Sunday, October 19, 2014

Minimalist Aesop's Fables

The first book I can remember sitting down and reading of my own free will was a hardcover collection of Aesop's Fables. It was probably the illustrations that drew (no pun intended) me to the book to begin with.

I doubt I understood a lot of the stories but there was one that I got. The Crow and the Pitcher. That's the one where a thirsty crow keeps dropping pebbles into a pitcher in order to raise the water enough so it can get a drink. For some reason that one stuck in my brain.

Take on your problems one pebble at a time. It's helped a lot over the years to keep a concept like that in my mind. It's also been on my mind a lot lately that it's a lesson I need to learn again every so often.

This time around, I decided to put my own interpretation down on paper (or on screen would be more accurate these days).

To date, I've done eight different Aesop Fables minimalist posters. I'm sure do more eventually, but for now, it's eight. Each poster is a different fable in a nine panel narrative (as well as the text from the fable).

You can see all 8 here. I'm doing another kickstarter in the hopes that I be able to print a run of all 8 fable posters.

If you like them, you can help make that happen. I'd really appreciate it!

-Mark

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/markgonyea/aesops-fables-illustrated-posters

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Here’s to hope!

 

A month back I mentioned I am trying to secure new interviews for the blog. Well, it appears I might have struck out in my attempt to interview Giorgio Tsoukalos of Ancient Aliens fame, though I hope I am wrong. I haven’t heard back from him yet. I am not giving up hope! He’s a busy guy and he must get lots and lots of emails.

I enjoyed penning the query email and the interview questions so I thought maybe you’d enjoy reading what I sent him. Raise a glass, gentle reader, to the once and future interview!

Giorgio,

Thank you in advance for taking the time to read my email.

My name is Sam Girdich. I am a writer, history & science buff, and co-founder of the sequential art/graphic novel project Strongarm Labs.

I would like to interview you!

I understand time your time is valuable so my interview format is designed to be quick and easy. I pose three main questions with one follow-up question each if clarification is warranted. And that’s it! I do not edit your replies in any way. Not a word is touched. I will send you a full copy of the interview pre-posting so you see exactly what the readers will read and give you the final word to publish it or not. My goal simply is to have fun and provide an avenue for myself and others to learn something new.

Before you read your three questions below, I invite you to visit my blog Lab Work to sample my posts and other interviews, as well as the Strongarm Labs page. Heck, Google or Facebook me if you want. I want you to know who I am and how I think so you know you can be comfortable having your name on my site.

I’ll wait here while you go check me out.

You’re back! Excellent.

Here is your intro, interview questions, and blog draft:

Strongarm Interview #4

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(Hey! That’s me!)

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(Giorgio is a better dresser than I.)

International traveler, speaker, and researcher Giorgio Tsoukalos is best known as a contributor and consulting producer of H2’s Ancient Aliens series as well as starring in his new H2 series In Search of Aliens. He is a proponent of the Ancient Astronaut or Paleo-SETI theory of history. Put simply, the theory holds early human development shows signs of unexplained biological and/or intellectual leaps, improbable similarities between cultures separated by vast distances, and anomalous artifacts that could be explained by the intervention of non-terrestrial, non-human agencies misinterpreted as supernatural beings.  Torch bearer of internationally bestselling author/investigator Erik Von Daniken, Giorgio is the Director of von Daniken's Ancient Alien Society based in Switzerland. He owns and maintains www.legendarytimes.com. He currently resides in California, USA.  (In the final draft I will link to the aforementioned sites.)

Before we begin let me state upfront what I think of the general concept of the Ancient Astronaut theory: it is possible. Given our current estimate of 13.8 billion years for the age of the Universe – which actually is another way of saying the age of Time if you think about it – and the growing number of confirmed planets (1,815) our fledgling instruments have already detected it seems unlikely (though not impossible) we are the only life that is, was, or will be. Couple this with how Humans behave and you have a legitimate chance that a sufficiently advanced civilization -if its psychology is remotely similar to ours- would go door-to-door across the Cosmos poking under rocks and occasionally messing with the locals. Do you truly think Humans would do no less given the opportunity? We’re explorers! We’re curious! Put a big red button in front of us and no matter how many warning labels you slap on it, we are GOING TO PUSH IT. For good or bad we are our best proof of possibility.

Of course possible does not mean likely. The Paleo-SETI theory is a theory. But as such, it must be debated with an open mind with the known facts and a willingness to incorporate new facts and discard disproven ones. A healthy skepticism of the old and new is paramount in any field of study. History, my lifelong field of interest, is constantly being re-written! Never should the prior generation’s dogmas be accepted as the final word.

