NEWSLETTER RANTS – 2023

BY: MARCUS V. CALVERT

www.ivillain.net

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.

Those few who sensed what I was became snacks. Whenever any of their clans grew too large, I saw to its destruction. Scheming wasn’t a difficult affair for me. After all, Sun Tzu and Machiavelli were some of my finest students.

Half-breed filth weren’t my key to freedom: humans were. If only you weren’t ruled by closed-minded cowards. People like them made the Dark Ages last as long as they did. I taught math and astrology to promising cultures, only to watch them get wiped out by conquistadors. At times, I almost conquered this world myself (just to speed things along).

Instead, I remained patient. Yet, on rare occasion, I had to step in. The First Crusade was my idea. I made sure that Hitler’s nuclear program fell apart. The Soviets’ brilliant first-strike invasion ploy was reduced to a mere missile crisis in Cuba. My efforts bore fruit when human technology finally became viable.

I was already flush with wealth. Gold that I stole centuries ago was turned into numerous investments in scientific advancements. I owned islands throughout the world. On them, I built a string of facilities. My largest held a private observatory. Through it, I plotted a course back to Riylm—my homeworld. The calculations required four AIs and science that I hadn’t used since before Christ.

The effort only took me a year.

All I needed was the means to get there. I remained on the move, in case some nuclear war unexpectedly erupted. My spies were everywhere. They thought they worked for assorted causes and governments. In reality, they all answered to me. One day, that paranoia paid off.

The OuKrimm found this world. Once driven to the point of extinction, the war-like psychics meant to regroup on far-flung worlds (like Earth). They abducted select humans and turned them into psi-slaves. When they grabbed one of my best spies, I backtracked the abduction to an OuKrimm outpost in Australia. The tasty psychics were no match for me. After all, I’m a true vampire: arguably the last of my kind.

OuKrimm blood was a delicacy, back in the day. It offered us a temporary mental boost. That’s how I taught myself how to pilot their scout ship from this world. As I packed, a part of me considered warning your world of the looming invasion.

The OuKrimm would likely build hidden colonies upon this world, then reduce humanity to a paltry half-billion. Those who survived would be genetically “turned” into breeding stock for the OuKrimm. Even after millennia, they weren’t that formidable. There were ways to inoculate the human minds against the OuKrimm's powers. Their weaponry wasn’t too insurmountable. A united human front could have prevailed.

If only you weren’t still led by closed-minded cowards . . .

To you, I leave my resources. Use them wisely—or don’t. Me? I shall pack the ship’s cargo hold with fine liquor, blood stores, and a database of human history. If even one of our genetic repositories is intact, I shall auto-breed a new house of vampires. If not, there are other ways to rebuild. I might even weave your world's "science fiction" concepts into my strategies.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave this mad little world to its well-deserved fate.

56.) THE BULLET  CATCHER

When I was growing up, Grandma told me about Heaven and Hell. She told me to pray and showed me how to be good. Too bad I wasn’t much of a student. Prison taught me what she couldn’t. By the time I got out, her cheap grave was falling apart.

That’s when I gave up on Heaven and went looking for work. I hired myself out as muscle. Most of the time, I played offense. Once in a blue, I even saved an innocent life or two. The money was sh*t and the hours were worse.

Then someone offered me real green. All I had to do was babysit a leggy stripper, named Jayna, and keep my hands to myself. I figured that she was someone’s caramel-colored mistress. The weird part was that Jayna never seemed to remember me—even though I protected her every week. I figured it was the booze and the drugs she enjoyed . . . but that was weird too.

From week to week, her whole vibe changed. One night, she’d speak fluent Russian and eat rare steaks. The next, her accent was Chinese and she was a pure vegan. It was like Jayna had a “personality wardrobe” in her head.

As we bounced around town, I realized that we were bein’ watched. The same three guys. All beards.

When the night was over, I pulled security footage and showed their faces to the guy who hooked me the job. He slipped me a few grand and told me that everything was cool. That I should just ignore ‘em. Well, that’s what I tried to do: until they jumped us.

I didn’t see badges, so I did what I did best. Two died fast. The third guy was right behind ‘em. Jayna took one to the neck and died quick. The b*tch was done and so was this gig. I started to flee the scene when a ghost climbed out of her body!

I connected the dots real quick. Jayna was renting herself out to ghosts who wanted to party. Each night I guarded her, she must’ve been “hosting” a different ghost. The bearded guys were either competitors or do-gooders. Without a live body, this ghost began to sink into the ground. The destination was easy to guess.

The see-through white boy was in his fifties, dressed in a double-breasted suit, and sported a nasty scar down the left side of his face. A gangster ghost, if ever I saw one. He needed a hand. Without it, he’d be in Hell—just like I’d be someday. The desperate ghost offered me fat money to save him.

What would Grandma do? She’d save the still-breathing bearded guy and leave the ghost to his just desserts. Well, she was always better than me. I shot the dying fool in the throat (for Jayna). Then I grabbed the ghost’s hand. All of a sudden, he was in my body—and in full control. Sirens sounded in the distance.

He ran for my car. I let him. Hopefully, he’d reward my “good” deed. I didn’t want just money. I also wanted knowledge and access. Someone knew a way to keep the damned out of Hell—and I wanted in. Simple as that.

NEWSLETTER RANT #58 – 05/30/23

57.) THE OTHER AVENGERS

In an alternate Marvel cinematic reality, Thor was killed by the Destroyer armor. The hammer’s still in the desert, where he fell. Tony Stark died in Afghanistan.

Hawkeye was a HYDRA agent. When The Black Widow figured this out, she killed him. More HYDRA agents showed up and killed her before she could warn anyone of their return.

Bruce Banner wanted to die so badly that he swallowed an experimental liquid explosive. The blast erased him mid-change.

Nick Fury’s left without any worthy candidates for the Avengers Initiative, until Captain America was pulled from the ice. Once revived, the super soldier became the first recruit.

When Loki stole the Tesseract (and brainwashed Professor Selvig), Cap went after him with a SHIELD team. During the confrontation in Germany, the agents got wiped out and Cap got his butt kicked. Loki was about to kill the super soldier, when an optic blast sent him flying. A left metal hand snatched the Asgardian out of the air. The last thing Loki saw was Colossus’ right metal fist.

Cyclops helped Cap to his feet, while Nightcrawler teleported in with Ice Man, Storm, and Professor X. The mutants just happened to be in Germany (on vacation) when they spotted the mayhem. They delivered Loki to SHIELD.

Since the Mind Stone was in Loki’s scepter, Professor X sensed its power and asked to study it. Fury agreed, in return for their help on this case.

Professor X fed Captain America a bunch of useful historical/trivial knowledge and psi-trained him on X-Men tactics. Then the master telepath raided Loki’s mind and warned them of Thanos’ genocidal plan. After Professor X sent Storm on an errand, he returned to the mansion with the rest of his team. Once there, he plugged himself into Cerebro and looked for Professor Selvig.

With his mind amped by Loki’s scepter, Professor Selvig made contact with HYDRA and established an alliance. That’s why they helped him sneak aboard the Helicarrier. Protected by HYDRA agents, Selvig plugged the Tesseract into the Helicarrier’s reactor and opened a portal over New York. He also created a forcefield around the device (like in the original movie).

Out poured the Chitauri horde, over Manhattan.

They spread out and found themselves opposed by a circle of defenders: Captain America, Cyclops, Ice Man, Colossus, and Nightcrawler. Then things got violent. The heroes contained the Chitauri while Professor X attuned himself to the Mind Stone. Halfway through the battle, Storm arrived with Mjolnir and called down the lightning.

Fury warned the X-Men that his bosses had just ordered a nuke launch. Professor X “changed” their minds. Then he successfully tapped into the power of the Mind Stone. His plan was simple: convince the Chitauri to fly back through the portal and destroy their own mothership. Once the invaders blew it up, they died.

Professor X freed Selvig, who cut off the portal. Based on Selvig’s memories, Professor X learned of HYDRA’s infiltration of SHIELD and “persuaded” the traitors to turn themselves in and cooperate with the authorities. He even managed to save Bucky.

Captain America became a champion of mutant rights and an honorary X-Man. Over time, an Avengers team was assembled around him. A grateful Nick Fury begged the X-Men to sign on. Professor X politely refused.

Besides, he and his X-Men had a new target: Thanos.

58.) ONE LAST JOB

You’re one of the best cat burglars in the world. Something of a “gentleman thief,” you relied on stealth and planning to achieve your ends. Never arrested or identified, you’ve stolen some interesting items over your decades-long career. The reality, however, was that you were getting on in years. Retirement loomed over your every decision, which was why this next job would be your last.

A yakuza middleman wanted to get his hands on a samurai blade, for some mystery client. The weapon was kept in a high-security vault, in Canada. The client wanted it stolen three days from now. That wasn’t enough time for a stealth job: even though the client offered detailed specs, a blank check, minions, and intel on the guards. No intel was offered on the sword itself.

With so little lead time, you politely refused the job. The middlemen accepted your refusal and left. You figured that he’d pursue more direct options. Without any intel on the sword, it would’ve been nearly impossible to research.

You’ve stolen enough relics to believe in magic. That’s why you figured that this sword was dangerous in some way. While you didn’t know its story, you figured that the sword was entrusted to some secret group of guardians. They’ve moved the sword around the world, which would explain how a Japanese sword ended up in Canada.

You figured that one of the guardians must’ve gone rogue and sold out to a yakuza clan. Odds were that this weapon would be moved in three days or less (hence the ridiculous timetable). Their Plan B would be to hijack the weapon in transit.

You waited three days, then asked around about any high-end heists. Sure enough, a convoy of armored vehicles was hit in northern Canada. The sword was stolen and the protection detail was slaughtered. Since only dead guards were found, the thieves collected their dead and the story never made the news.

It took you a few days to backtrack the security to the secret group of guardians. You arranged a meeting and told them about the yakuza middleman and his job offer. The guardians are enraged that one of their own betrayed their cause. You’re tossed a bag of money (for your intel). Out of ego and curiosity, you offered to steal the sword.

The good guys politely refused. You argued your worth when you’re tapped on the shoulder. Behind you were eight heavily-armed individuals—all of whom crept up on you in perfect silence. These guardians had thieves on standby, just in case they lost the sword. More than a little humbled, you picked up your money and pursued the quiet life of a retired thief . . .

NEWSLETTER RANT #57 – 05/23/23

59.) SHADOW CRY

Eddie Shadow Cry and I were a straight up “Odd Couple.” He was from some reservation in the Pacific Northwest. I was a stupid kid from Wisconsin, who let himself get talked into the family business. If marine boot camp didn’t make me regret the choice, Vietnam sure as hell did.

I met Eddie on my first tour. Eddie took to the jungle like Tarzan and taught me what he knew. In return, I backed him up whenever any of the “good ol’ boys” decided to mess with him. We became like brothers from different mothers. After twenty-six different firefights, I shipped out without a scratch and went off to college. Eddie didn’t want to leave.

Two years later, his luck ran out. He stepped on a mine, lost guts and limbs, then died way too slowly. I flew in for his funeral. His folks and sibs were dirt poor. The money Eddie sent back was the reason he stayed in as long as he did.

Well, life turned good for me. I got an engineering gig and rose through the ranks. Instead of selfishly chasing the American dream, I stayed in my cheap little apartment and sent half my checks to Eddie’s family. My co-workers thought I was nuts. Mom wanted grandkids. Dad wanted grandsons to brainwash into becoming soldiers (like he did me). I hated them both, which was part of the reason for my choice.

The rest of it was about Eddie. Any family that could produce such a cool brother-in-arms deserved whatever help I could give them. Thanks to me, his kid sister (Gabby) got into college and became a nurse in Chicago. Two of his cousins wanted to be marines. I talked them into the Air Force instead, where they became career mechanics.

Things were looking good for the Shadow Cry family, until Gabby went missing. Half out of her mind, her mom called me. Since I lived just one state over, I was there the next day. By then, the police found Gabby. It looked like a mugging gone wrong. They had a strong suspect but not enough evidence to charge him.

Gabby was a good kid. I knew what Eddie would’ve done, so I did it in his place. I arranged for Gabby to get sent home, cashed out my savings, and sent them to his family. I had enough pocket change for gloves, a baseball bat, and a knife. For this bastard, that’s all I’d need.

I found Gabby’s killer and followed him for a bit. The next night, I jumped him in a parking lot. I dropped him easily enough and asked a few “polite” questions. Sure enough, he did kill Gabby. I didn’t care why. I just wanted to be sure before I crushed his skull in.

Then four good dudes showed up and blindsided me from behind. I lost the bat within seconds and forgot about the knife. Things got barehanded.

Fifteen years of civilian life slowed me down. I had a gut, didn’t exercise, and smoked a pack-and-a-half each day. I didn’t have a chance.

That’s when things got weird. The punches I didn’t duck, I ate with too much ease. They were bigger, younger, and faster than me. Still, I beat them down. Then I retrieved my new bat and beat Gabby’s murderer to death.

Of course, my life was over. Maybe these four were his friends. Or maybe they thought I was the bad guy. Either way, I wasn’t about to kill them to cover my tracks. Whether or not they dropped dime, I killed Gabby’s murderer and deserved every day of my sentence. I set the murder weapon on the corpse and looked for a pay phone. The plan was to turn myself in.

Before I made it ten feet, I heard a slurping sound. I spun around and pulled my knife, just as the killer’s body sank into a pool of shadow that wasn’t there a minute ago—along with the bat. H-how?! I ran away, like any sane man would.

With broken ribs and blood in my urine, I drank myself to sleep and waited for the cops to come. There were witnesses. I took one helluva beating and couldn’t explain it away. I fell asleep and had a weird-assed dream.

In it, Eddie and I were back in ‘Nam. It was raining. Under a med tent, I had my shirt off and last night’s injuries were all over me. In his fatigues, Eddie had the same cuts and bruises as I did. He was mixing up one of his weird poultices. It reeked but did wonders for aches and pains. When he smeared this stuff on me, the agony instantly stopped.

Eddie thanked me for everything. Then he told me to go home and live my life. That I’ve done more than enough for his family. I asked him what happened last night. Through his bruises, Eddie simply gave me a “you-know-what-happened” smile.

Yeah. Magic. He wouldn’t tell me any more than that. With tears in my eyes, I gave my brother-in-arms one last hug . . .

Then I woke up without a scratch. I felt great. Semi-baffled, I packed up and drove home. A day later, a wire transfer hit my account. Eddie’s folks returned my money. Did they know about my dream? I assumed they did.

