Dawn Broken

August 29, 2009

So, firstly, the Twilight series now overall ‘good’. The loss of ‘very’:

1. Superspeed pregnancy

2. Superspeed childhood

3. Superintelligent child

4. Pre-conception imprinting

5. ‘Thats never happened before” conception.

Given my liking for Calisle, I felt it was fairly unfair that it apparently hadn’t occurred to him what might happen with cross-breeding. That is a major idiot ball for him to carry.

After that, things tense into the ridiculous.

Some books can carry off the omniscient child: Revelation Gap did. Fast pregnancy, fast childhood; these too can be managed, exemplified, praiseworthy. All these together? Hard. The child goddess in the Sparhawk series does not pull it off. Renesme does come off okay at points, but overall it seems like a time-saving moving on the part of the author to ick the plot into tense gear – a gear missing in Meyer’s roll, because every book’s ending anticipates a body count that doesn’t happen.

She’s a sweetheart, but a plot device all the same.

Then there is Bella. But of course Bella is invulnerable to the frenzy that falls onto all vampires – she is the PROTAGONIST after all. She is more agile than most new vampires – but of course. She can spontaneously add to her power ten times what it was in the course of a day – because she needs to. Sigh.

The principal problem of the fourth Twilight book seems to be limitations of the genre. The seeming Austen relativism must end at the happy wedding – this book’s vast majority is the dark aftermath. In many ways, I greatly respect it for the effort & the accomplishment. But the rush of 700 pages crams rather than idles.

The Austen post-wedding eclipse is scooped up in narrative by Jacob, a good turn in narrative – perspectives and voice are interesting. It fords the gap ok. The imprinting thing is a cut to the character, retroactively even, Which ends the character as swiftly where the narrative ends also. As Bella returns, similies of pain over, returns with no vampire disadvantages, a disassociatively calm Charlie, etc. … it pans out to a story of evil Italian vampires whose sum number do not exceed 40. Does it suffer not having rails to run down? A bit.

I’m not particularly incensed to re-read any of the books, nor do I wish to hide the fact that I have read them. I have enjoyed them, though I’m sure not always where  the author intended. Its a series concluded – it won’t degenerate into necrophelia & lycanthropy sex (Laurel K Hamilton, apparently). It is a series transcribed – the films will continue, and the dead eyes of its actors were compensated by the finest James Dean 17 impression to date. It didn’t sport the growth of Rowling, but it didn’t wend to little purpose as other fantasy tales have.

Twilight Saga: Read, enjoyed, don’t feel compelled to do either again.


Daftwager Twitter Fiction: Day 46

August 29, 2009

Day 46:


07:00; Sometimes I question the ‘evil’ in my eight hours a night. Evil has been ‘night-typed’. Then I remember; as a doctor I know that a lack of sleep can affect my judgement eg: when I conjoined those twins.

07:30; Bad judgement causes irrationality, irrationality leads to foolishness. The foolishness is worst – acting under foolishness’ influence causes serious accidents, like being swayed by ‘mercy’ at key moments.

08:00; I believe a day ‘off’ is in order. Excelsoar is still undergoing “psych evaluation” under the care of the Jeans d’Armes, the Projectionist Protectors are still in the Madhouse wing of the Bastille – all is quiet.

09:00; Salute a salut to Open, amid exciting equations, take a picnic basket, head out on the town. In a week the trial of PPs is up on the docket & free E be holding me upside down, shaking out my pockets.

10:00; “Happiest Place On Earth”. I shall test this.

10:30; May as well enjoy myself. Visit EuroDisneyland. Printed up counterfeits of Disneydollars from drafts downloaded – proceed to cause a crashing, crumbling inflation that results in Goofy hanging himself.

11:00; Few rides exciting to someone who has tangled with robot crabs. Improved; reprogrammed the Pirates of the Carribbean; when they do break down, they will kill the tourists. Take that Jeff Goldblum.

12:00; Visit safari. Largely boring – no Myth-Menagarie. Do encounter apes I trained for Prehensile Shah; joined the region’s French Foreign Legion after the ‘4 Finger World Under My Thumb’ scheme died.

12:30; They are happy to see me. Partially; bond between augmented and augmenter. Mostly; when I spotted them, I wrested the safari bus wheel from the driver and halted it – perfect for raiding the tourists.

13:00; I signspeak with apes at length; how they arrived here, where the others are, their hopes & dreams for the future. So hopeful. Tubby tourist survivors are summarily stripped, whipped & cloth-collared.

13:30; Apes don’t desire escape, simply safari sovereignty. We open the tour bus coolers as I sign-outline how to do just that. Harnessed by ropes of their own old clothes, tourists tug the bus out of the ditch.

14:00; Simian miscreants instructed in the pressure points points of elephants, taming lions, riding zebras, driving tourbuses. Disney will shush this little incident & pay the new, impish, ranger chimps in peanuts.

14:30; Primates are far cheaper than regular rangers, cute and backed by animal rights. Grunt-speaking work shall be done by the new human stock, who still think they will be rescued, rather than written off.