Question 1. The Ancient Astronaut theory is criticized by some purely on the principal it robs humanity of some of its creative spark; as if to say without some outside influence we as a species are incapable of intellectual leaps, or at least less capable of them then we like to think. What is your reply to this line of thought and where in your opinion would humanity be without the extraterrestrial influences you posit?

Question 2. Is there a peer review process in the Paleo-SETI field? Mainstream academia routinely uses peer-to-peer review of findings to sift out erroneous data, flawed theories, or weed out frauds –which happen in mainstream academic institutions like any other field despite the impression to the contrary. If not, why and how might the field be affected by such a practice?

Question 3.  If granted unlimited resources, into which one spot on Earth would you pour your time and energy investigating?  Why this spot? Whom would you bring with you, if anyone, and what would you do there?

I know you are busy, so I really appreciate your time. Please let me if we can work together! Having fully read works by von Daniken, Hancock, Vallee, Hoagland, Strieber, Fort and others I have lots of questions I would love to ask you in a future interview.

Again, thanks!

Sam

Monday, September 22, 2014

The Last One to One Hundred!

The two things I've loved since I could hold a pencil have been comics and graphic design. The idea for One to One Hundred was simple, combine design with numbers to create a unique, artistic poster. The result was far from simple and I continued with poster after poster. Each one focusing on a different design element. Shapes, Circles, Lines, Overlaps, Triangles and more!

After 4 years, 10 posters and 1000 different designs I've finally finished the series. I'd really love it if you could take 30 seconds to watch the intro to my Kickstarter video about the culmination of this project. I'm hoping you'll be impressed with the amount of time and effort that have gone into it (most of the posters have taken well over 100 hours to complete and a few are nearly 200). 


https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/markgonyea/the-last-one-0

Thanks for your support!
 -Mark (the far more silent half of Strongarm Labs)


Sunday, September 21, 2014

Thank You

 

thank-you

Yes, you!

Thank you for taking the time to read my words and share them with your family and friends. I find value in what I write and the subjects I choose, but that doesn’t mean I assume they hold value for others. So, when my blog stats show readers are stopping in from circles far beyond those of my friends and associates, I am stunned and more than a little curious as to what people in distant lands make of my ideas. What does a reader in Iran take away from the iVon Daniken post that a reader in China might not or visa-versa? Do Star Wars fans in Italy and Russia find the same humor in Sand Jerks - Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate Tusken Raiders. What do readers in Germany or Romania make of my short stories like The Death of Joe Average or Knight’s Rider? These are all questions I hope to one day have the answers to.

Until then, to the local folks I know and love and the folks far away I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting:

Thank you! Спасибо! Danke! Takk! Tack!

Teşekkür ederim! Dziękujemy! תודה!

Vă mulțumim! Grazie! 谢谢!Gracias! شكرا!

Dank je wel! Merci! ありがとうございます!

Saturday, September 6, 2014

The NAKED truth about internet privacy.

Privacy concerns in the (NUDE) internet age are making the (TOPLESS) news rounds again as Jennifer Lawrence (NUDE) and Kate (NAKED) Upton fell victim to a hacker who posted private (LEAKED NUDE) images online. Computers sit on our tables and smart phones rest in our (HACKED NAKED PHOTOS) pockets seemingly alone and isolated, but they are really bright islands (NUDES POSTED ONLINE) on a vast ocean that sometimes attract pirates. Our (STOLEN PHOTOS) devices are anchored to the Web via pathways moving in BOTH directions. Perhaps this latest (FEMALE CELEBRITIES EXPOSED) breech will teach us that privacy is not private when data is involved so we must treat (NAKED PHOTOGRAPHS) it as such, but likely not. We still haven’t got it into our (NUDE PICS) head that computers separated by continents functionally share the exact same space. There is no here or there in cyberspace. I think that is the lesson here, but I can’t help think the media (NUDE PHOTOS LEAKED ONLINE) headlines are trying to get me to think (NUDE) and search (NUDE) about something else.

