to reduce the difficulty settings, which is very easy to do per the included instructions. I also haven't played the other optional versions of the game, one of which sees a player take control of the monster hoard lurking in the forest and dispatching them and he/she sees fit. I hope to some day when my sons are more adept at handling a little healthy competition. But for now, this game suits my family's needs quite nicely and, if you're looking for a fantasy-based, co-op game, it should suit yours as well.

Happy gaming and big thanks to Jonathan Liu of Geek Dad for his recommendation.

Same Bat-Blog, New Bat-Features

Welcome loyal readers and any stray wanderers that happen to have unfortunately fallen into the clutches of this blog. It's time again to update our weekly features.

This week's top five subject was pulled randomly from my meandering thoughts. I realized that, without including voice talents, I can only recall five different actors who have portrayed Batman, by far the greatest of DC characters (though my wife would argue on behalf of a certain Amazonian). Thus, I decided it would make a good top five list and they play out as follows:

5. Val Kilmer - I don't hate Mr. Kilmer, but after Top Secret, he should have done Tombstone and then retired in my opinion. The most vivid memory I have of his portrayal of the Caped Crusader is him saying, "Tell me, doctor. Do you like the circus?"

4. George Clooney - Meh...Perhaps I would have enjoyed the Cloon-dog more if Joel Schumacher hadn't added nipples to the exterior of the costume.

3. Michael Keaton - The first respectable representation of Batman on this list, Keaton stepped in amid a great deal of controversy and played a damn fine Batman. And you all thought a guy known for comedic roles couldn't pull it off. Don't act like you didn't criticize Tim Burton for his selection of Mr. Mom either, because I heard you.

2. Christian Bale - I know he's trying to disguise his voice for the purposes of maintaining his secret identity, and I will give full props to him for that because it's something that nobody else in the history of super heroes has thought of that I can remember, but the scratchy, growling Batman voice that Bale produces is the only thing that keeps him from the number one spot.

1. Adam West - No words. Just read the name again. Ad...am...West. Okay, one quick comment. I'd like to see any one of those other guys try to pull off the Bat-toosie.

This week's cool-ass thing you will never own is a battleship. I'm sure that you have dreamed of this during your numerous rounds of playing Battleship, the classic naval combat game from Milton Bradley, or maybe even while using the battleship token while playing Monopoly, the classic property trading game from Parker Brothers, but acquiring one would be awfully difficult. Provided you maneuvered through government sanctions in controlling that much firepower, a boat slip fee for something that size has got to cost a fortune.

This week's sign you are a nerd is that you are angered by this week's top five Batmans list and plan on writing your own scathing commentary, either on your own blog or in the comments section of this post. Ah, but now you are second guessing that because I just wrote that it would be a sign you are a nerd. You've played right into my hands.

This week's nemesis is comic books. I'll be reading a perfectly wonderful book (yes, a real book) and then I get two or three issues in the mail and everything stops until they are read. Sometimes that even involves having to reference back issues to catch up on the storyline. Plus, I have a hard time sharing the enjoyment of the story with my wife without her rolling her eyes at my failed attempts to make it sound more interesting to her.

This week's lesson learned is not to assume a small snake that hasn't eaten in over a week is dead. Should you do so, you may receive quite the shock upon reaching your hand into the cage to remove things and clean it out, not expecting movement. Apparently, these things can do just fine with nothing but water for a long time.

This week's equation helps us determine our likelihood of selecting the correct Series 3 Lego Minifigure from the box at the store:

That likelihood (L) can be determined by taking the sum of your eyesight (e, rated 1-5 with 5 being the best) and the lack of attention to your packet fondling by the store clerk (a, rated 1-5 with 5 being the least attentive) multiplied by a 1-10 rating of how many accessories from this series you know (n) and the number of packets remaining in the display box (c) all divided by the full capacity of said box, 60.

And, this week's Star Wars quote is: "You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence on twelve systems."

Thanks for reading. Please spread the word about this awesome blog that you have been reading. No, I meant this one. Yes, the one you are reading right now. No, not in the other window of your browser, this one. Thank you.

