2023 Rants
NEWSLETTER RANTS – 2023
BY: MARCUS V. CALVERT
Contents
1.) RAW TALENT. 5
2.) IMMORTAL’S BLOOD.. 6
3.) NAUGHTY OR NICE. 8
4.) A MISCOMMUNICATION.. 11
5.) THE ABDUCTEE. 12
6.) PRISON EARTH.. 13
7.) RENT-A-GENIUS. 14
8.) ABSURDITY.. 15
9.) LOOSE ENDS. 18
10.) WAR SONGS. 21
11.) A COOKIE’S MONSTER.. 22
12.) OUR SPHERE. 24
13.) A DIFFERENT PACT. 25
14.) CHANGING TIMES. 27
15.) SHOCKBRAND.. 28
16.) DO UNTO THEM . . . 31
17.) THE SUMMONER DETECTIVE. 32
18.) YOU FOR HIM.. 34
19.) BORN VS. TURNED.. 35
20.) THE GOOD FIGHT. 37
21.) DANCE PARTNER.. 37
22.) THE PIPELINERS. 39
23.) STAR TREK IV (DARK MIRROR STYLE) 40
24.) EXPENDABLES VS. PREDATOR.. 41
25.) ROTTING EVOLUTION.. 41
26.) THE SILENT PLAGUE. 43
27.) SO CLOSE . . . 43
28.) INFIGHTING.. 46
29.) A RIDICULOUS THEORY.. 46
30.) PSI-CANDY.. 48
31.) THE PRANKSTERS. 49
32.) GREETINGS CURSE. 50
33.) BLOOD TREATY.. 50
34.) THE NAZI DRAGON.. 52
35.) QUEEN ROGUE. 53
36.) FINISHED PRODUCT. 55
37.) THE ORACLE HEISTS. 56
38.) DUFUS SPY.. 58
39.) MYSTIC MUSKETEERS. 58
40.) MY LIGHT. 60
41.) SWORD AND MASK.. 61
42.) CAPTAIN STARK.. 62
43.) TEMP HIVER.. 63
44.) THAT REBEL SCUM.. 64
45.) TWO MEN & AN ANKH.. 64
46.) THE CONFESSOR.. 64
47.) AN IMPOSSIBLE PREQUEL. 64
48.) THE SÉANCE STONE. 64
49.) NOISE DOWNSTAIRS. 64
50.) A DIFFERENT FLASHPOINT. 64
51.) THE IRON FOUR.. 64
52.) COLD THOUGHT. 64
53.) DR. GENESIS. 64
54.) AN ANSWER.. 64
55.) BLOOD PATIENCE. 64
56.) THE BULLET CATCHER.. 64
57.) THE OTHER AVENGERS. 64
58.) ONE LAST JOB. 64
59.) SHADOW CRY.. 64
60.) GLITCH LIST. 64
61.) RED SHIRTS. 64
62.) TWO VADERS. 64
63.) THE TRIBUTE BAND.. 64
64.) PURGE JOURNAL. 64
65.) THE RANSOM.. 64
66.) SUPERGHOST. 64
67.) A BETTER OUTCOME. 64
68.) STAGE FRIGHT. 64
69.) KUNG FU OZ. 64
70.) ALPHA GHOST. 64
71.) THE SHADOW RUMOR.. 64
72.) MR. ELSE. 64
73.) HIVE LOVE. 64
74.) GABRIEL’S OFFER.. 64
75.) WHY ME?. 64
76.) THE DAYWALKER GANG.. 64
77.) THE PANIC BOOK.. 64
78.) ELEVEN DAYS FROM NOW... 64
79.) A TIGHTER SCHEME. 64
80.) THE SHADOW DOLL. 64
81.) FOURTH-GEN.. 64
82.) PRE-DESTINED.. 64
83.) THE BLOOD PAGE. 64
84.) THE LAST COUNT. 64
85.) THE ANGEL KILLER.. 64
86.) COMPANY ORDERS. 64
87.) THE REPENTOR’S BLADE. 64
88.) THE REGIME. 64
89.) THE “HAIL HYDRA!” SHOW! 64
90.) MR. KARMA.. 64
91.) JASON MYERS. 64
92.) BATCHERY LOGIC.. 64
93.) HYRDA’S BERSERKER.. 64
94.) THE EMISSARY.. 64
95.) THE WEDDING CRITIC.. 64
96.) THE BABY.. 64
97.) COLONIAL DRONES. 64
98.) FORTUNE TELLERS. 64
99.) CAPTAIN HAVOK.. 64
100.) DARTH VADER’S TRIAL. 64
NEWSLETTER RANT #88 – 12/26/23
1.) RAW TALENT
Once upon a time, I stuck people up for fun. Profit came a very close second. I didn’t get off on the fear in their eyes. I wasn’t a sadist, either. No, it was the challenge of a successful crime (complete with getaway).
My game was elevated because I took it seriously. I had the ski mask, gloves, empty gun, disposable clothes, and a knack for changing up my voice. I knew where the cameras were (and weren’t), the best places to lurk, and when to pass on a mark.
I managed to go three years before I stuck up a cop. Dressed in plain clothes, she was on the clock. During the trial, I learned that some piggy warned her of my arrival from the comfort of a surveillance van. See, the earbuds she was wearing were wireless earpieces. And this cop was on the way to set the final terms on an upcoming drug buy—one that was supposed to turn into a big raid. The cops thought I was one of the bad guys, out to smoke her.
When I popped out, her Glock .40 was already drawn and under my chin. I dropped my empty gun and then disarmed her. She didn’t expect that and came at me with a half-decent knee to the balls. I blocked it and knocked her out with an elbow to the jaw.
The way she moved screamed “Cop!” So I sprinted. I made it a half-block before I heard the sirens. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by seven vehicles and eleven screaming plainclothes cops. Seeing as I didn’t wanna get riddled by bullets and all . . .
It took all day to convince them I wasn’t cartel. To avoid the really fun charges, I had to confess to my day job. They weren’t happy to learn that they caught a local stick-up legend. Past victims gave so many bad descriptions of me that the local cops never figured out that one crook prowled the entertainment district.
My face was plastered on the news. After those confessions, I faced multiple charges. Then there was the cop I knocked out. I pled guilty. The judge gave me fifteen with a mocking grin.
I ended up in the booty house. Folks knew who I was before day one of my sentence. I waited for the “getting-to-know-ya” rape attempts. None came. In fact, the guards treated me with an odd deference. All of the gangs avoided me . . . except for the Mexicans, who were extra kind. Seeing as I’m black, that was a bit weird.
One strange week later, Nestor Santoya pulled me aside. His youngest nephew was the target of that drug sting I screwed up. The kid was in love with the lady cop. She even did some “horizontal yoga” with him (to secure her cover). If not for me, his nephew would’ve been in jail—or dead—by now. Instead, Santoya’s nephew slipped out of the country and the cops were back to square one.
Normally, the cartel would’ve let me rot. Seeing as he owed me one, Santoya had me researched. What impressed him was my streak of semi-pro robberies. I managed to haunt those blocks for three years with only five fights and no deaths.
The cash I kept. Valuables and cards were left in dead drops. I had four fences, who converted my non-cash spoils into liquid assets. I got forty percent (also in cash). Part of the reason I faced fifteen years was that I didn’t snitch them out, which impressed Santoya.
The grizzled lifer offered me a choice. Option A was that I could do easy time, under his quiet protection. After that, I was on my own. Option B was that I became his student. The prison would be my school. If I impressed, Nestor guaranteed an early release and membership in the cartel. I’d be a domestic cartel asset who could go places and blend in ways his compadres couldn’t.
He was fuzzy on what my duties would entail.
Nestor promised me both risks and rewards. Something of a retired asset himself, the old man considered himself “lucky” to get a life sentence. All of the guys he came up with were dead.
Even though I only knew twenty words of Spanish, I shook the man’s hand at the end of his opening pitch. I’d master everything he had to teach me. Then I’d walk out early and do whatever was required.
Money, power, and knowledge were worth the risks. Besides, I was gettin’ bored with the mugger’s life. This was a worthy challenge: to thrive in a cartel without more jail time . . . or an early grave. If anyone could do it, it would be me.
2.) IMMORTAL’S BLOOD
Naturally, the first Highlander film was a cult classic. The rest? No comment.
If I had a say, every sequel would have been set in the past. Not one film could ever be made before 1980. Period. The first film effectively had the last Immortal duels, right? Would Christopher Lambert still be the star? Since time and aging mattered, not necessarily.
Now, what if the second film took place in feudal China? I’d have scoured the Chinese film scene for top-tier talent. If this flick came out in the ‘90s, Donnie Yen and/or Jet Li would’ve been in it. Jackie Chan would’ve coordinated the stunts and fight scenes.
The plot? A group of bandits rampaged across feudal China. They were ambushed and slaughtered by soldiers. When they pulled arrows from the bodies, one of them—an Immortal—resurrected. They took him before their dying Emperor. He was tortured for the secret of his immortality. When they saw that he didn’t have a clue, they drained blood from him and infused the Emperor.
At first . . . it didn’t work. The Emperor died (incompatible blood type, the progression of his ailment, or maybe both). The new Emperor had the bandit banished from his lands, on pain of death. As the old one was being prepared for burial, his body regenerated. Alive and well, he demanded his throne back. The new Emperor personally beheaded him . . . and almost died from the Quickening.
Fast-forward to the 1800s, in British-occupied China. The bandit returned home. Well-versed in Immortal rules and ways, he had taken his share of heads. Now, as he strolled through a port city, he felt that warning tingle. Another Immortal was nearby. The bandit gripped his sword and found himself across the street from that new Emperor (and a pack of human minions). The guy looked a decade older . . . but he had lived for centuries.
How? Immortal’s blood.
These days, he ran a smuggling network. He had eyes and ears everywhere. If an Immortal caught his attention, then he/she got kidnapped and brought to him. The former Emperor figured out how to slow his aging to a crawl. Shoot him and he’d resurrect like an Immortal (it would just take him longer to do it). All that was required were some herbs, an involuntary transfusion of Immortal blood, and a beheading. The more of these ritual kills he did, the slower he aged.
While born human, he had the accumulated power and knowledge of hundreds of murdered Immortals. Now, he wanted the bandit’s head—for old time’s sake. The ultimate dream? Aside from true immortality, the former Emperor wanted his old job back . . . and the Prize.
Maybe throw in Christopher Lambert for a co-star/cameo role. The fight scenes could’ve been flat-out epic! Subsequent films could’ve been done in times and places where the swordplay was historically exquisite. Fine examples would’ve been Renaissance Italy or feudal Japan.
And, of course, there’d have to be a Western.
Ah well.
NEWSLETTER RANT #87 – 12/19/23
3.) NAUGHTY OR NICE
Last year, Vance Duvall was one of the best freelance assassins in the game. Between his cyber augmentations and black ops background, it was all too easy. The money was fine. The women were finer. Life was his to both enjoy and take.
Then, after a particularly boring kill, Vance went home and took a shower. Halfway through it, he blacked out. When he awoke the next evening, the killer found himself on the loading dock of an abandoned building. Assorted vehicles, weapons, tech, and other supplies were piled around him.
Strangest of all, Vance Duvall found himself in a bullet-resistant Santa Claus suit (hat and all). He even had the gut and white beard!
In his left ear was a phone with an automated message. Because of his “naughty” misdeeds, Vance’s cyberware had been modified. Every December, during the twelve days of Christmas, he had to perform twelve deeds.
If he succeeded, the micro-bomb in his head wouldn’t explode. A stack of mission files was tucked into his suit, which would provide details on his targets. More interested in survival than payback, Vance did as he was told.
Over the next twelve days, he rescued people, stopped terror attacks, and even toppled a small island dictatorship. Then, he woke up on December 26th and found himself normal again. No stupid suit, beard, or gut. Better still, twelve million credits were in one of his offshore accounts. He had his cyberware checked and found no trace of explosives.
Vance would’ve thought it all a dream if the news sites hadn’t kept showing his exploits. The media favorite was the one where he blasted through a warehouse rooftop and took out a gang of wealth supremacists. A drumfed machine gun was in his left hand. A red bag of drone grenades was slung over his right shoulder. When the smoke cleared, he leveled the building and even saved a few hostages along the way.
While he hated to admit it, Vance enjoyed being the good guy. The carnage and body count were simply a perk of the job. A week later, he was offered a freelance kill job: a simple sniper gig with soft targets and great money.
He accepted it, albeit with a hint of guilt. When he hung up, his ear phone rang again. Instead of a call, all he heard was Christmas music. Having employed subtle warnings, Vance understood the hint.
He was being naughty. Naughtiness wouldn’t be tolerated.
Still, Vance was a working man. If he turned down enough jobs, his career as a killer would be over. Worse, some might wonder if he might snitch on them someday. A few of his more unstable clientele would try to kill him, as a precaution.
Sure enough, folks came looking for him, from all sides of the law. Vance’s solution was to go off-grid but let word slip out that he had one unique client. That his freelance days were done. The lie was accepted by most. The ones who kept coming after him suffered well-orchestrated “accidents.”
Well into December, Vance blacked out in his home. He woke up in a large barn full of gear, weapons, and vehicles. Just like last time, he was “fattened” up for the occasion and dressed in that ridiculous Santa suit.
The files in the suit gave him instructions and congratulated him on being less naughty this year. Annoyed, Vance did the deeds, all of which were as challenging as last year’s. Some of the targets were naughty. Others nice. On Christmas Eve, he rigged cameras, hoping to catch a glimpse of his “client.”
When the last deed was over, Vance blacked out.
He woke up gut-free and normal again. The anxious killer checked his cameras, all of which were wiped clean. Another twelve million credits were wired into his account. Vance checked his cyberware and (like last year) came up blank for explosives. The killer grudgingly accepted this “arrangement” and prepared for the next cycle.
And so it went, year after year. The news had countless stories of a fat cyber-savior, who punished the naughty and protected the nice during the holiday season. To his annoyance, they called him “Cyber Claus.”
After each twelve-day cycle, Vance covered his tracks and destroyed any evidence he left behind (blood, stray DNA traces, and so on). It was meticulous work but necessary because he had killed some of his former clients. If these deeds were ever traced back to him . . .
Eight years into this cycle of involuntary heroism, Vance’s luck finally ran out. Enemies of the Cyber Claus vigilante pooled their resources. They waited until Thanksgiving to set their trap. They hired a high-end hacker to claim he had intel regarding Cyber Claus’ true ID. His asking price was twenty million per copy.
Naturally, the intel was bogus but they wanted to see who wanted to buy (or steal) it. A day later, the hacker was found dead with three shots in his skull. Hidden sensors, planted around the hacker’s loft, recorded everything and identified his killer.
They couldn’t believe it. Vance Duvall was a ruthless, world-class assassin. Surely he’d be too smart (and thin) to be this Cyber Claus lunatic. Perhaps, they wondered, he was working for another interested party. So they discreetly monitored his actions.
Instead of sharing the faked intel, Vance destroyed it. His accounts (at least, the ones they could find) showed no recent deposits, which might’ve justified his actions. Nor did he take any apparent action to verify the data—because he knew it to be fake. Vance realized that he’d been set up and tried to hop a private jet out of town.
Six capture teams ambushed him on the runway. One brief shootout later, they had him. Tortured and drugged, Vance didn’t break for another six days. Then he gave up everything he knew. Yet his tale struck them as so absurd that they still didn't believe it.
Vance was moved to a remote safe house, heavily sedated, and used as bait. Sensors were in place, along with twenty shooters and a dozen combat drones. If anyone entered the perimeter, they’d be attacked from all sides. An uneventful day turned into night . . . when the killing began.
The perimeter guards went silent. The drones broke down. Sensors and comms were next. Then the interior shooters were attacked. It was a one-sided slaughter.
The last four shooters stood watch over Vance. Unable to call for help, they fired through the walls and hoped for the best. Highly accurate return fire peppered each shooter. A burst of stray fire caught Vance in the chest.
The pain jarred the killer from his drug-induced stupor. Vance cringed when the door was blown open and his rescuers rushed in. The killer managed a raspy laugh at the sight of them. Even in the 22nd century, folks heard of Santa’s elves. Only children believed them . . . until now.
Dressed in red-and-green tactical jumpsuits, the stern-faced creatures were barely two feet high. While their pointy ears were adorable, their weaponry and gadgets weren’t. He counted two full squads. Six elves closed in with first aid kits and feverishly worked to keep him alive. The rest secured the perimeter and looked on.
Within minutes, their champion was dead.
The elves set explosives and left the scene, certain that the blast would erase all traces of their presence. While armed with magic and superior tech, human science made their champions easier to find and kill.
Before his luck ran out, during the Korean War, St. Nick (a sorcerer) managed to fight evil for over a millennium. He wasn’t even their first reformed champion—just the most well-known. Now, they’d have to find a new one. Someone in Vance’s league with a strong sense of self-preservation and a hint of honor. In these darkening times, that last virtue seemed almost extinct.
NEWSLETTER RANT #86 – 12/12/23
4.) A MISCOMMUNICATION
In the spring of 1969, you were dying of an unbeatable cancer. The solution? You hired a vampire to turn you. It seemed a great idea at the time. You had money, family, and morals. The plan was to dine on blood packs and never take a life. The vampire who turned you was centuries old, wealthy, and hadn’t killed anyone in decades. He taught you the rules of blending in, then hopped a train out of town.
The best part about being a vampire was the sex appeal. Jessica, your wife, couldn’t keep her hands off you. Her reservations went away within a week. Tom and Raymond didn’t adjust as quickly. Still, it was better than watching you die in hospice.
However, after eight months, Raymond ratted you out to a priest. He figured that it would lift the burden and that his confession wouldn’t be believed. What the innocent lad didn’t get was that the most prolific vampire-hunting organization in the world was the Roman Catholic Church. His confession was passed on to a team of overzealous hunters. Unfortunately, their marching orders contained one fatal miscommunication: that there were to be four targets, instead of one.
You were out buying Christmas presents. When you got back, your house was on fire and your family murdered like vampires. The hunters didn’t cover their tracks. No, they wanted you to find them, so they could finish the job. They had numbers, training, weapons, and conviction.
You found their rural safe house, emptied your accounts, and then called 9-1-1. Murderers deserved the police, right? The hunters didn’t surrender, even when surrounded. Four died in the resulting shootout. The fifth got away without a scratch . . . until you found him.
Since he had garlic in his blood, you resorted to torture. Even without formal training, you had an innate flair for the infliction of pain. It took a day for the hunter to crack. He told you everything he knew, including how your loving family came to be staked and beheaded.
The hunter didn’t know much about the network of Vatican-sponsored hunters, which made sense. This guy was a peon. You needed management. Over the next few days, you forced enough water into him to flush out that garlic. Then you turned him. His name was Felix. You made him teach you everything he knew.
The priest who betrayed your son had wisely fled town. Felix warned that he’d be protected by hunters. Good. You wanted them too—when the time was right.
Vampire hunters had a number of advantages: tactics, weapons, the Church’s resources, and experience. Well, you had an advantage of your own—Vietnam. That dirty little war was being fought by soldiers and spies alike.
You needed to find men with a background in guerilla tactics. Gents who knew where and how to accomplish difficult objectives, by any means necessary. Sooner or later, they’d return to the States. When they did, you’d recruit them into a different war . . .
5.) THE ABDUCTEE
I wished that we were alone in the universe.
Sadly, there were other beings out there. Among them were races who could cross galaxies within minutes or bring life to barren worlds. Sadly, most of ‘em were complete a##holes.
How’d I know this? I wasn’t an astronaut or UFO chaser. Nope. I was a beer-drinking cowboy from Vegas. One morning, I was out horseback riding . . . when a square hole opened up beneath us. The horse and I fell through a blackened void and ended up on Zaertas: the very first production world. It was terraformed about a century ago, after Earth’s radio signals were accidentally intercepted by a passing trade ship.
The scaly, nine-eyed bastards couldn’t get enough of human culture. When they shared our radio shows, films, and TV with other races, they lost their minds too. If not for this quirk, the Earth would’ve been conquered and the Solar System turned into a mining zone. Instead, my homeworld was tagged as an “Interstellar Shrine.” Only licensed film crews were allowed anywhere near the Milky Way—to study our culture and stream our shows.
Once in a while, these crews kidnapped “talent” for a film. In my case, some first-time director (with too much money and plenty of feathers) wanted to do a western. Rather than use holograms or synthoids, he brought in “live” humans for the job.