All (WORDS) used were lifted from REAL HEADLINES on multiple NEWS sites. UNFORTUNATELY.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

The Zombie Alphabet


A is for Appetite awoken by death
B is for Bat swung to save your last breath
C is for Corpse clawing at your back door
D is for Duct Tape used to even the score
E is for Electricity lost to discord
F is for Family hidden far from the horde
G is for Grave that lost its tight grip
H is for Headshot fired hot from the hip
I is for infection that spreads like the wind
J is for Jail keeps them out but you it keeps in
K is for Kindness not lost in the fray
L is for Lure drawing zombies away
M is for Military down but not out
N is for Nails hammered to keep dead things out
O is for Outbreaks spreading too fast to cope
P is for Preppers still stocked-up on hope
Q is for Quiver emptied in vain
R is for Rest to try to stay sane
S is for Salvation just out of your reach
T is for The Turned crawling up on the beach
U is for Underground forced to flee to in despair
V is for Victim who was caught unaware
W is for Walkers whose origins are unclear
X is for X-Mas has been cancelled this year
Y is for You choosing not fear, but to act
Z is for Zombie once fiction now fact

Thursday, July 10, 2014

I Mourn the Loss of Evil


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I watched Maleficent. If you haven’t watched it then stop reading now. Seriously. Stop because I am about to unload two piles of spoiler filled mad on this movie. The first consists of its merits as a movie. The second consists of the thematic elements that made me want to throw my popcorn at the screen and my head at a wall in a way few movies have lately. I saw this philosophical facepalm days ago and I am still a bit pissed.

Point One to get the boulder rolling. Movie Review. Maleficent is the Sleeping Beauty tale as told from the titular villain’s point of view. Angelina Jolie was, for the most part, very good in this role. She hit her best strides as Maleficent at her villainous peak. She delivered some very good lines and looked the part. Good stuff. She was weakest when Maleficent was the cliché fairy flying about the magic land of blah blah blah. I’m not slamming those parts per se. I went to the movie to see one of my favorite childhood villains, if you get me. The effects were pretty good, as were the creature designs. Sharito Copely as King Stefan was a complete waste of screen time, unless of course he was directed to play a weak predictable abusive cliché psychopath drama-queen with no redeeming qualities at all - opposite of everything King Stefan was in the original Disney telling. He’s the reason Maleficent turned dark and evil in case you missed my subtle hint. Elle Fanning as Aurora wasn’t bad. What at first seems over the top acting makes sense given her character was magically altered as an infant to feel happy all the time. Think about that. She was not the person she was born to be. She was changed by magic into a something not quite human. Perhaps that was for the best considering she was entrusted to the care of three non-humans who lacked of any real idea of how humans work, or seemingly any desire to learn. Aurora mentions in passing a time the fairy trio tried to feed her spiders. Another awesome choice by the aforementioned King, yes?

Where was the Queen, you ask? The woman who carried and birthed Aurora was of no importance to the film or any of the characters. Zip. Zero. None. Forced to lose her only child (at which point she disappears entirely from the film), married to a crazy abusive husband, and doomed to live out her days alone until illness ushers her into the mercifully arms of death off screen. The queen, in my opinion, is the real victim in this tale.

Here’s where the movie started disappointing me. I kept hoping for a sudden twist revealing we were being sold a bill of goods; that the story from Maleficent’s view point was nothing but a lie weaved by the Arch Villainess year after year to devastating effect in her plot to take over Stefan’s kingdom. But no. She spends years caring from afar for a little girl fathered by her abusive first and only love. The caring bit made for a decent redemption vehicle but it was largely unneeded. The child was cursed to die by a very specific age in a very specific way that no power on Earth could stop. Throwing her off a cliff would not have killed her per the very plot event fueling half the movie. But why bring the story itself and logic into the story. If you are looking for the traditional tale brought to life then don’t bother seeing the film. The trailers lie. Per the new standard, they are far more evil than Maleficent ever was. Keep reading.

Point Two. Thematic Elements. What the hell is with reworking villains or monsters into little more than victims lacking coping skills? Can we think of nothing better than taking established tales and giving them the ‘bad is good and good is bad’ Opposite Day treatment? Retelling a story from the view point of the villain can be interesting and thought provoking when done right. It was not done right here, it rarely is. I blame the popularity of John Gardner’s 1971 novel Grendel for a lot of this. Grendel is the Beowulf tale as told by the misunderstood Grendel monster. It drank deep from the well of the late 60’s. It is deeply stacked ’Who am I?’ angst, anti-establishment, and anti-authority wrapped around a vein of existentialism. You can view this yourself in the 2007 film Beowulf. Also an Angelina Jolie film, interestingly enough. Grendel’s attacks on Hrothgar’s hall result largely in part from his sensitive hearing. (Should have called him Grinch, not Grendel.) He’s also the bastard child of the king so there’s the rejected child angle, as well. Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader. “Incrediboy” becomes murderous Syndrome. Jason Voorhees becomes, er, Jason Voorhees. At least Anakin became more likeable.