Writing Curse-ive

My second grader is learning handwriting. He's apparently very passionate about it. It's being taught to him slowly in school, a few letters per week. Each day, he comes home and diligently practices line after line of l and i and u and t and combines them into words like it and...well that's about it. They also have him make combinations that don't make sense on their own. He was excited by the possibility of combining l-u-i.

He's more interested in learning how to write this way than I think I ever was and certainly more than I am now. In fact, I print everything I write by hand now. At one point, during college, I became irrationally concerned that my professor was not going to be able to read what I wrote on final essay questions and I didn't want all the golden wisdom I was scrawling into the little blue composition books to be for naught. I decided then I would revert back to printing and have never looked back.

My son is so interested, in fact, in this new style of writing that two and three letter combination weren't enough to quench my budding calligrapher's thirst for new challenges. After his daily lessons, he would go rogue. He took the entire alphabet instruction sheet that was sent home and would pick out the letters he needed to spell what he wanted. Soon, he was working ahead of his prescribed daily learning regimen and writing all sorts of words he had yet to write in school.

He triumphantly showed me his creations. Words like:

and,

Next, of all things to write, he penned Chooclate shake, then inquired as to whether he had spelled it right. When I told him the o's aren't together in the word chocolate, he destroyed the paper, leaving me no photographic evidence. Then, as if angry at me for correcting his spelling he returned with a new word, spelled perfectly: Butthole. After scolding him for writing such a word, explaining to him that learning handwriting didn't give him free reign to write whatever he wanted, he destroyed that piece of paper as well.

He then returned to more tame words, writing a greeting for his grandparents who were to arrive and watch him and his brother:

But this cleaner writing wasn't destined to last long. Soon, the vulgar impulse that handwriting must bring out in my son reared its ugly head once again and he produced words like,

which is apparently supposed to say "Moon the moon," but once he gets started writing bumps on n's or m's he has trouble stopping.

Then there came,

which I was pretty impressed by and let slide and then,

whose capital K made me so proud, I allowed it.

But soon it became clear to me why my son insists on saying cursive instead of handwriting. Later on the next day, I found the same sheet of paper with more words scribbled on it, including this:

For those that have trouble reading that, it says "Crapolla." At least he made the upper-case C correctly, and I'm pretty sure he spelled it right. We will have to discuss proper transitions from o to l, however.

Take Your Stinkin' Molded Plastic Paws Off Me...

I haven't shown my Children many classic movies. We've covered the original Star Wars Trilogy, E.T. and The Princess Bride but not much else. I feel their attention spans as well as whatever gland it is that emits the chemical that drives them to patronize their old man are both a bit too underdeveloped to show them A Fist Full of Dollars, 2001: A Space Odyssey or The Great Escape.

Their dispositions are also still a bit more frail than would allow for me to show them Jaws. I hope to get them snorkeling someday and the image of a leg floating to the seabed might discourage that. Similarly, I'm trying to hold off on showing them Raiders of the Lost Ark until after I decide if we're going to make a return trip to Mammoth Cave National Park. Right now, both swimming and spelunking are activities that they see no inherent danger in and I'd hate to suggest otherwise.

Since I know for a fact they have very limited exposure to movies of the sixties, seventies, and eighties, it was to my surprise when I returned from dropping them off at school and sat at my dining room table with a cup of coffee to discover this:

As you may have read here last saturday, my sons and I have completed our set of Series 3 Lego Minifigures. Contained within the set are a guy in a gorilla suit (complete with zipper on the back of his torso and sweating, grimacing, yellow minifigure head below the gorilla mask...very clever) as well as a samurai warrior. In an attempt to create new figures by simply switching around pieces, my sons, I assume unwittingly, created a rather striking resemblance to General Ursus from Planet of the Apes, a movie which I know for a fact they have never seen.

Sure, he's missing the helmet, but if I just snag one of the myriad of extra rifles included with every Lego Star Wars set, you have a pretty impressive likeness. I makes me wonder if that gland might be developing in them after all. Maybe they will begin displaying a desire to watch old westerns or Bruce Lee films out of nowhere. I'm thinking that there is an sixties movie appreciation gene that may be making itself known in my sons.