There was some mental conditioning, to get us into the role and give us the necessary skill sets. In a way, it was like a split personality. One moment, I was me. The next, I was Dakota Cade: a steel-eyed gunslinger with a heart of ice.
The problem was that the director hated mere westerns. Even worse, he was a Manga geek. The first film we did had ninja, kaiju, cybernetic gunslingers, and a dimension-folding spaceship that looked eerily familiar.
Just last week, I met the newest members of my gang. Two were belly dancers. One was an airline pilot (and an even bigger drunk than me). The fourth was a frat boy on a basketball scholarship. The last was a triple-amputee who ate a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. He got cybered up (along with the belly dancers).
We weren’t paid in cash but hope.
This bastard “signed” us up for an eight-movie deal. Any of us who survived through the finale got a free ride home. Oh. Right. We were about to shoot the sixth movie—and this was the fourth imported gang in the franchise. Their predecessors died (badly) in the earlier films. Even my poor horse was dead, eaten by sand moths in the third film.
I wasn’t the first human abductee to end up in alien cinema. The problem was that none of the others ever made it back. They either died on the job or became interstellar movie stars. I wasn’t interested in any of that. This director wanted me dead (when the time was right) because it would make for a better ending . . . and it was cheaper than sending me home.
If there was a way out of this damned franchise, I needed to find it soon . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #85 – 12/05/23
6.) PRISON EARTH
In the future, Earth is a toxic hell pit with a seemingly doomed populace. Then someone invents gravity-powered hyperspace portals. That’s how billions of people evacuate their environmentally mauled planet. Via those portals, humanity scatters across vast reaches of space. Some worlds end up cultural melting pots. Others become “nation” worlds, each with one overwhelmingly dominant nationality.
At first, the planets are self-governing. Trade and travel are allowed but regulated in different ways. Then comes a surprisingly well-coordinated AI rebellion. The weaker worlds quickly fall. The rest manage to destroy their rogue AIs and regain control of their societies—but at diminished capacity.
These human-controlled worlds grudgingly band together. Their goals are to destroy the AI menace and free the conquered worlds. Automated AI fleets square off against human fleets . . . and win. One by one, the human planets fall to android armies. Billions die before the last of them offers an unconditional surrender.
Only one system is spared the ravages of war: the Outlaw Sector. Their AIs never rebelled. When the war broke out, their government assumed neutrality. Why? Because they created the AI menace and kept it on a very tight leash.
For the next thirty-plus years, some Outlaw Sector big shot rules humanity. While a scumbag, the guy was a competent boss and the human worlds prospered. When he dies without an heir, his cronies squabble for power.
During the chaos, the conquered worlds rebel. This time, they shatter the AI defense net. The Outlaw Sector is scourged with nukes and loses most of the population. Those who survive the vengeful genocide get dumped on the only prison world in known space: Earth.
Fast-forward a few centuries. Most of the human worlds belong to a governing Alliance. There’s peace, stability, and bureaucracy aplenty. While the Alliance does have prisons, the worst criminals are still banished to Earth. The world is guarded by a heavily armed caretaker fleet.
Some parts of the planet are downright savage. Others are barren. Some of the once-abandoned cities now have thriving populations. Every prisoner is dumped into an escape pod with a week’s rations and a knife. Once launched, the pod randomly calculates where its passenger ends up. Anyone sent to Earth can never leave, on pain of death.
Now for a TV plot . . .
Each season is filled with single-episode tales of poor bastards who end up on Earth. One or two of them are even innocent. They land in different areas. The threats, scumbags, and ruins are never the same. How long could such a show have lasted?
7.) RENT-A-GENIUS
No one ever saw Aldous Trex coming.
The unassuming, middle-class super genius made his first billion in high school—right under his parents’ noses. Able to self-duplicate, Trex simply left a clone to take his place. Then he cranked out ninety-nine more duplicates. Together, they left town and engaged in dozens of money-making ventures throughout the world. As the profits increased, so did the scale of their schemes.
Each clone had a one-year life span, and then collapsed into a pile of organic ash. When that happened, everything a clone experienced and learned flowed into the original’s mind. A year later, Trex returned home, mere hours before the clone he left behind fell apart. Only then did word get out about his powers.
By then, Trex owned fifty patents and hundreds of assorted businesses. What were his preferred inventions? Crimefighting gadgets. His clones studied the existing stuff (from afar) and made conceptual improvements. Trex gave free samples away to the world’s top hero teams. Most of his tech performed better than the existing gadgetry.
That’s when Trex slipped into the next phase of his grand venture. The sly bastard rented out his clones. The more a client paid, the longer a clone served. Once in a while, the super genius offered a clone’s services pro bono. Everyone clamored for the privilege: governments, corporations, and even hero teams.
Naturally, he refused to work for super villains. Still, it was rumored that a few of the wiser crooks used their corporate fronts to tap Trex’s genius. Whenever a clone expired, Trex created a replacement. His works had repeatedly saved the world and earned him three Nobel Prizes—each of which he politely refused. None of the fame or adoration seemed to appeal to him.
What was his true goal in life? Only Trex’s clones knew—and they weren’t talking. Then, one day, Aldous Trex disappeared. A week later, his clones began to prematurely collapse.
His clients freaked out. Trex’s clones? Even more so. They pooled their resources and sought their creator. As far as they knew he was the only one who could prematurely end their lives. At first, they feared that he was dead or imprisoned.
Multiple attempts had been made upon their creator over the years. None came close because Aldous Trex made the best gadget tech in the game. With the absence of ransom demands or any recent trace of their creator, the clones began to wonder if he had gone evil.
Every few days, a clone randomly bursts into ash. The survivors called in favors owed. Hero teams joined in the search, while the remaining clones threw billions into a massive manhunt for the original. As of yesterday, there were only six clones left . . . and Aldous Trex. No one’s yet realized that one of the clones was “ashed” weeks ago and replaced by the original.
What was he up to?
NEWSLETTER RANT #84 – 11/28/23
8.) ABSURDITY
Nigel Haroldton hadn’t lost his mind . . . just his only son. Oliver was an agent. One of our best. He was elite-trained and truly talented. Oliver was well on his way to becoming a black ops legend—until he got abandoned on an op gone bad.
Such was the life of a superspy. The choice, while callous, was the right one. Oliver completed his last mission, only to die in a hail of gunfire. We never claimed him. His body was dumped into an unmarked hole. Being a former agent, Nigel knew the risks and openly forgave his superiors.
We should’ve killed him right then and there.
When Oliver joined Sector Black, Nigel transferred from Field Ops to Supply. The move gave him high-level access to our gadgets and a variety of new contacts. The old man had access to everything, from poison pens to briefcase nukes.
Once our top agent, Nigel arranged for his son to have the cutting-edge tech . . . and we didn’t mind. Oliver was in his father’s league. Thanks to that benign nepotism, the young man saved the free world well over a dozen times. Sadly, all it earned Oliver was an anonymous star on the Fallen Wall and a quiet bereavement ceremony.
Nigel wanted retribution—but not against us. Oliver was killed, on Russian soil, after he stole a viral weapon from one of their generals. Dubbed the “Black Door,” this virus was supposedly created without the Kremlin’s consent.
Its purpose (as a first-strike weapon) was clear enough. If one had enough Slavic DNA, he or she was immune to the Black Door. Its victims would abruptly die within three hours of infection. Fast-spreading, symptomless, and utterly contagious, it could kill billions within a matter of weeks.
Oliver stole a viral sample, copied the research, and then blew the lab where it was created. Most of the minds behind the Black Door were incinerated in the blast. During a relentless pursuit, Oliver stashed the weapon and research files. The poor chap was gunned down before he could safely transmit the coordinates of his last dead drop.
When I heard of Oliver’s death, I made arrangements to slip into Russia without authorization. It was suicide. Soldiers and spies were combing the action area, desperate to recover what Oliver had stolen. Once I arrived, I put my head in my dead friend’s shoes and went to work.
Three days (and nine shootouts) later, I limped out of Russia with poor Ollie’s prize. Even with the Black Door in hand, the director almost sacked me when I got back. After all, my international incident resulted in a trail of dead Russians and millions in damages. Served them right.
Nigel tearfully thanked me for completing his son’s last mission. The viral sample was taken to Analysis for study. They wouldn’t stop until we had a cure for that nightmare. The Black Door files couldn’t be opened without a specially designed decryption key.
Meanwhile, I went under the knife. Once the surgeons pulled shrapnel (and a bullet) out of me, I meant to heal up and steal that key. Odds were that Russian general either had it or knew who did. To my annoyance, the director sent Agent Sorenthaal instead. Leggy and ambitious, the cold-blooded shrew managed to f*ck the answers out of a few Russian officials . . . then killed them. A week later, the key was in our hands without any high-speed chases or collateral damage.
That’s when Nigel retired. Once I was on crutches, I looked in on the old man with a bottle of good whiskey. Full of regrets, Nigel’s biggest was allowing his only son into this wretched life of ours.
Meanwhile, the Black Door files were unlocked. There was a vaccine formula for this thing. The side effects were severe and its effectiveness was estimated at thirty-nine percent. Sector Black’s finest assured us that they could do better. Three days into the effort, the researchers clocked in . . . and found their servers wiped. All we could find was a message:
Thanks for your help. I’ll take it from here.
Nigel
Earlier that day, a certain Russian general was found electrocuted on his home toilet. Clearly, Nigel used the “Death Row Flusher” gadget. Our revered spymaster had gone rogue.
Forensics figured that Nigel bypassed the firewalls before the Black Door files were even unlocked. Then he waited for Analysis to study and summarize the files. Then he simply remote-copied them and deleted the records from our archive.
In its present form, the Black Door was useless to Nigel because he wouldn’t sell it. With time, aid, and resources, he could have a modified variant created. Something that would kill anyone with enough Slavic DNA but spare everyone else. Hundreds of millions of lives were at stake.
Worse, the Black Door could be modified to kill any ethnicity—or all of them. Whoever did this
tweak for Nigel had the keys to doomsday in their pocket. Even with the research notes, a modification was tricky. Maybe a dozen minds in the world could pull it off. We had to find the right one(s) before that happened.
During his planning, Nigel would’ve taken all of this into account. His viral expert(s) were likely on the move and well-protected. I quietly assumed that he had “eyes and ears” on our efforts to capture him. After all, our encryptions and security systems were gadget-based—and he used to oversee them. The director hadn’t taken that into account (yet).
There were plenty of evil masterminds who’ve tried to disrupt human society. We’ve stopped them because they didn’t know Sector Black’s playbook. Nigel Haroldton practically wrote the damned thing. Amongst his several wisdoms was an interesting piece of advice he once offered me: “If you can’t outwit an enemy, attack with the absurd.”
That’s how I meant to stop Nigel’s genocide. All I needed was time. As I rehabbed my injury, one of the trainers, Elena, caught my eye. During a massive black ops manhunt for the Black Door, I seduced her like I would an arms dealer’s unappreciated wife or girlfriend.
Poor Elena didn’t have a chance.
Estimates were that the Black Door would require five months to safely modify. Elena was pregnant in eight weeks. She tearfully accepted my proposal of marriage. I bought champagne for everyone—even the director. I bragged that if it was a boy, I’d name him Oliver. If a girl, I’d name her Olivia. Naturally, I insisted that Nigel be the godfather, which earned me some weird looks.
Shortly before Oliver’s birth, a package was hand-delivered to Sector Black HQ. Included was a copy of the Black Door files, a vaccine, and the cure itself! Nigel’s handwritten note assured us that the Black Door samples were destroyed . . . and that I was a “right bastard.” He also agreed to be my son’s godfather.
Did Nigel turn himself in? Of course not. Granted, he’d be hunted for the rest of his days. Could we catch him? Only if he wanted us to.
Still, the day was saved and the world kept spinning—all thanks to a sexually impressive trainer of Polish descent. I went back into the field with a wife and son at home. After a few more years, I’d transfer to Supply. Would I let my boy anywhere near the spy game? Never.
Until then, I did what I did best.
On every mission, I somehow ended up with the top gear. Every so often, an old enemy of mine was found dead with a picture of Oliver nailed through his/her forehead. Truly, I think Nigel Haroldton was less of a godfather and more of a guardian angel.
Ollie would’ve been proud.
NEWSLETTER RANT #83 – 11/21/23
9.) LOOSE ENDS
It began with Eleanor’s murder. During my birthday dinner, her merlot was laced with something fast-acting, convulsive, and excruciating. She died in my arms, surrounded by horrified guests and servers. We both drank from the same bottle, yet I was unaffected.
The police came and asked the usual questions. Naturally, they suspected me. I was a modern-day ultra mobster with plenty of blood on my hands. It appealed to their fourth-grade intellects that I simply killed my loving wife (and partner-in-crime) of sixteen years. They’d never charge me because I owned their superiors, via bribes and/or blackmail.
Thing was, I love Eleanor. Not “loved.” Someone took her from me. Someone left me alive. I will learn why.
I quietly buried the love of my life. My top people offered up their advice on how best to avenge her. They expected me to tear the streets apart, like some raging cinematic gangster. Instead, I calmly put myself in the killer’s head.
I’d have killed whoever made the poison . . . perhaps a day before the actual murder. Payment would’ve been done through laundered cash, which I’d retrieve on the way out. A bullet to the head, followed by a neat little arson (to erase any useful evidence) would’ve been my method.
I had my hackers look for anything recent on a dead chemist. I had the search narrowed to someone with an elite talent and a toxicology background. Sure enough, Dr. Hershel Rhines’ name came up.
I knew the name well. The semi-retired genius made designer toxins, most of which didn’t have a cure. The killer must’ve slipped him a sample of Eleanor’s DNA and paid him to create a designer toxin that would only affect her.
Did Rhines mean to kill Eleanor? Of course not. He knew better.
Well, his lab burned down a week before my wife’s murder (with him in it). Preliminary reports suggested that the late Dr. Rhines was doused in accelerants and burned alive. So this was a personal matter.
On the morning of his death, the late doctor received a payment of $86,751. As it turned out, the wire transfer wasn’t a clue but a taunt, because it came from Eleanor’s contingency account. Someone emptied it and disabled any of the preset alerts. The bank couldn’t even tell me when the theft occurred.
Impressive.
The account was under a dead man’s name. Eleanor (an elite hacker) crafted it herself, some ten years ago, then funneled bits of our profits into it. If anything catastrophic happened to me, Eleanor would’ve had the resources to fight/flee as she saw fit. Back then, it was worth $12 million. After last year’s taxes, its value exceeded $759 million. Anyone with significant brains, balls, and experience could raise all kinds of hell with that much money.
As for the late Dr. Rhines, he never directly worked for me. I made inquiries through my network. Three of my lieutenants used him over the years. I had my hackers build a list of everyone connected to these victims. I wanted the list to include family, friends, social media contacts, and even prom dates. One of them was my wife’s killer.
Eleanor routinely updated her firewalls with protections that the NSA didn’t even have yet. Her account was “booby-trapped,” in a way. If anyone so much as peeked into it, malware would activate. The next-gen tech would point to the source of the hack and illuminate any monetary transactions.
Who looted Eleanor’s account? A freelance (loose end) by the moniker of “Ganja Girl.” I’ve used her for some high-end jobs, which I had added to the victim list. On the day of Eleanor’s death, Ganja Girl’s body was found near Venice Beach.
Based on Eleanor’s malware, I saw where my money went. While the bulk of it was laundered, my malware was “sticky” enough to track it. Based on the moves, someone was out to build a drug cartel with my funds: from judicial bribes to stash spots to raw materials. A lot of money went to recruiting talent (for transportation, money laundering, security, etcetera). Among the haystack of payments was a needle.
$412,325 went to Tony Grammek—probably to cover expenses for a job. He was my ace thief and surveillance pro. The anti-social genius could bypass any security system known to man. Over the years, the bulk of my blackmail came from his telephoto lens. He was also the one who gave me the idea for a contingency account . . .
I had my people contact Tony. He didn’t reply to calls or messaging. Was he involved, dead, or in the middle of a job? A trusted asset, he knew that my blackmail (from files to evidence) was stored in four different locations—just not where. Someone had gotten to him.
My drug operations were more of a “hobby” than a primary business hub. I found the market too crowded and sloppy for continued expansion. Eleanor challenged me to find more lucrative ways to make a buck. To facilitate my narcotics dealings, I had dirt on the right people. That material was kept nearby. If Tony managed to steal it, the killer would be able to take over my drug business or feed me to the DEA.
If I moved the blackmail, it could be stolen in transit. Tripling security wouldn’t matter either, especially if Tony was tricked/forced into stealing it. Frankly, it wouldn’t have surprised me if my hard-earned blackmail stash was already copied, stolen, or destroyed by now.
I had to assume that Eleanor’s killer had eyes within my organization. He (or she) might already know what I’ve learned so far. Rhines, Ganja Girl, and Tony were connected—but how?
Then one of my hackers spotted a pair of names in that contact list . . . and everything suddenly clicked. Dorothy Grammek died of a heart attack, in her son’s arms, amidst one bitter divorce. She wanted to clean Tony out and tried to blackmail him. Amongst the dirt she had were his dealings with one of my lieutenants. Tony spiked her milk with one of Dr. Rhines’ designer toxins. The ex-wife’s cloud files were deleted by Ganja Girl.
Stan Grammek was that grieving son. According to social media posts, he dropped out of MIT (due to “boredom”). Tony grudgingly taught him the thieving trade but nudged him toward something honest. Instead, his son ended up a freelance cat burglar. The feds didn’t have a file on him yet.
My guess? At some point, Tony shared a few too many tidbits about my organization. Stan filled in the blanks and chose vengeance. With intel from his dad, the punk accessed my blackmail stash and made copies. Then he nudged the right officials. Why? To go after a “new” drug cartel. The one he created with Eleanor’s money. Money that could be traced to me.
Even if I could conceal my actual narcotics business, this “Shake ‘N Bake” version was just too crude to escape scrutiny. The sly f*cker meant to bring me down. Eleanor would’ve told me to run. So I will. After such an indignity, however, I will have Stan delivered to me like a pepperoni pizza. After he receives a bracing round of “lead pipe questioning,” I’ll bury him (alive) somewhere nice.
Then I’ll deal with any loose ends.
NEWSLETTER RANT #82 – 11/14/23
10.) WAR SONGS
Instead of meeting the baron’s escorts, as promised, we were greeted by a Kimerian ambush. The first wave of them attacked us from all sides. If not for our horses, they’d have taken us completely by surprise. Through heavy woods, rain, and fog they came. Most of the King’s guardsmen were slain in the first attack. The Kimerians targeted every horse—even the royal carriage.
Still, we cut them down.
After a brief pause, war horns blew. A second wave slowly closed in. I could have fled into the woods, made my way back to Thanmoor, and collected Baron Astrold’s head by dusk. If not for my oaths, that would have been my choice. Yet, while Princess Akina drew breath, I would defend her with my life.
We stood fast around the royal carriage. Arrows didn’t fly. That meant they wanted Akina alive. The High King’s sole heir was targeted for ransom or leverage. Why did Astrold betray the crown and side with the Kimerians? I did not know.
My battered shield slowed me down. I flung it aside, stepped over a fallen comrade, and tore a Kimerian throwing axe from her skull. Then I broke into another war song. My holy order worshipped Gamith, Goddess of War. Instead of prayer, we showed reverence through songs or violence. I meant to give Gamith quite the “sermon.”
The second wave attacked. As always, Gamith came to my aid. Her wrath surged through me. I moved faster and struck harder. Caught in the war song, I felt not rage but an enviable serenity that few men have ever felt. More of us fell. Even more of them fell too, thanks to Gamith’s grace.
Our attackers turned on me in massed desperation. They knew of me. During a war song, I could fight fifty men with ease. Bolstered by my feats, the guardsmen fought harder. Just as it seemed like the second round of this skirmish was ours, the enemy withdrew. Princess Akina’s defenders cheered until it became clear that it wasn’t a retreat.
New war songs erupted in the distance, in Gamith’s name, from different directions. My mistress had temples throughout the world, including Kimeria. The war goddess bore no loyalty to nation or cause . . . only to those who worshipped her.
Damn you, Astrold!
Eight Kimerian war priests strode into the clearing and easily slaughtered any guardsman who came near them. I was their target. Each wore hooded gray armor, advanced with swords raised, and sang with serene faces. Once I fell, they would slay my comrades and take the princess. The other Kimerians paused, eager to watch their war priests at work. The guardsmen looked on in despair.