Evil is birthed from circumstance. No one is truly bad. They are only victims. Perhaps then King Stefan is merely misunderstood. Maybe he has a story justifying his actions. I can only assume something bad must have happened to him in that barn he was living in as an orphaned child. Evil is made, remember. Think about the message that sends. It pushes aside the responsibilities of choice, civility, adaptation, and perseverance from the individual. Reducing villains/monsters and their actions to the status of a misunderstood victim is paramount to declaring the world is evil. Evil because it lets bad things happen that turn people evil against their will or choice from which they are powerless to change. Life is twisted into a blind dealer of injustice (real or perceived) which grants the victim the implied sanction to act in any manner he or she wishes. I was hurt, therefore I can and will hurt others becomes the norm. Watch the news and try to tell me this narrative does not already have roots.

Pruning the concept of evil from the landscape of ideas has another awful side effect. Take away villains and monsters and you take away heroes. Joseph Campbell’s work on the Hero’s Journey is top notch. Please read it! Put simply: the journey is a voluntary transformative event enabling growth in strength and wisdom in order for the hero to overcome an initially stronger and deadlier threat. Removing obstacles and threats removes the need for growth and change. Remember that, because all too often in daily life these challenges are internal. A hero sometimes is that man or woman who fights the monster within themselves. Evil doesn’t always wear a hockey mask. The more often evil is renamed or excused away in all its forms, the less important or necessary it is to fight it. It’s all relative, right? “My behavior isn’t so bad. I’m only human. Who are you to judge me?” Why struggle to bring forth the best in you when society’s bar is set so low becomes the question. On cynical days I wonder if this trend is not on purpose, this lowering of the bar. Evil is easy. Good requires work because you don’t get whatever you want to, like a spoiled two-year old. Humans need examples of great Evil and great Good. They help us learn what to avoid and what to emulate.

Conscious, active, and willing evil is real and no amount of smearing the moral color pallet into a dull grey stain will make it go away. There isn’t always another side of the story. Some humans are simply bad as proven by their actions. And we need to stay alert for them. The majority of us, though, are on a path. We have choices. We can choose right from wrong, good from bad, but only if we know what those words mean and how they shape us.

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Sunday, January 12, 2014

The Death of Joe Average


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A bit of background before the story. Watching re-runs of the Adam West Batman television series as a kid, I was strangely struck by the readily available supply of hired thugs. Who were these people?  Didn't these nameless fists know the elaborate death trap was doomed to fail? Didn't they know they would get thrown into the waiting arms of Police Chief O'Hara's men? What would they tell their friends and family when they eventually came to bail them? Did they even have a family? Were they evil or just desperate and broke? Did they really want to kill Batman or anyone else?
That last question really stuck in my throat. What if the death trap WORKED. Would they celebrate the death of The Bat with the A-list villain, or be struck down by the horror of facilitating a slow, gruesome, and painful murder? Here’s my answer.

The Death of Joe Average

It wasn’t that Martha was dulled to the sound of a slamming door; it was more that she was accustomed to it. It was a common sound in her life, like the crying child somewhere behind a door down the dirty hallway of almost every building she had ever lived in. Angry voices was another. The ones through the ceiling and the floor were usually harder to understand then the ones from adjacent apartments. Sometimes she could hear the quick, low thud that cut short the fury of words and replaced with it with crying. Had she thought about it, she would have had to say she also heard laughing, children playing, and the noises young couples are prone to make. But those noises are not warnings. Slamming, crying, and yelling are the ones to pay attention to. Martha had learned, for example, there are several ways a door is opened. One is when a door knob seems to twitch or click, rather than twist through its full range of motion before exploding open. What is important here is what happens afterward. If the opener holds the door to keep it from hitting whatever is behind it and closes it just as fast and just as silently, then the goal is speed. The opener might be hiding or running from someone. If the door is left to its own momentum, they might be trying to catch you by surprise. Another way is when the sound of a knob wrenched is paired with the impact of a shoulder or hand sending the door crashing into whatever is behind it. There is no attempt to stop it or reclose it as the door was merely an obstacle, and it, along with anyone nearby better damn well not get in their way.
Martha was lying in bed next to her young daughter reading her Good Night Moon when her front door suddenly slammed open. She placed her hand over her daughter’s mouth holding a finger over her own to silence the girl. The door had been locked. She checked it twice before putting her daughter to bed. The door bounced off the wall before she heard a hand fumble off and then on the knob before catching it and closing it in failed silence.

“ohgodohgodohgod”

The voice was her husband’s and it confirmed what she heard in the door: he was panicked.

“You stay here,” she whispered to her daughter.The girl nodded pulling a small plush panda to her chin.

Martha closed the door behind her as she walked into the short hallway to the living room. Her husband paced around a small glass-top table occupying the space between the couch and a dying flat screen television.