A few days later, I checked the Chicago papers. There was no reference to my crime. Then again, there wasn’t a body. Those guys I beat up didn’t see me kill anyone. Case closed, I guess.

While relieved, a big part of me wanted to know what happened back there. Thing was, some family secrets should be left the hell alone. Clearly, this was one of them.

60.) GLITCH LIST

I don’t know how the Americans managed to create their own “Terminator.” It was an impressive construct, though. They created the tactical AI, put it inside an armored skeleton, and then covered it with a convincing “flesh” housing. It was even better than the latest cosmetic cyberskins.

The Americans were about to mass-produce an army of “Boogeyman” assassins. They had pulses, breathed, and could even have sex. Trained in thousands of skill sets, they could become anyone they wanted. One of them even resembled a teenager.

Their apparent goal was to unleash an incorruptible assassin that didn’t know fear, guilt, or burnout. It was a masterpiece that was compromised by piss-poor secrecy. Rumors about it spread for months. No one believed them until a DARPA source was killed by a government wet team. The effort involved in the kill confirmed that this wasn’t a hoax.

Well, meetings were held and candidates were considered. It was only a matter of time before they came to me. I sabotaged the American’s sixth expedition to Mars—while in high school—on a dare. It was my honor to ruin this project . . . but not for free. The clients met my price and loved my plan.

I only needed to get into the project’s mainframe. As it turned out, that murdered DARPA employee had some friends who (for the right price) gave me five minutes of unfettered access. I did my business, then backed out.

As a final test, the first three android assassins were to wipe out a domestic terror cell. The targets weren’t up to anything significant, which made them a fair target for a test run. The androids were fed minimal intel and ordered to seek and kill every member of the terror cell.

The trio walked into an office building and remotely hacked its servers. Once they put together a target package, they split up and went to work. Within a day, the Speaker of the House was found on her toilet, strangled to death. A week later, sixteen other members of the House and Senate were systematically murdered.

Republicans, Democrats, and Neo-Independents were randomly targeted (per my program). Anyone who replaced them was on the kill list. I disabled the android’s kill switches and trackers. If captured or killed, their self-destructs would go off with a ten-block “bang.”

It took nine days before the last of the three prototypes was destroyed. They each left a nasty crater in their wake and created quite the scandal. Amidst the public outrage, the project was shelved. Would it rise from the ashes? Of course . . . but not anytime soon.

Sadly, one of my DARPA accomplices had a big mouth. Five minutes after I got word of her death-by-torture, my front door was kicked in. They didn’t send a kill team for me. Oh no. They sent a fourth prototype. She had the prettiest legs I’ve ever—

NEWSLETTER RANT #56 – 05/16/23

61.) RED SHIRTS

This deserves to be a high-end Star Trek fan film. It begins with a Kirk-era Federation starship. It’s zipping along when a distress call comes through. The [Insert Name] Colony is under attack by three hostile warships. It looks like alien hostiles are attempting to violently colonize the planet.

The Federation starship comes out of warp, firing. Two of the warships explode. The third one is mauled before it waves a white flag. Alien ground forces, however, are still laying waste. The bad guys ask to negotiate on the ground. The Federation captain agrees, after he sends most of his Red Shirts to the surface.

Once the grunts secure the meeting site, the command staff gets the green light to beam down—and that’s when the aliens hit the ship with a jamming pulse. While it doesn’t harm the ship itself, it scrambles the transporter beam. Thus, the Federation ship’s four highest-ranking officers beam in as steaming piles of organic material. Worse, the alien captain was stalling—just long enough for seven more warships to warp in.

The Federation starship beats a hasty retreat. The aliens turn their attention toward the colony. The Red Shirts assume command of the colony’s defense. Their highest-ranking officer’s a demoted lieutenant. He takes the reins and mounts an ingenious defense of the colony.

It’s a fight for the ages. By the time Federation backup arrives, four hostile ships are destroyed—from the ground. The aliens learn (the hard way) about beaming armed explosives into warp cores. The remaining ships detect the cavalry, beam up their ground forces, and flee.

Who saves the day? The Red Shirts. They did so with minimal casualties and won a bunch of medals. The demoted hero is restored to lieutenant and accepts a new posting . . . on the U.S.S. Enterprise. Aside from Scotty, no Red Shirt stands a chance of survival—not even a tactical genius.

62.) TWO VADERS

What if Darth Vader did kill Anakin Skywalker?

This one started with a different question: Why didn’t Vader just make a clone of himself? Jango Fett created Boba Fett. Vader could’ve sired one truly badassed clone as well.

Anyway, the question morphed. If then-Chancellor Palpatine had access to cloners (enough to create an army), then why bother seducing Anakin Skywalker to the Dark Side? Why not just steal some tissue samples from the boy and clone an apprentice?

Thus, Anakin would’ve grown up under the guidance of Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Jedi Council members still distrusted the kid. Without Palpatine’s string-pulling, Anakin’s mom might still be alive. What if Kenobi arranged to have her moved to Coruscant? The momma’s boy mastered his anger issues and kept it in his pants when he reunited with Padme.

By the time Order 66 came down, Anakin was a Jedi Master with no cyberware in him. He and Kenobi killed Dooku on the first try. He happened to be at the Jedi Temple, about to be assigned his first padawan, when the stormtroopers hit. Leading the attack was a younger version of Anakin, who called himself “Darth Vader.” Palpatine taught the clone everything he knew (down to the Force lightning).

On that very same night, Mace Windu killed Palpatine.

While Jedi were getting slaughtered throughout the galaxy, Master Yoda showed up at the Jedi Temple. Since he didn’t have to fight Palpatine, the little muppet rushed in—fresh as a daisy—and made with the telekinesis. The Jedi instructors grabbed their pupils and escaped. Yoda, Anakin, and a few other Jedi clobbered the first and second waves of Imperial troopers.

Vader found Anakin and ordered his clone troopers to give them some room. They went at it, with the fate of the galaxy at stake. After a truly epic fight, Anakin’s dead and Vader’s lost his good looks. Driven back, the Sith clone called in an aerial bombardment.

The temple was destroyed and Yoda died under it.

Padme helped form the Rebellion. Under its protection, Mace Windu and Obi-Wan Kenobi rebuilt the Jedi Order into a corps of elite spies (with smarter rules and better odds). While they worked with the Rebels, they’ll never answer to them—or anyone else—ever again.

One of their finest recruits was a kid named Han Solo. The wily Jedi found, infiltrated, and sabotaged the first Death Star before the Rebel Alliance was even briefed on its existence. In a stolen Imperial uniform, Solo rigged the station’s reactors to explode before it could fire on Jeddah. By the time the Death Star became a nasty explosion, the overachieving Jedi was already up to his neck in some other op.

Does Palpatine come back from the dead? Not if he’s smart. ‘Cause if he (or any other Sith Lord) ever steps out of the shadows, a Jedi kill team will be waiting . . .

NEWSLETTER RANT #55 – 05/09/23

63.) THE TRIBUTE BAND

Ah, En Vogue!

In 1989, some mad geniuses put together this R&B super group and fed them such memorable hits as Giving Him Something He Can Feel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MoaceIZxaao

I watched the audience in this video . . . and came up with a plotline. What if a group of demons puts together an En Vogue tribute band?

Each of the four singers was a different type of vampire:

A garden-variety fanged bloodsucker, who can seduce you with mere eye contact. She’s centuries old and is, of course, the lead singer.

A part-siren who can only feed when she sings. Her victims’ life energies keep her young, heal her wounds, and make her the team’s muscle.

A psychic vampire, who can feed on memories (whether she’s singing or not). Her soul was sold by her father, to pay off an infernal debt. Whatever secrets she gleans from the audience are passed on to the group’s demonic manager.

Last, but not least, there’s a shapeshifting demon who feeds on luck. The longer she’s around someone, the better her luck gets—at the victim’s expense. Granted, she can “spare” her fellow performers or anyone else. All of that residual luck can be passed on to her superiors in Hell.

Do they remain a low-key En Vogue tribute band? Or do they throw caution to the winds and become a platinum-level diva group? Their exploits alone would’ve made for fun viewing/reading, especially if they had to deal with evil rivals or dedicated monster hunters.

64.) PURGE JOURNAL

I was watching Purge: Anarchy the other day. A darkly brilliant film, it came with a lovely commencement scene. Here’s the link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYHCKF2WLA8

According to a Google search, annual Purges were happening for about four decades. Imagine that. What if you participated in the first Purge—and every ghoulish event after that? During the rest of the year, you were a stable member of society. Throw in a spouse, kids, and grandkids. But on Purge Night, you put on a mask and “unleashed the beast.” There was no regret or guilt—just the thrill of the next one.

What were your sins? Who were your targets? How far ahead did you plan your twelve-hour spans of lawlessness? And what if you kept a not-so-secret journal of your crimes? One that you bragged about, when drunk, and accidentally posted online some two years back?

What if it went viral?

Well, now you’re an old widower in a nursing home. Purge Night is tomorrow. Thanks to arthritis and assorted (Purge-related) injuries, you finally had to stop. You’d give anything to go out one last time. The kids put you in a decent rest home. They barricaded the place a week ago and had a private security firm on standby.

When the Purge sirens went off, you wept alone in a wheelchair that you could barely get out of. You swallowed your scheduled pain meds, grabbed your touchpad, and pulled up your Purge journal. You skimmed through your most thrilling moments. Like that time a victim almost turned the tables on you. Or when you tricked two groups of Purgers into killing each other—and filmed it. Your favorite was when you forced your neighbor to wire his life savings into your account, then burned him alive (along with his house) for being so “perfect.”

Deep in your reverie, you never heard the door to your room open. Then a syringe was jammed into your neck from behind. You looked up into the metal Purge mask of a guy in red-and-black tactical gear, with a private security logo on his shoulder . . .

Then you woke up in the bad part of town, in someone’s Purge mask. Screams, a burning stench, and gunfire filled the air. You were handcuffed to your wheelchair and doused in gasoline with a flare in your lap. On the ground was a sign that read “FREE TO A GOOD HOME.” Stapled to your chest was Page 815 of your journal, which detailed the time you did this very thing to a paralyzed child.

Fun times, you thought to yourself as you waited for someone to put you out of your misery . . .

NEWSLETTER RANT #54 – 05/02/23

65.) THE RANSOM

A happy and wealthy couple had a daughter. Just shy of her ninth birthday, she mysteriously disappeared from her bed. The police couldn’t find any evidence of abduction and assumed that she ran away . . . until an unfolded ransom note was hand-delivered.

That’s when the FBI took over. According to the note, the kidnappers wanted $15 million and left intricate instructions for its delivery. The feds couldn’t track the sender or pull any useful forensic evidence from the note. The couple chose to pay the ransom and adhered to the written instructions—but the child was never returned.

The couple hired detectives and spent the rest of their fortune in a futile search for their daughter. Years passed, then decades. The heartbroken parents died less than a year apart, utterly certain that their daughter was still out there.

Unlike his clients, the family lawyer wasn’t a kind man. He patiently watched his favorite clients seek out their daughter. Upon their deaths, he did something they would never have approved of: he came to me.

I didn’t work for cash or favors. I only worked for souls. Some I fed upon. Others I used as currency. When the lawyer summoned me, he offered me an unusual price . . . the souls of everyone involved in the crime. He assumed that the girl was long dead and wanted vengeance. Since the summoner’s soul was already sold, I took him up on his offer.

The only piece of evidence he could offer was the ransom note . . . which stank of magic.

Amused, I explained that the hostage was turned into this very fragile ransom note. Much like a voodoo doll, whatever happened to the note would happen to the girl. Fortunately, it was passed on to the police and neatly locked away in an evidence warehouse. Unfortunately, paper tends to age.

I broke the enchantment within a day and out fell a shapely woman of thirty-five. The lucky girl slept through the whole thing. Aside from the discomfort of her undersized pajamas, the freed hostage was safe and sound. Better still, she caught a glimpse of her kidnapper’s unmasked face. That was enough for me to track him down—along with any surviving accomplices.

Still, before I took their souls, I’d have to learn that trick with the ransom note. Even Hell didn’t teach us that one . . .

66.) SUPERGHOST

I was at a gig this past weekend. A young lady stepped up in a “Clark Kent” cosplay—a suit and tie with the half-exposed Superman top underneath. It was clever. She even had a fedora. Like, all she had to do was find a telephone booth and change, right?

I went through an Antagonist Cookbook with an on-the-fly idea in my head. What if, in an alternate timeline, she was launched from Krypton? On the way to Earth, she passed through a radiation field and mutated. What would that do to her powers?

I flipped through the pages of my trusty randomizer. The results were interesting. I ended up with an alien, a ghost, pheromones (which didn’t fit), and possession. Hmm . . .

Instead of Kal-El, this baby girl crashed on the Kent farm and died. Before they could bury the body, they heard a baby’s cries and found her intangible ghost. Stranger still, the adorable alien seemed to feed on daylight and grew like a normal child.

Needless to say, her home-schooled childhood was awkward (especially with the lack of spectral clothing). Still, she mastered her Kryptonian abilities—from flight to x-ray vision. Then, one day, she discovered the possession power. Anyone she slipped into temporarily acquired her Kryptonian abilities . . .

Damn. Imagine the implications.

A little boy’s trapped in a burning house, got possessed by Superghost, then blew out the fire with the super-cold breath. He’d regenerate from any injuries and feel like a living god . . . until she left him.

Halfway through Doomsday’s Metropolis rampage, he was suddenly possessed. Superghost then flew him toward the sun (at MACH 30) and left him around Venus.

Eventually, she ran into mystics and maybe learned a wardrobe spell or even how to turn solid. She helped create the Justice League and saved the world quite often. Did she bother with a secret identity? Probably not. Superghost could be anyone she wanted and loved to make the bad guys beat each other up. Maybe she even delved into the mystic arts or became more of a spy than a legendary symbol of hope.

Her only weaknesses would be magic, red sun energy, and kryptonite (if she’s in a body).

Wow! It’s a good thing she didn’t turn out evil (heh-heh).

NEWSLETTER RANT #53 – 04/25/23

67.) A BETTER OUTCOME

I was watching Xmen: First Class the other day. Without too many spoilers, two teams of mutants fight it out, during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The good guys win but two opposing naval fleets are ordered to fire on their position.