15:00; I ascend, perched uncomfortably on my cane, escape. The chimpanzees, orang-outangs, gorrillas; they wave. The other apes, humans who forget that they are only another of this planet’s apes, do not.

16:00; It seems witches and wizards must have some sort of inertial compensator/cushioning charm to ride the wind like this. Or their reputation for rage originates from their flight sickness, & their raging piles.

17:00; Find a lost tour group, around l’Arc d’Triomphe. Pick up seamlessly where their guide left off, with the aid of underthought reading & overwriting. Charge triple typical rate, promise the stars. They pay.

17:30; Tell them the Arc was built by Hitler, to celebrate the conquest of Paris. Tell them the Eiffel Tower is the remains of rocket assembly site, abandoned when the US beat Europe to the Moon. They nod.

18:00; Tell them the French know only two facts about trains, both of which are wrong. Tell them the French only eat leftovers. Tell them to throw cheese at the safari surrender monkeys in DLand. They nod.

19:00; Take them to ‘Chez Chiffon Gris’ for supper. Let the maitre d’ overcharge us all, so that I can take 50% of his take afterwards. They slurp their soup, ask for ketchup – I consider the evils of ignorance.

20:00; They asked for beer. Beer, with foie gras. And they asked for shots with desert. And belched. The chef, the staff, the maitre d’ & I agree; simply shortchanging these deranged wanderers is not enough.

21:00; Take them on pub crawl, slowly working our way back to LRP. Mental suggestion is increasingly easy, mind reading increasingly unnecessary as these drunken wanderlusters wish for more excitement.

22:00; Make it all way back to LRP. Perfect revenge arranged. We come to La Pantalon Rouge, pass it, onto the Louvre. I ask, have you ever taken a tour of Louvre? Bored Yes. At midnight? Intrigued No.

23:00; Security systems of the outer building extremely easy to overcome. It is no Swiss Vault, unlike the basements. Tell them that there is a secret of the Mona Lisa, seen only at midnight. They smile & nod.

23:10; I, personally, prefer classic Victorian pictures of sick children, praying. I like to estimate how long they have. ‘I give you six months’. ‘I’d give you three weeks’. ‘I’m surprised you aren’t dead already …’


23:30; Try to convince my Yankee charges that the Mona Lisa is not a better painting, merely a more famous one. I even appeal to their gross love of the gargantuan and refer to the van Rijin’s ”superior” size.

23:40; No soap. They adore Mona Lisa, even though the public version is a modern copy, and will take no dissuading. Still, my drunken state prompts a course of action I regret; I give them one, last, chance.

Rembrandt van Rijn; 150 years ago, Delacroix said of Rembrandt that his works would be held higher than those of Raphael. His blasphemous prophecy came true, within 50 years. Diabolical slacker!23:50; Tell them Richard Dadd’s ‘FairyFeller’s Masterstroke’ was painted by a close friend of Dadd’s, using paints composed from Dadd’s bodily fluids, while Dadd watched from a window. Nod! No mercy!

00:00; At precisely midnight the moonlight lights the picture. I ask if they see anything. They say not yet. I say I’m going to turn on more lights. Fly out a window, over walls & down to LRP as the cops arrive.

Admission Mission

August 22, 2009

So: I read Twilight.

And New Moon.

Currently reading Eclipse.

So: They are very good books.

Firstly; I find Meyer’s take on legends as cleverly original while avoiding being new for new’s sake. Sparkling vampires, vampirising venom, feverish werewolves & werewolf imprinting all contribute to a unique, interesting universe.

Secondly; I find it to be well-written. The narrator has such a strong voice; Ms. Meyer, you had me at the truck description that included : ” … undamaged after an accident, with shreds of a foreign car around it …”

Thirdly; I find it to be one of the few novels achieving Austen-level tensions in relationships. After all; if Ms Bennet engages in pre-marital relations with Darcy, its total career & social suicide. If Bella engages in pre-vampire relations with Edward, its a very real suicide.

Fourthly; I find the antiquated feel of their teen articulations to add to the effect mentioned above.

Fifthly; I do have problems with it. The millionaire 110 year old vampire who watches the 17 year old in her sleep, sniffing stuff, reading minds … its stuff of questionable content and, being the jack all nerds that I am, my interest is slight. But they are good books so far. More details when finished.

And that is 205 words.

Daftwager Twitter Fiction: Day 45

August 22, 2009

Day 45:


07:00; Sometimes the early morning sounds of the city depress. Then it occurs – the constant cacophony covers and conceals the clattering of the Mole Men’s mining machinations of overthrowing the Surface.

08:00; Delightful limitation to my mind-reading apparatus – works perfectly on Open, and she knows it. Palm thinks: ”buttock, asymptote, breast, circumference, nipple, quadratic, spank, quantum”. Delightful.

09:00; Couldn’t mind read Claude on stage as a result, but his imminent arrival today should explain his curious courtesies. For now, I ‘remonstrate’ Ms Palm with the mental projection of my own ‘thoughts’ …

09:10; My animosity expectation has foundation in Claude’s fury for me after he attempted to swindle me out of a not-insignificant sum and in return, I turned the tables so that Claude, in con lingo, was ‘done’.