Or, perhaps it's an inkling toward sci-fi and nerdery in general. Next thing you know, they'll be asking questions about Dungeons & Dragons or I'll catch them reading A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I'm so proud.

Exceptional: Book 2 - Part 8 (Conclusion)

It is finally time for the final chapter of Book 2. Thank you all for your patience in sticking with me on this story. It took longer than I had expected to complete. Should you need to catch up prior to reading, check last Thursday's post.

Cornelius Caine sat at an oak table with thick, ornately detailed legs reaching down to the floor made of brick and mortar, like an old street. His hands rested on the table top, poking out from the gold lined cuff of his grey green sleeves.

Across the table sat his father and his fuehrer. Cornelius sat upright in his chair, just as his mother and father had fiercely instructed, his posture proud and perfect. He stuck out his chest and, though he had no memory of them being placed there and he dared not look down to inspect them, he was keenly aware of the litany of medals pinned upon the breast of his military dress jacket. His two heroes sat across the table form him, silently, with beaming smiles.

The bar maid with the low cut blouse bent over the table and poured brown liquid into clear glass tumblers for all three of them. She looked at Cornelius shyly and smiled in a way that made him know he could have anything he wanted from her. He was a hero.

As if this weren’t already apparent, it could not be denied when the fuehrer himself was the first to raise his glass and propose a toast. He snatched the glass as though someone was trying to take it from him and abruptly jumped to his feet, his coifed hair becoming disrupted for a moment before falling perfectly back to the place it had been.

“For the master race, for the mother land and for Cornelius, her favorite son,” he trumpeted as he held his glass aloft. He then turned around to look at the reaction of the throngs of adoring German citizens who Cornelius had not noticed gathered in the small neighborhood tavern, filling every space at and between each table and spilling out of the door and into the street.

Waiting for their cue to cheer and having now received it, they all erupted into raucous applause and shouts. Cornelius turned in his seat and it was then that he noticed even the second and third story windows of every building along the street were filled with people who waved flags and handkerchiefs and any other manner of fabric they could get their hands on.

When his eyes returned to the table, he saw that his father now stood as well, holding his glass high. Both men, both of his heroes, his only heroes, looked to him and waited. With smiles on their faces, they waited for him to stand.

As he did, the crowd cheered even louder. As he picked his glass up, the roar of the crowd stole his hearing from him and sent the world into slow motion. His senses all blurred into one muffled awareness of what was going on about him.

His father mouthed words that Cornelius could not hear. So did the fuehrer and they both clinked their glasses against his and drank the brown liquid. Cornelius tipped his glass to his lips as well, but he did not taste the drink within. He did, however, feel a burning in his chest and then a stinging in his stomach.

The two men across the table advanced toward him and each put a hand on one of his shoulders. They turned him to face the crowd.

Cornelius Caine watched the people of his country writhe and scream and twist their faces into grotesque shapes in an attempt to shout even louder than they already were. But he heard none of it. He didn’t even hear the buzzing hum in his head that comes when the noise passes the threshold of one’s hearing.

Cornelius heard nothing. Just silence.

He turned to see the still smiling faces of his father and his fuehrer on either side, presenting him to the crowd. They mouthed more words, both to him and to one another and Cornelius wished so badly that he could hear what they had to say. He wanted to hear their words of praise and the crowd’s adoration.

He strained to hear. He searched for a physical barrier between his brain and the noise that he might be able to knock down and bask in his long-deserved glory. He strained so hard he closed his eyes and focused in the blackness.

He began to hear something. So quietly at first that he wasn’t sure it was actually even there. He thought he might just be imagining it. But it was there and it slowly became louder. Even then it was barely a whisper, but he could begin to make out that it was real sound.

Cornelius tried to open his eyes then to see what it was he was hearing. Perhaps looking at it before him might make it clearer.

But his eyes would not open. He could not see the crowd. He could not see the smiling faces of his heroes. And he became aware that he could no longer feel their hands upon his shoulders, nor was he even sure that he ever could. There was, however, the burning and the stinging. That, he felt. It remained in his chest and his stomach. It even seemed to spread to other parts of his body. His shoulder, his knee, his head. And the sound started to become clearer.