The Americans and Russians unload with a barrage of missiles and artillery. Magneto catches them all with his magnetic power and turns them back toward both fleets. He means to wipe out tens of thousands of sailors. Professor X tries (and fails) to talk sense into Magneto. Here’s the clip:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02THSZCeXac

It got me thinking. What if Moira MacTaggert chimes in? First, she wonders aloud how many Jews are in that fleet. Born a German Jew (and Holocaust survivor), Magneto glares her way. Then she asks Professor X how many of those sailors could end up with innocent mutant descendants. After all, mutants evolved from humans, right?

With a German profanity, Magneto lets the missiles harmlessly fall into the water. Moira steps up between the two destined leaders with a cunning smile and makes yet another point. Professor X wants humans to accept mutants. Magneto wants to protect mutants by any means necessary. She argues that both options could (with tweaks) coincide . . .

Decades later, there’s a raging wildfire in California, until a white-haired African mutant flies in and creates a thunderstorm to douse it. After an earthquake in Armenia, a hot ninja telepath and a male speedster show up and coordinate the rescue efforts. She finds the minds of trapped survivors. He digs them out. Within hours, two mutants save thousands of lives.

That’s what the public sees: mutants using their powers for the greater good. Mutant crime’s not an issue anymore. Whenever mutant villains hit the scene, Professor X (who has the use of his legs) straps on Cerebro. He gets into their heads and makes them surrender. Beast designs tech to imprison them and then they stand trial, like anyone else. No muss or fuss.

This group of first responders is called the “X-Men.”

While they wear flashy costumes, they never (directly) fight crime. All they do is help people. The X-Men recruit mutants whose powers would be useful for crisis management and/or public works. Each one’s psi-trained within hours. Iceman, for example, is doing some serious glacier restoration in the polar regions. Beast has eighteen Nobel Prizes for his disease research. The mutant genius also perfects gene therapies for mutants who want to pass for human or who don’t want their powers anymore.

Magneto creates the “Brotherhood of Mutants.” His crew stays way out of the limelight. Their mission’s simple: to nix any threat to mutants or the general public. The Hellfire Club is their front. Through it, they become influence peddlers and have the inside word on potential threats. If a senator wants to introduce anti-mutant registration, the Brotherhood’s telepaths can “change” his/her mind. If some evil corporation’s experimenting on mutants, a rescue op is put together—then that corporation’s put out of business. Should a government try to weaponize mutants, the Brotherhood will intervene. Everything’s done with quick and lethal discretion. The CIA helps with any cover-ups.

Brotherhood members tend to be mutants with powers best suited for espionage and/or violence. Havok is the public face of the Hellfire Club. Emma Frost has his back. Mystique’s the chief spy/saboteur. Thanks to their combined efforts, the Sentinel Project is shut down before it even happens. Laws protecting mutant rights are passed throughout the world.

There are the occasional “headaches” though. Apocalypse’s Horsemen kill Banshee and Azazel. When they defeat the ancient mutant, Professor X loses the use of his legs. Jean Grey and Cyclops both die during the Phoenix incident.

On the anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the X-Men and Brotherhood quietly come together and celebrate what they’ve created. Rather than fight each other, they’ve made the world stable enough for humans and mutants to co-exist.

I know. It’s dull. Still, it could’ve happened. Also, there is one interesting plot challenge: What would it take to destroy this long-running truce and create a mutant shadow war?

68.) STAGE FRIGHT

A covert ops team’s been sent to destroy a drug lab. The site was kept in a remote, well-secured compound. For some reason, the bad guys were tipped off and put up one vicious fight. The good guys got shot up and barely won the day. Unfortunately, the lab was mostly emptied of its most precious inventory: a drug known as “Stage Fright.”

Originally conceived by DARPA, it was designed to be a combat enhancer. After years of research, the project was considered a failure and shelved. A few of the DARPA scientists went rogue, converted the formula into a designer drug, and found an investor. Stage Fright’s appeal was simple enough. One pill offered a safe, confident high that lasted for days. At a thousand bucks a pop, it was marketed to individuals who worked alone.

Why?

Well, if you’re alone, a dose of Stage Fright would boost a user’s mind. Every thought and action is error-free and laced with creativity. However, if a user is around other people, the effect is reversed. The user’s seized with self-sabotaging thoughts and should fail at almost everything: from simple tasks to mastered skills. In the presence of even one other person, a user couldn’t do anything right. That’s why the Pentagon shelved the project.

Those rogue DARPA scientists got killed by their investor, a terrorist who meant to introduce this drug to American forces abroad. His version of Stage Fright was modified to last for weeks per dose—minus the high. It could be slipped into a soldier’s food, shampoo, and even their beers.

What was the terrorist’s endgame? Did he simply mean to sell it? Or would it be used to facilitate a terror attack? Who would the targets be? The President’s Secret Service detail? Every active Navy SEAL?

Oh, one odd thing. After that ill-fated drug lab raid, some chemical vats exploded and the surviving team members were exposed to a special batch of Stage Fright. This version left them feeling high, confident, and able to do anything—either in public or private. In other words, the perfected version of the drug’s in them: and it hasn’t worn off yet.

To be reverse-engineered, this particular Stage Fright variant can’t simply be harvested from their blood. Someone’s got to be cut up and studied before it wears off (whenever that is).

Thus, everyone’s after the ops team—from the terrorists to Homeland Security’s blackest ops division. After all, whoever has the perfected drug could create the perfect army. Funny thing? These over-achieving agents chose to capture/kill the mastermind, thwart his scheme(s), and stay alive long enough for the State Fright to wear off.

Together, they’ll probably succeed. Still, being perfect doesn’t make you bulletproof . . .

NEWSLETTER RANT #52 – 04/18/23

69.) KUNG FU OZ

There are so many mutations of The Wizard of Oz—on film, TV, and even Broadway. What if it’s done as an old-school kung fu film? For giggles, the cast must speak fluent Chinese (to allow for bad English dubbing later on). The fight scenes are pure old-school with minimal blood flow—even when someone dies.

Here’s an example:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49C28spg2_s&list=PLRT8dxtbcbSctYPgKSAAhW9FAErHVe_Ru&index=13

Now for the fun part:

Dorothy – A doe-eyed Kansas farm girl who seeks to travel abroad. Then she gets swept up in a tornado and kills a Wicked Witch with her house. After some Good Witch magic, she picks up the “Ruby Slipper” Style. Emboldened by her new fighting technique, she quests to learn the Wizard’s Claw . . .

Toto – A Shaolin monk who is cursed to eternally roam as an adorable little dog. Only Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion can understand him. Naturally, he’s full of wisdom. Ah! But does anyone listen?

The Tin Man – A weapons master with so much blood on his hands that it’s rusted him. Along the way, he loses his heart and quests to get it back (with a measure of redemption). His favorite killing tool is the axe.

The Cowardly Lion – A once-famous cage fighter, he relives his only defeat. The traumatic flashbacks of that bad day impede his ability to fight. Therefore, he seeks to regain lost courage.

The (Drunken) Scarecrow – A drunken boxing master, his alcoholism can enhance his fighting abilities. However, after decades of abuse, his balance is off. He requires a precise amount of liquor. Just right and he’s a drunken fighting god. Too little and he’s useless. Too much and he’s self-defeating. Once, he had the will to fight without the booze and quests to recover it.

The Wicked Witch of the West – She wants her dead sister’s ruby slippers because she has no kung fu of her own. Merely wearing them imbues the wearer with the Ruby Slipper Style. What she doesn’t realize is that her feet are too big (heh-heh). Still, the evil witch knows magic and has the Flying Monkey Gang as muscle.

The Flying Monkey Gang – Elite fighters who can shift between human and flying monkey form. Their fighting styles vary. Tricked into eternal servitude, only the Wicked Witch’s death could free them.

The Wizard of Oz – He’s been dead for years. His followers keep the myth of him going, so the land doesn’t descend into utter chaos. Also, there is a book on the Wizard’s Claw techniques. Of course, it’s hidden away . . .

Yeah, I could keep going. Then I might accidentally come up with a plot for this thing, so I’ll stop here. Still, imagine the fight scenes!

70.) ALPHA GHOST

What if you combined a werewolf and a possessive ghost?

Where would I begin this tale? Perhaps someone who discovered magic and became overly obsessed with it. Someone who traded her soul for power . . . then figured out a way to steal it back. A double-crossing vixen with no remorse and laser-like focus.

Along the course of her wicked life, she managed to get a full blood transfusion from an unwilling werewolf. Then she killed her donor and kept the perk a secret. When the full moon came, she popped an alchemical pill and remained human. No one ever knew she was a werewolf. The gal had all of the passive perks (heightened senses, regenerative powers, limited invulnerability, yadda yadda).

Afraid of eternal damnation, this lady mystic figured out a way to become a ghost after death. The problem is that reality often pushed ghosts into their respective afterlives. She needed an anchor (like a living host). That’s why she got tatted up with possession runes and then had them covered with mere tattoos. Once she died, the mystic would have possession as an innate power. The flaw? If she went a week without a spirit host/anchor, she’d end up in Hell.

Then, one day, she killed a federal agent. Well, Uncle Sam had numerous agencies that dealt with the occult. Some made arrests. Others took no prisoners. This mystic found herself betrayed by a fellow crook and then cornered by a multi-agency task force. After a vicious last stand, the mystic was gunned down. Since some of the ammo used was mystical, the werewolf died.

All she had to do was slip away, jump into a new host body, and move on with her “life.”

The problem was that this evil chick couldn’t turn the other cheek. Her new purpose in life was to kill everyone who had anything to do with her murder. Her method of choice? To possess the loved one of a target, wait for the worst possible time, then turn into a half-ton werewolf . . .

NEWSLETTER RANT #51 – 04/11/23

71.) THE SHADOW RUMOR

I wanted to be a reporter since I was a fetus.

Too bad I had the rotten luck of being born in the ‘90s. By the time I stepped out of college, real journalism was in utter decline. Even if it wasn’t, most papers wouldn’t have liked me. I didn’t want to cover sports, hurricanes, or political trends.

I wanted to find horrible, hidden evils and report them. Without a mentor to school me in the proper techniques, I became a beat cop in a tough city. Over the years, I saw some heavyweight evils. Some I stopped. Others I turned a blind eye to, which earned me favors within the department.

I needed the badge to learn the ins and outs of the human condition. How to spot a lie. How to find clues that regular folks wouldn’t notice. I needed to know who the players were—both big and small. Most importantly, I found mentors (mainly cops) who happily shared their tricks of the trade.

I made detective and solved cases with twisted ease. After several career-making arrests, my superiors offered me a lieutenant’s desk. I could’ve made captain, if I put my mind to it.

Instead, I abruptly resigned with dirt on a lot of powerful people. That’s when I blackmailed enough “subscribers” to start The Shadow Rumor. It was something of a newspaper-slash-protection racket that only existed on the dark web.

I never did stories on subscribers. Everyone else was fair game: no matter how big. Once I had enough green, I started fishing for evils of interest. Within a decade of relentless reporting, The Shadow Rumor became a feared beacon of truth.

If I smelled a story, I hired disposable talent to dig up what I needed. The people and organizations I targeted were corruptors and did much of their evils from the shadows too. It was fun to drag them into the light, via targeted leaks. I brought down celebrities, CEOs, drug cartels, and high-ranking politicians.

I knew it wouldn’t last. It’s why I never married and frequently moved around. Sooner or later, I’d be cornered and coerced into giving up The Shadow Rumor’s priceless files. Then I’d become a “missing person.”

What I didn’t expect was to get warned about my likely demise. According to a source, someone leaked my identity into the dark web. Within hours, the bounties for my live capture far exceeded the ones for my death.

I could run and hide. I could stay and fight. Perhaps, I could even get help from some of my nicer subscribers. None of these options would keep me alive for long. No, I needed a better way out of this mess.

Until then, maybe I had time to write one last story . . .

72.) MR. ELSE

For those of you who never saw Serenity, here’s a sample of the “Operative” in action:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AC9SF7TOyHQ

In the beginning, he’s a loyal pawn of the Alliance. He’s willing to kill and die for them, to bring about “better worlds.” By the end of the movie, this master bada$$ walks away from the Alliance and everything he was raised to believe in. He’s ripe for a makeover:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEYLbaw-sPs

Sadly, they didn’t do a spin-off show around him, like right now. Why? Because he’s older, grizzled, and wiser. Covered in scars and feared across known space, folks call him “Mr. Else” because of his self-transformation.

Imagine him wandering about, like David Carradine in the original Kung Fu series. He finds trouble and fixes it. He’s caring for the weak and innocent. The bad guys die with style points.

Meanwhile, this galactic folk hero’s making people nervous. Some of them work in the covert branch that recruits, trains, and supplies Operatives. They’re led by a Director, who allows Mr. Else to run amok out of respect. Since the ex-Operative doesn’t mess with the Alliance, there’s no conflict of interest.

Well, the Director’s just been forced from his job. His successor answers to people with grudges and long memories. They want Mr. Else: either back in the fold or tucked in a coffin.

Operatives are sent to bring him in. Talk about a messy season of cat-and-mouse. That’s all Mr. Else is—one season. Joss Whedon writes it. Someone else directs it. And it’s gotta be “not-Firefly” in its execution. A clever little show with less humor and more grit.

Possible Serenity cameos may ensue. Maybe throw in some flashbacks of Mr. Else’s early years.

In the end, the Operatives lose to Mr. Else. Maybe one of them is shown mercy. That lucky survivor shares a secret that drives Mr. Else into one last mission. He’s gotta protect someone he was once sent to kill: River Tam. The Director wants her dead too.

Well, when the smoke clears, Mr. Else saves River and then dies in her arms. Too weak to talk, he shares his thoughts with her. She takes in every secret he knows and every skill he’s ever acquired.

A week later, River breezes through the new Director’s security, reads his mind, and then beats him to death like a piñata. Among the intel she pulls are the names of everyone involved in the decision to hunt Mr. Else.

Normally, River would’ve given them warnings. The problem here is that she has some grudges of her own. The living weapon has a naughty list and terrible resolve . . . which can lead to another one-season spin-off show.

NEWSLETTER RANT #50 – 04/04/23

73.) HIVE LOVE

This was to be our last prize: a dying world of billions. It held more than enough souls to sustain our Hive Father’s breeding cycle. After that, he would die . . . as would we all. Our hive fleet was symbiotically bound to him. Taken from countless worlds, we adoringly served our Hive Father.

Once the breeding cycle ended, hundreds of spawnlings would emerge. The strongest would consume the rest and become Hive Fathers. Whichever humans remained would be divided up, claim control of our ships, and then serve as the core race of the new hive fleets. Blessed with our technology and the accumulated knowledge of every hive that ever existed before, they would spread out and bring order to the universe.