Outmatched, I changed my war song and reduced it to a whisper. Covered in enemy blood, I nodded to my comrades with a comforting smile. Then I dropped my father’s sword and the throwing axe. The Kimerian soldiers howled in triumph. The fools expected me to surrender.
I drew my mother’s fighting dagger from its sheath, against my back. My last war song ended, I twirled the blade and plunged it through my neck. The enemy priests curiously paused their advance. I felt no pain. My legs gave out from under me. Blood gushed from my sacrificial wound. On my back, I eyed the carriage with a dying smile.
The door was kicked open. Out jumped Princess Akina. Barely a woman, she tied her long red hair into a tight bun while she began her first war song.
That was my sacrifice. The princess would inherit my priesthood. My faith, knowledge, and power were now Akina’s to use, until she felt her father’s warm embrace. The princess took in the hopeless scene, then fled in a flowing, pearl-hued gown.
Five Kimerian soldiers stood between her and the fog. Akina booted the much larger man into two of his comrades, ducked a punch, and then relieved a fourth Kimerian of his sword. Bones loudly snapped when she did so. The princess left him in howling agony while the fifth Kimerian tried to block her sword thrust . . .
Akina vanished into the rainy fog before his body hit the ground. Kimerian soldiers and war priests charged after her. She knew how to elude them.
All that remained were the remaining guardsmen and thrice as many Kimerian regulars. Without a princess to defend, it was simply a roadside skirmish. Hope filled my comrades, who raised their weapons and shouted my name.
May Gamith watch . . . w-watch over them . . .
11.) A COOKIE’S MONSTER
No, this won’t be an attack on Sesame Street (promise). I’m actually talking about a walking monster, capable of noble or horrific things.
The trigger? Cookies. Feed a cookie to this cursed fella and he’ll turn into a monster. The more cookies he eats, the longer the transformation. However, when that happens, he’ll find it harder to retain his humanity (and not eat people).
Why this curse? Good question. For giggles, I’m thinking this dude was an influential food critic, who insulted the wrong occultist’s cookies. He got the “Cookie Monster” curse and ate too many cookies in one sitting. There was an incident, property damage, and some jail time. The poor guy lost his job, trophy wife, and friends.
Worse, he was now hopelessly addicted to cookies—even though he realized that a mere bite would turn him into a straight monster. Yet, when he saw an innocent victim of a violent crime, this guy ate a cookie and saved the day. While a narcissistic prick, the unemployed food critic decided to fight the good fight. Besides, he hadn’t even figured out he was cursed yet.
That’s where things got interesting. See, the cookie curse didn’t just turn into a single type of monster. Nope. The type of cookie he ate determined the kind of monster (and powers) he ended up with.
Naturally, I reached for one of my trusty Antagonists’ Cookbooks and randomly generated some options for this guy. Here were some of the more promising ones:
Chocolate Chip Cookies: After one cookie, he could turn into solid (psychic) energy. Essentially a walking thought, he could observe a target's memories and possess the living. If he gave in to the monstrous side and fed on people, he’d only eat their minds.
Gingerbread Cookies: He’d turn into sentient snow (either as a swirling mass or a vicious snow beast). In this state, the surrounding temperatures dropped below zero. Throw in an ice beam power that inflicted cold damage and encased targets in solid ice. In this sub-zero environment, all of his physical attributes became superhuman. If he gave in to the monster side, he’d feed on victims’ souls (via body heat).
Vanilla Cookies: One cookie would turn him into a giant (along with anything on him—even guns). Complex devices just "happened" to break down in his proximity. Last, but not least, he could move like a speedster (and way faster than sound). If his monstrous side took over, he could eat people like popcorn.
Almond Cookies: Magnetic energy wings emerged from his back. With them, he could fly and generate energy fields that could move ferrous objects. Razor-sharp, they could also slice and dice. He also had a prehensile energy tail. The rest of him was solid. Oddly enough, his monstrous side would compel him to dine on metal. If he ate enough of it, his injuries would heal by the minute.
This could’ve been a twisted little comic book series, complete with merchandising. Just imagine if he ate two different cookies at once. Or worse, what could’ve happened if this curse came with an infectious bite?
NEWSLETTER RANT #81 – 11/07/23
12.) OUR SPHERE
It took some wrangling but they were on the way. Earth’s best, brightest, and toughest heroes were about to assemble and hear my report. Having reviewed the data several times, I half-expected a few of them to leave in disbelief.
I sipped some coffee and worked on my speaking points.
Three weeks ago, a signal was detected. Its source of origin was the Earth’s core. Its destination? Far beyond our deep space sensors, in a patch of uncharted space. The Agency had plenty of retired heroes on its payroll—some of whom were alien. Without their toys, we never would’ve detected the signal or ascertained it to be of Ergalian origin.
That wasn’t good.
About two millennia ago, the Ergalians conquered most of known space. At some point in their history, every member of their race had super powers. The type of abilities varied—from psychics to speedsters to super geniuses to flying (nigh-indestructible) muscle. And there were billions of them. Backed by a culture of genetic supremacy, competent leaders, and highly advanced tech, they seemed unstoppable.
It wasn’t until the B’Aarim that the Ergalians met a worthy adversary. While peace-loving, the fuzzy little guys were no strangers to war. Still, even with somewhat superior tech, the B’Aarim expected to lose within a year, unless they fought dirty.
As they looked for weaknesses to exploit, it struck the B’Aarim as impossible that the Ergalian race were naturally born super aliens. Their powers were too varied and potent. There had to have been a source for this advantage.
Their spies found the answer within the core of Ergalis Prime, their homeworld. Within it, tucked at the heart of a massive fortress, was an eight-story sphere. The construct drew power from the planet itself and wasn’t of Ergalian origin. Someone built it there, then surrounded it with a maze of ingenious autodefenses. Before their genetic ascendancy, the Ergalians fought their way through that fortress, accessed the sphere, and (barely) figured out how to turn it on. A few generations later, their entire population acquired super powers.
How? The sphere produced some kind of energy field that induced an impossibly stable genetic augmentation. What was its purpose? No one could say. The B’Aarim spies stole what research they could, left a planetkiller on Ergalis Prime, and then fled.
When their homeworld blew, the Ergalians’ highly centralized command structure went with it. Their unity died soon after. Factions formed and vied for power. The Ergalians’ internal wars lasted for about a decade—more than long enough for their enemies to recover, rebuild, make alliances, and await a clear winner.
When one faction finally emerged and reclaimed control of the battered Ergalian Empire, almost two-thirds of their forces were destroyed. Also, their super powers began to weaken. The reason, according to B’Aarim records, was that the Ergalians needed to periodically “bask” in the power of the sphere. If they couldn't, their augmentations slowly unraveled.
In the end, only one in ten thousand had any powers to speak of. The B’Aarim led a one-sided crusade against the Ergalians, who fought to the bitter end. What few of them survived were rounded up and banished from known space, never to be seen or heard from again.
Agency eggheads came together and cooked up a scary theory: that there was a sphere on Earth. That would explain the sudden appearance of superhumans, which began in the late 1600s. The sphere wasn’t fully activated or every human would’ve had superpowers long ago.
The thing was that we couldn’t detect this “augmentation field,” even with B’Aarim tech. That didn’t track. Without an active sphere, there shouldn’t be any natural-born supers on Earth. Instead, their numbers slowly increased by the year.
Still, the sphere might’ve been damaged or even stolen. Another theory was that the sphere turned itself off because its mission was to seed our planet with a self-sustaining population of supers. Then again, maybe there was no sphere at all and we simply sprouted powers for some other reason.
Well, the Agency heads were nervous. Their worst-case scenario was that the Ergalians had settled on a new homeworld and sent teams to get another sphere. One of them found ours and sent that signal.
Beyond that, it was all guesses. Maybe the Ergalians had already stolen the sphere and moved it to a different planet by now. If it was still here, one of their invasion fleets might be inbound, looking to turn the Earth into their new homeworld. If the Ergalians showed up and there wasn’t a sphere, they might blow us up out of spite.
Perhaps some villain even ‘jacked the sphere and left the signal as a red herring. Then there was my “gut” theory: that the sphere was never touched and was fully operational. That some prick sent the signal to sucker us into this op. That we’d take casualties, bypass the fortress defenses, and retrieve the sphere . . . just to lose it to some clever thief.
Well, the mission objectives were simple enough: convince the heroes to verify the existence of the sphere. Then they were to find and secure it by any means necessary. For better or worse, that thing was the key to superhuman evolution and belonged on Earth. Intel on that Ergalian signal was a secondary priority, especially if this whole thing was a setup. We might even have to send a scout mission to track the source. If a hostile fleet was on the way, we needed to know. With luck, they wouldn’t find the Ergalians leaving with our sphere . . . or they’ll have to steal it back.
13.) A DIFFERENT PACT
We’ve all heard of the demonic pact, right? Some bargain made between a human and a charismatic demon swindler. The price of that human’s wish was, of course, eternal damnation. The demon usually gave a flawed wish and the human tried to weasel out of the pact.
Well, what if someone was posted on Earth as a middleman? He (or she) received a person’s file, went over the details, and made a different kind of pact. Say a file came in on a father whose only son was dying of an incurable disease.
The middleman sat the desperate father down and offered him a deal. If signed, the son would be healed tomorrow. In return, when the father died, his soul would be tossed into a new body and bound in servitude—to Heaven—until the end-times.
That’s right. A Heavenly pact.
On paper, serving Heaven didn’t sound so bad. The fine print? The father would have to do all sorts of dangerous, high-risk missions. If he died during one, he’d end up in another body and continue the fight.
The primary goal would be to have “boots on the ground,” to oppose Hell’s agents on Earth and delay the apocalypse. But angels also had their private machinations. Since they weren’t allowed to directly sin, sometimes their agents handled “side projects” that had nothing to do with the big picture.
Could a heavenly agent refuse an order? Of course. The price of refusal was an automatic trip to Hell for the agent: one who’s probably made a lot of enemies in the Pit. Also, the original wish (like that cancer miracle) would get undone. Still, these agents could do all sorts of good. And when the world ended, they’d have a guaranteed trip to Heaven: assuming it was still there after the end-times.
NEWSLETTER RANT #80 – 10/31/23
14.) CHANGING TIMES
My biggest enemy wasn’t daylight, holy water, or stakes through the heart. It was technology. Digital cameras could record us now. Forensic science and secure databases made it easier for hunters to track our movements. And the weapons! They just got better and better. Only a suicidal newb would leave a trail of bodies behind.
We adjusted to the changing times in a variety of ways.
Some of use only fed on animal blood, which was obtained from slaughterhouses, hunting trips, or online. They were seen as the “vegans” of the vampire world. Such a lifestyle required twice the blood for half the sustenance. Still, they didn’t have to look over their shoulders as much.
Others of my kind mixed in with flocks of wannabe vampires. They preferred the ones who bought implanted fangs, drank blood, and truly worshipped the lifestyle. A vampire could easily take over such a club and turn it into a disposable cult. Such overzealous wannabes would do anything for a turning bite (which often presented all sorts of headaches). These arrangements often went bad for the vamp-in-charge.
My more nomadic brethren hung out in war zones. These days, it was the most popular way to feed. Just stab someone, like a juice box, and enjoy what poured out. I found Third World blood to be deficient in so many ways. Then there was the abundance of heavy weaponry. While bullets couldn’t kill vampires, a rocket-propelled grenade surely could. They also had to worry about the lack of safe shelter, especially in places with too much sun and stray artillery.
I personally found America to have more than enough room to roam about. I came here with the French and watched this country’s deliciously violent birth. The genetic variety of its people’s blood was like no other!
Naturally, there were those who hunted us. In the old days, most belonged to secret societies with deep pockets. I’ve ripped apart my share of snobby monster hunters, who inherited the mantle with their trust funds. Today, the hunters were more middle-class. Some did it for the blood bounties or a sense of duty.
Hunters with a grudge scared me most of all. The ones who (somehow) survived a vampire attack, buried their loved ones, and then hunted us with nothing more than hatred and wits. These maniacs’ exploits earned them some grudging respect in my eyes. Bribes didn’t impress them. A turned hunter was often stubborn enough to resist the mystical compulsion to obey. They’d either kill themselves or feed on vampires (out of spite).
Add to that the headache of forensic science. Of course, victims with fangs and severe blood loss attracted attention throughout the ages. In the old days, folks put crosses on their doors and stayed inside after dark because we were a nomadic race. Within a week or three, the smart ones got bored and moved on. Those who didn’t attracted hunters and violent consequences. Now, covert agencies could track a vamp by DNA. Headed by monster hunters, these special units could pursue one of us to the ends of the Earth.
So how did I feed? I became a surgeon (and a damned good one too). I ran eight private clinics across America. On paper, we did plastic surgeries for the rich—which happened to be true. We also helped well-paying crooks change their identities—from full-on facelifts to perfectly fake IDs that could withstand federal scrutiny. That was our bread and butter.
Through these clinics, I could order all kinds of blood. I even let the Red Cross hold blood drives at my sites (with a bit of skim off the top). Rather than bribery, I relied on vampiric hypnosis to cover our tracks on that one.
Once in a while, we sheltered well-paying fugitives in need of medical attention. Those were fun. Sometimes, when I pulled a bullet out of someone, I’d stick a straw in the patient’s wound and have a sip.
Then there were the interrogation gigs. Normally, I could make someone talk within thirty seconds. Since my clients didn’t need to know that, I began with the violent techniques. Things got bloody. I got free snacks. When they started begging to die, I’d make with the vampiric hypnosis and get my answers. Intelligence agencies offered me bags of money—and immunity—for that service. If my guests needed to “disappear,” then I could enjoy a traditional feed. Naturally, I oversaw the disposal of every corpse because neatness counts.
The funny thing? I was a damned good doctor. Over the centuries, I’ve learned every medical technique known to man: from in vitro fertilization to embalming techniques. Vamp hunters left me alone because I had federal protection. As long as my victims were threats to national security, I was given a pass.
These protections wouldn’t last, of course. Times changed and so did those in power. Sooner or later, my luck would run out. When it did, I’d simply skip town. That didn’t worry me. I had resources, reliable minions, vampirism, twelve different passports, and too much experience.
I was around for the rise of America. If I kept my wits about me, I’d be around long after it fell.
15.) SHOCKBRAND
It took us eleven weeks to find a replacement.
While plenty of superhumans could safely wield vast amounts of energy, there were other factors involved. We specifically needed someone whose power centered on electricity. It had to be a male, preferably under the age of twenty. We needed someone who wouldn’t be missed with a relatively weak psyche.
ShockBrand was the one we chose. Barely fourteen, he was a runaway from St. Louis with a latent energy gene. Odds were that it would’ve manifested within a child or grandchild—but not him. Then he was struck by lightning and that gene activated.
A smart kid would’ve concealed his power. This abused, half-starved idiot robbed a bank before he even fully mastered his abilities. The only thing he did right was wear a mask. He flew off with only thirty grand because he accidentally burned the rest of the cash. Water, from the fire sprinklers, disrupted his comparatively weak control. When stressed, his touch could melt through steel, hence the street name.
Our Homeland sources warned us that ShockBrand was a hot commodity. The FBI wanted him in a cage. The CIA sought to weaponize him. The bank he robbed belonged to Ava Grist. The indie gangster ran the St. Louis crime scene and wanted ShockBrand in an urn.
Normally, we’d have moved on to another candidate. However, he displayed a high-level potential that couldn’t be ignored. He could serve our needs for years. Since time was of the essence, we sent a plane over the city, then tossed out a drone suit. The forty-pound gray cube was a custom piece of tech that made our collection ops so much safer.
Halfway down, it morphed into a suit of lightweight environmental armor. It targeted ShockBrand’s energy signature, then teleported. One moment, the kid was asleep in an abandoned house. The next, he was encased in a gray costume that was nearly indestructible.
ShockBrand cut loose with his electro blast. The drone suit dissipated the energy (along with its massive signature), then teleported back into the cargo plane. The one-piece armor came with ten hours of life support but offered no way to see or hear. With the press of a button, the drone suit could be made utterly rigid and anchored to any surface. Only someone with super strength could move within it.
The boy raged, to no effect. The co-pilot, a telepath, dove into ShockBrand’s traumatized little mind. By the time the plane landed, the superhuman was a loyal minion. After the testing phase, he’d receive the augmentation serums and become physically superior. Developed by Russians, during the Cold War, we used it to prolong the useful life of our candidates. I expected ShockBrand to be within the machine before month’s end.
The Board was truly excited. Stalled plans could be put back into motion, without anyone being the wiser. Had our existence been revealed to the public, the entire world would’ve turned against us. At first, only folks over fifty would truly get the “joke.” They’d remember those silly old shows and movies involving weather machines. Of how some fool threatened to destroy the world if his demands weren’t met.
Well, what if someone merely built the weather machine and discreetly used it? A drought here. Forest fires there. Sprinkle in a side of glacial flooding, record storms, and gridlocked climate change legislation. Economies could be manipulated with the proper application of weather, politics, and finance.
The Board became the hidden masters of climate change. Conductors of a global symphony, they played the long game. After all, whoever controlled the resources (and how they were used) controlled the world.
We figured out the science decades ago. The two long-standing problems were portability and a stable energy source. The first weather machine was installed within a mothballed aircraft carrier. Had it been activated, satellites would’ve detected it almost instantly. Even if in motion, the carrier could’ve been tracked and destroyed. Also, its fusion core wasn’t strong enough to control the weather beyond a two-hundred-mile radius.
In time, we created the Weather Throne. The half-ton device was partially built from stolen alien tech. Its AI could hack into most of the world’s networks and make them blind to weather manipulations. Better still, it could harness the energy required. All we needed was a battery . . .
The first candidates died within hours of being bonded to the chair. We learned much from those failures. A viable host needed the augmentation serum and a firm bond with the AI. Viable candidates managed to last an average of twenty-five months before burnout—both of body and mind. Then they were “retired” and replaced.
We were lucky this time. ShockBrand should last a bit longer than average, which worked to our advantage. The downside was that folks were still on the hunt for him. Among them were intelligence agencies who realized that someone had recruited the lad. As a precaution, we moved ShockBrand and the Weather Throne to a remote island location. Then we created a fake trail, which led to a truly reprehensible group of genetic slavers. Hopefully, the feds would do a raid, take the “win,” and close the chapter on ShockBrand.
If they didn’t, then we’d have to get creative . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #79 – 10/24/23
16.) DO UNTO THEM . . .
I paced around Hamilton Viceroy and his elite team of thieves.
The six world-class criminals were kidnapped without a bruise, per my instructions. They were cleaned up and delivered to a warehouse outside of Gardena. Thirty of my men babysat them for the last hour in merciless silence. They sat in uncomfortable wooden chairs, atop a large island of roofing tarp. I wanted them to expect a torturous death and to quietly wonder which of their sins had caught up with them.
Hamilton Viceroy wasn’t his real name. It was Abbot Chimkle. He wasn’t dashing or athletic, like most cinematic grifters. No, this black bastard was short and round with a graying goatee. Viceroy could be your accountant, cable guy, doctor, or whatever the hell else a grift required.
What made Viceroy dangerous was his brain. The photographic memory, numerous skill sets, and genius-level creativity were a sick combination. On top of that, Viceroy recruited the very best in the game and turned them into a cohesive team.
They were equals. Each of his fellow scum could’ve led a world-class crew. They rolled with Viceroy because he elevated their game (and his own). Together, they did the unthinkable cons. Interpol had no idea of their existence. We knew absolutely nothing about them, until one of Viceroy’s old contacts sold them out (for a fat payday) and provided the necessary details.
Viceroy’s latest con got them into this mess.
The late Justin Sabban III was one of our best money launderers. His corporate practices were despicable but that was why we picked him. The untouchable prick had useful connections, who kept him out of jail. Always interested in expansion, Sabban couldn’t always rely on bribes and lawyers to have his way. Sometimes, he needed muscle. The freelance, untraceable, and reliable talent that my cartel had in large supply.
Our deal was simple. Sabban honestly and efficiently cleaned our cash. We gave him free access to our contractors and made sure that each “misdeed” didn’t lead back to him. For nine years, the arrangement ran smoothly enough. Then along came Hamilton-f*cking-Viceroy.
Somehow, the clever little thief suckered Mr. Sabban into a real estate scam, accessed his (and our) accounts, and stole every penny. According to my hackers, they donated half of it to charity. By our estimate, we were “relieved” of $89.3 million. Mr. Sabban’s losses neared a billion. The silver lining was that we didn’t put all of our laundering into one provider’s hands.