09:20; Claude Claustrophile; writer, swordsman, engineer. Once, when unwillingly buried alive ‘Cask of Amontillado’ style, Claude found closed confinement delightful, illuminating & stimulating his mind to …

09:30; … dig himself out ‘Count of Monte Cristo’ style, using only the bottle of Beaujolais that had been used to bait his trap. The bottle served as his shovel, bucket, and, later, to bludgeon his gaoler to death.

09:40; Lecture-toured often on this experience. Claimed, in isolation, to have seen past lives, to have walked the Earth in prior times, as William Shakespeare, King Arthur, Thomas Edison – Not in that order.

09:50; Speaks all the languages of the colonies, has shared true British ale with every Commonwealth ambassador, & bed with every ambassador’s wife. Runs up terrible bills, outuns his creditors & cuckolds.

10:00; Lectures on journeys to the centre of the earth with Verne’s All Seeing Being, reintroducing the gavotte in modern dance & meeting the Brainstein. Has actually been burned in effigy by all credit banks.

10:10; Opens oysters one handed. Strikes cigars alight with his chin stubble. Arrives via steam locomotive, if possible; undermines when not. Sings Gilbert & Sullivan, Oscar Hammerstein, & George Formby.

10:20; He tamed Hollywood; has had his every play filmed. Won a first at Cambridge, took second in the Nobel Laureate to Heaney and came third in a Sir Claude Claustrophile lookalike contest in Istanbul.

10:30; A knight, by lineage & in his own right, his regiment is a crucible, of the craziest Scots, fiercest Gurkhas, wiliest Anzacs, swiftest Askaris, and strongest Masai this, otherwise stunted, world has to offer.

10:40; Termed ”Satan’s Claws”, they have been incorporated into the West Indian pantheons as demons, Inuit cargo cult lore as gods, and subsist on a daily diet of oranges & 2 imperial gallons of rum ration.

10:50; A confidant of the Queen, advisor on mining policy to the Southern Americas and spiritual mentor to Rev Ian Paisley. Sank a shaft to Hell and performed a piece for Pluto, to secure his speedy escape.

11:00; As a victor he has seen the field after battle and as a writer he has expressed its horrific lure. Hunts manticores & chimaera at his country estates, while riding a fiery skeletal dragon tamed by sheer will.

11:10; Hunts, kills and eats six impossible things as breakfast, beds strange goddesses and writes with the plain-spoken genius and power of Jack London, Ernest Hemingway and Samuel Clemens. He has a-

11:20; – Fine, fine. Merely wished to set the scene before I tell of how entirely I diddled Claude out of the Whitby townhouse I currently own, several millions & a title of winner in the Race Betwixt the Poles!

11:30; Frequenting the Agnate Club sometime previous, I encountered old school chum Claustrophile holding forth on the ancient loss of Antartica’s achievement by pup Amundsen instead of gentleman Scott.

11:40; It must be a Brit who bests this; in the course of eighty days, by one means of transport only, flit from the North Pole, to the South Pole and back to London in time for the birthday of the Prince Harry.

11:50; Claustrophile challenged any man present to match stake in this wager against his – deeds to a Whitby townhouse. Living up to the Daftwager title and the history of how we earned our title, I accepted.

12:00; I chose an Aeronaught zepplin, Claude an Armourdrillo underminer, Tomás Stuttgart a Kraken submarine, Phillipe Torrenado a Stratosfear rocketplane, Eckhart Zweiblumen gliding by herbal means …

12:10; … while Cantilever of the French and Spirokeet of the Swiss launched a joint Franco-Swisse Mechanic-Organic means of pedal-powered propulsion which none of us ever understood or cared about.

12:20; As true patriots, Claude and I entered into a gentleman’s mutual non-agression pact, ensuring that, whatever the outcome, the title should fall to an Englishman. As realists, we both silently added a ‘but’.

12:30; The Franco-Swisse & Dutch delegations fell at the North Pole starting fence; Cantilever-Spirokeet’s creation exploding & corroding concurrently, while Zweiblumen sat, giggling & freezing in the snow.

12:40; Adventuring antipodally, I first encountered the Helium Princess & instant hatred of her, discovered wild dirigible whales & their symbiosis with high-alt dragons. Also; fried Torrenado with thundergun.

12:50; Crust cruising, Claude encountered the Mole People & his long war with them, found closed caverns of dinosaur tropics & ice age mammoths. Also dismantled Stuttgart with a plume of mantle magma.

13:00; We congratulated each other as the two to reach Antartica. We saluted, by Scott’s flag, then he shot me down with an undersurface-to-air missile. My fault; the earthquake ray took too long to charge.

13:10; Came down outside Sydney harbour, Aeronaught aflame. Dived into the sea and began Plan B. By the time I had reached land, quite a crowd had formed, which made the march on the embassy easy.

13:20; Claude’s progress was broadcast, seismographic guestimation of location. Re-running the tunnel made on the first run, Claude was already past Calais by the time I broke into the ambassador’s office.