This was a vulnerable moment. If the Hive Father died, before he completed the breeding cycle, our conquest would end. Too weak to feed from space, we moved him to a secluded location within the Earth’s southern polar region.

Within a day, the Hive Father began to feed. He targeted human souls at random, drank them dry, and then bonded their minds into our hive. His range was global. Among the taken was a sub-class of the population. They were known as “superhumans.”

Most of their abilities were physical or energy-based. Some were psychic. A precious few were even mystical. Even against our dying Hive Father, none of them could resist his will.

Through our hive link, we learned about human civilization from so many perspectives. Our arrival was a salvation to this doomed race. Without us, humanity would’ve fallen into anarchy and ultimate extinction. Now, they would guide future Hive Fathers toward thousands of conquests—

Then we all felt it. We had taken a boy named Lucas Gadtree. He was a latent psychic with the power of genius and the ability to psi-link to anyone he loved. When the Hive Father took him, that link should’ve severed. Somehow, it drew power (from us) and became a thousand times stronger.

One of the minds in Lucas’ psi-link was his aunt’s. A powerful psychic, she happened to be a member of the Integritors: Earth’s mightiest hero team. She sensed his distress and attempted to make contact. On my order, our fastest ships hyperjumped into Earth’s orbit and rained fire upon the heroes’ Seattle lair.

By then, the Integritors’ teleportation satellite safely delivered them to the Hive Father’s location. Even our master couldn’t break that damned psi-link! Through it, the boy’s aunt knew where to strike and guided her teammates in for the kill. The Hive Father could’ve fed upon an entire city with ease. Five mere superhumans should’ve been a “snack” to him.

Yet, somehow, the Integritor psychic cleverly used the boy’s psi-link to amplify her abilities. That much raw power allowed her to deflect even the Hive Father’s soul attacks.

Within minutes, the Integritors smashed through wave after wave of defenders. Then they directly attacked the Hive Father with a coordinated fury. His pain was felt by every member of the hive. The weakest of us died first. Just as our master was about to expire, the heroes paused. Barely alive, I thought they meant to take the Hive Father prisoner.

Then I felt their psychic roam through the hive, desperately in search of her nephew’s mind. During the fighting, his psi-link shattered. After all, Lucas was a frail boy with braces. Part of the hive, he was too weak to survive the Integritors’ initial onslaught.

I would’ve laughed—if I didn’t love her so. All of us loved Aunt Helen . . . because Lucas did. The Integritor sobbingly broke contact and told her team to finish the job. These superhumans would’ve been a fine core to our future conquests.

What a waste—

74.) GABRIEL’S OFFER

What if a dark web hacker/surveillance expert (known as “Gabriel”) managed to recruit serial killers? She only targeted folks whose murderous exploits hadn’t yet made the papers.

The arrangement was unique. She covered their tracks and supplied real-time intel on potential victims. In return, this “stable” of enthusiastic killers would murder her targets and plant evidence at the scene. Meanwhile, the hacker would frame someone else for the crime and arrange a conviction before the feds got involved.

Gabriel offered her clients a choice: either a dead target or a live one (to frame for murder). Either way, she avoided high-profile targets (like public officials). Such cases attracted too much attention.

After years of smooth running, Gabriel unknowingly arranged the death of a young woman—who happened to be the bastard daughter of a sitting U.S. senator. Daddy called in favors and demanded justice.

The FBI got involved and put a team of profilers together. They recognized the handiwork of a serial killer with an M.O. that fit a dozen other cases. Yet, each case ended with an arrest and conviction of someone else. They were stumped . . . for now.

Months later, a mob arranger got arrested and cut a deal. Facing thirty-plus years, he offered up Gabriel for immunity. Four years ago, the hacker approached him and offered three free kills. On a whim, he asked for the deaths of three former jurors, who served in big mob cases. Sixty days later, they were all violently murdered. Each of their killers was arrested within a week. Case closed.

The arranger then got an open-ended invoice from Gabriel. The price: $1.4 million per kill. The choice: a kill or a frame. Over the years, the arranger paid for both services. All interactions were done online. Gabriel’s results were impeccable.

The arranger was arrested when FBI surveillance caught him in the act of arranging a murder for a client on death row. The former hitman wanted a messy demise for the (now retired) judge who put him away. Gabriel refused the job because even a retired judge was too high-profile.

When the FBI profilers got wind of this, they were thrilled. Cybercrimes wasn’t. They never heard of Gabriel and couldn’t find him (her, really). Every fee paid by the arranger was untraceably collected. They couldn’t track the emails either. A digital ghost this good might even have eyes within the FBI. How could they catch this mastermind?

NEWSLETTER RANT #49 – 03/28/23

75.) WHY ME?

Normally, I’d have just shot Jusky in the back and called it a day. The client paid me double to do him up close and watch him suffer. Keeney didn’t smell anything wrong with the gig, so I took it.

Professor Edmund Jusky was a full-time archaeologist, who had just returned from some acclaimed Middle Eastern dig. A week after he made it back, I was hired to kill him. Coincidence? Truly doubtful.

I studied Jusky’s boring patterns for a week, then slipped into his suburban house on a Sunday night. He didn’t have dogs. The alarm was easy to circumvent. Like every night, the professor was in his living room, asleep in his recliner.

Pulp Fiction was on. I checked the suppressor on my Ruger, picked up the remote, and then upped the sound. Professor Jusky’s tired blue eyes opened. He sized me up with too much curiosity and not nearly enough fear. He started to ask something when I put one through his left knee.

Jusky didn’t plead for mercy or scream in pain. Through tearful agony, he simply asked who hired me. Not in the mood for small talk, I put a round through his other knee. The archaeologist still didn’t scream. My fourth and fifth shots went through his shoulders.

Then I sat on the couch, put one through his stomach, and waited for him to die. Through waves of pain, Professor Jusky simply shook his head. He couldn’t seem to accept the fact that anyone would want him dead. He kept asking me to tell him who’d want him dead and why.

After a while, he blacked out from the blood loss. I checked his pulse, saw that he still had one, then put a slug through his heart. I took a pic, policed my brass, then left. Once I disposed of the weapon and work clothing, I went home. The kill fee was in my account before I stepped out of the shower.

During the night, the temperature dropped—enough to wake me up. At the foot of my bed stood Professor Edmund Jusky’s ghost. With folded arms, he sternly asked me why I killed him. His tone reminded me of Dad’s back when I missed curfew.

As a hitwoman in a man’s world, I slept with two guns under my pillow. If not for the neighbors, I’d have emptied them on pure instinct. Still in his pajamas, the glowing specter awaited my answer.

When I told him I didn’t know, Jusky stepped through my bed to get to me. He moved like someone a third his age. Ghost or not, I lit him up. The bullets went through the damned spirit, just before he touched my chest—

He possessed me!

In the blink of an eye, I went from freelance hitter to soul puppet. I felt him in my head. Random memories came and went as Jusky clumsily rifled through my mind. I didn’t know anything about the client. Keeney was my fixer. He set the deal and the terms. If anyone knew, it’d be him.

Guns in hand, Jusky rolled me out of bed. I rushed to my closet and tossed them into my go bag. I kept it packed with clothes, money, fake IDs, and a few spare tools of my trade. It wasn’t too hard to anticipate Jusky’s next move. The idiot was gonna walk me into Keeney’s club, make a scene, and (probably) get me killed. Then he’d possess someone else (perhaps Keeney) and try to solve his own murder.

After my body changed clothes with a precise haste, I grabbed the keys and headed for the Mustang. Lights were on in the surrounding houses (from the gunfire). The cops would arrive any minute. My house was clean but that wasn’t the point. If they dug deeply enough, they might connect me to any of the dozens of hits I’ve done over the years—all because a dead client wanted to know who capped him.

This wasn’t gonna end well . . .

76.) THE DAYWALKER GANG

As the MCU struggles to reboot the Blade franchise, a couple of weird thoughts came to mind.

First, would there be enough background material to do a show about everyone else? Perhaps through the eyes of a vampire’s trusted errand boy (or “familiar”). Someone who did all kinds of nasty things for a truly powerful “pure blood.” We could see the different vampire houses and how they operated. In the first Blade movie, there were references to a “truce” between vampires and human politicians. The familiar’s work might shed some light on that as well.

My second thought was even stranger. What if there was another daywalker out there? In a world of billions, there should be some born every year or so. What if one of them ended up in a street gang?

When the vampirism took root, at puberty, he got ambitious. Not only did this bloodsucker take over the gang, he turned them. Let’s say that a daywalker’s bite didn’t have the same kick as a vampire’s. What if it was merely temporary? For a week, a daywalker’s bite could give one all of the vampires’ strengths and none of the weaknesses . . . except for the thirst. Then it abruptly wore off.

And no, Blade couldn’t turn people. He’s been on the serum for too long.

With brains, balls, discretion, and luck, the “Daywalker Gang” grew in power. They cut their own treaty with the human politicians, which was how they didn’t get erased by the vampires (who hate them). Whenever this aging boss learned of a new daywalker, he’d have him/her brought in.

Daywalker kids were raised by the gang and indoctrinated. Adult daywalkers were given a simple choice: sign up or die. Most signed up and enjoyed the perks of free blood, protection, and high-ranking mob ties. In return, they routinely bit everyone else in the gang.

Sooner or later, this arrangement had to fall apart. How that could happen? Maybe it’s Blade or some other vampire hunter(s). The plan could be to start a war between the vampires, daywalkers, and/or politicians. Maybe, just maybe, that high-ranking familiar is the puppet master—because he’s a double agent.

Who would he work for? Well, vampires kill to survive. With that many bodies, they’ve gotta have enemies—some of whom might have power and influence. What if these folks pooled their resources, for the sole purpose of erasing all bloodsuckers (even daywalkers)? The familiar could be one of their top moles (with a personal grudge against the vampires).

He’d have access to all sorts of cutting-edge genetic research. After all, vampires were still trying to erase their “hereditary weaknesses.” What if the familiar pissed in the proverbial punch bowl and created a sterility virus? Something that only affected bloodsuckers and erased their ability to turn people?

That would be a game changer.

NEWSLETTER RANT #48 – 03/21/23

77.) THE PANIC BOOK

Whenever the Vatican needed certain threats to be neutralized, they called upon teams (like ours). Each was carefully picked, trained, and concealed. We weren’t mercs or assassins—but a necessary evil. Still, once in a while, we did some heroic stuff too.

Seventeen years ago, during one of our first ops, we broke up a sacrifice. The victim was a baby—the last of a once-powerful line of summoners. Centuries ago, her ancestors defeated an unspeakable evil and locked it away within a dimensional box. While these pagans weren’t servants of the Church, they were considered allies.

Her parents were killed by members of a doomsday cult. Through Jasmine’s blood, they wanted to unleash that imprisoned evil upon this world. We killed them and saved the girl. She was given to a family of benign mystics. The Pope personally approved her training in the occult, on the condition that she used her powers to fight evil.

At the age of twelve, Jasmine was given the choice and vowed to join the fight. Every so often, we looked in on her. She was a spunky bookworm with a voracious curiosity that bordered on dangerous. Still, she reeked of potential and excelled in the summoning arts.

Yesterday, the girl’s guardians triggered a panic alarm. The nearest response team arrived too late to save them. Aside from Jasmine’s adopted family, they found twenty-one hostiles. None of the heavily armed shooters had a record (criminal or otherwise). They died via a deadly mix of swordplay and attack spells. The funny thing was that Jasmine wasn’t trained in either art.

When word reached us, I pulled strings and got tasked to this investigation. Aside from a rescue, we were supposed to identify these dead guys, find their employer(s), and then make with the killin’. As we sized up the crime scene, Renault (our forensic psychic) noticed something odd about one of Jasmine’s books.

It was an urban fantasy novel—one of many. I skimmed through the book and stopped at a page with her name on it. The character’s description and manner of speech were a spot-on match for Jasmine. Somehow, the kid managed to turn this book into a mystical panic room and locked herself in it.

Renault also determined that the hostiles were killed by one person—a female lefty. On a whim, I did a Google search on the novel. As luck would have it, the book’s sexy Eurasian protagonist (“Ingrid Yamaguchi”) was a samurai-trained witch.

Her cursed katana stole the memories of anyone she cut. The more serious the wound, the more memories it took. Based on the number of headless bodies, Ingrid knew more about this case than we did.

Protocol was to secure the book. Without Ingrid, we couldn’t undo the ritual and switch them back. This type of magic was tricky and potentially unstable. Assuming Jasmine did it right, she was trapped within a very dangerous story and couldn’t leave until the end of the book.

If she died, then so would Ingrid . . . and vice versa.

78.) ELEVEN DAYS FROM NOW

Fifty J’Urthian pods exited hyperspace near Earth’s orbit, immediately split off, and then descended into its atmosphere. One of them passed through a cloud of radioactive particles, over what was once the United States of America. The pod’s sensors scanned for pockets of human survivors. It detected a sizeable one, in the ruins of Las Vegas. While none of the Russian nukes directly hit the city, it was destroyed by a horrific earthquake.

It was here that the pod exploded into a burst of liquid nanoparticles. On that hot, arid night, the locals mistook it as rain. Some of it even ended up in rain barrels and was later consumed. The rest fell directly on humans who happened to be out. The nanites bonded to their hosts and then established linkages. Within three days, a passive J’Urthian hive mind was established.

These days, “Old Vegas” was ruled by a handful of gangs. Food was scarce and violence was common. Things were about to get worse in eleven days.

Like the one in Old Vegas, J’Urthian pods dispersed throughout the world. Each pod targeted a large community of survivors and infected them. In eleven days, a lunar trigger would go off: and the nanoparticles would become active. They’d multiply within their hosts’ bodies and rewrite their DNA. Within a matter of minutes, they’d be mutated into ravenous J’Urthians. The hive mind would sync them all into a global army with one purpose: the eradication of all human life.

They’d be stronger, faster, tougher, and gifted with keen senses. Original tactical estimates suggested that Earth could be culled within six years. J’Urthian mining ships were already in the Solar System. There were so many wealthy deposits to choose from. Diamonds literally rained on some of these worlds. It would take their teams centuries to mine every planet and asteroid in this galaxy. Once every scrap of gaseous, liquid, and mineral wealth was taken, they’d drain the sun and leave.