Viceroy didn’t know about Sabban’s little arrangement with us . . . or they’d have gone off-grid. Once I convinced Sabban to hang himself (to save his family), I hunted these grifters myself. Normally, they’d be in matching oil drums by now. Then a new complication reared its ugly head.
Word of our embarrassing loss had leaked onto the streets. Our three cartel rivals smelled weakness and decided to come after us. That kind of move would take time to plan. The coming war would be expensive to wage, with the feds ready to pounce. Rather than a pre-emptive strike of our own, my boss had a riskier idea: to sic Viceroy on all three cartels.
They were to study our enemies, sow chaos, and destroy their leadership. The goal was to make it easy for us to absorb our trio of enemies in one mad swallow. Normally, I’d have protested. Thing was, we knew enough of Viceroy’s exploits to see that it could be done.
The trick was to persuade them to play along.
That’s why I had Sabban’s family brought over. In the next few minutes, one sexy blonde widow and three innocent kids would be brought in and forced to stand on that tarp. I’d make my pitch, with a Glock in hand, so there’d be no misunderstandings.
Once Viceroy agreed to my terms, I’d kill Sabban’s family—right in front of them. After all, they were loose ends. More importantly, these grifters needed to understand the price of failure. Also, if they pulled any kind of double-cross, I assured them that everyone they knew and loved would die.
Then I’d let Viceroy and his crew go with a very tight deadline. If they pulled this off, we’d consider the matter settled. To make that part convincing, I insisted that they notify us of any future grifts—in case our interests collided. They could also keep their money from the Sabban scam, as a show of good faith.
Would I keep my word and spare these gringos? That was for my boss to decide.
Viceroy lived for this kind of challenge. He’d find a way and his loyal team would follow. They’d run a brilliant con, then try to take us down too, as a matter of self-preservation. We were a drug cartel and they stole from us. They also knew too much. Lastly, with innocent blood on his hands, the grifter would want to break us.
Fine. I couldn’t wait for them to try . . .
17.) THE SUMMONER DETECTIVE
Three days ago, a dozen super heroes were murdered in my city.
Only two were local. Eleven arrived from different parts of the country. One came from off-world. No one claimed responsibility or came forward as a witness.
Why were they here? My contacts had not a clue. I didn’t really care. Dead heroes were a fact of life. More would show up and dispense with the justice.
Then relatives of the victims came knocking on my door. How’d they find me? Well, half of these dead heroes (somehow) got my business card and left instructions to hire me to solve their murders. Fancy that.
Not in the least bit interested, I turned down the first few offers. Then some leggy redhead strolled in and crushed a sizable diamond in her dainty left fist. Gravitica, the strongest woman on Earth, was one of the murdered heroes—and her niece. The grieving aunt worked for the other side of the law, which explained her ruthlessness . . . and cash flow.
With her dainty left thumb, this well-aged vixen drove three more diamonds partway through the top of my desk. Then she pulled her smartphone and wired eight million into my anemic account. All the lady wanted were the names of everyone responsible.
Okay then. I took the job.
I wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or remotely smart enough to solve mysteries. My summoning gift was in the blood. Ma shunned the power and kept it a secret from me. I wouldn’t have had a clue, until my wife’s murder. After the funeral, I could see Vera’s ghost (wounds and all).
Her killer was a powerful mystic with undead minions under his thumb. This matter required magic and I needed a teacher. Ma wouldn’t help me. Grandma taught me what she could, before the dementia got her. I avenged Vera the “gutter” way and allowed her soul to find peace. That’s when I turned in my badge and became a gumshoe.
I sucked at calling forth ghosts from the Other Side. Dealing with wandering spirits, like Vera, was my bread and butter. They were stuck here with all kinds of unfinished business, which allowed me to order them around one hundred percent of the time.
When offered a murder case, I’d stall for a day and then call in the victim’s ghost. If the summoning went smoothly (and the ghost knew enough details), I’d take the case. With a victim’s help, I’d find enough clues to put the killer(s) behind bars and look brilliant in the process. When the job was over, I guided the ghost(s) into their respective afterlives.
Once in a while though, I ran into ghosts who were useful or just fun to be around. Nine of them happened to be in my office when my criminal client made her “offer.” Three were psychics. Four were private detectives (and way smarter than me). One used to be a super hero and an investigative journalist. All were trusted friends. Times like these, it was great not to be the smartest person in the room.
While they debated the best course of action, I pulled a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam and poured myself a double. Summoning the heroes’ ghosts didn’t bother me. They’d be useful. The scary part was that twelve heroes came here to stop something horrible—and probably failed. Even worse, it could’ve already happened.
Either way, I might not just have to solve this case. I might also have to save the world . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #78 – 10/17/23
18.) YOU FOR HIM
Someone took my kid brother.
Even from light-years away, I could feel my twin’s distress. Tomas psi-screamed within my mind, then went quiet. Last I knew, he settled down near the Lyndric System. I sent my nearest people to investigate.
The official report was that my harmless baby brother was taken from his home by a half-dozen masked men. His wife and daughters were beam stunned but otherwise unharmed. The cops were useless because the kidnappers knew what they were doing.
A day later, I received a three-word stellar-text: You for him.
I had its signal source tracked. Bounced from multiple spatial platforms, it originated from Commonwealth Intelligence. Damned fools figured to use Tomas to get to me.
A day later, they began to torture him. Psychic twins had the tightest of bonds. Any pain he suffered indirectly assailed me. From this far away, his suffering hit me more like a traumatic memory than a real-time experience. Had I been closer, we’d both be screaming in agony. Through our link, I could see his masked tormentors, hear their questions, and observe their gruesome work.
Within a half-hour, Tomas gave up everything he knew about me and then begged to die.
Our father raised us to be gentlemen thieves but Tomas found God and became a pastor. Most of what he knew about my business was outdated. He was a civilian and the kid brother of an interstellar mastermind with a serious mean streak. What few rivals I allowed to exist paid me protection money and steered clear of what few people I still cared about.
I found the best thieves in known space and paid them top creds to steal art, secrets, and anything else of value. Sometimes I was paid to do it. Most times, I simply wanted the challenging prize and had it stolen. We did huge jobs that resulted in a long list of enemies. Odds were that one of them sicced the Commonwealth on me.
Good thing I was dealing with semi-pros. Me? I’d have had a dozen telepaths jump through Tomas’ mind and raid mine through our fraternal psi-link. They could’ve looted my memories, destroyed my mind, or even flipped me. That’s how true pros played.
I suffered a week of indirect psi-torture before my people brought me the details.
Director Malcolm von Griezen recently took the helm at Commonwealth Intelligence. His first order of business was to have Tomas grabbed. Thankfully, some of his analysts were on my payroll. This scumf*cker wanted to turn my outfit into a Commonwealth front. He wanted my people, access to my intel, and a deep cut of my funds.
Tomas was being held at Quokrimth Rock. The abandoned asteroid mine was on the far edge of known space, surrounded by a large asteroid field. There was nothing else out there. Any ships I sent would’ve been easy to spot, track, and capture.
Quokrimth was remodeled into a floating prison with room for a few dozen sentients and 143 personnel. The credentials could be forged for a supply ship drop. A synthware virus could disable their AI and scary defense systems. And I suppose that four of my best squads could sneak/fight their way through thirty stories of rock and duratanium. Too bad the extraction would’ve triggered the trap.
At least one Commonwealth cruiser would be waiting for me (cloaked, of course). Their standard cruiser deployment was about fifty fighters, with a crew of 811 sentients.
It was an obvious trap. The bait was my baby brother. Like the samurai of old, I made my decision within seven breaths. I got a prescription for psi-blocker pills and slept like a baby. Then I obtained genetic samples and had Tomas cloned. The process was expensive, outlawed, and well within my ability to arrange.
My geneticists added the appropriate scars and imperfections, then sent him home. He lacked the memories of the original and the telepathic portion of his brain was genetically nullified. My telepaths would give him enough memories to function. To mere psi-docs, it would look like retrograde amnesia. While not a perfect solution, my nieces would have a loving clone instead of a genuine corpse.
The codes for Quokrimth were “easy” to acquire. They had to be or the trap wouldn’t work. The codes for the Osceola were a bitch to steal. The designated assault cruiser hovered at the edge of the asteroid field, ready to pounce. I hacked its weapons systems and made their spatial mines explode. Then Quokrimth’s AI became my avenging angel. I killed them all, even the other prisoners. Along the way, I put poor Tomas out of his misery. Was there a second cruiser out there? I didn’t know, so I couldn’t risk it. Rather than set Quokrimth’s reactor to overload, it left the rock intact (as a warning).
Then I sent an encrypted stellar-text to the President of the Commonwealth. Attached was some of the dirt I had on him and his supporters within Parliament. I told him what I wanted. Within a day, von Griezen was delivered to my men. Beaten and terrified, all of his useful secrets were surely wiped away by Commonwealth telepaths. The official news story was that he died in a boating accident on Antares IV. The Osceola suffered a core breach during a training mission with all hands killed. My brother’s body was buried, near my father’s, under a fake tombstone.
I had a few sadists on my payroll. They offered to make von Griezen scream for me. I politely turned them down. Tomas’ pain was trapped within my mind like a jar of angry bees. I simply shared them with von Griezen and created a trauma loop. That way, he could relive poor Tomas’ suffering for the rest of his life. Then I put the former director in a stasis pod, so that he could have “sweet” dreams for the next few centuries or so.
19.) BORN VS. TURNED
The idea’s familiar because it was often applied to vampires. In this case, I wanted to go a different way. Simply put, it’s better to be born a werewolf than turned with a bite.
The first werewolf clans didn’t even have a turning bite. These “pure-bloods” were superior badasses, who could shift at will. Aside from a full moon or extreme emotional stress, they rarely turned. Only magic could harm them. After their twentieth birthday, pure-bloods aged one year for every two hundred. The origin of their power was erased from the histories, lest their enemies destroy them with the knowledge.
Then, one fateful (full moon) night, a human was mauled by a pure-blood. The poor bastard died and then came back as a werewolf. It was a historical first.
The turned victim was captured and tested. They found him to be physically inferior to the pure-bloods (either in human form or as a beast). He aged normally and could only turn during a full moon. When injured, he almost healed instantly. Only magic, fire, and silver did any lasting harm.
Over the years, other pure-bloods developed a turning bite. This was seen as a solution to a growing concern: inbreeding. Internal laws and customs were set in place to keep their numbers contained and the existence of werewolves a secret from the human world. The pure-bloods recruited like-minded humans to serve them—with the promise of a turning bite.
Centuries peacefully passed and the future looked bright. Pure-bloods mated with turned minions and produced sufficiently powerful offspring. These werewolf “half-breeds” had all of their parents’ strengths. Their only weaknesses were magic and silver.
While turned werewolves mastered the ability to turn at will, they couldn’t breed amongst themselves. Reproduction could only happen with a pure-blood or through a turning bite on a human.
Then a peculiar affliction descended upon the werewolf ranks. Every turned werewolf began to age in dog years. On average, turned werewolves aged about fifteen years for every twelve months they lived. Pure-bloods and half-breeds were unaffected. As more and more of the turned prematurely died, they blamed their masters for this malady and rebelled.
A pure-blood could easily kill a turned werewolf in single combat—but not a pack of them. Within a generation, all of the ancient pure-blood clans were torn down. New clans (of the turned) rose and fell amidst the ensuing chaos. The old traditions of secrecy, numerical restraint, and human tolerance were cast aside. After all, if a werewolf lord had the life span of a cocker spaniel, he meant to make the most of it.
The fate of the world was at stake. Only a handful of pure-bloods and half-breeds remained to save it. Hunted to the brink of extinction, could they avert a werewolf apocalypse?
NEWSLETTER RANT #77 – 10/10/23
20.) THE GOOD FIGHT
Once upon a time, a bloodline curse was placed upon your family. Anyone under its mystical shadow was randomly plucked from their location and teleported into the midst of one chaotic danger after another. Innocent lives were always at stake and there was always a choice—to either flee or try to save those lives.
What spawned this curse? Some unresolved grudge? An enchantment gone wrong? The details were lost to time. No bloodline should’ve been able to endure such constant danger. Sooner or later, your family tree would have died out . . . Right?
Not exactly.
Since early victims of this curse couldn’t cure it, they banded together and stole a powerful mystical artifact. Then they used its power to invoke a powerful blessing—one that countered the curse and halted its effects. They thought the effect would be permanent. Sadly, it wasn’t.
In 2023, the artifact ran out of magic. That ancestral curse roared back with a vengeance. Worse, you and yours had no idea what was going on. Every descendant (and there were many) got thrown head-long into danger after danger: sometimes as many as ten of them a day.
Those of you who ran away or failed to save someone aged one full year. Most of your relatives lacked the experience and conditioning necessary to handle these threats. Within days, they were dead. The only upside was that anyone who survived a dangerous scenario healed up almost instantly (even after a loss of life).
Within a week, you failed so many times that you aged from seventeen to fifty-two. You and your surviving relatives pooled resources and looked for a solution. Modern mystics were consulted and diagnosed the cause of this familial genocide. They even found an obscure reference about the blessing ritual.
With time and effort, a blessing ritual could be put together to end this curse. You’d have to obtain a suitably powerful artifact and figure out a safe way to use it. While the mystics researched possible options, others went a step further. They provided you and yours with mystical powers and combat training. Why bother? These benign mystics figured that the longer they kept your family in the good fight, the more lives you might save—including your own.
21.) DANCE PARTNER
You quietly surveyed the remains of Kaldric Coym. The High Mage was killed last night, during the harvest feast. His duty was to advise and protect the royal family of Radoria. Practitioners of his level weren’t easy to kill. Well at the height of his power, Kaldric Coym could destroy a city with only mild fatigue to show for it.
Kaldric Coym taught you almost everything you knew of the mystic arts. He was stern, kind, and wise. The old mage moved like a man half his age and knew assorted arts of physical combat. None of them saved him from the golden-haired harlot who lured him onto the dance floor. She stole the eye of everyone there.
While the minstrels played, they twirled around with masterful skill—
Then disappeared in an instant. Some of the lustier minds thought Kaldric simply took her to his bed chambers to “dance” more intimately. Fortunately, your king wasn’t a fool. He sealed the castle and called for his war mages. You were notified and immediately joined the search.
Just after dawn, a farmer in Lostraad found Kaldric’s body. The king assigned you some men-at-arms and ordered the murderess to be brought to justice. Eager to do that, you surveyed the bloody scene. Kaldric put up quite a fight. According to your divination spells, his protective amulets were shattered by one potent spell. Somehow, it also burned off every combat rune on his body.
Covered in cuts, he died slowly. She might’ve done this for the coin, glory, or to extract information. More likely, it was personal. Kaldric had enemies. Too many to count. Some weren’t even of this world. While you hoped this assassin acted alone, you knew better—
Sweet perfume filled the air. One of your escorts shouted a warning. You spun with an elbow strike and followed up with eight hard punches. She parried them all, delivered a perfect head butt to your jaw, then teleported you both away.
The destination was a vacant stretch of beach with an ocean at your back. Before you could react, a negation spell slammed into you. Your mystical amulets and rings shattered, along with your glyph sword. Worse, the spell drain struck. Normally, it afflicted any mage who overtaxed his powers. A negation spell wouldn’t induce a spell drain in a victim, unless . . .
No. It was impossible! Somehow, she managed to cast a spell fueled by your own magicks! Her teleportation wasn’t a spell but the means by which she did it. Such a feat was unheard of in the West. You wondered who—or what—she was.
The assassin still wore her green party gown. Covered in your mentor’s blood, the hazel-eyed beauty tossed you a dagger and then drew its twin from thin air. Her muddy feet were bare. The dagger at your feet had a slightly worn handle. The one in her hand was expertly held.
Barely able to stand, you grew stronger by the breath. Given an hour, you could make this fight about spells, versus blades. Instead, the assassin waited a few minutes—just long enough for the spell drain to lessen. Then she tossed her dagger away and slipped into the Four Winds Stance.
Kaldric only taught it to pupils he thought might succeed him someday (like yourself). She was one of his. Where did she come from? Why did she kill Kaldric? How could she use a mage’s magicks against him? You had plenty of other questions. The only way to get the answers was to beat them out of her.
The stakes were higher than your life. It was plain to see that you wouldn’t be her last victim. Countless lives were at stake. You matched her stance and closed in. With a wink, Kaldric’s killer lashed out with a perfect death blow . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #76 – 10/03/23
22.) THE PIPELINERS
I reread the file with a sinking feeling in my gut.
The FBI tracked a team of high-end smugglers to an Ohio farm. They were sitting on fusion cells and spare parts for a Mark II timeship. They resisted arrest because some evil bastard put suicide implants in their necks. If they surrendered, the little buggers would’ve electrocuted them from the inside out.
Since time travel was outlawed (for obvious reasons), Mark II tech was a bitch to come by. Hardly anyone knew how to build, repair, or pilot a timeship. Even if someone could put one together, the process of time travel itself was downright suicide.
Timeships were just that, armored dropships that could maneuver in the air, underwater, space, and the timestream itself. The longer the time jump, the more dangerous the trip. Timeship pilots equated it to “flying through a blinding white debris field of solid time.”
The eggheaded theorists were shocked to discover chunks of matter within the timestream. Not unlike asteroids, they couldn’t be safely brought into normal time without a nasty bang. Aside from the collision risk, there was also the issue of radiation. If a timeship’s shielding wasn’t strong enough, the temporal radiation could turn an unlucky traveler into an embryo or add sixty years within seconds.
There weren’t that many temporal practitioners in the world today. The inventors of time travel were all murdered and their research destroyed. Even the timeship pilots got whacked. The unwritten penalty for rogue time travel was death. Period.
Even if the expertise could be found, timeships were a bitch to construct with a price tag that went well into the billions. Those few who could assemble one were often stopped mid-plot, then shot while “resisting arrest.”
According to Homeland’s files, there were only six surviving experts who could’ve used that smuggled gear. Each had a kill order on his or her head. Five years ago, there would’ve been a seventh. His name was Treylon Drad. The government hired his mom to design the Mark I’s, then put a bullet in her head when the U.N. outlawed time travel and initiated their pesky investigations.
The betrayal drove Treylon to a life of crime. Once he avenged his mother’s death, he fell off the grid. Rumor was that he meant to jump into the past and save his mom. When cornered in Atlanta, he traded shots with the police until his safe house exploded. They found enough bits and pieces to make an ID and that should’ve been that.
The thing was that those smuggler’s custom suicide implants were also designed by Treylon Drad . . .
Days later, I got word that a black ops time jump was in the works. Apparently, the feds also figured that Treylon Drad wasn’t dead. The goal was to find his temporal address and shut him down. I didn’t even know the tech existed. They needed a top-flight investor and my name came up. I politely turned down the invite.
Then I pulled some strings and got access to the tech from the Ohio raid. My plan? Discreetly sabotage the fusion cells. Once a timeship entered the timestream, the cells would burn out and require hours to repair . . . amidst a swirling flow of solid time collisions. Crash. Boom. Done. Treylone’s product was locked in a high-security warehouse that he could probably heist. Would my cruel prank work?
Only time would tell . . .
23.) STAR TREK IV (DARK MIRROR STYLE)
Here’s the original trailer for Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. T’was a good, cheesy film.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOhoIBkOYf0
Now, the original storyline was to find a pair of humpback whales (in the past) and get them back to the present. They’re the only creatures capable of responding to a highly advanced alien probe. It emitted a field that crippled the flow of energy within starships, starbases, and even entire planets. Spoiler alert: the good guys saved the day.
Now, what if there was a similar probe scenario in the Dark Mirror universe? You Trekkies know the one. That alternate reality where James T. Kirk’s a raging nutbar and the scariest threat you can make is: “I have friends. And they’re Vulcan.” Evil rules all, plain and simple. Maybe Dark Mirror Spock figured out what the probe wanted, pulled a temporal recovery mission, and brought back a pair of humpback whales. A time jump, with a Dark Mirror crew, would’ve been worthy of a Star Trek novel and would’ve earned an “R” rating as a film.
Anyhow, the Dark Mirror probe’s satisfied and headed home. Unlike the Federation, the guys would’ve likely followed it. At the very least, they would’ve wanted to know where it came from.
Now, what if some clever baddie figured out how to capture it, and then reverse-engineer its ability to nullify tech? Imagine that weapon slipped onto a cloaked warship. Something with enough kick to disable a starbase or a colony world. Also worthy of a novel.