It was conversation. Mumbled conversation. He could not yet make out the words, but he could tell there were people talking and he knew neither voice was his father or his fuehrer.

“…out of here,” he finally heard. “He needs help and he needs it right away.”

“No, we wait,” the other voice said. “He’ll know what to do and I know his body will have a chance to heal itself if we give him time. So for now, we wait.”

“This is too much,” the other voice returned. It was a young voice. It was the voice of a child. Not a small child, but not yet a man. The rich tenor of age had not yet established itself permanently in this voice and Cornelius strained to open his eyes and see who stood before him and what they were discussing.

“You don’t have to stay,” the other voice said. This voice, too, was one full of youth, but there was more confidence to it. There was also something that Cornelius swore he recognized. Could he just open his eyes and see a face. “You’ve already done enough. You can go home, you don’t have to see any of this. I’ll let you know when I’m home.”

“James,” said the first voice and Cornelius Caine’s pain intensified as he remembered where he was. Still, he could not open his eyes.

“…you almost got me killed, yet here I am, saving your ass, just in the nick of time, so don’t treat me like I’m an outsider here. I might be the only one in here without super powers, but at one point, I was the only one standing.”

“Okay, then stay,” James responded as they stood right in front of Cornelius, he was sure of it.

There was silence then for a while and the sound of feet shuffling around the room. Teenage feet too lazy to be picked completely up off of the floor of his hidden lab. The anger welled inside of Cornelius and he tried to open his eyes again, this time swearing that the slightest sliver of light had made its way to his pupil. He groaned. It was so muted that nobody else in the room heard it and they continued talking.

“How did you find me, anyway?” James asked the other voice. “How did you know I’d be here? How did you know Doctor Caine was evil and how the hell did you find this place?”

“Well, obviously, I was pissed at you. I didn’t want to talk to you and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be friends with you anymore. But that didn’t mean I wanted you dead. I was sitting in my room and I couldn’t think, so I pulled out a couple comics.”

Doctor Caine finally managed to open his eyes completely, after several unsuccessful tries. Even the dim light glared and hurt and he was unable to make out any detail for a few minutes, just blobs of color that ran together. And the pain was unbearable.

“The one issue of Captain America I was reading, don’t ask me which one, had a flashback to his time in the super soldier program, when Steve Rogers was being prepped to receive the serum. He was remembering Dr. Erskine and something struck me. I didn’t even realize it at first, so I just kept reading.”

“So what does that…”

“Let me finish, please! I wanted to read something else and I wanted to read issue number seven of Kick Ass because I wanted to compare just how different the movie was from the comic and so I…”

Doctor Caine moaned and both James and Dave jumped.

“Jesus Christ!” Dave exclaimed.

“He’s awake,” James said and walked toward Doctor Caine, now hanging from the wall of the small room where James had been suspended just an hour before.

“You think?”

“Let me down,” Doctor Caine groaned, his voiced filled with pain and anger, but James noticed, nothing resembling fear. “Let me down right now.”

“You’re staying right where you are you old psycho,” James growled. “When my dad wakes up, we’ll figure out what to do with you.”

Caine looked across the room and now noticed that James’ father was lying across his lab table, the tubes removed from his arms. He knew that what the boy had said earlier was true. If given enough time, he would fully recover under his own power. Since that would be bad for Cornelius, he quickly reasoned he would need to use the only advantage he had over the boy to try and escape: his intellect.

“He’s lost a lot of blood, son,” the doctor cautioned James. “If you untie me, I could perhaps help revive him.”

“I told you before not to call me son. I am not your son and you are staying there until he wakes up.”

“Please boy,” Doctor Caine laughed, “what harm could I possibly be to you now? I’m certain that I have a few broken bones. At my advanced age, and with your superior condition,” he nearly choked on those words, “you would have no problem keeping me in line, especially since I no longer have the element of surprise on my side.”

“You’re staying where you are,” James repeated and glared at the doctor.

“Well then, when your father wakes up, we shall see what he thinks. That is, if he wakes up.”

James continued to stare at him, unmoving.