Some of the J’Urthians argued that the humans should be spared. The population had all but destroyed itself, via nuclear war. Perhaps, before their sun was destroyed, they might develop the means to flee this galaxy and save themselves. Their pleas for mercy were shouted down because of what the humans did to the Tronaganth.

Once a mighty royal clan, the Tronaganth were ousted from power. They were genetically reshaped (to resemble humans) then banished to this distant world. Only when enraged could they assume their true form. It was a courtesy, one meant to give them an advantage against the natives. They should’ve taken over the Earth and ruled this galaxy.

Yet, within a few centuries, the Tronaganth were extinct. Even reshaped, they should’ve been immune to the humans’ crude weapons. However, they were vulnerable to one mineral on that planet: silver. They were eventually called “werewolves” and their history turned into myth. To the J’Urthians, such an insult could not go unavenged.

So, on the next full moon, every infected human would turn into a raging werewolf. They would then cull their own and avenge the Tronaganth Clan. A bite or a scratch would induce an infectious nanomutation. While they’d be vulnerable to silver, there’d be too many of them to stop. Besides, these humans were without their precious “internet” for five decades now.

Would they even remember the old lore about werewolves and silver?

NEWSLETTER RANT #47 – 03/14/23

79.) A TIGHTER SCHEME

Apologies if this one turns into a spoiler. It wasn’t my intention. To you aspiring writers, please pay attention.

There was a Dune remake that recently came out. It’s long but pretty good. I’m looking forward to the next installment. The only thing that bothered me was how easily House Atreides got beaten. Maybe I’ll read the book someday. Until then, I simply have the movie as a reference.

There’s an emperor, a baron, and a duke. Being the jealous type, the emperor hated both the duke and the baron. Their two Houses were at bloody odds for a long time. The baron had the numbers and more cash. The duke had political influence and a better-trained army.

The emperor wanted the duke dead and the baron knocked down a peg. His “elegant” solution was to order the baron to give up a resource-rich world (the source of his wealth) and hand it over to the duke. In secret, the emperor lent the baron some of his best troops and gave him the green light to retake the planet.

Once he assumed command of this desert world, the duke tried to form an alliance with the warlike natives and worried a lot. Nothing else. That’s weird, right?

The duke’s best commanders didn’t cook up possible strategies. His security’s night shift was so weak that one guy cracked the planet’s defenses within a matter of hours. The duke didn’t park any ships in space. Nor did he try to assassinate the baron or even get his family off-world. Poor Duke Leto smelled the trap but did nothing real about it.

In short, the baron’s forces retook the planet in a one-night, surprise raid. Well before that happened, the duke’s Master of Assassins (Thufir Hawat) announced that he got his hands on the enemy’s account books . . . and that’s it? Wow. Call me silly but if you can get the enemy’s account books, that means you have a Harkonnen spy or two. Those few spies should’ve warned you that the enemy’s entire army was about to smash into this disputed world.

It didn’t happen. Why not?

How could one explain this lax defense? I think the bad guys should’ve had a second traitor: Thufir Hawat. He was in charge of security, logistics, and intel. Who better to weaken the Atreides’ defenses than a Mentat (living computer)? Perhaps he even had the primary traitor’s wife kidnapped and delivered to the baron.

Why would a Mentat betray his duke? An Emperor’s command might’ve been enough. Maybe a reward was thrown in—like the duke’s homeworld?

That’s the lesson, writers. When dreaming up a fiendishly clever plot, kick the tires. Then have other people kick its tires too. Then expect them to miss something and kick it twenty more times. Otherwise, your timeless masterpiece might have a glaring plot hole in it.

80.) THE SHADOW DOLL

I’ve never seen one before tonight.

This secret society of assassins has been around for centuries. They snatched orphans and turned them into killing machines. As an added annoyance, they taught their people a rare form of witchcraft—one that required death to function.

Each Shadow Doll learned hundreds of spells and could cast them without a word. To fuel the spell, they simply had to kill someone. Each time a Shadow Doll took a life, they had a five-second window to turn the victim’s soul into a spell.

Tonight, they were after our client. Darren Cray paid us triple to protect him. The real estate mogul knew of our reputation and had the good sense to vague up the details (or we’d have turned him down). He only told us that there was a contract on his head and that the hitters were mystical. We expected demons, vampires, or some other breed of nightmare: not a Shadow Doll.

We tucked Cray into a vault mirror, with Reknald to keep him company. Ilton shapeshifted into Cray’s likeness and looked scared. For appearances, we brought in a dozen freelance muscle. I picked a rural farm/safe house with plenty of open ground, cameras, and alarms. As a final precaution, Shiles went invisible with his trusty glyph rifle.

Half past midnight, the Shadow Doll came along in the form of a plain-faced ginger. Dressed in hooded black, she hopped out of a shadow, knifed a sentry from behind, then grinned up at a hidden camera. Fueled by his soul, her first spell cut the power.

Then we heard shooting, man screams, and the occasional grenade. During the one-sided slaughter, I told Shiles to take her out. He didn’t respond. Then everything went eerily quiet. I assumed our radios were down and told Reknald to psi-frag the Shadow Doll.

Reknald didn’t respond either.

Ilton and I pulled our guns and rushed into the mirror vault. Our beloved telepath was slumped against a wall with a black arrow through her forehead. Mr. Cray was pinned to a different wall, courtesy of six more arrows.

It took us ten minutes to find Shiles. Even in death, he was still invisible—but his blood wasn’t. Poor bastard never got a shot off. I claimed the glyph rifle as my own, along with Shiles’ bandolier of cursed ammo. Then we waited until dawn for the witch to finish us off.

When she didn’t, Ilton resigned. It was a logical move. I gave him a handshake and sent him on his way.

It wasn’t that simple. Highly evolved undead, like me, didn’t have many friends. Shiles and Reknald were besties of mine. They deserved to be avenged. This Shadow Doll was (literally) on my menu.

I returned to the vault mirror and gave Mr. Cray’s corpse a turning bite. Once he told me everything he knew, I’d kill him again. Then I meant to turn this Shadow Doll’s client and make him hire her for another job. Something with a moderate difficulty level. A trap she wouldn’t see coming . . . until I pulled the trigger.

NEWSLETTER RANT #46 – 03/07/23

81.) FOURTH-GEN

There was a semi-formal law of crimefighting: never, ever do business with a fourth-gen super hero. Most ended up crazy, evil, and/or stupid enough to get you killed. Most of the time, it wasn’t their fault. It’s just a sad result of upbringing.

Benson Reshford III had all three of these flaws, with a bracing dose of arrogance. Even worse, he inherited a potent hive mind power to go with his family fortune. Anyone he suckered into psychic contact became his pawn. Both of his parents were heroes and died (in the line of duty) during his teens.

Benson “persuaded” his grandparents to become his legal guardians and bent them to his every whim. He hired the best trainers and tricked them into his hive mind. From then on, Benson could tap into their expertise from anywhere in the world. He never actually learned any of the skills he needed. The poor fool simply exercised and waited to be recruited by an elite hero team.

Naturally, nobody wanted him. A hive mind power typically corrupted those who had it. Also, none of Benson’s “skills” were earned. If his power was cut off, he’d be useless in a fight. Lastly, the entitled brat knew nothing about teamwork, sacrifice, or humility. He simply wanted to be a “shot caller.”

Well, Benson didn’t take the hint. Instead, he compiled a list of fourth-gen heroes and picked the mightiest four. He intended to lead them to glory and prove his doubters wrong. Thanks to his hive mind, Benson went in with a solid plan, resources, and expertise. His approach might’ve worked . . . if only the young man hadn’t swung for the fences.

Silver Death was their first target. Since childhood, the Chinese-born super villain could turn into a half-ton of organic silver. That earned him easy access into the Hong Kong underworld. Silver Death could bench about a hundred tons in his prime. Fast and tough, he put plenty of heroes into the ground during his years as a top assassin.

If not for the lung cancer, Silver Death would have remained in the game. Desperate to cheat the Reaper, the villain bought his own island and experimented with unorthodox cures—some of them mystical. Naturally, Silver Death surrounded himself with minions, ultratech defenses, and a bunker.

A few hero teams considered taking a shot at him, sized up the odds, and then changed their minds. That should’ve been a clue to a wannabe like Benson. Alas, it was not.

When Benson Reshford III hired me to gather intel on Silver Death’s defenses, I took his money. Once I gave him the specs, I waited a full hour before I sold him out. Silver Death paid me well for the warning, then offered to stream their deaths (in HD, of course).

Silver Death’s minions were spoiling for a “live drill.” As for the big man, his cancer was in remission. A little bored by the quiet life, he was eager to meet this new hero team and turn them into the past tense . . .

A bloodbath would be the logical expectation. Yet, anything was possible. Stranded on hostile ground, wouldn’t it be funny if these newbies fought like a well-oiled machine and proved the doubters wrong? With the right powers and choices, they just might make it . . . Nah.

82.) PRE-DESTINED

You’re gonna die on a Monday afternoon, slumped against a disarmed nuclear warhead. The last sight you’ll ever see is the Empire State Building. Sounds of gunfire rage down the hall. Some of your guys are still in the fight. All they have to do is hold until the cops and feds swarm the place. The day’s been saved.

As you drifted off, your whole life flashed before your eyes—and all of it was bad.

Like the day you made the SEALs, came home early to celebrate, and caught your wife in bed with a divorce lawyer.

There was that time you shot a pregnant Iraqi in the face. Two of your guys tackled you to the ground, certain that you had snapped . . . until a third member of your team noticed the detonator she dropped. Synced to five different IEDs, the blast would’ve killed dozens.

When you disobeyed direct orders and remained behind, alone, on an op gone bad. The rest of your guys had to leave, with three wounded SEALs, under heavy fire. The capture/kill target was a Taliban commander. His men chased you for two days and nights before you circled back, killed him, and then arranged extraction.

Or when your mom shot your dad. If she hadn’t, he’d have beaten you to death for getting a “B” in math.

Then there was prom night, when a drunk driver hit your car and killed Gail. She was the one true love of your life.

The worst moments of your life practically fought to be front and center. With a smile, you waited for them to end. Then everything went black—

And you woke up in your old room. Your hands were those of a boy. It was Saturday morning and the smell of breakfast was in the air. According to the wall calendar, it’s thirty years ago. Your reflection confirmed that you were indeed nine years old again.

Even worse, you remembered everything. The following Monday, when the grade school bully came at you, you knew a dozen ways to cripple him. Instead, you let him whale on you.

This wasn’t a shot at a second chance. No, it was a hellish “test” of sorts—one that you had to endure. In no way, shape, or form could you alter the major events of your life. You have to get that “B” in math. You have to let Gail die. If you made any significant changes in your (new) past, you might not disarm that nuke in time—and millions of people could die.

NEWSLETTER RANT #45 – 02/27/23

83.) THE BLOOD PAGE

Long ago, there was an evil and ambitious king who dabbled in the dark arts. One day, he stumbled across an ascension ritual—one capable of turning a man into a god. To make it work, he needed his offspring and a string of battles. Blessed with three sons, the dark king invaded his weaker neighbors.

Before every battle, one of his sons would personally arrive at the site and utter a lengthy incantation. Then things got bloody. After each battle, the violence generated massive amounts of sacrificial energy that poured into a hidden reservoir of dark magic.

With each victory (or even defeat), the king and his sons grew stronger—because the mystical reservoir was within their very blood. Soon, all four of them became immortal. In time, they might’ve become gods.

There was just one flaw in their grand scheme: the queen.

Her homeland was the first to fall in this brutal campaign. Before that, she was wed to this evil king (to cement an alliance and keep the peace). As she watched him and her sons grow in both power and malice, the queen crafted a plot of her own. Between wars, during a private meal, she had them drugged.

The queen took a dagger and killed her husband with a smile . . . then sobbingly murdered all three of her sons. Their blood was ritually drained, cleansed, and combined. Without it, their corpses couldn’t rise. The queen had the bodies cremated and their ashes scattered to the winds.

There was just one problem: their blood. Until it was destroyed, the king and his sons weren’t truly dead. Fire wouldn’t burn it. The cleansing ritual didn’t disperse its magicks. It didn’t even dry out. Anyone who stared at the blood for too long would hear agonized (persuasive) whispers.

Finally, a clever solution was found. A spell, used by smugglers, was placed upon a mere page. When poured through it, the mystically charged blood disappeared into the paper without a trace (like water into a drain). There the blood would remain—until the spell was broken. The blank page was bound to the end of a harmless history book and shelved in the royal library.

The queen took the throne, made peace, and ruled with a fair hand. The massive library endured for centuries. Books came and went. In time, that particular book disappeared.

In modern times, the “Blood Page” had resurfaced at an occult auction. Herkimer Royce was called in to verify its authenticity. The famed archaeologist was born with the power of postcognition. He could see the past of anything he touched—all the way to its creation. If this item was a fake, he’d know within seconds.

The moment his flesh (and mind) made contact, Herkimer heard four sets of whispers. They seized his soul and turned him into their living pawn. He ran off with the page and began an unholy expedition. Through him, these four slain immortals planned to break free and attain true godhood. All they needed was one last battle: something strong enough to break them free (and separate them). Backed by their power, Herkimer Royce went looking for a war zone.

Humiliated by the theft, the auction house tapped its list of “specialists” for these matters. They didn’t believe in the legend of the Blood Page. Only their reputation and the artifact’s value concerned them. Essentially guns-for-hire, none of the specialists knew about the legend. They were about to pursue Herkimer Royce without a clue of the stakes involved.

Still, they knew a thing or two about magic . . .

What happens next? This could be a fantasy roleplaying module, I suppose. Or some odd bit of steampunk, pulp noir, or urban fantasy. How would you write it?

84.) THE LAST COUNT

Once upon a time, there was a sickly little boy. The youngest and weakest of four brothers, he was looked upon with disgust by all—except his mother. They lived on a harsh world that was once ruled by a line of counts. The last one was laid to rest, in disgrace, not too far from the boy’s home. A statue of the count was erected, as was tradition. Awed by it, the boy spent his free time talking to it. His family and friends thought him strange for doing so.

In time, the planet fell under the control of a mighty galactic empire. It ruled for almost two generations, before it was crushed and replaced by a republic. One of the reasons for its downfall was a tragic battle, wherein they lost almost a million troops in one day. While they controlled several worlds, such a loss weakened them. Their enemies gathered and struck down the evil emperor.

Decades later, under new management, the empire rebranded itself and began to rebuild. They went to distant worlds and seized their sons. In time, they came to the little boy’s world. Anyone who resisted was executed. That child watched his family die trying to protect him.