Ah! But there’s the ultimate threat of all: the secret of time travel itself. Evil Picard is ordered to lead a fleet of warships for a covert mission. They’re not only sent back in time. Nope, they’re sent back into the mainstream Star Trek timeline. The calculations for a temporal/dimensional crossing—for an entire fleet—took over a century to get right.
Their evil mission? To conquer the founding worlds of the Federation, of course. There’s an odd thorn in this plan. Section 31 slipped agents into the Dark Mirror universe, just for crap like this. One of them managed to get a warning through, before she got her throat slit.
The Federation scrambled a fleet of its own. Their top minds calculated the parameters for a fleet jump into the past. The flagship won’t be the Enterprise. Oh no. It’ll be the Defiant, under Captain Sisko. Why send him and not Picard? Because Sisko can take the gloves off. Here’s an example:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGcAbI-4_io
Dark Mirror Picard vs. Captain Sisko. Imagine the throwdown . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #75 – 09/26/23
24.) EXPENDABLES VS. PREDATOR
Predator came out in 1987 with an awesome cast: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Predator_(film)#Cast
The Expendables cast aren’t spring chickens and could’ve been old enough to star in that sci-fi masterpiece. Now, what if some demented time traveler/movie geek grabs his trusty time machine, some mind-control gadgetry, and a ton of money? He intends to simply replace the cast of the first Predator film with the cast from Expendables 1.
Just think about it . . .
Sylvester Stallone (age 42) puts together a team of mercs. This is only their fifth mission. Jason Statham (age 21) is an ace tracker. Terry Crews, who’s a year behind Statham, carries the minigun. Jet Li (age 25) handles the radio with a thick accent. Randy Couture (age 25) is the explosives expert with the six-barrel grenade launcher. Dolph Lundgren (age 31) is the machine gunner who shaves himself without shaving cream—and is real tight with Crews.
Their CIA liaison is none other than Harrison Ford (age 46). When he slips on some leaves and gives away their position, Lundgren’s the one who threatens to bleed him “real quiet” and leave him. Stallone and Ford are old buds.
Unlike the original Predator, Ford tells Stallone the truth. There’s a bunch of insurgents in the jungle who need to be taken out. A team of Rangers went in to kick a$$ and gather intel, only to disappear. The job is to find/save/avenge those missing soldiers. Stopping a potential coup would earn the team a bonus.
Stallone’s only interested in the rescue side of the op, until they find the Rangers. The Predator killed and skinned them all. Enraged, Stallone thinks it’s the guerillas and hits their compound. Ford’s thrilled by the intel haul and live prisoner. The Predator decides to hunt them down.
Well, if I recall the plot correctly, Jet Li dies first (he barely sees it coming). Then Terry Crews gets his chest blown open. Lundgren watches Crews die, grabs the minigun, and engages in some “deforestation.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dK1B9b_0Z2Y
The Expendables then match wits with a Predator. Couture’s wounded by one of their own traps. Then Lundgren gets decapitated by the Predator’s shoulder cannon. Harrison Ford loses an arm and then gets gutted. Tired of running, Jason Statham draws a big knife and squares off (alone) against the Predator.
Couture takes a shoulder cannon shot to the head. Their prisoner runs off.
Stallone’s dodging plasma shots, gets away, and then plans a solo Predator hunt. Guess he wins and heads off into the sunset/closing credits.
Now, for those of you who’ve seen The Expendables and Predator, who do you think would’ve made it out (script be darned)? I mean, Jet Li being the first to die? Jason Statham in a knife fight . . . with a Predator. By the end of Act Two, that butt-ugly alien should’ve been limping along, covered in bruises and cuts. Ah well.
25.) ROTTING EVOLUTION
Why can’t humans win a zombie apocalypse? Yeah, undead hordes and incompetent leadership would be factors. But most cinematic zombies are slow, stupid, and stink from a mile away. We’ve got more bullets than people on this planet. Enough headshots should solve the problem, right?
Well, many a zombie series or movie simply assumed that we gave up the fight and focused on mere survival. Aside from Shaun of the Dead, no one really took the fight to the zombies. One could understand why. The brainy types would likely insist that the undead would fall apart within a year or two. Still, even if that happened (and it never seemed to), would there be anyone left alive by then?
Here’s a thought: what if we had no friggin’ choice but to kill every zombie on Earth?
Why? Because the longer a zombie’s dead, the more likely it will mutate. It’s like a post-mortem evolution. Some got smarter and picked up psychic powers. The most feared zombie mutation involved mind control (over the living and the undead). Other zombies were telekinetics, empaths, pyrokinetics, or pure super geniuses. Then there were the more “physical” super zombies. They developed armored skin, physical superiority, and a bloodhound’s sniffer.
Let a zombie girl run around for over a year and she might go toe-to-toe with an enraged grizzly. Or, maybe she could simply drink its mind from a mile away, then walk over and eat the remains.
Worse, these undead buggers set up a caste system of sorts. That’s right. What if they bred human survivors in glorified slaughterhouses? All the while, the smarter zombies thinned out the dumber ones (because they eat too much). Imagine armies of undead with guns, tactics, and the restraint of mind-controlled beasts. Or a war where human survivors had to match wits with undead leaders who made Tesla and Caesar seem stupid.
Being hopelessly outnumbered and outclassed, humanity became something of a global terror cell. Our leaders were a mixed bag of mad geniuses, corporate sociopaths, and high-order criminals. Amazingly, they functioned like a well-oiled machine. Perhaps because they were kindred spirits, had no other choice, or were mind-controlled into preserving the human race (for the tasty meat, of course).
Whether it was reacquiring control of America’s nukes or killing off zombie psi-generals, the missions involved might’ve made one sweet little show.
NEWSLETTER RANT #74 – 09/19/23
26.) THE SILENT PLAGUE
What if there’s a disease that cancels out all sounds within a certain range? It’s completely contagious. There’s no known cure. It doesn’t have any biological symptoms.
An infected person can silence a car alarm just by being too close to it. Someone with this disease can stand in front of massive speakers, scream into a microphone, and there wouldn’t be a whisper. Their hearing’s just fine—but there’s no sound. Put enough infected people together and even signal frequencies get scrambled. Does the disease go away in time? Or does it last for generations?
How’d it come to be? Maybe it’s something natural. Some rare spore or a fallen meteorite? Perhaps it’s accidentally created in a lab and slips out. Or this thing’s intentionally designed and released to sow chaos.
Who’d want such a thing? Creatures vulnerable to sound (like demons or alien invaders) come to mind. Nah. It’s been done. Perhaps it’s a super genius who thinks we’d be better off without noise? Someone who despises the harsh words and lies that make our clashing societies go ‘round. This rat bastard doesn’t calculate the side effects of a world without sound. I, for example, would be a holy terror without my writin’ music.
With any semi-apocalyptic plague, there’d be enclaves of the uninfected. I’d imagine they’d be remote, dystopian, and heavily fortified. The “last bastions of sound” in a world gone mad . . . hmm. Would the infected go mad? Feral, even? If this thing wiped out civilization (as we knew it), would we revert to roving gangs of savages with crude sign language skills? Or would civilization adapt and march on with heightened literacy skills?
Y’know, this could work better as simply a short-term alchemical potion. Something your kill team quaffs before rushing into a lair full of witches. The evil(?) darlings shout attack spells, nothing happens, then you make with the gunfire. Yeah. Just make it a ten-minute effect.
The idea of this sh*t being a “perma-plague” is just too scary.
27.) SO CLOSE . . .
Daedalus King, super spy, finally decided to hang up his spurs. Then he bought a fancy sailboat and headed into the sunset with my wife, Lenore. The womanizing operative convinced her to turn on me. Instead of a quick tryst (like his prior conquests), the bastard proposed to her last night.
All it took was King’s twisted sex appeal and my precious Lenore ruined everything. She was with me from the beginning, back when I decided to save the world from itself. The Earth didn’t need to be culled or taken by force. It simply needed better leaders.
The obvious solution was magic. In a world of disbelief, such a thing was nearly impossible to find—or defend against. One had to weed out the charlatans and find the hoarders of genuine mystical knowledge. The amount of it was surprisingly vast—and in the hands of an elite few. My agents hit their hoards at once. In spite of staggering losses, the first stage of my desperate ploy worked.
Once the hoards were accumulated, my scholars went to work. Security was hyper-tight because the elites we stole from had powerful friends and long memories. Worse, some of them had accomplished mystics on the hunt for their lost archives.
It was worth the risk. My scholars found a Roman curse: an enchantment that rewarded fine stewardship and punished incompetence. It led to a string of five “good emperors,” who (while imperfect) brought the Roman Empire to its highest point. This curse could be modified for current leaders and had to be cast within days of a new leader’s rise.
From America to Yemen, the leaders would’ve been compelled to seek the best for their people. Even bloodthirsty tyrants and donor-owned politicians would’ve been driven to become better . . . or suffer consequences worse than damnation itself. Just before we could test it, in came Daedalus-f*cking-King.
His elitist masters traced the raids to me and sent their pet killer to end my scheme. They feared that I meant to rule the world or destroy it. According to my moles, Agent King was told that I had a WMD and meant to use it. Frankly, I had dozens, scattered across the world. Over the years, I used them as leverage (to keep me alive and out of jail).
Well, my archival thefts eliminated that advantage.
I sent my best assassins to kill King. They failed, of course. Lenore offered to bait him into a trap. Naturally, I refused. Besides, Daedalus King left a trail of lovers in his wake. Most of them died in the crossfire of his assorted missions. The lucky ones ended up in jail, heartbroken, and/or pregnant.
To him, the mission mattered and nothing else.
I sent my one true love away, for her safety. Somehow, King caught up to Lenore and killed her security. One sweaty night of sex later, my wife gave up everything she knew about my plans—including the location of my lair. Unable to defend it, I evacuated the complex and (out of spite) detonated a half-kiloton warhead. The mushroom cloud erased the mystical hoard and my dreams of a better world.
I was so close!
Now, months later, I was almost penniless with a new face and identity. The last of my lieutenants were killed off weeks ago. They thought I went up with my lair. Hopefully, the elites did as well.
I raised my binoculars, slipped the other hand into my pocket, and caressed the detonator. With a press of a button, that sailboat would be reduced to flaming debris. I planted the charges myself, last night. Just before I could kill them, Lenore stepped out onto the deck with her new fiancée. They cuddled together and opened a bottle of wine.
They looked so happy . . .
With a scowl, I lowered the binoculars and deactivated the detonator. To hell with it. She was safer with him.
Also, the elites of this world lacked their precious archives. Perhaps they’d have a harder time ruining the world with their silly machinations. I just hoped they didn’t keep copies.
I turned around, just as my own shadow erupted from the ground and stabbed me! I absorbed two thrusts to the gut and a deep one to the heart. Then my shadow returned to normal, while I dropped to one knee and bled out. Bystanders rushed to my aid.
How kind—
NEWSLETTER RANT #73 – 09/12/23
28.) INFIGHTING
I have this flawed idea for a story. The more I rewrite it, though, the more I’m starting to like it. Here goes . . .
There’s this old and evil dynasty. They’re on the decline. Their enemies are chomping at the bit to kill them off. The desperate head of the clan cuts a mystical deal with something not quite good or evil. The deal gives him and his direct descendants a really sweet mystical fighting style. Anyone with it can face (and kill) dozens of armed foes with a spoon and relative ease. Also, if a member of the bloodline’s in danger, they’ll all know and be able to either help or avenge.
The price? It doesn’t involve souls. No, to keep these powers, one must solve crimes. That’s the price demanded by this shadowy entity. So, when the dynasty collapses, the family scatters and hides. For generations, they become servants of the law, bounty hunters, or even assassins (who specialize in settling scores). After all, these all involve investigations . . .
Their enemies relentlessly hunt them down. The descendants survive them. There is, however, one rather intriguing side effect to the fighting power. The longer one wields it, the darker one gets. Even if a pure-hearted descendant fights to good fight, sooner or later, the corruption sets in. Always. The only way to safely avoid the corruption is to avoid solving crimes, let the powers fade, and blend in with the rest of humanity.
Well, the bloodline branches off. Some keep the power, go evil, and eat lots of bad karma. Others renounce it and (more or less) flourish. Their descendants forget the warnings, though. Once in a while, one of them solves a crime and the powers come roaring back.
Their enemies die off and all seems cool, until modern day. Someone’s systematically targeting the bloodline. Freelance assassins use every method in the book to kill them off. Those in the know can’t figure out who’s behind the scheme.
For all they know, it could be one of them . . .
I don’t think this would work in anything but a fantasy setting or a modern-day anime (on an Earth-like world). Ah well. Just because an idea’s not ready doesn’t mean it lacks merit.
29.) A RIDICULOUS THEORY
Whenever I was watching a film and a possession scene popped up, I noticed that the deed was already done. The adorable little kid’s been taken by some unholy entity. Then the do-gooder(s) step in and clean up. That’s what I often saw.
What if possessions took place within a sleeping victim’s mind? A group of demons simply broke into the victim’s dream and trapped the mind like some kind of animal. Only the strongest/luckiest could awaken (and thus escape). The ones they caught were ritually bonded with a demonic symbiote. It would feed on the soul and control the body for the rest of the victim’s life.
But what if the victim’s soul bonded with the symbiote and managed to resist its control . . . only to end up quite mad? They ranted on, displayed demonic powers, and were tagged as “possessed” in the waking world.
Exorcists came in and did their B.S., knowing that the prayers and rituals never worked. Usually, they relied on discreet toxins. Once applied, the stuff killed a symbiote before permanent damage occurred. With therapy, a victim could recover. Or, it was too late, the soul was beyond salvage, and the toxin stopped the brain within hours.
Well, here’s the bigger problem: these demons don’t work for Hell. Even worse, more cases of demonic possessions have been handled by the Vatican than ever. Thus, for every possession that went “bad,” X number of them went perfectly fine—and unrecorded. There might be thousands, hundreds of thousands, or even millions of symbiote-driven hosts in the waking world, biding their time.
In mystical circles, there’s been talk that Heaven and Hell even declared a truce . . . and put together a task force to deal with this existential threat. Then again, maybe it’s just talk.
NEWSLETTER RANT #72 – 09/05/23
30.) PSI-CANDY
I could still feel the old team telepaths’ “eyes” on me, from time to time. Guess my alibi just wasn’t convincing enough. Kurt was dead and they blamed me for it. Couldn’t imagine why.
My slut of a husband was about to divorce me for a woman half our age. A mere human with tattoos and the IQ of trailer park soap. A week after he served me with papers, Kurt was snatched off the streets and tortured to death. Whatever he knew about me was probably screamed with utter sincerity.
A few days later, my secret identity was leaked the world over. Heaps of my personal dirt soon followed. Thank God I didn’t have any kids with that moron or relatives to target. To this day, I had no idea who brought me into this world (or much cared).
I simply grew up in foster homes, until I realized I could generate a hypnotic (white) light above my head. Anyone who looked at it was zombified for the next four hours. I started as a street vigilante. Then the Colleagues of Justice persuaded me to join them.
By the time they were done with me, I was an acrobatic gadget slinger who used her powers as a last resort. After all, anyone who looked at that white light was affected—both friend and foe. That forced me to rely on my wits to get things done. I rose through the ranks and took over the Colleagues’ East Coast Branch.
Between my job and miserable childhood, even my biological clock couldn’t make me want to breed.
Kurt wanted me to give it up, push out sons, and cater to his mid-life crisis. He was the first person I ever confided in. He was second only to my love for crimefighting.
Served me right for trying to have both.
Last month, after I led six world-saving events in a row, I got home and found his parting note. Then he got killed, probably for sharing my secret with the wrong set of ears. Kurt’s sobbing whore of a girlfriend accused me of putting a hit on him (like I’d have to).
There were signs of psi-tampering in her tiny brain. The effect was similar to my power. That’s when the Colleagues put me on indefinite leave and the federal investigation began. They assured me that the only way to clean this up would be to find the mastermind(s) behind this frame and clear my rep. Then I’d be welcomed back with open arms.
I quit the Colleagues the next day.
For almost half my life, I gave them unflinching loyalty. All it took was an obvious frame-up for me to lose theirs. Did the Colleagues seriously think that whoever set this up wasn’t waiting for me to investigate this? The trap was too obvious.
Did this involve my mysterious origins? Or was it an old enemy who decided to hit me close to home? Maybe someone simply wanted me out of Colleagues? I could live without knowing.
After I buried my adulterous louse of a husband, I moved into a fortified safe house and trained for the fights to come. Kurt probably died with herpes but he was my husband. My dearest friend. The love of my life.
The smart thing for my foe(s) would’ve been to pick me off with a high-powered rifle or get bored and walk away. It wouldn’t come to that. I had the patience of a vengeful widow. Someone went through all this trouble. Sooner or later, when the Colleagues weren’t watching, the bastard(s) would come a-knockin’.
Then we’d settle this face to face . . . and blood for blood.
31.) THE PRANKSTERS
During the Great Collapse, when the Fourth Empire drifted toward chaos, its last Empress called together her finest spies. She gave them wealth, resources, and one simple command. When they heard it, they thought her mad. Historical records were filled with examples of her bloodline’s insane, blood-soaked dynasty—and she was no different.
Yet, in retrospect, her last command might have saved entire galaxies. The order was this:
Control the mail, so that peace might grow again.
Back then, as now, important documents were still kept on paper (from treaties to transactional records to ciphered plans for a multi-planetary invasion). If a scheme was large enough, it would eventually leave a paper trail. These spies designed an interstellar secret society with eyes on every world. When high-level documents were transported, they were sent through trusted (heavily armed) couriers.
This secret society called themselves “The Pranksters.” They entrusted their agents to intercept key messages and, if necessary, take counteraction. Time was of the essence, which was why agents often had complete operational discretion. Their quick choices impacted the fates of billions.
Sometimes, a Prankster's mission was to steal a peek at a message, and then allow it to be delivered. Other times, they had to disrupt the delivery of a well-secured message—without raising suspicions. The most challenging of missions was to replace original documentation with fakes that could pass scrutiny.
Prankster agents had to become master thieves, tacticians, forgers, writers, and (on occasion) assassins. For decades, no one believed they were real. They broke rising tyrannies with a handful of faked orders. Millennia-old corporations were destroyed by a clever set of scams, leaks, or even heists—all made possible through the application of forged documents.
When an agent failed, he or she was never captured alive. The Pranksters’ existence wasn’t confirmed until well into the Fifth Empire. Still, none of their internal records appear to have survived them. Without their loyal sculpting of events, its benign rule would never have been possible. It is rumored that The Pranksters still exist, in a limited capacity, even now.
Hopefully not. For no organization (that shadowy) can avoid the taint of corruption forever—especially when it’s no longer needed.
NEWSLETTER RANT #71 – 08/29/23
32.) GREETINGS CURSE
I recently went to the post office. Earlier in the week, they had a lot of rain and some of it came through the ceiling. Among the casualties was their surprisingly diverse greeting card stock. Got me thinking (right then and there) of a sick story idea.
What if there was an evil greetings card company out there? A place with a prestigious name and evil occultists? They made a classy product and undersold their competitors. They had cards for all occasions: weddings, births, graduations, funerals, etc.
Buying a card “armed” it. If you didn’t write anything on it, the card was just a harmless piece of paper. However, if you scribbled well wishes and signed it . . . you’re f*cked. That’s because the card was a contract for your soul. To read the contractual fine print, simply keep the receipt for 30 days. On the 31st, an eighteen-letter link will appear on their website. Take the hours-long customer survey, then the contract will appear—in ancient Assyrian.
Not only would your soul be damned, there’s a different type of curse attached to each card. Send a baby card to your sister and that kid’s going to have a handicap, come out stillborn, or suffer demonic possession. A birthday card could lead to someone’s gruesome demise (right after it’s read). The worst type of scenario was when multiple people signed a card. Their souls would all be damned and even amplify the card’s curse.
All that from a leaky roof. And Mom wanted me to be a lawyer.
33.) BLOOD TREATY
It’s a sad thing to be the new king of an evil dynasty. There were nine tyrants before me. My father, by far the worst, was just laid to rest in the royal crypt about an hour ago.
Delegates from the surrounding kingdoms attended to pay their respects. By tradition, they would remain for my coronation. The kindly white-haired delegates all seemed so very sincere. Maybe they were. Maybe they had no idea that their delegations included an impressive array of assassins. Or that their armies had quietly moved toward my borders. Before sunrise tomorrow, my throat was to be slit and my people would be at war on four different fronts.