13:30; Reaching for the ambassador’s desk, Claude tinkled the telephone there, to remind that the embassies aren’t British soil, not even the Australian one, which knows its colony-colonic place in an Empire.

13:40; I affirmed this ‘diplomatic truth’, but also that there was a physical, British, sod of soil on the premises used, (a la Castle Rackrent), to cheaply elect governors and, in emergency, to crown the monarch.

13:50; All embassies have, in case a reigning monarch dies while the heir is abroad, a sod of soil to crown that heir immediately. Had Claustrophile challenged my victory, he would have challenged his Queen.

14:00; Thus I won Claustrophile’s townhouse, millions in media rights to my victory and the title of first man Betwixt the Poles. Hence the oddity of Claude sitting down to dinner with me, rather than killing me.

14:30; Dinner! I started a little when it emerged his companion was the Red Lady, who has tried to exsanguinate me, more than once. But then Claude had fluid-transfer ‘business relationships’ with Open, too.

15:00; I introduced him to Ms. Palm & pretended the Red Lady had never tried to drink my bodily fluids. He introduced me to the Red Lady & pretended that Open had never succeeded in drinking him dry.

15:30; We retire to the drawing room of La Pantalon Rouge, speaking of mutual school days spent cheaply, and individual indelible indiscretions committed costily. This little bait raises none of his ire; Curious.

16:00; Smoking Swan Vestas, and drinking Chevas Regal, we sit, and discussed the Irish Question. We agree that violence is not the answer. ‘Violence’ is in fact the question. ‘Yes’, we concur, is the answer.

16:30; Claude believes the Limerick natives, with regular beatings & mind-controlling limericks, could emerge from herds of stabbing & shooting stupidity, to be the perfect fighting force, rivalling the Gurkhas.

17:00; I feel the pygmies of Cavan could be eugenically engineered out of promisingly money-hungry shylock stock to a craven credit-crunching crew that could outdo the stock-market-sharks of Wall Street.

17:30; Speaking of children, Claustrophile dazzles with pocket portraitures of his infant niece, whom he adores; like the daughter he never had & much more than the scores of illegitimate pups he actually has.

18:00; I make required rudimentary ‘oohs & ahhs’, & lapse into the ‘goo & gaga’ & sign language I used, briefly, to train an augmented ape army at the behest of the Prehensile Shah. Old habits & new minds.

18:30; Finally; the meat of our meeting, Claustrophile asks after his old, my new, Whitby residence. How it weathered the flooding, Who caused it, How did I escape, What relation is Dr. Ingot Nation to me?

19:00; Nation murdered & zombified an army regiment, seized a Navy vessel, invaded Claustrophile’s old home, spread the diseases of godless resurrection & communism, made threats toward Her Majesty.

19:30; Claustrophile & Nation; the engineer & the biologist, the philosophic poet & the pragmatic pamphleteer, the royalist & the socialist, the nationalist & the internationalist. Mutually Assured Destruction!!!

20:00; MAD is little optimistic – perhaps a Pyrrhic victory for one will make the survivor all the easier to bump off? I suppose the tickets were aimed at buttering me up to reveal Nation’s current location isle –

20:10; – No! But yes! The thought-catcher confirms; Claustrophile knew the Projectionist Protectors would perfidiously pursue Paradigm’s fashion show! Avoiding their justice – Claude, too, is a ‘bad’ man, …

20:20; … He substituted me for he, assuming that I would, to Monochrone’s nose, be the worst evil in the room – compliment! – & that I had not protection against psychic detection & projection – slander! …

20:30; … Claude further hoped that the PP’s projection of my crimes, publicly-posted, would include the exact details of my ‘worst’ crime; aiding, abetting & concealing the fiend Doctor Nation & his location.

20:40; It seems he gleaned the PP’s plan from interrogating Mister Scripts. After seeing the apparently purloined papers passing through his editor’s office, he intended to hunt down the ‘barefoot tantrevallian’-

20:50; – and found an impoverished itinerant scrivener instead. After ‘interviewing’ Mister Scripts into unconsciousness, Scripts revealed his third man part in Projectionist Protector duo in a bid for mercy. Ha!

21:00; Proof was demanded, supplied. Scripts, since my visit, had received a drunken telephone call from The Monochrone, deep in her the-cusp-of-victory cups, detailing how they were to attack Paradigm.

21:30; Therefore, Claude managed to neatly avoid execution, place me there instead, attempt to ascertain the whereabouts of his as-yet-unmet & most-hated enemy Dr. Nation, all with an, off-the-cuff, invite.

22:00; Dear Cthulhu; has been a while since someone tried to murder me with such style, grace and pragmatism! Particularly in this country, where they keep giving me awards!! I feel so homesick just now!!!

22:30; I turn from these internal revelation’s to Claude’s external creations of ‘having an interest in the Nation incident’ and ‘not wanting to press you too hard, Daftwager, but …’. Magnificent on/off stage actor.

23:00; Demurring his purring, I tell Claude that: I do not currently know, nor do I have any means of communication with, the errant Doctor Nation. All entirely true, not in the least bit entirely honest – perfect.