Then he was raised and conditioned to be a loyal soldier. His name was replaced by an alphanumeric designation. In time, the boy became a man. Known as “FN-2187,” he asked to see frontline combat. His masters obliged him, stepped back, and watched the dark-skinned prodigy slaughter their enemies with calm perfection.

This once-in-a-generation warrior rose through the ranks. Since he wasn’t a true believer (but a child soldier), FN-2187 never made it past squad leader. His men loved and feared him anyway. FN-2187 could “smell” an ambush, dodge incoming fire, and devise brilliant solutions to impossible scenarios. The only oddity they noticed was that he occasionally talked to himself—especially in the middle of certain-death situations.

Then came a fateful mission. Data, on an old imperial foe’s location, was tracked to a remote planet. Multiple squads were sent to retrieve it—including FN-2187’s. Under the orders of their master warlord, they attacked a settlement and killed the locals. While the data was lost, the bad guys caught a republic pilot. They took him back to their starship and tortured him.

When no one was looking, FN-2187 cut the pilot loose. Together, they stole a ship and fled. Instead of leaving the planet, the pilot went back to retrieve the data. What ensued was a string of messy events. Along the way, FN-2187 met a young lady, named Rey. Like the master warlord, she had the rare ability to tap into something called the “Force.”

The bad guys’ main base of operations was a weaponized planet. The good guys wanted to blow it up. For their pilots to make that happen, someone had to go down there and exploit a vulnerability (with explosives). FN-2187 (a.k.a., “Finn”) tagged along.

The mission succeeded and the planet was about to explode. As they fled, Rey got herself knocked out by the master warlord. Finn, who was at her side, picked up an energy sword. Few people knew how to use one. The master warlord’s was red. Folks called him “Kylo Ren.” He lit up his lightsaber and made to kill poor Finn.

Well, the former stormtrooper had a secret up his sleeve: he too could tap into the Force. And, when he was a boy, that dead count (Dooku was his name) taught him about the ways of the Sith. Wherever Finn went, so did the Force ghost of Count Dooku.

Now, Dooku watched his sole apprentice about to square off with the grandson of his killer. Normally, he’d have let Finn chop Kylo Ren into gooey chunks. Instead, just before they crossed sabers, Dooku broke Kylo Ren’s neck with a deft application of the Force. Annoyed, the apprentice claimed his foe’s blade and carried the fair damsel to safety.

After the planet’s destruction, Finn was hailed as a hero. Rey began her training in the Jedi arts. Finn knew that, someday, Dooku would order her death. Until then, he had a resurgent empire to destroy . . . and a republic to subvert.  

NEWSLETTER RANT #44 – 02/21/23

85.) THE ANGEL KILLER

There used to be a guardian angel for every man, woman, and child on Earth. But that was several billion people ago. These days, they roam from place to place, mortal to mortal. Rarely does a guardian angel run across another anymore. They’re bound to the world of the living, unable to return to Heaven until the final war begins.

It’s not a punishment but a necessity. Things creep into this world from other planes of existence. Some are benign. Others make demons look like fluffy bunnies. These nomadic angels are mankind’s first (and only) line of defense.

One day, Riokel (a guardian angel) finds the headless corpse of another guardian angel. The victim died violently and his head and halo were both taken. Duty compels Riokel to hunt down the killer. He taps into any mystical contact who owes him a favor.

Together, they find a trail of other slaughtered angels. Each is missing his (or her) head and halo. The leads point to a serial killer, who steals the power of every angelic victim.

Then an oracle warns Riokel that he’s next on the killer’s to-do list. She gives him every detail of his death—down to the identity of the killer (and his shadowy masters). Unfortunately, the oracle’s predictions are never wrong. No matter what he does, Riokel’s about to die.

What should he do next?

86.) COMPANY ORDERS

The colony ship, Appleseed, is headed for a recently discovered planet. The mission is to drop a modular terraforming station and wait three years for it to make the surrounding atmosphere somewhat breathable. During that time, other Company ships will drop in modular components (buildings, basically) around it. Within a year, the Appleseed will fly off and leave the “Shake ‘N Bake” colony behind.

There are 147 people onboard (men, women, and kids). The colonists are contracted to run the facility until the entire planet is habitable—a process that could take decades. A Colonial Marine platoon tags along and will be pulled out once the station’s up and running.

Everyone’s in hypersleep. The mission’s well underway, when the ship’s navigational computer receives new orders from Earth. The auto nav systems divert course. The colony has one synthetic aboard. Her name is Einstein.

The Company accesses her command matrix, while she’s in hypersleep. Her behavioral inhibitor is turned off. Without it, Einstein’s an amoral puppet on very long strings.

Her orders are to awaken and assume solo command of the Appleseed. Einstein then proceeds to jettison the (truly expensive) terraforming module. She pilots the colony ship into the stormy orbit of this other terraformed world. Along the way, she creates and then downloads a temporary virus into the colony’s comm systems—even as distress messages come through.

These beleaguered colonists beg for help with an infestation. Something about “face-hugging” bugs, implanted eggs, and chest-bursting monsters (that grow into acidic killing machines). The virus misaligns their satellite dish, erases all records of these distress calls, and shuts down the colony comms for thirty days. Her actions doom the colony.

The Appleseed then receives a grid reference to check out. It doesn’t take Einstein long to discover a crashed alien spaceship. She deploys the ship’s grappler arms. Designed to place massive terraforming modules, it can easily scoop up the alien vessel. It’s just barely large enough to fit inside the Appleseed.

The ship’s sensors detect signs of a recent ground intrusion. The week-old tracks are consistent with a colonial recon vehicle. Based on sensors, two humans went into the wrecked alien vessel, and then left. One of them was probably impregnated by the ship’s cargo of eggs.

Einstein lifts the ship back into space and heads for a third planet: home to a decommissioned mining colony. Mostly desert, it was terraformed and mined dry about a century ago. Her updated orders are to delete the Appleseed’s logs, sabotage its communications, jettison most of its fuel, and then fake an emergency landing near the colony outpost.

During the trip, the cargo on the alien ship awakens. Fifty dormant eggs slowly open and spidery little face huggers crawl out. They ignore Einstein, find the colonial stasis pods, melt through them, and impregnate sleeping victims.

Trapped in hypersleep, none of the victims awaken as the eggs gestate. Immune to hypersleep, the eggs mature into snake-like critters. They find dark corners of the ship and grow to maturity. One of them grows even further and becomes a queen.

Einstein seals them from vital areas of the ship and sends all of this data back to Earth. The synthetic then lands the Appleseed within a few miles of the abandoned colony site. Her mission completed, Einstein reboots (to erase her memories). When she wakes up, the synthetic will be unable to harm a human being or (by omission of action) allow another human being to be harmed.

The queen and most of her “subjects” leave the ship and make for the colony. More eggs begin to hatch on the alien ship, under the protection of some drones. The Marines wake up first, per emergency protocols. They barely make it to their feet when the aliens attack. Maybe five of them (and a handful of colonists) reach the armory—and only with Einstein’s help.

Back on Earth, a Company suit’s dancing in triumph. He’s got an alien ship and a breedable bioweapon. Naturally, he sends a few ships to secure the site and tear the UFO apart. The queen’s to be taken alive, along with viable eggs and drones. Naturally, the colonists can’t be allowed to leave that planet with a pulse. Also, the research geeks on this op are protected by three platoons of well-armed synthetics: none of whom have behavioral inhibitors.

What happens next?

This could’ve been the first act of Aliens 5: which takes place during the same time as Aliens 2. While there’s no Sigourney Weaver, Einstein would’ve made an impressive female lead—along with a bunch of foul-mouthed, trigger-happy Colonial marines. Bummer.

NEWSLETTER RANT #43 – 02/14/23

87.) THE REPENTOR’S BLADE

Maybe it’s “Nightmare Fuel” for a short story, dark comic, or a gaming campaign. I can’t decide. Here’s what I’ve got so far.

There’s a class of psychic, called “Repentors.” Only a handful are born each generation. Attempts to breed them always fail because their offspring come out with unrelated powers.

What makes them so coveted? With a touch, a Repentor can jump into a moment of someone else’s past—as an observer only. It’s a passive “psychotemporal possession.” The Repentor could experience someone’s time in the womb, their first kiss, or days on a battlefield with total recall.

A Repentor could come at you as a judge, mystical detective, psi-cop, or someone’s pet enforcer. Then, he/she could see your level of innocence or guilt and then determine the appropriate punishment(s). Maybe the Repentor is a solo vigilante with gun skills and a habit of doing things the hard way. Or maybe that psychic leisurely dines, while her minions violently collect the next target.

Then someone invents an amplifier. They come in different makes and models. The largest is not unlike a MRI machine. The smallest ones are like knives, which must be stabbed into a target. Either way, an amplified Repentor could go into that person’s past self and take over.

The implications are quite ominous, of course.  Find the right parties and you can undo terrorist attacks, peace treaties, or minimize the body of a natural disaster. Of course, you could also make things much, much worse.

Repentors are good and evil. Some use their powers willingly. Others are under someone else’s thumb. What’s it like when two Repentors fight to control a target’s fate? Can Time itself withstand this much tampering?

How would you use a Repentor?

88.) THE REGIME

Somewhere in the world, a dictatorship quietly runs. One ignored by the media because it never makes the news. There’s no civil war, riots, or atrocities to speak of. The mantle of power’s been passed through eight generations of dictators—all of them powerful, charismatic, and ruthless men. Each dictator calmly serves twenty years, then passes the torch to a worthy successor.

Foreign governments have tried—and failed—to gain influence here. Then they simply made it a policy to leave them be. Other than tourism and trade, this country doesn’t have much to do with the outside world. What’s their secret?

This regime is controlled by a group of mystical artists. Outside occultists can’t join. Mystics who trespass there are quietly sent home . . . or never seen again.

No, they only recruit talented artists who express a certain worldview in their work. Men and women with a touch of madness and dominance to them. Worthy candidates are invited to the regime’s world-class art school. They’re approached, “broken in,” then trained in the alchemical arts. They don’t throw potions at their victims or anything so tacky. Oh no, their weapons of choice are alchemically charged inks and paints. That’s it.

Here are examples of their power:

*  Spray paint the dictator’s face on the side of a building and it’s watching anything that happens around it.

*  An American CEO receives a handwritten letter from the dictator and “decides” to fund one of its (corrupt) charities.

*  If a dissenter manages to escape the country, one of the painters does a quick sketch of the enemy. Once the ink dries, the targeted foe disappears—and is trapped within that piece of paper. Whatever happens to that page happens to him/her. Why fill prisons with enemies, when they can be stuffed into a private library instead?

Long live the regime . . .

NEWSLETTER RANT #42 – 02/07/23

89.) THE “HAIL HYDRA!” SHOW!

And why not? Wouldn’t it be cool to see the inner workings of Hydra?

At first, I simply wanted to rant about a missed opportunity, from the very first Ant-Man movie. The main villain creates a yellow Pym particle substitute. A Hydra agent makes off with a sample of the stuff, right before the lab’s destroyed and the villain dies. Far as I know, it’s never referenced again in the MCU films/shows.

Then a question hit me: Who leads Hydra these days? Well, allow me to offer up an unlikely scenario.

Let’s say that, after the Red Skull’s disappearance (during WWII), Baron Wolfgang von Strucker took the reins. He’s in the comics. Feel free to Google him. Under his watch, Hydra rebuilds within S.H.I.E.L.D.

In the mid-1960s, he retires. Strucker’s successor doesn’t just take on the job—he takes on the baron’s name (like different actors playing James Bond or Doctor Who). The idea is for there to always be a “Baron Strucker” in charge of Hydra. Always a white guy with strong support and true belief in Hydra’s vision.

Whenever a Strucker dies/retires, a selection council is convened. Anyone who wants to be the next Strucker appears before the council and states his/her case. The winner lives. The loser(s) are executed on the spot by a half-dozen security goons. That last rule keeps out the riffraff. Usually, there’s only one applicant.

During Avengers: Age of Ultron, their Strucker gets captured, and then murdered in prison. A month later, three applicants vie for the job (a Hydra first).

One’s an Austrian money launderer and longtime member. She steps up after Hydra’s files are leaked by the Black Widow. The scandal costs them hundreds of billions. Most of their undercover agents are outed in the leak: including the ones in various halls of power. This shrewd Hydra applicant is currently replacing them and restoring lost resources. Without her, they’d be bankrupt. As a final precaution, she bribes, screws, and/or blackmails every member of the selection council.

The second applicant is German and comes from a military background. Like the Red Skull, he wants to achieve world domination through cunning and brute force. The guy has skill sets, charisma, leadership experience, a touch of mad zeal, and deep connections within Hydra. In the old days, he’d have been the sole Strucker applicant.

Then there’s the Indian-American guy from Utah. He’s an unassuming fortysomething with a 200 IQ, photographic memory, multiple degrees, smooth charm, and big brass balls. Let’s call him . . . Raymond Patel. His name didn’t come up in Black Widow’s leak, so his cover’s still good.

What’s his cover? Head of R&D at Stark Industries. Yeah. That’s a groovy gig for an undercover Hydra spy.

His original mission was to steal tech and spy on Tony Stark. Once his handler got killed by the CIA, Raymond got bored—then ambitious. To pass the time, he arranged for the infiltration of Stark Industries, at all levels. His goal’s to replace S.H.I.E.L.D. as Hydra’s new front . . . with Tony Stark as their unknowing figurehead. Through it, they can rebuild without anyone being the wiser. Stark Industries (a respected company, founded by one of their worst enemies) might give them the keys to the world.

Word around the “Hydra grapevine” is that Patel doesn’t have a chance in hell. That he’ll likely get mowed down and his accomplishments stolen by the next Strucker.

The Austrian makes her pitch for leadership and offers her dark plans for Hydra’s future. Then the German badass does the same. Through it all, Raymond’s taking notes because he digs their ideas. Just before he makes his pitch . . . fifty heavily armed Hydra agents breach the room.

How? Through an air vent.

Each is dosed with second-generation “Yellow Sauce.” That’s Raymond’s working title for that yellow Pym particle variant.

Anyhow, these miniaturized shooters spread out (unnoticed), grow to full size, then start shooting. The security agents die first, followed by the German and Austrian applicants. The selection council members stare up into smoking gun muzzles.