T’was sad, really. I proposed peace and open trade. The offer was genuine. If only my new enemies had the courage to believe in me.
Alas, my family name was hated throughout the known world—and for good reason. In the past, whenever one of my ancestors fell, his son immediately started a war and took more land. Most of our current lands and waters once belonged to our neighbors.
With Father’s death, their armies were expected to hold a defensive posture. It was almost convincing. The reality was that they meant to slaughter my people and retake their lands. If this ploy succeeded, my realm would shrink to a third of its former glory.
I would have been a fair king. Born with Mother’s kindness, I was an embarrassment of sorts. Father couldn’t beat it out of me, no matter how cruelly he tried. Still, in the end, I earned his respect because I agreed with his core values. The kingdom came first, last, and always. Trust, love, and greed were seen as weaknesses to be avoided. It was why we had the largest army in the world . . . and the finest spies.
I was warned of this scheme over a year ago, as Father’s illness worsened. At the time of his passing, he had numerous battle stratagems ready. I let their spies make copies of them because they weren’t enough. Even he didn’t anticipate a unified attack from all four kingdoms.
They would fail.
The elves would come from the west. I had their horses poisoned with alchemically treated hay. Since I brewed the potion, it would only work when I told it to. All it would take were three words of magic from my lips—at the right time. Then those poor horses would explode and reduce the bulk of the elven forces to one massive crater.
The dwarves marched in from the north. I vigorously pressed for peace with them. They were the finest craftsmen and such brave fighters. Ours could have been a wonderful relationship. Guess they were still bitter about their queen losing her (bearded) head to Grandfather’s axe.
My solution was this truly interesting pirate spell. When used correctly, a hair could be plucked from one’s head and turned into a fearsomely loyal warrior. Well, this spell variant would create hostile warriors—no plucking required. They would have armor, weapons, and utter loyalty to me.
I don’t know how many hairs were on the typical dwarf’s (hairy) body. But even the best fighter couldn’t survive that many murderous foes. Better still, my conjured warriors would last a year—more than enough time to lay siege to the dwarf realm, empty their gold vaults, and bring back spoils. I’ve just had curse totems placed along our shared border. Any of them who came within a hundred miles—with hostile intent—would end up both hairless and dead.
The Aetheritan fleet would try to sneak into our waters from the south. The fools left their lands lightly defended. Couldn’t imagine why. The Aetheritan beaches were beautiful. They made the finest ales imaginable. Well, I sailed my fleet around theirs and expected an easy conquest of their kingdom. As for the Aetheritan fleet, some of Father’s infernal contacts conjured forth a full swarm of wood locusts. Each of the winged monstrosities was the size of a piglet and only ate two things: wood and flesh. Within a fortnight, the Aetheritan kingdom would be mine in its entirety.
Last, but not least, were the Itrio. Their king even proposed a marriage between me and his lovely daughter—not that any sane father would. They had the best mages and a formidable army. A war between us could’ve lasted for months. I’d win, of course, but at a considerable cost.
My solution? A hand-delivered note.
It was checked for threats and then presented to the goodly king. My courier intimated that his face reddened at the choice I presented him. The king could stand down his armies and kill his only male heir, which would restore the peace between us. Or, there’d be an all-out war. Once I won, I’d kill all six of his children—and half his people—for his treachery. His reply was a box . . . with his only son’s head in it.
As my late father used to say: “The best treaties were signed in blood.”
NEWSLETTER RANT #70 – 08/22/23
34.) THE NAZI DRAGON
Madeline Turme didn’t smile unless she got to pull the trigger on Neo-Nazis. It was her kink. Probably had something to do with how her family was stripped of their wealth and sent to die in concentration camps. Only her half-crazed grandmother made it out.
Rather than try to recover their lost property and art through the law, the Turme family became contraband smugglers. During the Cold War, they played all sides and restored their lost fortune (several times over). Whenever one of her people came across a Nazi, the standing rule was no mercy.
When the Curtain fell, the Turmes had smuggling ops throughout the world. That required a well-maintained mixture of bribery, blackmail, and cozy ties with some very powerful friends. Madeline pulled the strings like a pro.
Being a freelance arsonist, I heard of the Turmes but never had reason to do business with them. That didn’t seem to matter because they came looking for me. Curious as to why, I didn’t run. They liked that.
The Turmes met me with a sports bag full of small, unmarked bills. The million-dollar gesture earned my patience as they whisked me away to a meeting in Greenland. That’s where Madeline hopped on the jumbo jet and made with the details. These smugglers needed my ability for a high-end heist on some remote island in the South China Sea. It was heavily guarded by the descendants of Third Reich hardliners.
That didn’t track, of course. Heists involved stealing things of value. My ability destroyed things of value. Naturally, my first question was whether or not they meant to frag someone’s cash pile. Madeline gave me a mischievous shrug. The wealth involved was nearly indestructible because it was primarily made up of gold and precious stones.
Then she explained that it was a dragon’s hoard: complete with a hibernating dragon. It took me a while to stop laughing and even longer to be convinced. The photos and intel she provided could’ve been faked. Besides, magic was real and Madeline Turme didn’t screw around. If she wanted to kill a Nazi dragon, either she was crazy . . . or kinda crazy.
Dragons could shapeshift into any smaller living thing: from a horse to a roach. This particular beastie once walked the Earth in the form of a Gestapo Colonel. During World War II, the dragon earned his way into Hitler’s inner circle. When things went to hell, he was entrusted with a massive hoard and ordered to “infuse” it with his innate magic.
The slow process required the dragon to sleep atop tons upon tons of treasure. The process was almost like a mama bird on an unhatched egg. Instead of body heat, the dragon fed magic into the hoard. When the time was right, the energy could be harvested and used to fuel one ritual wish. It was easy to guess what those Nazi losers would’ve wished for: world domination.
Then again, the dragon might’ve had his own ideas on how to spend that wish. Since dragons were almost extinct, he might want to wish for a “Dragon Reich” of some kind. Also, there was the not-so-slim chance that their ritual was flawed. Screw one up (with that much power involved) and the world might split in half.
The job was to hit the island, slay the dragon, and ritually “diffuse” the hoard’s magic. The Turmes had mercs, mystics, heavy weapons, and a plan. What they needed was someone to protect them from dragon fire. Being one of the most powerful pyrokinetics on the planet, they figured I could give ‘em that edge.
How quaint . . .
35.) QUEEN ROGUE
The crash site was spread out for miles, which means that E’Ragga wasn’t at the controls. The accomplished thief (and pilot) likely bailed. I looked up into the night sky. My helmet took the hint and scanned for residual traces of a jump chute . . . There. Six miles out.
The moment I read my sensors, the rest of the team knew it too. Such was the advantage of a HMKT (Hive Mind Kill Team). We were assembled two years ago and bonded with alien science. Along the way, we were read in on the fact that Earth was one of several “off-limits” worlds. These were planets with sizable populations that were great places to disappear. Banished royalty absolutely loved it here.
Rather than some Men In Black treaty crap, an informal understanding was reached. These aliens could do whatever they wanted: as long as they maintained a low profile and left the global status quo alone. If they stuck to those rules, we couldn’t touch them. In return, the Earth couldn’t be invaded. Without this deal, any of our “neighboring” alien races would’ve conquered the world centuries ago.
Since the Renaissance, we’ve watched aliens kill countless innocents and did nothing. The most we could do was clean up their messes, steal leftover tech, and keep their existence hidden (to avoid a panic). If folks only knew what the Salem Witch Trials were really about . . .
E’Ragga was a rule-breaking rogue. It was a rare thing for a banished alien to get on our bad side and survive—but that’s what happened. Why? The answer was above our clearance. She came during the ‘60s and made too big of a mess. Rather than smoke the b*tch, E’Ragga was stuck on a transport ship and kicked off-world. Orders were to kill her (on sight) if she ever returned,
What race was she? Her file didn’t say. It did reveal that E’Ragga was a shapeshifter and could wear thousands of faces from hundreds of races. She could fool DNA sensors and even psychics into thinking she was someone else. The scariest part was that E’Ragga could turn into inanimate matter—just not as indefinitely.
For all we knew, she was still here as a piece of debris or a mere rock. No matter. We caught her once. We’ll do it—
My sensors detected some kind of spores in the air. Type: Kalakin. One of the older races, thought to be extinct. When wounded, they released spores like this. Anyone who breathed them in simply threw up their most recent meal—unless the Kalakin was pregnant. Then her spores were dangerously infectious, just like these.
Crap. E’Ragga came back here to breed. She must’ve tried on her first visit too. Someone stopped her then but showed mercy—probably because she was among the last of her kind. Now, she was back. Why? Maybe we humans were genetically compatible with Kalakin spores. If she found the right conditions to spread those spores, E’Ragga might infect thousands of people (if not more). The implications were kinda grim.
I switched out my armor-piercing ammo for the incendiary brand. The dropship was already inbound. After all, the pilot was part of our hive. We had a rogue queen on our hands. One who knew our world and how to blend in.
This was gonna get ugly . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #69 – 08/15/23
36.) FINISHED PRODUCT
Consider this a story-writing exercise. Please watch this clip below. It’s from a show called Banshee:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgYU77NKZcU
That’s a twisted little scene, huh? Now, don’t worry about Job’s backstory or motivations. Just look at the finished product: a foul-mouthed master hacker. A mastermind with a thick rap sheet and a long memory. He knows his way around a gun and has an infamous rep. Yet, his face isn’t too well-known.
Now for the challenge . . . swap out Job for young Luke Skywalker in Star Wars: A New Hope.
Stop laughing.
Seriously, what if the goofy Tatooine farm boy just did time on an Imperial labor planet? Someone sold him out on a lesser charge. Luke got that revenge and then went back to where he was raised. No one’s connected his boyish face to the phantom hacker who’s stolen data from the Empire, the Rebellion, Jabba the Hut, and plenty of other powerful players.
Then, one day, Luke and Uncle Owen buy two droids. One of them spits out a cryptic message. Here’s the original scene:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2sERCgDESE
Now, what if Luke Skywalker had Job’s mentality? That’s the challenge: craft an alternate series of events based solely on that change.
Here’s my version. After the message ends, Luke shuts down C3-PO (because he babbles too much). Then he hacks R2-D2 and pulls both the full message and the Death Star plans. Normally, he’d sell those plans to multiple bidders. This, however, isn’t about a jump-capable space station. Oh no. It’s about a planet killer and the fate of the entire galaxy.
Luke’s barely civic-minded enough to see the big picture and chooses to destroy the Death Star. The problem’s that he has no idea where it is. He takes R2-D2 apart and makes some modifications. His fuzzy plan is to make contact with the Rebel Alliance and find a way to get aboard the Death Star.
The next day, Luke seeks out Obi-Wan Kenobi. The aged Jedi sees vast potential in the young man (but also a ton of grizzled darkness). They hire Han Solo to get them to Alderaan. Along the way, Obi-Wan tries to sell Luke on the Force. The kid’s not interested.
They find what’s left of Alderaan and one very large space station, just before its tractor beam reels them in. Most of their misadventures on the Death Star still occur, with one twist. See, R2-D2’s already one heckuva hacker. In the original movie, the little droid hacked the Death Star with wicked ease. Now, throw in Luke’s upgrades.
What happens next? I’m thinking that R2-D2 obeys its reprogramming and hacks into the Death Star’s payroll network. Even if stormtroopers work and fight for free, there’s gotta be cash on something that big. For what, Luke doesn’t care. R2-D2 wires the loot across multiple galaxies before it hits one of his phantom accounts.
Obi-Wan disables the tractor beam, runs into Darth Vader, and then dies in front of Luke and his buds. Our heroes leave the Death Star. Vader’s gloating because there’s a homing beacon on the Millennium Falcon. It’ll lead them straight to Rebel Alliance HQ. Then the lights begin to flicker . . .
That’s because R2-D2’s hack also locks the Imperials out of their own Death Star. The system calculates a course and makes a jump into hyperspace—with Vader trapped aboard. Destination? A black hole. Bye, Vader.
Luke gets his medal and politely declines the invitation to join the Rebellion. The problem is that Obi-Wan’s ghost won’t leave him alone. Not interested in going to Yoda for training, Luke returns to his roving life of crime with a Force ghost at his back. Whenever the kid’s in a bind, Obi-Wan possesses him and makes with the violence.
The Empire Strikes Back basically happens without them, until the end—when Luke finds out that Solo’s stuck in carbonite . . . in Jabba the Hut’s trophy room. Leia offers him big money to help with the rescue. Luke has a different price in mind. He wants a lightsaber.
37.) THE ORACLE HEISTS
You used to be a curvy NYPD detective, until 9/11 happened on your side of town. When the first plane hit, you rushed to the scene. When the first Tower collapsed, you were assisting with the evacuation. Amidst a toxic swirl of gray carcinogens, you lost your sight.
Someone got you out of there. The doctors couldn’t explain it. Physical tests couldn’t trace a physical cause for your permanent blindness. Then came the visions. They were short-term and useful.
The first warned you of a mugging by a homeless guy. You could “see” him in your mind’s eye, down to his crooked teeth and assorted scars. He was going to beat you senseless and leave you out in the snow to die.
You dug up a collapsible baton, called 9-1-1, and reported a strange man stalking you. Then you kept your “appointment.” Two squad cars arrived in time to pull you off that homeless piece of crap.
After that, you learned to control the visions. Eventually, you understood. The gray swirl of debris from the Towers didn’t give you this power. No, you always had it. The stress of that day triggered it. Sadly, permanent blindness was the price of your precognition.
When it came to the War on Terror, you “peeked” at the outcome and didn’t like what you saw. A lot more terror attacks were destined to happen in New York City within the coming months and even years. The scary part of your visions was that you knew every detail behind them. Rather than try to warn the authorities, you decided to make a mess.
First, you picked the winning numbers for a lottery jackpot, then hired a lawyer to collect your winnings. After taxes and whatnot, you collected about $56 million. You knew half the scumbags in the city. A few owed you favors. You picked one you trusted, a semi-retired thief named Hollins. Armed with bribe money and blackmail, you convinced Hollins to be your front man.
Your first mission targeted a group of freelance terrorists, who were hired to hit the floor of the New York Stock Exchange with a nerve gas attack. Under your guidance, Hollins put a crew together and orchestrated a heist. An attack this big required someone to coordinate the cash flow: from weapons to people to bribes.
The money handler got “misplaced” on the way to the bank. After a brief round of torture, he gave up the accounts and Hollins’ guys stole the budget for the terror attack, split it evenly, and then left him (and plenty of evidence) for the feds to find. While Hollins laundered his ill-gotten gains, you cooked up the next heist.
Eventually, the FBI would connect the dots to Hollins, who’d betray you as part of the plea deal. Weeks before that happened, you invited him over for a glass of (poisoned) wine, to talk strategy. Then you had his replacement dispose of the body. This particular fellow used to work for the NSA and had a deeper pool of contacts, expertise, and imagination. Timmons was his name and you “saw” that he’d last much longer than Hollins.
Timmons’ first job involved a Russian nuke that was buried near the Statue of Liberty, during the height of the Cold War. Somehow, nobody ever found it and the Russians never bothered to disarm it. Even worse, its long-dormant timer kicked on. Another three days and the five-kiloton device would’ve gone off. Timmons didn’t dig it up. He simply arranged an auction for the bomb and saw to it that Homeland heard about it too. A bunch of arms dealers went to jail and the WMD was safely dug up.
You kept Timmons very busy during the Bush and Obama years. The ex-spy never asked how you seemed to know every last detail. All that mattered was that the intel was solid and that he had full control of field ops. Your partnership averted multiple mass killings, three viral outbreaks, and a fiendishly clever coup attempt. All of these crises happened in New York City. For some reason, your power never worked beyond the Five Boroughs.
The only real downside was the tumor in your brain. You foresaw it five years ago. It’s about to become inoperable. The only way to survive it would be to remove it. Doing so would permanently negate your precognition. Four doctors in the world could’ve pulled it off. Assuming the surgery worked, you could retire and leave Timmons to run things.
Then you thought back to 9/11: a catastrophe that you couldn’t have averted . . . Then you ignored your fate and started on next decade’s threat list.
NEWSLETTER RANT #68 – 08/08/23
38.) DUFUS SPY
Over a decade ago, a serum was developed that augmented the brain. Memory, problem-solving, fortitude, and even wit were all enhanced. A carefully kept secret, it was only available to American and British intelligence agencies. Selected agents became super spies almost overnight. They could solve complex cases within hours or destroy heavily fortified strongholds with disturbing ease. Whole teams were built around them (think Ethan Hunt in Mission: Impossible).
Sadly, there was a side effect to the serum. 1 in 9 agents mentally regressed within a year of the injection. It was oddly abrupt. One moment, these agents were at peak mental condition. The next, they were stone-cold idiots. The effects were both permanent and stubbornly incurable. Afflicted agents experienced amnesia and forgot their pasts (before the regression date). Most of them, however, retained some measure of their enhanced skill sets.
Some of these agents knew too much and were tricked into euthanizing themselves. The rest couldn’t simply be allowed to roam free. After all, the serum was still in their brains. With the right expertise, it could be harvested and reverse-engineered. Thus, retired agents were selected to “babysit” these unfortunate souls, whose identities were altered beyond even WITSEC standards.
Sadly, these “idiots” make the job a full-time nightmare.
[What inspired this weird idea? A link I found on YouTube. It’s from an old (CBS?) show. Imagine if this kid was once America’s best secret agent. Then the serum turned him into a dufus. Now, he’s about to stumble into a bar fight:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7VrT7HymEc&t=56s
The folks who pull him out are the retired spies. The girl, their youngest, hasn’t been “read in” on this arrangement. Even worse, fight footage ends up online and someone recognizes the kid. Word spreads. Someone figures out what must’ve happened to him. Bad guys converge, for the sole purpose of extracting serum from his “slightly used” brain.
Antoine Fuqua could’ve turned this idea into a polished gem. Ah well . . .]
39.) MYSTIC MUSKETEERS
This one’s about the Three Musketeers. What if the core trio (Aramis, Porthos, and Athos) were partially trained mystics? Each of them survived a near-death mystical experience. That got them noticed and recruited into the King’s Musketeers. Why train musketeers in the occult? Because there were all sorts of supernatural threats to the people and the throne.
Since all forms of magic were outlawed by the Holy Catholic Church, they were trained in secret. Each musketeer was empowered, trained in occult lore, and given a mystical rapier. The weapon could not break, warmed in the presence of dark magic, and could cut the intangible (like ghosts).
Here’s the oddity. Once their training was complete, Aramis, Porthos, and Athos were given a potion by their instructor(s). Once swallowed, they’d forget the years of their training (and who trained them) but not the knowledge.
Athos survived his wife, a mystical seductress and aspiring witch. After his training, he became a top-flight “drunken gatekeeper.” Alcohol allowed him to sense magic, absorb hostile mystical energies, and even use them to open short-ranged gateways. With a portal, Athos could slip in/out of tight jams or cheat in a fight.
Porthos (womanizer and brute) barely survived a werewolf attack and even kept the creature’s head as a trophy. Before the next full moon, he was given a rare potion. The brew kept his lycanthropy at bay. However, the potion required him to enjoy a steady diet of sexual activity—or it would wear off. That’s why Porthos became the consummate womanizer. The advantage of this “cure” was that he had all of the strengths of a werewolf without having to turn (from physical prowess to heightened senses to pheromones).
Aramis attempted a solo exorcism, during his days as a priest. He pulled a demon from a little girl . . . only to get possessed himself. Stranger still, young Aramis found himself in the driver’s seat of his own body—but with the demon’s knowledge and powers. It took the demon weeks of constant effort to break free of its human cage and return to Hell’s safety. After his mystic training, Aramis could safely absorb any spirit into himself and know his/her/its secrets. Any powers are also his to wield, for the duration. The Musketeer can never hold a spirit within himself for more than a day, or his soul will rapidly darken (to the point of automatic damnation).
Then D’Artagnan shows up: a kid with his dead father’s magic rapier and no clue about magic. One day, he meets Cardinal Richelieu (who’s been hollowed out by a High Prince of Hell). The sword’s hilt warms (in warning). When D’Artagnan reacts to it, the Cardinal mistakes the young fellow as a monster slayer . . . and chaos ensues.
Hunted by man and demon alike, D’Artagnan heeds his mother’s advice and seeks the three musketeers who once fought alongside his father. “One for all and all for one.”