Caine looked over James’ shoulder and saw Dave standing there. He instantly hated the boy, realizing this must have been the pest who fell on top of him just as he was about to have his ultimate triumph. He repressed his hatred and asked Dave, “Won’t you talk some sense into your friend, young man? His father has lost a great deal of blood and I am no longer a threat to either of them. Not in my current condition.”

“You don’t speak to him!” James said, loudly. Then he turned to Dave and said, “Don’t listen to him.”

“But James,” Dave said quietly, “your dad is…”

“I know him,” James interrupted. “He’ll be fine. He just needs time.”

Caine resolved to let the matter go for a while. He would let the boys talk. He didn’t know how much time there was before James’ father awoke, but the seed of doubt had been planted in his friend’s mind. Caine decided he would let it grow there on its own for some time before saying anything more. Hopefully he could offer more advice before James’ father awoke to offer his own.

“Finish telling me how you knew what was going on. Maybe Doctor Asshole here would like to hear the story too.”

“Oh, um, okay,” Dave stammered, which led Doctor Caine to be all the more confident that he could turn the boy into an ally in his attempt to get free. “So I’m reading Kick-Ass #7 and I’m reading it so that I can see how Big Daddy is different from in the movie, but when I see Red Mist and it gets to the part where Kick Ass realizes he’s really Chris Genovesse and…wait…”

Dave stopped and looked at Doctor Caine curiously.

“This is like a major spoiler,” Dave said. “I don’t if he’s read it or seen the movie. I don’t want to ruin it for him.” Then he asked Doctor Caine, “Where you planning on reading it?”

Before the doctor could even think of how to respond, Dave began laughing. Then he patted James on the shoulder and, with the other hand, held his middle finger up to Doctor Caine. “You’ll have plenty of time to read it in hell,” Dave said through his laughter.

Doctor Caine suddenly became much less confident in his ability to turn the boy into an ally and he pulled against his restraints and shouted as loud as he could, which was not particularly loud or convincing, “Get me down from here or you shall have hell to pay!”

Upon finishing, he coughed and tasted blood in his mouth. Without the use of his hands, it trickled over his lip and dripped to the floor below. The two young men looked at him then looked away as though Caine’s presence barely mattered anymore.

“So, I realized,” Dave continued speaking now as if nothing had happened, “that the difference between Dr. Erskine, a mentor that can be trusted and Red Mist, someone posing as a mentor who was not to be trusted, was when they come into the hero’s life. Erskine knew Cap before he was Cap. He made him Cap. Red Mist, on the other hand, got close to Kick-Ass, acting all friendly and shit, without ever having known anything about him.”

Dave then pointed across the room at Caine. “It reminded me of jackass over here. He shows up out of nowhere, trying to find out all this stuff about your family. It was apparent that he didn’t create you guys, so I kept wondering, what was his angle?”

James raised an eyebrow. “And you just knew he was evil from reading comic books? Seriously?”

“Now see, that’s the thing that didn’t sit right with me. I remember you told me that he even said that comic books held some truth. At first, that made me like him, but then I got to thinking. You know how the villain always gives you a clue that he’s a rat before you know it for sure? Then you look back and you remember he said something and you’re all like, ‘Damn, I should have known he was no good form the start.’ That’s what I think he was doing. He was telling you that there was evidence that would prove he was a bad guy. It like he gets his jollies over giving you hints.

“So I went to find you and tell you and your mom told me you left and that your dad was out of town. Then you weren’t answering your phone and I just knew something was up. I came to the only place you could have been describing where you went to meet the doctor at and when I couldn’t find anyone, I was ready to give up. Then I heard this psycho laughing through a vent and the rest just fell into place…no pun intended.” Dave looked down at the floor and smiled to himself. Then he looked up and smiled at James. “Okay, the pun was intended. You get it? Fell into place?”

Dave laughed again and James smiled. Meanwhile, Doctor Caine stared at them from across the room and thought of what great pleasure he would take in killing the both of them. Alas, murder was no longer a luxury he could afford. That ship had sailed and he would simply have to try and get down from this wall and worry about his own wellbeing. Exacting vengeance would have to wait until later.