23:10; I read he does not believe, then he pumps my hand as firmly as a friend, which he is, and takes leave. I wonder if he engineered a sabotage of the incomprehensible Franco-Swisse PolePedaller device.

23:20; Equally, & interestingly, I think-hear his hypothesis that I cut the ‘Flying Dutchman’ Zweiblumen’s aeronautic narcotic with something lethal. There, at least, he has a measure of my abilities, & ambitions.

23:30; Spent my millions, renovating his house – as yet incomplete. I planned expansion of Claustrophile’s undertunnels; stifled from war with the vermin minions of Whitby’s ‘via clocoa’ lord, Rat-A-Tat-Tat …

23:40; … the photon shunt skylight paused due to now-resolved planning permission issues. Hoped killing the widow would secure me an island home & sufficient bribes left over to improve my Whitby home.

23:50; I retain the title; Sino-Russian, Germano-Belgian and Greco-Turk attempts to race between the Poles & steal the British title have all ended in pain, madness &/or death; Claude is a sweetheart/patriot.

00:00; Claude made millions tunnelling into a massive subterranean sea, lit by ambient fungi luminesce, heated by geothermal vents, false advertised as seafront property at the Centre of the Earth – predictable.

Daftwager Twitter: Day 44

August 16, 2009

Day 44:


07:00; Sometimes, alarm clock sounds depress me. Then I recall; ignored alarms desensitize all people to all alarms, & an early-morning four-minute warning for nuclear death will be unattended by all but me.

07:30; Peril of not indulging in alcohol last night – I retain the memory of clubbing an attempted superhero killer to unconsciousness. Clubbing was cathartic, yes, but the calumny still stands; a hero’s hero I am.

08:00; Console myself with facts; whispered in his ear for a headshot, but idiot aimed at TDLS’s back. Bouncing off a bulletproof bustier beneath her trivial tuxedo, at best bruising her rather than bleeding her.

08:30; With all the voices in his head, my invisible one in his ear was ignored. Hasn’t he seen the Shade shot at before? Such wishful thinkers. The amateur who forgot about me – career killer of public figures!

09:00; She’s worse – no instant illusions, because bullets would pass through holograms, & into the audience. What if he had armour-piercing rounds? He didn’t – I checked, before – but she is so very heroic.

09:30; Just when I think Shade might make a very practical, perfect, paranoid partner in evil – disappointing. Then makes me help save the day – glad I was invisible for that. Invisible to all but the Light Shade.

10:00; The similarity of our mental rigs allowed her invulnerability to my invisibility – had she kept her hat on during the heat of her opera passion, she’d have spied me and my camera; quite probably killed me.

10:30; But, last night, she saw me aside the gunslinger, invisible to all else, cane in classic cudgelling hold. And she smiled. Depressing, that trust, given that I was telling him to shoot her right between the eyes.

11:00; Eager to test telepathy, recorded thoughts thought throughout the bout, hoping some secret would be divulged, in extremity. Listening to it complete after the PP defeat, heard the gunman’s insane litany.

11:30; In the crowd he was distinctively loud; He cheering, not fearing of PPs. Discovered psychically, found him physically with ease. Would convince him of a deadly shot, could convince him of didly squat.

12:00; Cudgelled him not to stop the brute, but to halt his failure-whim, himself to shoot. A posthumous Darwin Award & a beloved self-made martyr. Alive his natural nerd antisocial awkwardness will show.

12:30; Silence. Knowing Pete Pequod is in town, I had wondered if he had bribed sufficient officials to start his recreational urban bombing campaign again. Apparently not. Not yet anyway. Sarko will oblige.

13:00; Particular frustration; the concept that Shade knew I was trying tell the gunman to remove her head, or destroy her brain. And knew I was unable to sway him. And knows that I know that she knew.

13:30; So much saving recently – for personal profit, but still. I am staying in today, in the hope that I can avoid saving anyone, for a few hours. Open is helping, by ‘rewarding’ me for saving her personal hero.

14:00; On reading reporting of the fashion show, find my heroics are mentioned: nowhere. Excellent! Even better, myself and my compatriots were referred to in the event’s society pages as the scum of Paris!

14:30; Live up to my title by stealing a hearing aid from one old man and vocal chord vocoder from another. Also, their bagels. All essential to science. The zimmerframe theft? Because I broke their legs, silly.

15:00; Wire the ear piece into the realtime mindreader radio in my hat &, vocoder concealed behind my bowtie, incorporate it into the instant thoughtcasting projector. Receiving & deceiving live, to stay alive.

15:30; Should be able to receive & return swifter than a sadomasochist with ADHD. Able to read, influence & be invisible to any mind; second cousin to Claude Rains & Harvey the Rabbit. Except to Shade.

16:00; As mentioned, I stole the thought collector-projector’s design from not from under The Deadly Light Shade nose, but rather where she was keeping it under her hat. Probably a preprototype back in …

16:10; … Brightwave’s day, the apparatus allows the wearer, when worn by a manipulator of light, to immediately conceive of complex coruscation and candescence without any prep, or forethought before …

16:20; … having those conceptions read by mind machine then projected as light lifeforms. Thats how Shade created doubles to duel with The Monochrone, all acting individually & in complexity, in an instant.