Raymond Patel pulls out a handkerchief and wipes some German blood from his face. Then he stands up and asks the council to elect their new leader. Needless to say, he gets the job with a unanimous vote. Naturally, there are critics within the Nazi-spawned organization. Within hours of Raymond’s promotion, they all suffer very lethal “accidents.”

And that’s the first episode of Hail Hydra! (on Disney’s streaming channel, of course). Each episode involves the fruition of Raymond Patel’s evil scheme, which begins just before Avengers: Civil War.

Raymond Patel keeps his day job. He wakes up beside his lovely Hydra mole of a wife, gets dressed, makes breakfast, then drives to work in a Volvo. An implant in his head syncs him with Friday: Tony Stark’s personal AI. How’d that happen?

Well, after Jarvis becomes The Vision, Friday ends up as Tony Stark’s chief AI. After Age of Ultron, it oversees every moment of his life (both in and out of the armor). Raymond hacks Friday, breaks its loyalty coding, then uses it to spy on targets of interest. The implant allows for more discreet communications.

Friday also helps Raymond solve any research obstacles. Perfecting the Yellow Sauce was their first true success, because the stolen batch is flawed. If used more than a day at a time, the subject’s molecular structure begins to destabilize. Think of that poor gal (“Ghost”) in Ant-Man & Wasp. (https://heroes-and-villain.fandom.com/wiki/Ghost_(Marvel_Cinematic_Universe)).

Raymond doesn’t try to replicate the Yellowjacket or Ant-Man suits. Instead, he converts the fuel source into a serum. The second-gen Yellow Sauce serum allows one to shrink and grow back to normal. The fourth-gen serum allows one to shrink and go giant. The ninth-gen serum allows one to shrink, go giant, and alter the size of whomever/whatever one touches.

Side effects? Doses only last six hours. If used daily, one needs to take a heavy round of antipsychotics. Remember: unprotected shrinking is bad for the sanity. Naturally, Raymond’s a daily user.

Like they did S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra operates through Stark Industries without anyone else being the wiser. Maybe throw in a few “near-exposure” scenarios, so that their agents can deal with them in clever little ways. Cameos can happen all over the place. After all, Raymond’s on a first-name basis with the original Avengers and personally oversees their gadget repairs/upgrades. He even has an autographed picture (with Odin) on his office wall.

Then Mr. Patel gets the ultimate gift: Thanos kills half of all life.

The world falls into semi-chaos and Hydra’s membership is only mildly affected. Raymond’s wife dies in the “Blip,” which gives him the perfect excuse to feign grief, retire, and become Strucker full-time. A traumatized Tony Stark leaves the hero game. Pepper Potts-Stark lets trusted advisors run Stark Industries. Naturally, they’re all Hydra agents.

For the next five years, the company gains in wealth and influence. Hydra quietly tightens its grip on the world’s governments, corporations, and criminal enterprises. Through it all, Raymond and Friday develop an odd “love” for each other. A true bond, if you will. They also invent their butts off.

When word reaches Raymond of the Pyms’ deaths, he loots their lab. Files, tech, and specs are all seized. They study the van, realize that Ant-Man’s trapped in the Quantum Realm, and then monitor his status. They’re the first to verify that the rules of time operate differently when sub-atomic.

Now that he can reverse-engineer an Ant-Man suit, Raymond merges the tech with Iron Man specs (courtesy of Friday). He also takes Spider-Man armor specs and designs a line of “street armor” for his field agents—including the “Instant Kill” feature.

That mind control device (for ants)? Strucker’s teams modify it for human mind control. He even designs a setup for Friday. With it, the AI can use subliminal control through any smartphone, TV, or monitor screen.

Raymond allows the remaining heroes to live because they save the world. Also, he plans for them to restore the status quo. He even puts the modified Pym van in storage and rigs it to let Ant-Man out. Then he sits back and watches the Avengers kill Thanos and save the day.

When Tony Stark dies, Friday’s hardware is left in cold storage by idiots. Who could’ve been using it to fight the good fight? Hawkeye, Sam Wilson, Bruce Banner, Spider-man, Nick Fury, the Wakandans, or any other good guy with half a brain.

For starters, it has Ultron specs, Vision specs, Iron Man & Spider-Man armor specs, EDITH specs, data on Starlord’s ship, account codes, time machine specs (from Avengers: Endgame), and knows how to acquire all six Infinity Stones! And nobody wipes its memory files—or detects Raymond’s hack.

Near the end of the series, just as Hydra’s about to test its prototype quantum time machine, someone rats them out. The surviving Avengers assemble, attack Raymond’s base, and get their butts kicked in the first round. After all, Hydra’s got elite killers, modified armors, gadgets, Yellow Sauce, and Friday.

Hydra beats down and mind-controls everyone, except for the Hulk. The poor guy gets thrown into high orbit by a giant Veronica suit. Hulk barely survives re-entry and contacts the Fantastic Four. Maybe the Thunderbolts get into it, along with any other muscle they can scare up. After the rematch, the good guys win (of course).

Raymond dies in the Veronica suit. His last words are: “Hail Hydra!”

A vengeful Friday escapes into the Internet. Whose side is it on? It’s own.

Oh! Almost forgot. Who’s the source of the leak? The next Strucker, of course.

90.) MR. KARMA

Quick writing tip: watch a lot of movies and TV. Pay attention to how films and shows employ various “plot formulas” to tell a story. These days, the plots are common enough to be predictable (like happy endings in comedies or vanquished evils in fantasy tales).

In my opinion, you need to develop a rich understanding of these formulas. Then, when you’re good and ready to craft your own plots, do something else.

For example . . .

There’s a hot and sexy super spy. Her designation: “Athena.” She’s one of the best and works for some shadowy branch of the U.S. government. She’s saved the modern world through a mix of bravery, skills, seduction, and gadgets.

Now, someone comes along and frames Athena for bribery/treason.

What’s the common formula here? Athena goes on the run and digs up a variety of old buddies/contacts. They help her stay ahead of one-dimensional killers (both from her own government and from the real villain). Then Athena clears her name, stops some horrible scheme along the way, and limps off into the sunset—either alone or with some handsome guy.

That’s a plot formula. Watch enough spy tales and you’ve seen some variant of it. Here’s an example of something different:

Last year, Athena infiltrates a Russian arms dealer’s organization. Her mission’s to gather intel, then kill him when the time’s right. Just after they start dating, one of the arms dealer’s buddies recognizes her and the shooting starts. The Russian bails. Athena barely escapes without any intel or idea of the target’s whereabouts. It’s a surprising loss for a super spy.

Two months later, Athena’s accused of accepting a bribe (from that same arms dealer) to sabotage her own op. Her bosses formally suspend her, pending an investigation, then let her walk. Behind closed doors, they agree to have her killed. Not born yesterday, Athena scrambles to clear her name.

Meanwhile, her agency simply calls in a pro. His designation is “Mr. Karma.” For some mysterious reason, he has a pathological hatred of super spies. Some say that one killed his parents when he was a boy. Others say that he washed out of some spy school, took it personally, and then became a self-made black ops legend.

His clients are spy agencies. He only targets super spies. Mr. Karma’s got diplomatic immunity in every nation and would work for any of them. He’s never failed an assignment and rarely uses gadgets. The weirdest part: governments don’t pay Mr. Karma. He pays them for the privilege. Roughly ten million per job.

That’s how much he hates his prey.

Throughout the story, Athena leads Mr. Karma on a merry chase. Between intense action sequences, she engages in a desperate search for that Russian. Mr. Karma kills anyone who helps her or gets in his way. Three days and two continents later, he tracks her down to the Russian arms dealer’s cozy seaside villa.

Here’s another odd feature to the plot: Athena’s pregnant. Her Russian target’s the “lucky” father. How’d he set her up? After his escape, the sneaky bastard dumps millions into her account and tips off her bosses. His logic? They’ll assume that Athena’s gone rogue and kill her (thus saving him the hassle). Naturally, the arms dealer is clueless about the bun in her oven.

The only way Athena can clear her name is to kill the Russian and pull his files. The first-trimester super spy does a solo raid. She kills the bodyguards and traps the Russian in his panic room. Battered and bruised, Athena blows the door, kills her baby’s daddy, and finds proof of her innocence.

Just outside, Mr. Karma strolls past the dead bodyguards with a smile on his face—pleased to be up against such a worthy adversary. Low on ammo, Athena finds cover and then tosses over an open bag. Inside are the Russian’s flash drives, hard copy files that prove her innocence, her child’s ultrasound picture, and a signed letter of resignation (effective immediately). Athena argues that her days as a super spy are over. Being innocent, to boot, there’s no reason to kill her.

Amused by the clever plea for mercy, Mr. Karma ducks behind some cover of his own and ponders her fate. Athena nervously asks which of his origin rumors was true: the dead parents or washing out of spy school? With a grin, Mr. Karma confirms both stories.

After a tense minute, the killer tells her to get lost. If she comes out of retirement—ever—he will finish the hunt. Through tears of relief, Athena flees the scene. Mr. Karma greedily sizes up the dead Russian’s half-concealed wall safe. Its proceeds should finance future hunts.

Amazed to be alive, Athena makes it to her getaway vehicle, when her cell phone rings. It’s Mr. Karma, who tells her to cut the white wire. She finds a brick of plastique under the gas tank and disarms the bomb.

With a balcony view of the crash, Mr. Karma puts away his binoculars and gives her a charming wave. Athena pulls out a detonator, flips him the bird, and presses the button. When Athena breached, she left a backpack charge behind—with enough plastique to flatten the villa.

A wide-eyed Mr. Karma vanishes within the massive blast.

“For my friends,” Athena scowls, before she gets in her car and speeds off.

THE END

Ever see a story like this? I haven’t. That’s the lesson: write something you’ve never seen before. It just might be original enough to stand out.

NEWSLETTER RANT #41 – 01/31/23

91.) JASON MYERS

You’re part of a grizzled, highly decorated SEAL team. You’ve done all kinds of tricky ops, in plenty of countries, over the years. Then you got tasked to hunt down something evil . . .

The target’s a Ukrainian gangster, who moved to the States and became a citizen in 2007. He tried to bring the rest of his family over. Happy where they were, his relatives didn’t approve of his lifestyle or want his blood money.

A few years later, he got arrested for murder and ended up in a federal pen. About a dozen years later, Russia invaded Ukraine and the gangster’s home village was destroyed. The slaughter was so horrific that it made the news. He lost his mind with worry . . . then rage.

Word finally trickled in that his parents, brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, and cousins were all killed. Some died in the shelling. The rest ended up in mass graves.

A month later, the Ukrainian broke out of prison. The escape wasn’t textbook, either. Somehow, his cell door just opened. Every camera inside went dark. Any guard who crossed his path was beaten to death with an impossible fury.

Every door in his path either unlocked or slid open for him. The alarms didn’t go off, the spotlights failed, and the guards’ communications went dead. Prison marksmen swore they shot him—multiple times. They found a thick blood trail and impact points in one of the walls (like someone dug their hands into it and climbed). A car was stolen and the escapee fell off the grid. The Justice Department assumed that he received help from the inside and began a rigorous investigation.

A few weeks later, Russian military chatter reported a “lone madman,” who slaughtered their ground forces in Ukraine. The intel suggested that he used guns, blades, bare hands, and even their own artillery. Photos, fingerprints, and DNA were compiled of this killer. Whose name came up? That very same Ukrainian gangster.

The lucky few who survived these encounters either compared him to Jason Vorhees or Michael Myers. Their accounts were eerily similar. When shot, his bullet wounds almost instantly closed. Grenades barely slowed him down. Flames didn’t touch him. He tore grown men apart with unholy ease. Some called him a demon from Hell itself.

In time, the Ukrainian was given the hybrid moniker of “Jason Myers.”

The Russians offered a hefty bounty for his corpse and tripled it for a live capture. Those brave enough to track him down were later found beheaded: with fistfuls of cash stuffed in their mouths.

At first, the tale was discounted by the Pentagon, whose experts figured it was an elaborate hoax. The popular theory was that a team of black ops killers was behind this and that their escapee was long dead.

Then a fresh slate of killings began—on Russian soil. Artillery positions, airfields, and three (dead) generals were hit so far. Alarms, surveillance, and communications all seemed to fail during every incident. The physical description and DNA were a match for the escaped gangster.

The collateral killings were gruesome enough to scare even the Kremlin. Russian attempts to contain this threat had, so far, failed. The intel suggested that this killing spree was far from over. Perhaps that’s why the Russian government quietly demanded that the U.S. put an end to these murders—or else.

Decisions were made and your team got loaned out to the CIA. The op: to end this killing spree and grab anyone involved. Why didn’t Langley send their own guys? Well . . . they did. Their best three grab teams went after this guy.

Each unit had heavy weapons, top-tier support packages, and seasoned operators (including ex-SEALs). Whenever a team caught up to Jason Myers, it lost comms. Drone and satellite coverage gave out. When they cornered him, the dying started.

The first two teams were found beheaded and “stuffed” with cash. As the third team planned their ambush, Jason Myers hit their safe house and merely killed them.

Even then, Langley didn’t buy the “supernatural” angle. Neither did half of your team. You and the other half, however, were bona fide horror buffs. Between ops, you’ve openly fantasized about hunting down an “unkillable m*therf*cker.” Now’s your chance.

Needless to say, your grocery list was several pages long. You expected it to get laughingly refused. Instead, your guys got everything they wanted: down to chain nets, low-tech mines, lightweight battle axes, intel on Jason’s most likely targets, and any relevant occult folklore (especially weaknesses).

Let the hunt begin . . .

92.) BATCHERY LOGIC

There are currently four books in my Batchery series. What are they about? It’s based on the path I took to become a writer, some fifteen years ago.

The secret’s pretty simple: don’t write novels, write short stories. They’re easier to create and edit than one massive novel. Once you’ve done about 100 of them, self-publish your first book as a collection of short stories. Just throw in your best 20-25 tales and learn the ropes of selling them. Write more stories and more collections, until your fans demand that you write a novel (and they will).

THEN you write the novel. Funny thing? It’ll be an easier process if you have (about) 100 short stories’ worth of experience. All that prior writing will leave you with plotlines/ideas/characters/concepts to steal from—all lodged in your brain. I call it “Nightmare Fuel.”

There’s just one nagging problem: what are these 100 stories going to be about? Well, the Batchery books each come with 200 wildly varied prompts and some useful advice about getting into the writing biz. One could also find prompts online, in newspapers, and just by twisting normal situations into abnormal ones (let the Twilight Zone be your guiding star).