“While I am pleased that you are able to share a laugh at my expense,” Doctor Caine said to them, “I implore you to look at me and then at your father.”

The boys both did as he instructed, looking at James’ father, still just as they had left him on the lab table. Then they turned back to the doctor. This pleased Cornelius in a strange way and gave him hope.

“I am closer to one hundred years old than either of you boys will likely ever see. I am dying of a cancer that I cannot cure and have suffered broken bones and contusions. Yet, here I am, awake and speaking to you, fluidly and there your father remains, unconscious despite having been given incredible strength and regenerative abilities.”

He paused then, hoping the boys might look at one another. They did not. They both stared straight at him. While not as telling as an exchanged glance, the doctor knew this, too, might be a sign of doubt in their selected course of action.

“The time to argue and vilify me has passed,” Caine continued. “If you want to make sure your father is well, untie me and allow me to examine him. I know more about his medical history than you or even he does. I pose no threat to you.”

He stopped talking and waited patiently. He waited and watched. Neither boy moved for a few moments. Dave was the first. He glanced back and forth between the three of them with worry on his face. But not once did he say a word, as Caine had hoped he would, to convince James to release him and allow him access to his father.

James just stared directly at Caine. He stared into his eyes so long that the doctor actually began to feel uncomfortable, though he never showed it. Just as he was about to give up hope that he would be freed, as he began to remember German curse words he could use to call out to them while keeping his dignity intact, James walked toward him.

“What are you doing?” Dave asked.

“I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not,” James said, “but if he is and my dad doesn’t wake up, I’m going to feel like shit. If he’s just trying to get free and pulls something, I’ll smash his face in.”

Doctor Caine barely heard James’ threat as he had already begun looking around the room for a means by which to regain the upper hand. James was not an option. With his heightened strength and his unbreakable skin, any attempt to harm him would be futile.

His friend seemed a bit more open to consideration. Caine sensed a cowardice, an unwillingness to act, in him that he might be able to exploit. Still, the boy had come to find his friend and successfully freed him. Also, the cowardice he displayed seemed to have a sense to it that would cause the boy to keep a safe distance.

Samuel was his best bet, he decided. With any number of sharp instruments within his reach, in locations that James would not even have thought to look, Caine could hold one to his throat and regain control. After all, it was the threat of harm to his father that had prompted action from James. It was fear in his father’s death that was about to free him from his captivity against the cold concrete wall.

James’ hands came to rest on the handle that would release Doctor Caine. He was about to lower him to the ground despite Dave’s words of protest from across the room.

“I think you’re right,” Dave said. “Maybe we should just give him more time.” And Dave added, “You said you thought he even could heal you.” Dave continued, “I’m sure he’ll heal, you just gotta give him time.” Dave pled, “Let’s just talk about it. Just for two minutes.”

Doctor Caine only heard these words as background noise. He heard his own heart beating in his head. He watched as James gripped the handle of the crank. James would turn it and he would be free. Free to hold a surgical knife to his father’s throat and free to escape and find somewhere else to hide, perhaps to live long enough to formulate a new plan.

Doctor Caine would have been free to do all of these things, had another voice not spoken up.

“Listen to Dave,” James’ father said in a raspy, but clear, voice. “Leave him where he hangs. This is going to be the last room he ever sees.”

…

“Are you sure this is alright?”

“James, it’s fine. I know you don’t have your license yet, but this is cause for an exception.”

James’ father leaned his head back forcefully, taking immediate pleasure in allowing his neck to rest. He shut his eyes and hoped James would drive back to their home safely. He began to wonder how he was going to explain all this to his wife. She would be furious.

“It’s just, if we get pulled over, I’m gonna freak out and…”

“First of all,” James’ father interrupted him, “you aren’t going to get pulled over. But, let’s say you do. I’ll let the officer know that you are driving for me because you need to get me to a hospital.”

“We’re taking you to a hospital? I thought you said we shouldn’t…”

“No, no, you’re taking me home, but we’d tell the officer that. Just look at me. He’ll buy it. Then, if need be you drive me to the hospital first, then home.” He sighed. “Just stop worrying. After all that’s happened, getting pulled over is nothing.”