16:30; In my ‘wrong’ hands, a BORE-based manipulator of thought rather than light, I am a Svengali to outdo Shade, plundering people’s personal pecadilloes, projecting passions, phobias & paranoias like …

16:40; … a pre-pubescent pervert raiding & degrading his elder sister’s drawer of under drawers! All kindly courtesy of The Deadly Light Shade!! Who believes I thought I was saving her life, while, in fact, …

16:50; … I was abusing her grandfather’s invention, in an attempt to kill her!!! True, she isn’t dead, but her hat is probably kevlar composite & the half-mask perhaps of some sort of a monofilament material …

17:00; … A headshot might have missed, struck something super solid. This dread application of her apparatus though – thats a crime I will commit everyday of my life remaining! Not a long life if she finds out.

17:10; Acquired the design on a brief mechanic & medicine consult, under Doctor Languedoc. French swamp scientist, sought power by primordial soup. Fungus army, amphibian vampires, that type of thing.

17:20; Spoke with an affected Austrian accent – Stockholm syndrome under the Occupation. With world-renowned Bavarian biologist Wrothauser, alongside Munich machinist Meinschaft on a resume, my …

17:30; … Teuton-taught services were retained. Afterall, it isn’t what you know, or who you know, but what you know about who you know. Knew Languedoc was a deluded lover of Germany, had money.

17:40; A Ratman referral, I pioneered a neural net that would allow sharks to thought fire laser-beam headsets. He paid up with grant cash, I left his otherwise-doomed venture before the inevitable ‘meal’ in …

17:50; … his much rehearsed speech: ‘Note the shark’s laser arrays, Miss Shade. As an animal lover, I believe every animal deserves a warm meal. Why don’t you stay … for lunch?’ A chump, was later chum.

18:00; Told him lasers were inadvisable against the Lady of Light. I pressed him to smear his three-piece suit with the secretions of the Red Sea Moses sole, a known shark repellent. But Shade … baited him.

18:10; Early operation of hers, Shade cracked Castle Languedoc back in her youth, perhaps while on the occasion of a holiday with her Parisian grandparents. She was overpowered by peons and penalised.

18:20; Locked up in my lab (built in a bog, Castle Languedoc V rested on the remains of Castles I-IV; thus the dungeon flooded often), Shade was not to be shot, but to disposed of later by laser shark moat.

18:30; To confront Shade’s alter ego would cause Languedoc to confront his faux-German fantasy; he would not remove her mask, for fear of losing his own. I, myself, discovered a conveniently-famous face.

18:40; Beneath half-mask, & hologram, teen singing sensation Toussaint ‘Saint’ Bright, understudy in the opera to Madame L’Ouverture; that was a prize. The device that hid that face, even as she slept; a gift.

18:50; Memorized the design and collected my cash & references before The Deadly Light Shade deflected a laser beam into a load-bearing buttress, causing balcony-casual Languedoc to ‘drop in for lunch’.

19:00; After that, any attempts to pry a mask from Shade’s unconscious, unconsenting face faced an explosion of dark particles, adhering to the very substance of their eyeballs, turning them temporarily blind.

19:30; I have since pursued psychic supers, strong enough to offset the effort of taking, and stupid enough not to see my unshielded mind’s approach. Under glass and electrically galvanised, I have them now!

20:00; With this apparatus I these powers wed together – what I, Man, has joined, may no God dare to break! In an unholy matrimony of mind reading & writing; mine shall be Svengali’s chapeau, ho, ho, ho!

21:00; Celebrating my cerebral soup coup, and comemorate Open’s cracking of cartesian ciphers of Elohim calculus, we attend Claude Claustrophile’s ‘Thundergrave’, tickets couriered courtesy of the author.

21:10; Front row. Claude spoils us. I had no idea he would tender such affections upon my person. I had not an iotum of such an idea because Claude wants to tender many things onto me – all of them sharp.

21:20; Friends and peers; yes. Yes, we can, convivially eye-contact over glasses of sherry. But, ascertained from his oaths of revenge, when last we parted, he still expects I at least pay for my theatre tickets.

21:30; Lucifer knows I absconded with enough of his money, in an entirely legal and entirely unfair fashion, daft to wager with a Daftwager as he was. As the curtain rises, check underneath seat for trapdoors.

21:35; ‘The Thundergrave’ opens with Claustrophile, his self-penned Lead role of playwright scrivener. Has a Girlfriend, Bestfriend, and curiously concerned Mother. All Is Well. Sigh; I do so despise ‘fiction’.

21:40; Ah, intrigue! Girlfriend & Bestfriend, involved in extracurricular activity of extrarelational relations – making out as Lead watches in from the wings. Claustrophile’s cuckold is cultivated as a craven fury.