“he’sdeadhe’sdeadhe’sdead…”

“Who is, Steve?” Martha spoke in a low, calm tone. She tried to guess from one of the number of people he used to work for and with. All dangerous people. All skilled, like her husband, in ways to hurt people.

He turned. He was crying. Or was. Thin shiny lines wandered down from his eyes to his chin. His eyes were blood shot. Martha noticed the right eye was puffy and darker than the left.

“YOU PROMISED US NEVER AGAIN!”

She lunged at him, fists flailing at his face. His hands never moved from his sides. His arms hung limp from his shoulders never moving to protect his already swelling face. Steve took every hit, every blow. He could stop her, and she knew it, but he deserved it. He went back on his word, lied to his wife and child. And that wasn’t the worst of it.

“Damn you! What did you do, Steve? Huh? Did you get punch happy on another wannabe cape? Someone hire you and a goon squad to break an arm? Or was a back? Or was this cape thrown off a building as a message like the last time? Huh, tough guy? WHO IS DEAD?!”

“Joe Average!” he yelled in her face.

She instantly stopped. Her chest continued heaving like a bellows but for the rest of her, time ceased. Her eyes captured movement again flicking back and forth across his face reading its lines and how the evaded hers.

“no..” Her voice was lower than the whisper she used for her daughter.

“Joe Average is dead.” Steve said it simply.

He slowly turned and sat on the couch. His hands fell into his lap as lifeless as before. He looked at them wishing they were gone.

Martha blinked rapidly with no regular pattern. A spastic, processing blink mirroring the twitch in mouth as if she meant to say something. It lasted only for a moment before she looked down at him.
“He can’t be dead. A thousand guys like you couldn’t hurt him.” She threw the words at him as if their truth could undue Steve’s words. He was wrong. He had to be.

“Joe Average is stronger and tougher than…anybody!” She blurted it out not really knowing what she was trying to say.

“He’s invulnerable. The real kind of invulnerable. Remember in the 80’s when, what’s his name, Professor Crisis teleported him to the center of the Earth during his UN speech? He crawled back to the surface of the Earth. Everybody knows that! He can’t be dead, you idiot!”

Steve listened to every word. The last part, he thought, was right. But, she knows I’m not lying. She knows I’m right. That’s what she’s trying to talk out of existence.

“He gave me this black eye,” he said pointing to the darkening patch around his swollen left eye.
“Who?” she asked.

“Joe did!” he answered. “The guy who freezes rivers with this breath. He hit me with everything he had trying to save his life and all I got was this black eye. I should be dead!”

“Oh god, Martha,” he added. “…it was terrible...”

His head dropped as if following the words falling from his mouth. He sobbed low, never wiping the tears from his eyes, never moving his hands.

Martha stared at him not knowing what to make of this. Steve wasn’t’ smart when it came to decisions, but he was always solid when the consequences fell back on top of him. He’s…broke. Steve has been on the receiving end of beatings before, some bad. It was a constant danger in his line of work: thug for hire. She remembered one night he came home with a smashed right hand, four cracked ribs, and a shattered sternum. A local crime boss put out the word for hired fists to take out a new cape. The cape, a woman, was making a name for herself as a skilled fighter. So, twenty men and women eager to score a bonus by landing her mask waited in ambush. Turns out she was a Super, only she kept it hidden. Real smart. Steve landed a clean jaw breaker and pulped his own hand in return. Rock-hard skin. She reversed punched him in chest and that was that. He woke up a short time later alone and injured behind a crate. Even this didn’t stop him. He just said next time someone else can take the first swing.

“What happened?” she demanded

“I got a text from this guy I know,” he replied taking deep breath. “He got a call from a guy we both worked for a while ago. Turns out this guy runs his own, uh, like temp agency or something. He hires bodies for other people now. You know what kind of people I mean. Anyway, it was big money paid in advance for a single night. I thought it was enough money that maybe you’d forgive me breaking my promise to give it up. Stupid, I know.”

Steve described the setting from earlier that night. He was in a warehouse near the industrial section of the city where business concerns too loud or noxious were tucked away. A dozen other hired hands wandered about stretching or talking to pass the time. No one knew who had arranged for them, which was common, but waiting around was not. Time was money. Idle chatter drifted past Steve distracting him from forgetting his promise to never again accept money to hurt someone.

“Damn right I got the money he owed me!”

“My wife never smiles at me the way this chick does.”

“ …just as long as I get paid.”

“Crap in a hat where is this guy?”

“Do we get costumes?”

“Settle down, kids.”

The group quieted instantly. This voice was new.

“Daddy’s home. Do any of you actually know who your father is? Never mind. Rhetorical and don’t care.”