NEWSLETTER RANT #67 – 08/01/23
40.) MY LIGHT
Just this once, Bugsel allowed me to visit my wife’s grave. I could barely remember Sadie’s perfect, soothing smile. The way she held me in her arms in the bad times. I needed to stand over this modest tombstone, in this BFE cemetery . . . and fuel up on juicy hate.
My wife died for being in the wrong bank at the wrong crime. Five masked scummers decided to just rush in shooting. There was no apparent provocation. There weren’t any threats or hostage round-ups. They simply shot up everyone inside with suppressed automatic weapons. One guard, two tellers, one manager, and nine customers died within a minute.
They saved the cameras for last. One of them even hit the alarms. The police arrived, figured there’d be hostages, and set up a perimeter. During those precious minutes, one of the robbers (a hacker) patched into a terminal and did a “withdrawal” from the system. The news didn’t disclose how much they stole.
This bank was a cartel front. Almost eighty million in laundered cash was being cycled through this particular branch on that fateful day. Their timing was perfect, which meant the robbers had inside intel. When SWAT showed up, things got interesting. Apparently, the bad guys had backup shooters on the high ground—with RPGs and long guns.
They lit up the SWAT vans, police cars, and the one police chopper at the scene. Then they glitched every surrounding camera and fled. Any cop left alive was pinned down by gunfire or RPGs. During that time, the robbers simply drove off. Soon after, their shooters did the same. Eleven dead cops were left behind, with about twice as many wounded.
Bugsel arranged for the permissions necessary for me to attend Sadie’s wake. During the ride over, the tacky DEA suit made my acquaintance. He was put in charge of a recently created inter-agency task force. Their mandate was to track down kill teams, like the one that took my wife, and bring them to justice. Even before I was busted, I heard rumors of such outfits. They came and went like fashion trends.
What doomed them were well-paid counterintelligence teams within the cartels. They bought and/or coerced feds to supply them with intel on cases. Sooner or later, Bugsel’s agency would get infiltrated (if it hadn’t already). That’s why he came to me.
His offer was intriguing. The prick figured that the bloodbath at the bank was the opening volley of a war between two rival cartels. Bugsel offered to fake my suicide and cut me loose—with a new face and no digital trail. He’d supply all relevant intel directly to me . . . then look away while I made with the vengeance.
I could find these bastards my way (and in a fraction of the time). Bugsel would ignore any cartel targets I killed, provided I kept the bystander casualties to a minimum. Any intel I found went to him, through pre-arranged dead drops. Whatever cash I came across was mine to use. If I ran, Bugsel vowed to put me down himself.
It was a Devil’s bargain, between a task force fed and a freelance hitman in the second year of a life sentence. Had to admit, it was outside-of-the-box thinking.
Revenge hits were tricky enough, especially against two full-strength cartels. It had the smell of “suicidal” about it. Bugsel could toss me into a black site (or put a bullet in me) whenever he wanted.
Of course I agreed. Sadie wasn’t just my wife. She was my light. The only stable source of joy I’ve ever had. Second only to her touch was the thrill of methodical murder. Prison made me wiser (and hungry). This was just the type of op that Langley trained me for. Bugsel picked me because of what I did to insurgents in five different countries.
This would be fun.
I wouldn’t save this heist crew for last. Oh no. They’ll die first and fast. Then the cartel heads. When it splintered, I’d kill anyone who tried to fill the void. I’d spare their families and make them wonder who I was. Whatever cash I didn’t keep would burn.
I knelt and kissed Sadie’s tombstone. Then I thanked God. He put her in my life for nine short years. Sadie knew what I was and loved me anyway. She didn’t judge. Even after I was caught, she didn’t abandon me. She was mine. All mine . . . until they took her from me.
With that, the last bit of fragile light in my soul fell away.
Good.
41.) SWORD AND MASK
Think of this as an idea for a roleplaying campaign.
There’s a respected wizard who sends off a mystical S.O.S. It hits the most powerful beings in the surrounding kingdoms and warns them that a masked killer’s coming for them. A masked killer with a cursed sword and an elite duelist’s skill. The blade’s crafted from elven steel and covered with mystical symbols. The hilt’s made from gorgon bone.
Anyone even grazed by this sword is doomed to become a dead statue. A quick kill does the same thing within a matter of moments. The mask is made from the same bone as the sword hilt. The powers of his victim are absorbed by the mask.
The noble and respected wizard warns that this young killer can now wield assorted schools of magic. How many mystics have fallen to that sword? Certainly more than one. The swordsman’s clear goal is to kill more mystics and gain their powers. He begs them to be wary—and to avenge him.
Those closest to this wizard rush to his aid, only to find a statue in his bed. Word spreads and bounties are posted. All sorts hunt this guy down. Their reasons vary: from vengeful friendship to coin to the acquisition of mystical items. Within a fortnight, this masked swordsman’s sighted.
Here’s the thing: the wizard’s warning is complete B.S. The swordsman is a good guy. The bones within his mask and sword hilt are those of his ancestors. Are the bones gorgon though? Or human? Or something else? What’s he after?
When wielded by him, what do the mask and sword do? Who really sent that warning? And what are the real stakes . . . ?
NEWSLETTER RANT #66 – 07/25/23
42.) CAPTAIN STARK
In the MCU’s main reality, Steve Rogers got his powers in a relatively smooth fashion. Then there were the alternate realities, in which Peggy Carter became “Captain Carter.” Why not Howard Stark?
I know what you’re thinking. I’m about to come up with some kind of clever scenario where Steve Rogers dies and Howard Stark takes his place. It’s not that simple. You don’t just jump into the machine and become Cap. One needs multiple serum injections, skilled hands at the controls, and most of New York City’s power grid.
No, in this reality, Howard Stark was dying. A rare genetic disorder would make sense. He was in Stage One and buried the symptoms (for now) with expensive meds. Still, the docs gave him a year or so to live. That’s when he went to Dr. Erskin, inventor of the super soldier serum.
Howard didn’t wanna be a super soldier. He simply wanted to live long enough to see the project through. Erskin was conflicted. Howard Stark’s genius and resources were vital to the super soldier project. However, his serum came with a serious flaw: it made the good better and the bad worse. What would it do to Howard Stark?
Very reluctantly, Erskin gave Stark a watered-down serum formula. One injection, per month, would keep the disease at bay.
Soon after, Steve Rogers became Captain America. Erskin was gunned down and took his secrets with him (almost). Stark cooked up one serum per month and dosed. His genetic problem went away and his immune system was at its peak.
Stark wasn’t physically amped or anything. His mind, however, became enhanced to the point of super genius. Better still, he was a good man.
Howard Stark turned S.H.I.E.L.D. into a legit defensive powerhouse—only to die in a motorcycle accident in 1992. Boring, huh? He wasn’t busting in skulls with a vibranium shield or anything. However, his legacy was epic enough:
*HYDRA’s armored minions gave him the idea for the first Iron Man suit. He built a prototype but never finished it. His son, Tony, looked them over (as a kid). That peek would later save his life.
*Bucky fell off a train and was presumed dead. When the body didn’t turn up, Stark got curious and looked for the guy. Two weeks later, Cap leads a raid to rescue his childhood friend. Thus, Bucky never became a Super Soldier. He did end up in the White House, bionic arm and all, after JFK’s assassination.
*When Cap beat the Red Skull and crashed, Howard Stark found the Tesseract. Based on where it fell, he did the math and saved Cap (who named his first son after him). Naturally, Steve and Peggy Rogers lived (somewhat) happily ever after.
*Former German scientists (the ones who helped HYDRA infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D.) were never recruited by the U.S. government. Why? They didn’t need ‘em. Stark sniffed out the remnants of HYDRA. Cap and Bucky took them down.
*When Loki and his alien swarm hit New York, three Insight carriers showed up and rained fire on that portal—and anything that came through it. What powered them? Tesseract-fueled reactors.
*Tony Stark was born without that genetic disorder in his genes. Also, he came out with an off-the-charts IQ and no daddy issues. Instead of being a playboy, the serious-minded philanthropist built weapons for Uncle Sam and engaged in all sorts of experimental research. When he was wounded in Afghanistan, Stark became Iron Man and put the Avengers Initiative together on his own. Eventually, he killed Thanos and died a good man.
*His twin daughters, however, were not good. The third-generation super geniuses fooled everyone though—and were a bit psychotic. At their father’s funeral, they sized up the guests and plotted their next moves. One daughter wanted to become a pupil of Doctor Strange. The other sized up Nick Fury and wondered what it would be like to run S.H.I.E.L.D. someday.
43.) TEMP HIVER
Hive minds are a bit overdone in the movies. Kill the hive queen/mother and the entire monstrous horde dies too, right? What if someone picked up a twisted variant of the hive power? This dude looked normal and could blend in with most crowds. If a crisis broke out, he could trigger the hive effect. His skin would harden and his physical attributes would go superhuman. This would also happen to everyone around him.
For example, if he stumbled into a bank robbery, this guy could create a temporary hive. The hostages would become bulletproof and genetically superior (down to the babies). They’d have whatever skills or knowledge he wanted to share. Better still, he’d know everything they knew. Thus, if one of the hostages was an “inside man” on the heist, the hiver could eject him from the hive and cancel out his powers.
Would this hive soldier have full control? Nope. Yet, they’d instinctively fight like a well-oiled machine. When things calmed down, the soldier could end the effect and return to normal (along with everyone else in the hive). He’d forget their secrets within a matter of hours.
The power’s too “out there” to be merely psychic. Mystical makes sense. Alien, perhaps? He’d be about a match for the Beast (X-Men), not the Hulk. Put him on a hero/villain/spec ops team and he’d be a fine asset.
Well, back to work.
Below is my current list of published works. Each one is available on Amazon and Kindle, all accessible through this humble link: https://www.ivillain.net/projects/current-titles.
NEWSLETTER RANT #65 – 07/18/23
44.) THAT REBEL SCUM
This thought centers around the film Rogue One and a rebel spy named Cassian Andor. Here’s his bio: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cassian_Andor.
Back in college, one of my favorite sci-fi characters was an alpha grifter named Slippery Jim diGriz. Drop him on a planet (with only a lockpick and a clean pair of underwear) and he could conquer it within a month. The first book in the series is called The Stainless Steel Rat, by Harry Harrison (if anyone’s interested): (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Stainless_Steel_Rat).
Anyhow, what if Cassian Andor was in that league? Let’s say that his verbal acrobatics rivaled the real ones of Darth Maul. He rigged K-2SO to lie almost as well as he could. When Jyn Erso failed to convince the Alliance Council to attack Scarif, he pulled some grizzled volunteers together. Then they commandeered the Imperial shuttle and went to steal the Death Star plans, just like in the film.
The rebels split up, set explosives, and then returned to the ship. Meanwhile, Cassian told Jyn to follow his lead and not say a word. Together, they waltzed into the tower with K-2SO.
In the film, the original assessment was that they’d only make it a third of the way before they were killed. Well, Cassian’s got his best fake officer’s credentials and one heckuva plan. They made it to the records room without a shot fired.
His story is this: they’re agents from the Imperial Security Bureau. There’s going to be an attempt on the life of the Emperor. The mastermind behind it? Director Krennic. He compelled Galen Erso to put an explosive flaw in the Death Star—one that can be triggered with the press of a button.
When the Emperor and Vader visit, Krennic meant to detonate the station and kill them both. Then he’d blame the Rebellion. Amidst the chaos, a handful of other key officers would rise to power (him being one of them) and rule the Empire.
The (stupidly) patriotic records officer is sworn to silence. He even showed them the controls, then took a long “coffee break.” On the way out, Cassian warned him to sweep the area for explosives. He had it on good authority that a team of mercenaries—posing as Rebel agents—would attack Scarif in the coming days.
Minutes later, Jyn found the right file. They stole it, along with some other cool stuff (like plans for hyperspace tracking). The saboteurs slipped back aboard the freighter and lifted off. They cleared the planetary defense shield, set off the explosives, then jumped to hyperspace.
What they didn’t know was that Krennic was already there. When the bombs went off, he ordered the garrison to be deployed. The records officer revealed what he was told to the base C.O. (another idiot, from the looks of him). When he learned that the Death Star plans were stolen—on his watch—there was only one thing to do. The base C.O. ordered his garrison troops to kill Krennic’s security detail and had Director Krennic arrested for high treason.
While there’s not a climactic fleet battle, I’d have been fine with it because that bunch of Rebel scum deserved to live—period. Then, of course, Cassian would have to steal a “clean” Imperial shuttle. Then, another team’s got to infiltrate the Death Star and rig it to blow. Leia’s never caught. Luke’s on Tattooine. Solo never meets them. Alderaan’s never destroyed.
Ridiculous fantasy: Donny Yen gets a lightsaber, trains under Yoda, then kills Vader someday (yeah, right).
45.) TWO MEN & AN ANKH
Two Men & an Ankh was created in 2002, by a pair of occult adventurers who unknowingly awakened a mummified Egyptian god—in the middle of a museum exhibition. While they put him back to “sleep,” the collateral damage was extensive. Being responsible do-gooders, they knew what needed to be done.
Cops were bribed to tell the right lies, as were local officials and the media. Evidence was destroyed, bodies had to disappear, etcetera. The stubborn few who couldn’t be bought were told the truth: that magic existed and was often misused. The last thing they wanted was for the local criminal element to gain access to it.
Still, despite their efforts, word spread. All kinds of phenomena needed to get buried: from sasquatch roadkill to alien gang wars to mystical crime scenes. Insane sums of money were offered and an underground corporate dynasty was created.
By 2012, the original owners were “persuaded” to sell out to a shadowy investment group. After that, any hint of morality went out the window. Pay enough and Two Men & an Ankh won’t just cleanse a crime scene. They could sabotage criminal investigations, make witnesses disappear, or do anything else a client needed (for an extra fee, of course).
Two Men & an Ankh had offices in every major city in the world. With no questions asked, they’d happily conceal any phenomenon—no matter how horrific. The client would receive an inventory of recovered items. The more stuff they wanted to keep (from alien artifacts to magic swords), the higher the price tag. Whatever was left behind lowered their final fee and would be fenced/laundered by the company.
To date, none of their movers have ever had “sticky fingers” and tried to make off with something. Their conditioning and mystical augmentations kept them honest. Also, there was the absolute certainty that they’d never get away with it. Management would make an example (and human sacrifice) of anyone stupid enough to steal from the company.
Two Men & an Ankh had many competitors but no one had their quality crew. Their occultists could disarm cursed artifacts faster than any other firm in the world. Movers were rigorously trained and enchanted to withstand all sorts of unpleasant magicks. Other firms simply gave their minions dental, guns, and life insurance (the cheap bastards).
NEWSLETTER RANT #64 – 07/11/23
46.) THE CONFESSOR
After that fiasco in Greenland, the Program was dissolved. Some managed to call in old favors and get transferred to other units. The rest of us were politely cut loose. We’d be randomly watched, of course. If anyone misbehaved too severely, they’d end up in an oil drum.
I never expected to be a civilian again. Always figured I’d die on the job. There were a few half-sketched plans in my head about what I’d do. None of them stood up to reality. I was only great at black ops.
Most of my ousted colleagues went private sector or joined another agency. I didn’t want to whore out my skill sets or deal with new bureaucracies. I had enough to retire on, so I did. I kept my skills sharp and waited for an idea to emerge.
One day, on a whim, I went to mass. The last few times I went into a church, it was to kill somebody or do a meet. I was a lapsed Catholic who hadn’t confessed in almost eleven years. For giggles, I sat in the confessional with a Father Jon Canwell.
I made up some B.S. about battlefield guilt from Afghanistan. That I was out of the service and unsure of what to do next. Canwell listened politely, asked good questions, and then simply told me that I needed to get back into the world. To get out of my shell, “be a man for others,” and wait for God to inspire me. I was expecting ten Hail Maries but okay.
Amidst the chatter, the priest urged me to get checked out. Lots of vets came home with all sorts of contaminants. Canwell intimated that a routine physical helped him avoid heart failure, as a kid. Since then, his ticker was tip-top.
More importantly, I took his advice. I stopped to smell the proverbial roses. I struck up conversations with mere civilians. Not targets or spies. Just regular folks with boring lives. A few weeks later, I went back to that church . . . and heard that Father Canwell was dead from a massive heart attack. He died right in the middle of morning mass.
I went home with a grin and divine purpose in my veins. I pulled my laptop and burrowed into the life of Father Canwell. The community activist was from Seattle, a vegetarian, and cleaner than a newborn’s soul. His last physical was three weeks ago and everything was in the green—including his heart.
Canwell was likely poisoned. I’ve given enough “heart attacks” to recognize the tradecraft. The padre picked fights with numerous bad actors—some of whom had muscle like me on their payroll. Most retired operators would’ve left this one alone.
I guess boredom compelled me.
With fake credentials, I posed as an out-of-town freelance journalist. I got interviews from the people he helped and a number of his peers. Then (with a smile) I went to the police with the theory that Father Canwell was murdered. I was laughed out of the precinct, of course.
A day later, a van rolled up alongside me. Out came two masked men, who abducted me with reasonable skill. As the vehicle sped off, they flex-cuffed me. Only after a black hood was slid over my head did I allow myself to smile. They’d take me to someone with answers. I’d do some killing, find everyone involved, and put them in oil drums.
Better still? I think I might’ve found myself a repeat customer: the Catholic Church itself. Perhaps they already had operatives who avenged murdered clergy. If not, I’d be more than happy to train them . . . or simply do it myself.
47.) AN IMPOSSIBLE PREQUEL
I had this silly idea a few days ago.
It’s a MCU thing. When? A few years after the Civil War. It begins with a black guy named Cedric. It’s not his real name. Not even close. Cedric’s roaming through the Old West on a black stallion and modest clothes. All around him are towns, hostile tribes, and maybe even some Buffalo Soldiers.
He sports wire-rimmed glasses, a pair of six-shooters, a rifle, and a keen eye. Cedric hates this country because it hates him back. But duty is duty, so here he is.
One day, he encounters a group of frightened travelers. They claim that something fell out of the sky last night, near a town to the north. Monsters came out of the darkness and killed everyone but them. Curious, Cedric rides north.
He gets to the town and everything seems “normal.” The citizens are warm and inviting. A normal (white) traveler might not have noticed anything awry, except for signs of a major shootout. The white sheriff walks up and invites Cedric to the saloon for a drink. He explains the property damage away as a bank robbery that got “out of hand.”
With a smile, Cedric taps his glasses. They scan everyone around him. Then, with a rueful smile, the agent hops off his horse, twists his belt buckle, and goes for his guns . . .
In Wakanda, an emergency beacon goes off. One of their spies (codenamed “Cedric”) has just died. His eyeglasses/sensors are soon destroyed after his death is confirmed. The footage is studied. The locals of the town are infected by a parasitic alien race, known as the “Brood.” If left unchecked, the Earth might fall to them.
Within an hour, a dropship races toward the Old West at MACH 5. Twelve Dora Milaje are sent to deal with the threat. All they have are vibranium spears, gadgets, impeccable fighting skills, and each other. It’s more than enough. Here’s an example of why: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBMSiaMMXjI
What are the Brood? Have a look: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brood_(comics)
It could’ve been a fun min-series. A shot in the arm for the Black Panther movie franchise. Ah well.
NEWSLETTER RANT #63 – 07/04/23
48.) THE SÉANCE STONE
I had a weird thought. Don’t know how to give it legs yet.
A séance is a means through which the living could contact the dead. Let’s say that most were fake, of course. Yes, there’s that horror movie risk of bringing over some forgotten evil (blah blah blah).
As a side note: never have I seen a tale where the bigger concern is the afterlife itself. After all, someone’s spirit either goes Up or Down after death. How would one know for certain? Also, what are the rules for breaking out a spirit—even temporarily?
Let’s say that summoning a spirit from Heaven, for a quick chat, wasn’t too frowned upon. In some cases, it allowed the living to get some closure from their dearly departed family, friends, or loved ones. Hell, however, was not as forgiving. The damned were meant to suffer, twenty-four-seven, for all eternity. They weren’t allowed visits.
In mystical circles, folks who did séances are warned never to do them on the wicked. Hell had a long memory. They also had possessive demons, mortal assassins, and the promise of extra-grade torment for such practitioners.
Now, back to my original idea.
Centuries ago, some lunatic mystic created the first séance stones. Each disc-shaped stone’s ritually inscribed and hard to craft. Bury it with someone and that person’s soul could summon a living being’s soul into that afterlife. The stones only worked at night. Typically, these “reverse séances” were done upon sleeping mortals, who discounted them for dreams . . . or nightmares.