21:45; Attempts to attack & confront Bestfriend & Girlfriend respectively end in odd. Pulls Bestfriend off of Girlfriend the first time, only to find it wasn’t Girlfriend at all. We are surprised as the Lead at this …

21:50; … the actresses of Girlfriend & Not-Girlfriend used the scenery to stage a subtle & striking substitution, simultaneous surprise for audience & actor alike. Claude’s confused character departs stage left.

21:55; In a daze of deliquency, the Lead liquors himself up, and drops by Girlfriend’s place. Outside he overhears an undertone of male in the chatter of female inside. He recognises Bestfriend, enters silent …

22:00; … and roars of revenge – to a room empty of all but Girlfriend, on the phone. Manic, he wrests the receiver from her grip and growls down the line – only to find his Mother’s voice at the other end. Oh.

22:05; Lead runs from friends girl and best alike, from Mother. Returns to his place, to find Girlfriend & Bestfriend, naked and undeniable, in the midst of the sexual act. With a knife, Claude’s Lead advances.

22:10; The stage darkens as red stabs and splashes of light are woven by the stage hands. When the main lights are relit, we see Claude stand over two bodies too broken to live. And see Claude’s mistake …

22:15; … these aren’t Girlfriend & Bestfriend. This isn’t his apartment. In a magnificent, 30 second, exchange in the dark, all actors and props have been exchanged for alternates – except Claude and his knife.

22:20; Lead staggers backward, into Girlfriend and Bestfriend. Laughing, mocking, kissing, the two comment caustically upon the murder of the strangers. A nice bit of corpse comedy there. Claude slashes …

22:25; … nothing. Sirens sound. He runs for Mother. He confesses his confused carving, and his cadaver creating. Mother, with growing horror, asks one simple question; ‘Who are Girlfriend and Bestfriend’?

22:30; Feel Claustrophile is overdoing the running trope, but if there is a thematic payoff, I’ll accept it. Feel the ‘knife’ imagery isn’t over yet. Very powerful stuff. Oh, and the Lead has broken down into tears.

22:35; Girlfriend & Bestfriend appear, confirming their imaginary imagery. When he asks why, they tell him he was lonely after his mother was hit by a train. The audience, as one body, pans left to Mother …

22:40; Who, in a marvelous feat of misdirection and light dimming, has disappeared. Clever Claustrophile, with whom stage directions are armour and armament as much as art. Check for the trapdoor, again.

22:45; Slowly the sound of an approaching train builds. Quickly, the hallucinations lay out Lead’s need for comfort combating his compulsion to punish himself amid survivor’s guilt. As the need receded and …

22:50; … the guilt grew due to his false happiness, his hallucinations have been compelled to reveal to him the truth. A moment of hope – dashed. They simply intend to free themselves and punish Lead more.

22:55; They’ll play games with him, ever escalating, making him see that which shall make him unhappy. His final protection, Mother, banished by revelation, means that he is their object now forever and ever.

23:00; Lead scrambles for a gun, perforates his punishers; they are unaffected. He swivels the gun to his own head, threatening to kill himself, that they will die with him. Jeering, they tell him to do it, free them.

23:05; In profile, facing them, gun held to the lobe opposite the audience, he declares defiance, then turns from them to the audience – Claustrophile having disappeared the pistol with swift magician’s tricks …

23:10; … to reveal a hand cocked like an imaginary gun. A gale of laughter roars, uncontrolled, from the audience, even in their horror, as the train noise blisters into a whistle and Lead pulls the ‘trigger’ and …

23:15; … still the spectres exist. Stage defined in 3 spotlights. Standing over Lead, they comment, ‘waste not, want not’. A step, their spotlights extinguish, Lead’s flares he awakes – with B & G Friends smiles.

23:20; Act 2: Sitting, opposing at table, spotlight swings between G & B friends, illuminating only one at any one time, mimicing an unsteady bare bulb overhead. G & B friends are no longer played by their …

23:25; … original actors, now both played by quick-change Claustrophile, with eerie ear & eye, for tone & expression. Scene outlines intentions for their new body, foreshadows some tensions between them.

23:30; Act 3: Bestfriend & Girlfriend have a sweet romance, oddly played given that only one of them can be in control of the body at any one time. We get the impression the honeymoon maybe over now …

23:35; … confirmed by the next scenes. Bestfriend takes a dominant control for a time when Girlfriend is ‘tired’, and begins romancing many other women, who can give him what Gfriend cannot; physicality …

23:40; … while Girlfriend, when taking her turn, is attracted to the writer who is completing Lead’s playscript, ‘The Thundergrave’, for Lead’s theatre company. She watches him recite, a Lead-written verse …

23:45; … ‘What heavenly fire wrath/ Can walk an earthly path/ Without loss of the might/ To see wrong from right?/ The fiery justice secret, that the gods gave/ Living in an earthly world, dig’s thunder’s grave./

23:50; Girlfriend pursues this one man, as Bestfriend pursues his countless conquests. When she finally reveals her love, and her transvestite nature to the writer, the audience holds its breath … he accepts her!

23:55; Bestfriend, learning of this romance, pretends to be Girlfriend, then strangles Writer. She resurfaces, finding her lover, true love, dead, and she takes up the knife. Stage dark, splashes of red light again.