The speaker looked plain to Steve. No fright wigs or bizarre togs. A cheap, dark charcoal suit. Scuffed shoes. White shirt. Nothing special except for his tie. That was expensive. You could tell by looking at it. A thick black line right down the center of him.

Steve and the rest of the crew were all veterans of the trade. Each had dozens of capers notched on his or her belt. Some specialized in military style operations while others were legitimate masters of unarmed combat. What thread they all seemed to share, from Steve’s quick review of the room, was the lack of enhancements. He had worked a few times with thugs hardwired for superhuman strength and speed. Bone Breakers who did not give a shit about cash and only cared about upgrades and maintenance agreements. Scary, dangerous people in a pool of workers filled with scary and dangerous. That lot was absent. That meant this truly was a cash-only crowd. Short-time work, in other words. Whatever this guy was paying them for, it wasn’t going to take very long.

The suit glided up to the group and continued.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” His tone was pleasant yet carried a deep vein of self-confidence. “I… am none of your damn business.”

“Nothing personal,” he continued. “Understand we are here to complete a transaction. That’s all.”
The suit’s eyes scanned the faces before him. They all looked calm with a couple on the verge of boredom. Steve wondered if the suit understood the group was watching him right back. Their calm exteriors would evaporate if threatened or they smelled a set-up. He figured the suit knew. The suit moved a bit at all times, but especially when he talked as if like a body caught in the tides of a racing mind. Steve thought the suit was nervous. He was wrong.

“To complete this transaction you need to do exactly as I say. Chisel that in stone.” The suit pointed to his head to demonstrate. “If I say sit on a duck, you ask which one and how long. If you have any other questions then I suggest you change lines of work.”

He turned from the group without another word. He didn’t have to worry about questions. No one arranges a gathering like this without having a target to throw it at. Besides, details and plans are important before the action starts and rarely after.

“We have a guest coming.” The suit was looking at one of three watches on his wrist now visible when he pulled up on his jacket sleeve.

Again, meaningless information, thought Steve, unless they were here to hit him. He had heard of that kind of thing happening before.

“I want everyone on their best behavior,” he added. “He should be here right…now.”

Suddenly, silently the room filled with brilliant white light.

Ah hell, thought Steve. His internal assessment was joined very externally by the woman to his left.
“Shit.”

The other reason plans were often useless was some powers in the world were immune to them. Above them. Her single word encapsulated everything that brilliance meant for them. They all knew this signature, this particular shade of white that quickly condensed into a man floating six inches above the concrete floor between them and the suit.

Joe Average thought Steve in a whisper to himself fearing the owner of the name could hear even the words spoken in a man’s own head.

“Remain calm,” says Joe.

His voice fills the building, though it is not loud. To Steve and the others the voice comes into their ears from all angles. It’s a disquieting sensation that alludes to the power in the man before them who otherwise looks typical in every way. Average height. Average build. Average appearance. Even his clothes are normal. Store bought jeans topped with a white button shirt. Joe Average. But then you remember the voice. You remember the power. You remember pictures of a man kneeling unprotected in the vacuum of space on the wing of a damaged space shuttle. You remember footage of a man standing a between forty-foot tall tsunami and the island it never reached.

The thugs didn’t move. If the suit thought they were willing to even touch him for any price he was beyond mistaken. Steve once saw an enhanced villain try to hit Joe. Joe moved so fast he simply ceased being at one place and came into being a few inches away. The man punched air for what seemed like a several minutes without any signs of fatigue until Joe reappeared with a resigned look on his face saying If you insist. Joe didn’t move that time. The villain’s man’s fist folded like a car ramming a thick concrete wall. His knuckles caved so far into his palm his fingertips touched past his own wrist. The noise was like a muffled wet pop! It was the worst sound Steve ever heard until the man started screaming. Punching a block of diamond would feel softer than hitting Joe.

“Joe!” cried the suit happily.

Joe turned to the suit. The suit in turned rushed forward as if into the embrace of an old friend.

“THE Joe Average!” The suit slapped Joe on the shoulder, only to quickly pull it back with a shake.”
“Ouch! Ha! Lost my head there for a moment. Not every day I get to meet ‘The Everyman’s Hero’. ‘The Paladin’. This is a real pleasure,” said the suit.

Joe leaned a fraction closer to the suit then turned toward us. His eyes traveled the over the rest of the small warehouse before returning to the suit. He looked puzzled. Steve thought he saw a faint glow in those puzzled eyes. A short lived shuffle of shifting clothes and boots rose around him. Rapidly exchanged glances confirmed the others, like Steve, suddenly wanted very much to be somewhere else.

“Where is…” Joe started to ask.