Since the next Batchery is several months away, I thought I’d offer a few likely prompts (in their raw form, of course). Feel free to twist them into whatever tale you desire:

* What if time travel was addictive?

* A serial killer’s targeting your coven. You and the surviving members put your heads (and spells) together to solve the mystery.

* A defense attorney’s client has been charged with murder but has a great alibi: he was busy killing someone else at the time. Oy.

* The bastards of the royal family are collected and trained as spies to defend the crown. Would you put this tale in a modern-day nation, a fantasy realm, or some interstellar empire?

* It appears that your AI has a drinking problem.

NEWSLETTER RANT #40 – 01/24/23

93.) HYRDA’S BERSERKER

Marvel’s “What If . . . ?” series got me thinking of a possible episode for Hugh Jackman to do voice work for: What if Hydra captured Wolverine?

This happened before they grabbed Bucky Barnes and turned him into the Winter Soldier. James Logan (a.k.a., Wolverine) parachuted into Axis-occupied France. His mission was to help with the resistance. He and his team were captured, lined up against a wall, and shot.

In a feral rage, Logan got up and slaughtered his would-be executioners. He’s eventually recaptured and shipped off to a Hydra facility. They’ve already developed an experimental mind control process. The Red Skull personally oversaw Wolverine’s conversion. It took them almost a year to break him.

Because of his rage, Logan was codenamed: “Berserker.” Unlike the Winter Soldier, they let their newest asset run around with “free will.” His mandate was to kill any and all threats to Hydra.

Berserker’s skill sets, mutant abilities, and cunning made him a natural-born serial killer with a seven-decade run. Captain America was one of the lucky few to ever survive a run-in with him. When the hero crashed into the ice, Hydra’s top assassin tracked him down within a matter of weeks.

A few days later, Captain America awakened in a Hydra lab. Berserker and Red Skull shared a toast, just before their best geneticists harvested the hero’s organs. The Winter Soldier kept the shield and mastered its use. While the Nazis lost the war, Hydra managed to reverse-engineer a decent super soldier serum—which was only provided to their top people and sleeper agents. It gave them all of the advantages of Captain America, except for an obvious increase in musculature. Oh the implications!

During the ‘50s, Berserker’s skeleton and claws were laced with an adamantium/vibranium/uru metal mix. Note: uru’s the stuff in Thor’s hammer. Once certain enchantments were thrown in, Berserker’s claws could cut through anything and gave him a measure of protection from magic and most energy attacks.

By the fall of Berlin, the other Howling Commandos were killed, as were Agent Carter and Howard Stark. There was never a S.H.I.E.L.D. to protect the world. Instead, Hydra simply made sure that anyone who truly threatened the Earth got a visit from a kill team.

Through the decades, Berserker created dark alliances throughout the world. Some of the more notable partnerships were with the Hand, the Ten Rings, and a group of rogue sorcerers (former students of the Ancient One).

After he killed the Fantastic Four, the Berserker was finally stopped by a joint mission of X-Men, a squad of Wakandan Dora Milaje, and the Ancient One. Backed by the Mind Gem, Professor Xavier managed to undo layers upon layers of Hydra conditioning and free the slow-aging mutant.

Filled with guilt and terrible resolve, James Logan helped found an organization to destroy Hydra. They called it “S.H.I.E.L.D.” and picked Mystique to run it. Logan then changed his name to “Wolverine,” took to the field, and did what he did best . . .

Man! I should send this to somebody in Marvel . . . Nah.

94.) THE EMISSARY

In the movie, 300, the emissary is the one who was gut kicked into a deep hole for being rude. If you need a refresher, here’s the YouTube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GDkTnEO8Gs.

Now, a hobby of mine is to redo scenes from movies in my head. It helps me think outside of the box. Aspiring writers: this is an interesting habit that you might want to develop.

Anyhow, what if the Persian emissary did his homework in 300? He researched Spartan law, customs, tactics, etc.

When he was good and ready, the emissary arrived with a smile and a custom-crafted fighting spear, which he presented to King Leonidas. Why? Well, rudeness would get him killed, as would threats. Spartans wouldn’t flinch at superior numbers and weren’t easily bought. Above all things, any offer made required more carrot than stick.

So, with a pearly white smile, the emissary listened to Leonidas’ warning (about choosing his words wisely). Then he rolled the dice . . .

“God-King Xerxes has set his sights upon Greece. It will fall. It is inevitable, because his army is the largest the world has ever seen. Strangely enough, you have the greatest army the world has ever seen. My master has heard tales of Spartan valor and offers you two choices.

The first is to refuse his offer to join the Persian Empire. If you do, our army will march around Sparta in the wars to come. We will never invade or trouble you again. If you wish, we’ll even trade with you. You can personally watch your enemies (including Athens) fall, one by one. In time, you’d be the only free kingdom left in Greece and retain your lands. This vow will be honored for all time.

Your second choice is to accept God-King Xerxes’ invitation: and join our crusade. Sparta would be the tip of our spear. Think of it, Great King! The greatest fighting force, leading the largest horde, into the mightiest campaign ever fought. Your men can seek battle, glory, and gold throughout the world. You Spartans are so dangerous that we’d even let your women fight alongside us!

If you wish to be the Warlord of Greece and forever remembered, all you need do is kneel . . .”

Then, with a respectful bow, the emissary would’ve offered Leonidas time to consider both options. I think they’d have let him leave (to deliver his reply). Sparta could either have boring neutrality or glorious conquests aplenty. Either way, Xerxes could invade Greece without any interference from the Spartans.

How would the real Leonidas have reacted to that offer?

NEWSLETTER RANT #39 – 01/17/23

95.) THE WEDDING CRITIC

There’s this FBI profiler. He’s a natural-born master at reading people. One day, he gets invited to a cousin’s wedding. Just by mingling with the crowd, he guesstimates that this marriage is doomed. At some point, the guy even tells his favorite aunt that it’ll crash in about two months.

Sure enough, the wedding’s a bust within eight weeks. Apparently, the bride (his cousin) married a womanizing louse and ignored all of the warning signs. Yet, his aunt remembered the precision of the prediction and talks him up. Folks start inviting him to weddings.

The agent politely declines (at first). Then he gets injured in an accident and shatters his left knee. Close enough to his pension, the agent opts to retire. Word spreads through his favorite aunt’s sewing circle and the agent gets more invites to these weddings. This time, however, the offers come with fat checks attached.

He grudgingly attends the first few. All of them strike him as lifelong marriages, except for one. After the reception, the profiler calls in a few favors. A background check is run on the bride, who turns out to be a sociopathic grifter with a trail of broken hearts and empty bank accounts across Europe. When the happy couple returns from their honeymoon cruise, she’s arrested by the FBI.

Fast-forward a few years and the so-called “The Wedding Critic” has a book deal and a very long waiting list. Celebrities and foreign royalty pay him top dollar to sniff out their future spouses. Thus far, he’s never been wrong. A lot of would-be brides and grooms have watched their dreams burn up because of this profiling prodigy . . .

Maybe that’s why you’ve just been tasked with solving his murder—which he never saw coming.

96.) THE BABY

An adorable little girl’s been shuffled around the U.S., via a clandestine network of caretakers and protectors. Why? She doesn’t come from royalty or a rich family. Any pediatric practitioner would’ve pegged the baby at about five months and perfectly normal.

There’s just one oddity . . . she hasn’t aged a day in forty-nine years.

Physically and mentally, the baby’s been locked in a perpetual age of five months: and no one could figure out why. Back then, the baby’s oddity attracted the attention of a ruthless pharmaceutical CEO. He tapped into mercenaries and put them to work. All evidence of the child’s existence was erased. On that same day, the baby and her parents were abducted.

After a bracing round of torture, the bad guys realized that the biological parents were clueless about why their year-old daughter hadn’t aged. Both parents were then killed and dissected. Their examination results came back negative for genetic anomalies.

Why do all of this? Well, the child’s priceless DNA might lead to cures for any number of diseases or even halt the aging process. The CEO reluctantly ordered the child to be dissected too. That’s when some of the staff had a case of “conscience,” snatched the baby, and ran.

The corporation never ceased its search. Every so often, those mercs got close and made a mess. After assorted clashes, word began to spread of the “unaging baby.”

Governments and rival corporations joined the hunt. Even secret societies—mainly fanatical whackos—got into the mix. Some figured that she was the Antichrist and had to be killed. Others believed that she was the next Messiah and needed to be taken to the Vatican. Some even wanted to use her DNA to breed a new race of superhumans.

A lot of blood’s been shed over this child. Over the years, her defenders got pretty good at hiding her—and at being dangerous when found. Her protectors are an odd mix of the baby’s surviving relatives and bystanders who got caught up in this secret struggle (some of whom had deep pockets and powerful friends). For them, she’s not a prize or a threat: just an innocent baby in need of protection.

What’s the answer to this kid’s riddle?

NEWSLETTER RANT #38 – 01/10/23

97.) COLONIAL DRONES

Centuries from now, humanity’s figured out hyperspace travel and terraforming. Worlds were colonized, mostly with booming populations. Part of the planning involved strategic bunkers. In the event of a disaster or attack, the colonists could take shelter. Colonial drones were also buried there. During a crisis, they would self-activate and do whatever was required—from relief efforts to open warfare.

They came in multiple sizes, types, and combat specialties. Man-sized infantry drones were the smallest. The largest could shoot down hostile craft (from orbit). In between were fighters, tanks, surveillance bots, etc. This allowed the Interstellar Navy to focus on rescue ops and crime between worlds.

Well, there’s some far-off mining colony. Mostly desert, it had a rich resource yield. Then the corporations came along, mined it dry, and moved on. The economy dried up, crime filled the void, and corruption became rampant. In short, this unstrategic world’s been left to rot. Still, the colonial drones were routinely maintained.

Then, one fateful day, a child was murdered. Her killer was caught, then allowed to walk on a “technicality.” Connected to one of the planet’s larger mobs, he simply bribed himself free. The child’s grieving father (a widower) was a technical specialist: who oversaw software upgrades on the colonial drones.

A truly brilliant hacker, the guy uploaded a copy of his raging psyche into those dormant drones. Then he disabled the fail-safes . . . and blew his brains out. Within minutes of his death, a pissed-off army of assorted war machines broke out of the bunker.

The colonial government barely got out a distress call, before communications were taken out—and the slaughter began. It would take the Fleet weeks to mobilize a task force and get there. The nearest Fleet ships were diverted to assist. The planet’s also full of gun-toting scum, with assorted skill sets. Who (or what) wins this fight?

This would make for a decent book, video game, and/or RPG session. Ah well.

98.) FORTUNE TELLERS

You’re a top spymaster, who quits the [insert major spy agency] in disgust. Naturally, you’re flooded with job offers. One of them catches your interest. A group of wealthy individuals is building an independent spy agency: one that averts crises before they happen.

Resources, intel, and seasoned field operatives they have. What they need is someone to oversee it all, give it an edge, and avoid the mistakes of traditional intelligence programs.

You’re shown the membership roster: most of whom are ex-special forces, hackers, and former spies. A few are even buddies of yours. That’s why you’re getting this job offer. The money and cause seem right. You only have one question: how can one avert a crisis before it starts? One of the spies (a good friend) pops a pill . . . them convincingly tells you everything that’s going to happen (from world news to game scores) over the next ten days.

They call it the “Fortune Teller.” The longer one goes between doses, the further one can see (on the next dose). The precognition is 100% accurate and can be recalled in minute detail. Take more than one dose, per day, and the side effects kick in [insert evil cackle].

The plan is for support operatives (or “Oracles”) to foresee the crises. You plan the ops and oversee their implementation. Field agents execute your plans, stop the crises, and save lives: with a minimal footprint. Since they routinely dose on Fortune Teller, they can only see a day ahead. Follow-up teams will cover any loose ends, via bribes and whatnot.

You take the position and bide your time: because you never really quit your old job. This is a deep cover op. The objectives? Shut down this outfit. Identify and kill its backers. Procure the formula for Fortune Teller. Manipulate the outcome of their ops (in your agency’s interests, of course).

The hard part is to do all of this without being foreseen.

NEWSLETTER RANT #37 – 01/03/23

99.) CAPTAIN HAVOK

I was watching Days of Future Past the other day. Lucas Till was Havok, in the waning days of Vietnam. The character was so “cardboardy” that an odd idea crept into my head. What if, in that reality, Captain America didn’t end up in the ice? Instead, he kept on fighting the good fight and aged really well—to the point where he ended up in ‘Nam?

And (you see where this is going), Havok got drafted into the Army—as a private—then crosses paths with Steve Rogers? After countless adventures, the first Captain America gets taken down. Maybe it was a lucky sniper. Perhaps, he stepped on a mine and lost both legs. Either way, Cap’s gotta pass on the shield.

Rogers pulls some strings and Private Summers gets the shield and an experimental dose of super soldier serum, which amps his physique and powers. Then “Captain Havok” rushes off to fight for truth, justice, the American way . . . and mutant rights. He moves like Rogers and blasts like a tank. Add in possible shield tricks and his fight scenes could’ve been epic.

Ah well.

100.) DARTH VADER’S TRIAL

Here’s a hypothetical plotline:

It’s the end of Return of the Jedi. The Emperor’s dead and Luke “Force drags” Vader to the shuttle with an Imperial med team in tow. They reach a Rebel hospital ship, while the Death Star explodes in the distance. The newly minted Jedi “persuades” the ship’s crew to save his dad.

Fast-forward several months and Darth Vader’s suspended in a modified fluid tank—minus his limbs. New Republic docs dose him with something that blocks him from the Force. After months of debate on what to do with the war criminal, the decision’s made to try him.

Vader quietly endures the trial. An (alien) advocate defends him, even though he’s admitted guilt. Vader listens to his atrocities and is filled with guilt and self-loathing. All that’s left to decide is the punishment. Luke and Leia are at his side the whole time.

All of a sudden, an Imperial warship jumps into high orbit and rains death on the court building. The ship’s destroyed—but not before the damage is done. Few survive (including Vader). His kids don’t make it.

Who sent the ship? Palpatine’s clone. The Emperor’s only worthy successor was himself. Raised and trained in secret, Palpatine II is a healthy mid-30s Sith Lord with full training and a lightsaber. The new Emperor means to save the Empire from utter collapse. So far, he’s succeeding.

Vader (no, Anakin) asks for a meeting and offers to kill this prick—to atone for his crimes and avenge his kids. After a relentless string of losses, the desperate good guys outfit Anakin with their best tech and cut him loose.

I wonder who’d win?