James stared straight ahead through the windshield. He was afraid something would dart out in front of him at any moment. Soon, he began to notice that cars were overtaking him on the left that had once been behind him. He didn’t care.

“You know,” James’ father said without opening his eyes or lifting his head from the headrest, “I ought to yell at you for telling your friend about your abilities. That’s something we talked about keeping secret.”

James pulled the car suddenly into the parking lot of a gas station and slammed the gearshift into park.

“You have got to be kidding me! You’re going to scold me right now for who I chose to trust? The doctor you took me to was harvesting your blood, dad! He was about to murder me! So let’s not talk about who trusted the wrong person.”

“That’s exactly my point,” his father said, still avoiding lifting his head. “When it comes down to it, we can’t tell anybody about how we’re different. It’s best not to take that chance. The fewer people we let in, the safer we are.”

“I get that you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have, I really do, but you need to see that you’re way of doing things isn’t law as soon as you say it. Everything is obviously not going to go as planned, so maybe we should talk about who should and should not be trusted and maybe you could respect my decisions sometimes like I might know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, like you talked to me about going off that night when I came after you? It’s a good thing I did, too, or you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Okay, so you saved me. Great, dad, that was over three years ago. I’ve learned a lot since then. And it was me who came to save your ass this time, wasn’t it? So I guess that makes us even.”

The two of them turned away from each other. James stared at the sky, in fury, and his father rolled his head to the side and watched an old man squint at the display screen of the gas pump as he tried to take deep breaths and calm down.

“Um, just to be clear, guys,” came Dave’s voice from the back seat, “you were both pretty much screwed and it was me who showed up and did all the ass saving.”

Neither James nor his father reacted at all. They continued to stare out their windows and ignore one another. Dave wondered momentarily if they even remembered he was sitting back there.

“I’m just saying,” he spoke up again, uncomfortable from the silence, “you know, a guy without super powers captured you both and then a guy without super powers saved you both, too. It’s kind of ironic when you really think about it. Kind of funny in a way.”

James threw his head back onto his own headrest and sighed as he stared at the interior roof of the car. “He’s got a point, you know,” he said to his father in a way that made it seem he hated to admit it.

James’ father rolled his head toward James and stared at him for a second. Then, with a great deal more effort than it should take anyone, he straightened himself in his seat and turned sideways so that he could face Dave. He sighed and blinked heavily before extending a hand back toward him.

“David,” he said, “thank you for saving our lives today. I’m glad that you know who we really are.”

Dave shook James’ father’s hand, sheepishly at first like he expected this to be some sort of practical joke, then more firmly and with a confidence he’d never quite felt before.

“My pleasure,” Dave said, and looked at James, who was now also turned and watching him, smiling. “But sometimes I wonder if I’m glad that I know any of this.”

James’ father chuckled and then fell back into his position in his seat and closed his eyes. “Sometimes I feel the same way,” he said.

James shifted back into drive and pulled out onto the main street from the gas station. The three rode in silence for a while. The tension that had previously been hanging was gone and a contented smile sat on each face instead.

James caught sight of Dave in the rearview mirror. Dave smiled, then shifted uncomfortably and grimaced a bit.

“Hey guys? I was just wondering something,” Dave said.

“If he’ll ever get out of there?” James guessed.

“He won’t,” James’ father answered. “He’ll die on that wall and with the documents he had strewn around, detailing all the people he’s killed over the years, that’s exactly what he deserves.” There was a nervous silence in the car for a moment and James’ father spoke up again. “He was dying already. I don’t imagine he would have lasted long even having received medical care.” While he wondered if the boys were feeling any sort of guilt, James’ father did not regret their actions at all. They hadn’t done anything to Doctor Caine, they just refused to release him. Furthermore, he knew releasing him and turning him over to the authorities would only compromise their secrets. They had done the right thing in leaving him in that room and he patted his son on the leg and said, “Don’t worry. He’s too dangerous. We did the right thing.”

“Um, no, that’s not it at all,” Dave said. “I was wondering if you guys think we could stop at Taco Bell. I’m starving.”

End of Book 2