“The Umbra King,” interrupted the suit. “Your nemesis. Yeah. Sorry about that. The rumors of him hatching a mass death scheme were a lie. I started those ants up and down the grapevine. Everyone knows lies don’t work on you, so I’ll be blunt; I wanted to meet you.”

“Sonofabitch!” Shot out a man in the back of the group. “He’s a damn fanboy!”

The thought spread instantly on low nervous chuckles greased by the hope this was the moment they all were waiting for. The group slowly backed away as if by one mind. The fanboy got his meet-n-greet. Time for the props to go.

“Stay where you are, please”, said Joe without looking at them and without loss on the effect of his voice. He was fixated on the suit. Not worried, but curious.

“Yes, stay put,” echoed the suit meeting Joe’s bemused look.

Steve didn’t like this. The suit was right. Joe always knew a lie when he heard one. Yet the suit never said yes or no to being a fan boy. Something was wrong. There was an invisible puzzle in front of him. He tried to piece together what was wrong, but all he kept going to was the promise he broke coming here. So he just stopped trying.

“We’re not trespassing, Joe. I rented the place. And none of the kids here have warrants. We’re sin free as far as you’re concerned.” The suit turned to Steve and the others. “It’s not every day you get to stand before God, in a manner of speaking, and look him in the eyes guilt free.” The suit paused to let the smile growing in the corners of his mouth reach full size. “In fact, you Joe, are the only person here who has broken the law tonight.”

Surprisingly, Joe laughed. He landed and walked to a discarded chair. He brushed off the split leather seat, placed it back on four legs, and sat down.

“You have three minutes then I have to go,” said Joe.

“Thank you, but I won’t take that long. I have another appointment tonight as well. Do you mind if I stand?” he asked politely.

“Please do”, answered Joe.

The suit’s smile rapidly fell away.

“Best estimates give you thirteen distinct senses. I’m willing to bet you used every one to poke around the building, any vehicles parked outside, and us. That’s a Federal level invasion of privacy even for you. But, given how many people have tried to kill you over the years, I understand your caution and forgive you. My car is the one leaking antifreeze, by the way. Got a little on my hands.”
“I know”, said Joe in so matter of fact a tone it struck Steve as creepy. Hearing the words from all directions at once did not help. 

“I knew you did. Okay,” said the suit with a wave of dismal reserved for flies. “You have places to be. I have places to be. I arranged this with the hope of shaking your hand.”

The suit walked up to Joe and simply, confidently thrust out his right hand to Joe. Joe looked at the hand and the man bearing it. Again, surprisingly, he laughed. Joe leaned back in the chair.

“Then what happens?” asked Joe. “And what was your name?”

The suit’s arm didn’t move.

“What’s happens next is we’ll all probably just go home. Theirs to theirs. Me to mine. And you’ll probably be on the moon or some such place. I’d rather not give my name, if that is ok.”

Joe stood.

“I’ve met a lot of people over the years. You’re an interesting nut. I could discover it in a few seconds if I wanted to. And if I ever see you again I will.”

Joe straightened himself to his full average height and shook the suit’s hand. It was a brief exchange that ended as silently as it started. Joe nodded to the suit and closed his eyes.

His eyes snapped open wide and alarmed. He closed his eyes again. His face strained for a brief instant. When he opened them again he stepped back staring in panic at the suit.

“Is something wrong?” asked the suit with a too stressed sincerity.

Joe looked at his hands. Then back at the suit. They were trembling.

“It’s been a long time since you felt fear, hasn’t it?” asked the suit. “Long enough to forget what it felt like. Your mind turns against itself. Your body rushes to run, fight, and piss itself at the same time.”

Joe stepped back from the suit and looked at the thugs.

“Yes,” answered the suit to Joe’s glance. “This is why they are here.”

The suit turned to the hired fists. “Kill him.”

“What?” asked a man in the back of the group.

“Kill him,” repeated the suit. ”Perhaps I should say kill this man because I just killed Joe Average.”
Steve looked at the still living, breathing Joe Average standing some twenty-feet away. Breathing? Joe’s chest pushed and pulled air in quick, shallow motions. Steve also noticed small damp patches soaking through Joe’s white shirt pinning it to his body at random spots. Just like his own clothes.
“Some of you are catching on,” said the suit. He sat down in the chair Joe used while checking his watches again. “I was serious about my appointment so someone bring the slow kids up to speed.”
“He took away my power,” said Joe calmly pronouncing his own death.

Steve relived Joe’s words from the sagging cushions of his own couch. Chaotic images of fists and boots hammering like pistons on bone and opened flesh flashed in his head.