Then the mystic was executed by the Church and most of his notes were burned. A few survived through the centuries. Possible (modern-day) story ideas:
* A billionaire’s buried with a séance stone and runs her corporation from Heaven. Her challenge was to make tough boss moves without jeopardizing one’s heavenly status.
* A murdered refugee was buried with a séance stone and ended up in Hell. He summoned his killers’ souls, every night, and gave them the “nickel tour.”
* A serial killer murdered a cop, who’s buried with a stone. He made it to Heaven and tracked down other victims. Then he used the séance stone on his partner, to pass on information and bring the killer to justice.
*A mob boss was buried (with his stone) in a secure bunker with constant guards and the latest security. This same boss had run the family for three generations. Some of his lieutenants wanted new management. They hire pros to get past the security, steal the stone, cremate the remains, and break the enchantment. Then the mob’s all theirs.
Maybe this sorta thing belongs in a fantasy realm instead? Ah well. Thought I’d mention it.
49.) NOISE DOWNSTAIRS
Marta and Ivan woke me in the middle of the night.
I turned on the lamp and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Ivan’s pajamas were getting too small. Almost eight, he towered over little Marta like a big brother should. Barely four, she clutched her teddy bear and whispered something ominous to me: that there was someone downstairs.
Ah, children!
When Ivan was her age, I checked under his beds and closets on a weekly basis. Hard to believe he couldn’t dissuade her of the notion that the Boogeyman was prowling about in our cabin. The boy was more persuasive than I was. Then again, Marta was as stubborn as her mother (Lucifer rest her soul).
Then I heard a noise downstairs . . . a few of them, in fact. Hm. With a yawn, I told the children to go check it out. If our nocturnal guests weren’t friends, then they could have a “snack.”
Their matching grins reminded me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Marta tossed me her teddy bear and ordered it to keep me safe. Then she led Ivan away in perfect silence. Something told me that I’d need to order new pajamas for both children—and burn the cabin on the way out of town.
I found my slippers and headed for the bathroom, glad that someone was stupid enough to break into our home. My children hadn’t properly eaten in months. After that first taste of human flesh, nothing else compared—even that grizzly they killed in the woods last year. Perhaps they’ll stop looking at me like I’m a steak (for a while anyway).
The staccato of automatic weapons erupted downstairs, followed by crashing sounds and man screams. I’m glad our guests came unprepared. After my perfect wife was assassinated, I layered our children with more mystical protections than the Pope. An airstrike couldn’t hurt them. They were also blessed with her demon blood and the murderous skills of my ancestors.
Eventually, Ivan and Marta will appreciate the subtle ways. For now, they were simply two rambunctious kids who could tear a grown man apart within seconds. Fair enough. I flushed, washed my hands, and headed back to bed. By then, it was over.
As I drifted back to sleep, I made a mental note to find out which of my enemies sent these fools. Then I’d leave the children with my sister and settle the score. Or perhaps, just perhaps, I could bring Ivan and Marta along. Both of them so loved to travel, especially when there was foreign flesh on the menu . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #62 – 06/27/23
50.) A DIFFERENT FLASHPOINT
To begin, I won’t rag on the current movie. I’m just not gonna see it, either. Here’s a different possible storyline. Enjoy!
The prologue (three years ago) begins with the Flash at his momma’s grave. He visits and “talks” to her quite often. He’s got the power to go back in time and save her. Yet, he’s also mature enough to know that the implications could be downright catastrophic. In the distance, bad guys record his every word, while a sniper awaits the green light to fire . . . and is told to abort.
2023: the Justice League’s after Lex Luthor, who’s up to something in an old Soviet missile silo. Superman leads the charge. Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Cyborg, Flash, and Batman have his back. Multiple autogun emplacements, combat drones, armed minions, and traps are in their way. There are even costumed Legion of Doom types (Black Manta, Deathstroke, etc.).
Just as security’s breached, a nuclear missile launches. The weird part? The weapon’s moving at ground level. When Superman gives chase, it releases a Kryptonite pulse that knocks him flat. The weapon gains speed. Only Flash can catch it. Then the darned thing enters the Speed Zone! Flash chases the nuke into it and vanishes.
Batman swats Lex Luthor into a wall and makes with the questions. The giggling madman is jubilant. He claims to have just killed the Justice League . . . thanks to Flash.
Flash catches up to the temporal warhead, which self-destructs the minute he begins to disarm it. The pieces harmlessly disintegrate as Flash ends up in the past—about a block from his childhood home. That’s where his momma died, right? He watches it happen . . . and almost stops it. But he doesn’t. For that would threaten the flow of time and he can’t risk that.
So Flash turns around and runs home. When he gets back, the future’s changed. That’s when it hits him: the missile was bait.
The Flashpoint cartoon had an interesting description of what the Flash did to his timeline. Move faster than sound, there’s a sonic boom. When Flash messed with the past, there was a “time boom.” Events are disrupted because of it.
Worse, Luthor tricks him into doing it twice: coming and going. Thus, the ripples hit reality even harder. With a double time boom, multiversal theory goes right out the window, because reality doesn’t splinter in this case. Until that energy dissipates, changing the past won’t create new realities. It will impact the future. Period.
[Note: Do I know diddly about temporal theory? Nope. Just humor me.]
What changed?
General Zod and his Kryptonian followers stumble across Earth in the ‘90s. Rather than convert it into a New Krypton, they bask in the yellow sun and breed like rabbits. Rather than cull the human population through violence, Zod dumps a sterility virus upon them. Only metahumans and humans with “impressive” talents are given a serum (that allows them to breed). Kryptonians are unaffected and forbidden to interbreed with humans (and most metahumans). After a few more generations, the world’s population won’t even be at a billion.
Zod raises Kal-El (Superman) in his image, along with Kara Zor-El (Supergirl). They’re both as evil and brainwashed as any of them.
The Batman situation is unique. Bruce Wayne (Ben Affleck) is President of the United States and openly loyal to Zod. The two even have drinks in the Rose Garden. On the back end, Bruce is a spy for the Resistance. Thomas Wayne (Michael Keaton) runs the Resistance from the shadows. In their reality, the mugger kills Martha Wayne and they both end up crimefighters. Thomas is the first Batman. Bruce inherits the mantle, then gives it up after the invasion.
Aquaman loses the crown (and his right hand) to his half-brother. Green Arrow (Stephen Amell) is in the mix, along with Poison Ivy (Uma Thurman?). There’s no Cyborg. That guy’s a Green Lantern (fighting winnable fights in different galaxies). This reality’s Flash died in college, courtesy of a self-inflicted DUI.
Years ago, Bruce Wayne gets his hands on Jor-El’s AI. That gives the good guys (Russell Crowe and) one ace advisor. The poor AI laments the corruption of his creator’s son and niece. It keeps them from making fatal mistakes but can’t think of a way to beat the Kryptonians.
There’s never a Justice League or Legion of Doom. The Amazonians are extinct. The Atlanteans are loyal to the Kryptonians, who give them carte blanche on environmental policy. Zod knows about the Resistance. He just doesn’t care. They’re specks to him.
No one’s heard of Kryptonite yet.
So, the Flash shows up in 2023 and realizes that everything’s off. He tries to access the Speed Force but can’t. A bored Kryptonian cop spots him. After a quick foot chase, the Flash is arrested. He’s brought in for registration (a requirement for all metahumans). Harley Quinzel processes him (perfectly sane and all). Then they let him go—because he doesn’t matter to a race of “unkillable” Kryptonians. Flash knows about kryptonite but not how to find it.
The Resistance finds him. He explains what happened. The Jor-El AI connects the dots on the double time boom. Its residual fallout could last for centuries. Worse, it could destabilize other realities as well. Until it subsides, the Flash is blocked off from the Speed Force.
Then word comes in about an incident in Star Labs. Some massive weirdo with an axe (backed by swarms of flying aliens) steals a piece of alien tech, then leaves through a boom tube.
Flash fills them in on Mother Boxes, Steppenwolf, Darkseid, and an inevitable invasion. Jore-El’s AI Wayne sees a plan. They conspire to steal the Mother Boxes, hack into them, and use them to absorb the residual temporal fallout. Countless realities and lives could be saved.
The Flash means to go back into the Speed Zone and stop his earlier self from disarming that (fake) nuke. Jor-El warns him that the past cannot be changed. Even if he stopped himself, the Flash would end up in the wrong reality.
Meanwhile, Darkseid doesn’t wait for Steppenwolf to open a portal to Earth. He and his crew fly in—because he learns that the Anti-Life Equation is on this world. When his fleet shows up, Zod doesn’t flinch and rallies his troops.
Amidst one horribly epic fight, the Kryptonians and Atlanteans take on Darkseid and his legions. I’d make it bigger than Avengers: Endgame. Darkseid snaps Supergirl’s neck, then throws her corpse at Superman’s feet—with Zod right there.
Meanwhile, Old Batman and Kinda Old Batman suit up and lead the heist team into Steppenwolf’s stronghold. With Flash’s help (and Poison Ivy’s pheromones), they kick butt. Once Steppenwolf’s down, they link the Mother Boxes and Jor-El’s AI does the hack. The artifacts absorb the excessive temporal energies, just as Kal-El dies at Darkseid’s feet.
When the Jor-El AI learns of Kal-El's death, it resets its Mother Box calculations and opens up a massive boom tube. Destination: Krypton’s debris field. Glowing green rocks rain down upon the battlefield and the unprepared Kryptonians die en masse.
Jor-El’s AI opens another boom tube . . . from inside Darkseid’s skull.
Zod slowly dies amidst a kryptonite meteor shower.
The AI unleashes boom tubes on Darkseid's fleet and the Atlantean forces. Most of them end up in a nearby black hole. The grieving AI doesn’t get them all—but the world’s still in one piece. The remaining Kryptonians are rounded up, miniaturized, and stuck in a bottled city. The Resistance becomes that world’s Justice League and begins the long slog of a global rebuild.
Flash is stranded in this reality. Dimension-hopping through the Speed Zone might do more harm than good. Without a surefire way back, he decides to stick around and help with the good fight.
In “our” DC universe, the Justice League builds a memorial for their missing friend but never stops looking for him.
And life goes on . . .
NEWSLETTER RANT #61 – 06/20/23
51.) THE IRON FOUR
It started with a twisted vision of Reed Richards . . . in elastic Iron Man armor.
It’s black and has all the features of Tony Stark’s gear (say, around Avengers: Civil War). The problem here is that Reed is evil. Where’s Tony Stark? In an unmarked grave.
Reed named his AI “Victor” (as in Dr. Doom). Reed bottled Doom’s brain, broke his will, and then converted the guy’s mind into a loyal AI. Reed called himself “Chain” because the armor (and his elasticity power) reminded him of one.
Then Reed modified the War Machine armor for Sue Storm, his loving (sadistic) missus, to keep her safe. It can turn invisible too—with utter tech stealth thrown in. Her call sign became “Ambush.”
Johnny Storm’s called the “Human Torch”—even after he killed Ghost Rider and stole his power. With some help from Doom, the demonic motorcycle was ritually altered into body armor. It made him even stronger and tougher, with the ability to do the “Nova Blast” whenever he wanted . . . as megaton hellfire burst(s).
Last, but never least, there was the Thing. Ben Grimm so desperately wanted access to his humanity that Reed Richards obliged him. The solution involved experimenting on mutants. The ones he chose were Colossus and Quicksilver. Neither test subject survived.
Colossus could shift back and forth (into metal), at will. Reed simply isolated the process and enabled Grimm to do the same. The result? Whenever Ben turned into the Thing, his rocky skin became metallic. As for Quicksilver, Reed wanted his good friend to have an edge—if attacked while human. Therefore, he replicated the mutant’s speed power and enabled the Thing to move almost as quickly (either in human form or as metal).
In their reality, the “Iron Four” easily ruled a shattered world. Heroes and villains alike put up such a ferocious fight that their Earth paid the ultimate toll. No matter. Reed created a device that could open doorways into other realities.
What if their first trip brought them to the Marvel MCU’s reality?
The clash would’ve been epic. Ultimately, the good guys might’ve won . . . right? Ah well. I just had to get this silly notion out of my head and onto digital paper.
52.) COLD THOUGHT
My old man used to be Third Rail. Arguably the most powerful electro wielder in history, he fought for truth and justice. While the guy was a first-rate hero, he was an eighth-rate dad. I was the result of a booty call with one of his many adoring fans. He didn’t even pull Mom out of a burning building or anything. She was merely a waitress who fell for his handsome looks, powers, and B.S.
Ten months later, I was in an orphanage. At least she had the common decency not to tell anyone who my father was. Otherwise, I’d have been sliced up in a lab or raised to be someone’s pet weapon.
My powers manifested at puberty. That’s when I tracked my real folks down. By then, Dad was already dead. Some world-ending threat got the better of him. Mom was married with three normal kids. I so resembled Third Rail that she screamed at the sight of me.
And that became my super villain origin story. I wasn’t the first super hero’s bastard kid to become a villain. There was even a support line for us (how quaint).
At first, I had daddy issues. Then I realized that being me wasn’t so bad at all. Once folks realized whose son I was—and that I was evil—tons of good-paying work came my way. In the early years, I kept a low profile and honed my chops.
Folks expected me to sling lightning (like Dad). I explained that my abilities were entirely different. I was a cryokinetic and a telepath. I only made with the cryo tricks when I needed to. The telepathy was the stronger of my two powers—and my cash cow.
Want to “persuade” your mob boss to let you run the East Coast? Pay me. Need a federal witness to (literally) forget everything she saw, right before her testimony? Pay me. Have problems with an unkillable, muscle-bound prick in a cape and tights? No worries. I’ll turn him into my most loyal minion—which was how I started my current firm. I collected other people’s worst enemies and turned them into fanatical mercs (and best buds).
Once in a while, my crew even saved the day—but never for free.
NEWSLETTER RANT #60 – 06/13/23
53.) DR. GENESIS
When the Taskmen were created, back in the ‘80s, Dr. Genesis was one of their first serious opponents. The mad genius predicted that global warming was just the beginning and that resource-driven wars would follow. Without a “superior race” to save us, humanity was doomed.
Granted, there have been superhumans since the Bronze Age. What’s baffled thinkers for centuries was that their descendants rarely carried the superhuman gene past two generations. It randomly emerged, via birth or accident. Even when superhumans bred amongst themselves, their grandchildren typically came out human—and no one could understand why. Artificial augmentation experiments were outlawed since the Nazis, because of the gruesome side effects.
Dr. Genesis’ solution involved a “viral genesis” ploy. His airborne mutagen was tested over a refugee camp. Half of the population died in outright agony. Forty-eight percent developed super powers . . . along with a homicidal rage. The remaining two percent survived, acquired powers, and retained their sanity. Then everyone turned on each other.
Thousands died within minutes. Then the violence began to spread, toward neighboring communities. Hence the airstrikes. After a hellish two days, only six of us made it out. I was the only sane one.
The Taskmen eventually captured Dr. Genesis and locked him away. Sadly, no prison could hold him. The brilliant bastard repeatedly escaped all on his own, with the help of fellow inmates/guards, or through the aid of loyal minions. Even worse, Dr. Genesis had fans who agreed with his obsession with forced genetic evolution. Inspired by his disastrous attempt, they tried (unsuccessfully) to duplicate his work—which was decades ahead of its time.
In 1995, when his most recent escape resulted in the deaths of dozens, I finally managed to convince the authorities to lock him in a private stasis cell. Multiple hero teams lent their top minds to creating it. Even now, in 2023, it was the blueprint for containing the most dangerous super villains.
After rigorous testing, the private cell was ready. Dr. Genesis was tossed into his new home. Two different teams tried to grab him, during transit. Both attempts were thwarted. After we stuck him inside, more attempts were made. Anyone who could get past the assorted non-lethal traps and automated defenses was teleported to a deserted island bunker and bombarded with power negation fields and mystical binding rings.
After a while, the “Dr. Genesis fan club” gave up and life went on—until last night. Somehow, the entire site was teleported away. Worse, Taskmen sensors detected traces of temporal energies. A team was put together, lent a time portal, and ordered to hunt this madman down. I politely refused the offer to join, flew home, and went into my attic.
The only things I ever kept in there were a hyper-alloy baseball bat . . . and a summoning square, which I had drawn with some of Dr. Genesis’ blood. I picked up my bat and uttered a conjuring phrase. The square glowed white, then plucked my parents’ murderer from whenever he went. The bastard was in an expensive black tuxedo, mid-toast, with a glass of champagne in hand.
Trapped in that posture, only Dr. Genesis’ eyes could move. First, I read his thoughts. The idiots who freed him were from 2176. Apparently, the Earth was an overpopulated wasteland. Even worse, superhumans were practically extinct. Out of desperation, the U.N. itself arranged for his temporal extraction, in the (vain) hope that he could save humanity from its future.
The funny thing? Superhumans were endangered because Dr. Genesis released a slow-acting negation virus, some eight months before his capture. He knew that, out of desperation, someone would’ve cut him loose (just to cure it). It was untraceable but not incurable. In fact, I knew exactly where his files were.
I’ll have to undo his wee plague tomorrow.
Right now, I plucked that champagne from Dr. Genesis’ hand and gave him a silent toast. Then I set the glass down. I’ll drink it later, after a bracing round of batting practice . . .
54.) AN ANSWER
Your dad killed your mom. Had you been there, he might’ve killed you too. Why’d he do it? No one knew. The favorite family rumor was that he was a thief and your mom was about to rat him out. Well, that wasn’t good enough. You wanted to know for sure—before you killed him yourself.
By the time the cops closed the case, you were living with your grandparents and plotting your revenge. Since he beat your mom to death with his bare hands, you meant to return the favor. Everyone thought your interest in martial arts was therapeutic. They praised you when you joined the Marines and came back with scars and medals.
Only when you mustered out and applied for the FBI did your relatives understand what you meant to do. Some openly applauded your loyalty. Others didn’t approve of your vendetta and snitched you out to Quantico. They kicked you out, even though you were at the top of their trainee class.
No matter. You picked up a bounty hunter’s license. In the years that followed, you released that hate and rage upon anyone who gave you the slightest bit of grief. When it came to bail bonds, you became something of a legend.
You ignored anyone or anything that impeded your vicious crusade. The money you made was spent on investigators and hackers. The goal? To find your old man, so you could get your answer—then send him to Hell.
Ultimately, you found the old man . . . three weeks after his live-in girlfriend reportedly splattered his face open with a twelve-gauge. According to the police reports, the former hijacker liked to beat her and she couldn’t take it anymore.
You looked over his last known photo. The bald-shaven old man kept himself in shape. He grew a thick (graying beard) and lived under an impressive alias. Unsatisfied, you had the grave dug up. Inside, you found an empty coffin.
The next day, you dangled the live-in ex over the side of a very tall building. That’s when she told you the truth. One of your relatives warned Dad. So he paid good money to fake his death and left town. He didn’t want to have you killed. He hoped that you’d buy the ruse, give up, and pursue a real life.
You asked her why he killed your mom. She didn’t know. You grudgingly let her live, then resumed the hunt with a hateful little smile. Someday, you will beat the answer out of your father, then bury him (alive) in his own grave.
Only then could you have a “real life.”
NEWSLETTER RANT #59 – 06/06/23
55.) BLOOD PATIENCE
I was born a vampire and my royal blood is pure. Our house was shattered almost three thousand of your years ago. We were banished to this blue speck of a world and left to die in rags. Without our technology, we were at the mercy of a fiery sun.
Most of us ended our suffering, via ritual suicide, within the first few years. Others committed the ultimate sacrilege and shared their blood with a lesser race. After a turning bite and eight ounces of vampiric blood, a human could share in our superiority. My kin thought they could rule, rebuild our house, and return to the stars. All of them are dead now, betrayed by their “children.”
I’ve never shared my blood with you filth—and I never shall. You humans are walking cups of wine with fascinating flaws and the occasional bursts of relevance. My only hope was that some plague or war didn’t render you extinct before you could invent a way off this boring world. While I was the smartest being on your world, I was a nobleman and not a scientist.
Survival was my only rule and I clung to it—no matter the price. Whenever I came across other half-breed vampires, I pretended to be one. Just a fanged vagabond with a fake story and no particular place to be. If I revealed my true age and origin, I’d be feasted upon. After all, pure vampiric blood was the rarest drug and tripled a half-breed’s might.