“We were on him instantly. I’m not even sure why. I guess to see if it was true. Does that make sense? He fought back. Fought hard. Never tried to run. That scared me. What if he got his power back? We HAD to kill him then because every second was maybe the second…

“You went back to being to nothing,” said Martha.

“Ya, I guess so.”

“What about the man in the suit?” she asked.

Steve looked up at Martha. She back down at him. She hadn’t physically moved and her eyes gave no hint of movement behind them, either.

“He watched. Never said a word. He just watched. Typical guy hires goons, he never shuts up. Got to rub it in. Got to show off who is the smartest guy in the room. This guy watches every punch and kick like he had to,” said Steve.

“No plans? No next step?” she demanded.

“Not to us, but I heard him whisper to Joe. That’s when I knew how bad it all really was.” Steve’s lapse from despair fell into waste. Without warning he started sobbing again, but just as fast as the emotions showed up he bottle them back up. “He bent down over Joe at the end. I was closest to them. A group like us can kill a man in a few seconds. Joe lasted almost three minutes and he looked like it. His right eye was caved in and dead. I don’t know where his ear was.” Steve took a deep breath. The real bloody picture of Joe, the one Martha must never learn, refused to move from in front of him. “Maybe he had a piece of his power left. A little one that made him last so long. It was horrible.”

“What did he say?” she demanded more than asked.

“He said it wasn’t personal. He told Joe he died from a thousand cuts. Or something like that. That all the ways people tried to kill him over the years left traces, like scratches. He figured out how to add them up and push them over. The suit held up his right hand when he said it. I don’t know what that was supposed to mean”

The handshake?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he answered. “I don’t know. Then he said he was meeting with The Umbra King next and he’d get the same but different.” Steve knew what those words meant. What they meant for everyone. He waited for Martha to show some sign she understood. She gave none.

“Damn it, Martha! He killed the most powerful person on the planet and was off to kill the second most powerful. Except, the other guy ain’t Joe! The other guy will pull you part first and never ask questions later. Joe kept the other guy in check. And now there’s no more Joe.”

“How do you know it was really Joe?” she asked.

“Stop it!” He yelled sending a spray of drying tears and spit onto the table between them.“Stop trying to convince yourself I’m wrong! I am not wrong!”

Before she saw him actually move he was on his feet and the table was crashing into the wall behind her. Its cheap frame crumbled at the joints on contact with a wooden thunkrish leaving deep gashes in the drywall. The glass top broke in several large shards that burst into dozens of smaller, sharper pieces when they hit the floor.

“We got to, got to get out of here!” Suddenly animated, Steve moved toward their bedroom.

He stopped.

His daughter, hugging the stuffed panda to her thin chest, stood in the doorway. Her small silhouette cast an even smaller shadow into the hall from the bedroom ceiling light.

“Sweetie, go back to bed,” Martha prompted. “Close the door and go back to bed. Mommy will be right in.”

The child froze staring at her father’s face.

Steve looked at her, and then at his bedroom beyond her. She was in his way. A small obstacle between him and everything he needed to run away. Everything they needed, he corrected himself. Hidden money, clothes, and cell numbers with owed favors tied to them. All the things he needed right now. Martha again directed their daughter back to bed. Her words were unrushed, disarming, and silky. It was the voice Martha reserved for comforting the child whenever he smashed a glass or installed a new hole in a nearby wall during an argument. His voice inside his head pushed with a strange, unfamiliar vigor. Get your stuff NOW! Don’t stop for her. Suddenly, he remembered another voice. This was the voice of a good man competing with his own. This other man his girl would run to when she heard the work of his own anger. This other man never asked for anything other than the opportunity to use his vast power to help others. That other voice was pleading to him in his memory under the clamoring of his own words. (Run idiot! Push her aside! HIT HER!) Past a shattered jaw and through bloody gaps in a irreparable mouth (DON’T STOP FOR HER!) that other man asked to live simply because:

“…therez …more to do…”

The building suddenly shook without warning. Martha ran to her daughter. She was surprised and oddly comforted to see Steve did the same just as the windows shattered. Glass tore through the air like tiny drunk daggers. Several slivers struck Steve in the head as he placed himself between his family and the flying debris.

“Was that an explosion?” yelled Martha over din of creaking walls and a rising wail of fearful children and adults from the other apartments.

Steve raised his head. Small, warm lines drew themselves down the back of his head and into his collar. He said nothing. He was thinking about a meeting between a man in a suit and a murderous demi-god. One of them wasn’t going to walk away and the world was going to be left on its own to deal with the other.

Martha read his face. It occurred to her the sound wasn’t so much an explosion after all, but more like a door slamming shut.