00:00; Appropriate of midnight, the lights go up, and Bestfriend awakens, no Girlfriend in his mind, free to philander, murder and plunder, as he wishes, now. And … she has castrated him with the steak knife.

00:05; Crying, Bestfriend takes a gun barrel into his mouth. Head bent between his legs, a groan of ‘She finally got her period, and this is what she did to me!’ he presses the handgun to his head, now a gun …

00:10; … composed only of his hand. The train whistle synchronises with the ‘shot’ and Bestfriend falls backwards. Only to sit up straight with Lead’s, with Writer’s expression on his face! Looking stage left …

00:15; … we see that the Writer-actor’s strangled body has disappeared. As if it never existed. Lead stands up, bows, and walks off of stage, composing the lines that will finish the earlier speech in his play …

00:20; … ‘Living, an earthly world, dig’s thunder’s grave./ So, mortal, to defy the wrath of conscience/ Do not attempt the simple rebel’s defiance/ Rather to tame the arbitration of your mind/ It is the world’s …

00:25; … temptations you use to bind/ When punished by god, devil, or yourself/ Straight denial is dangerous to your health/ Allow the angels to plunder, make fall even the brave/ Tear their simple views …

00:30; … asunder, dig thunder’s grave./’ Cackling madly, Lead-Writer walks off of the stage, aware of his castration but uncaring, aware of his feminine clothing but uncaring, free from even himself, in the end.

Daftwager Twitter Fiction; Day 43

August 8, 2009

Day 43:



07:00; Ah! The Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything is this: Was the Universe Created entirely for the Proliferation of Biscuits? The Ultimate Answer to this query is as follows: For Tea Too.

07:30; This occurred to me as I sipped Earl Grey on an LPR balcony, watching the Defenestration Station’s field folk prying sleeping Excelsnore out of the pavement & forlifting E onto a fortified conveyance.

08:00; Little victory. Very little. That projection affects only Excelsoar. Perhaps only while he is in the suggestible state of pseudo-inebriation, perhaps not. Individual imprints for every super & tres unreliable.

08:30; Magic, science, religion, art; these are all deflections, fogs. Supers bull through them all eventually; robot doubles overcome, cryptic curses broken, psychological daggers turned aside, chimaeras eaten.

09:00; Eventually, disapparating in a shroud of gas and leading them a merry chase down a hall of mirrors will no longer work. It is vaudevillainous. Relying on homemade BORE – a destiny recipe for disaster.

09:30; If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten. Can’t arrange a beating? Join them. Can’t join them? Start regulating them. Can’t regulate them? Micro-manage them. If that fails – become bfriends.

10:00; Sleeping with the enemy; a funny bed to lie in. Rose-tinted heroes see a heart of gold under the horns of iron. Sun-tinted villains believe in the black ichor under the halo of gold. I’m a very just bad man.

10:30; To Paradigm I am the scientist, struggling against a disordered world. To The Deadly Light Shade I am the devil’s apostate on earth, but worth a good game of chess every now and again. A ‘just’ man.

11:00; To Fin de Siecle I bar the new world order, but innovate in this age. To The Marquis de Made I am the upstart younger son of a Brit lord, but I can recognise vintages as they are poured. A ‘bad’ man.

11:30; In short, I’m either bad for good reasons or good with evil style. But some are sufficiently herculean of body & midasian of mind to ignore my lures. Which is why I have decided to turn myself in today.

12:00; Yes, hand myself over to the law. Reserve an unsweet suite in the Big House. Rest at Her Majesty’s Pleasure and the taxpayer’s expense. Or I would if I had not been waiting for last three hours today.

12:05; Have fooled super arrest squads with the old cardboard decoy trick. Have beaten charge of ‘innocent’ in the kangaroo Court of Injustice by summoning the devil as my advocate. I surrender – nobody.

12:10; Well, not nobody. There is Carole, Joan Justine’s secretary, her coffee a punishment itself. JJ herself, Parisian beauty of the judicial bench, has been making and taking quite a lot of localls since I came.

12:15; Finally shown in, I let it all out. Am so terribly sorry about violently cuffing dear sweet little Excelsoar. Admit I acted out of the heat of the moment when all E needed was love. Bless his spandex socks.

12:20; The stunned silence that follows allows me to observe Justine, up close, as I have never done so before. She ‘appears’ to be in her second score of years. Actually 85 years old, at least. Regal & rouge.

12:25; Her mother was the WWI veteran, Joan d’Ark, last of the major supers under the Church’s aegis. Where The Deadly Night Shade II conspired and spied, d’Ark tore up the big guns on the battlefield.

12:30; Then WWII – Joan Justine, Heavy Beam, Jesteryear – all still middle-aged gods today, gone their very, very separate ways. JJ smart; asked for clever things, like citizenship in her superheroine’s name.

12:35; Sat legal bar in the ’50s, became a legal prosecutor in the ’60s, a district attorney in the ’70s, a judge in the ’80s and, finally, a chief justice in the ’90s. Used her superhero history, but never as a crutch.

12:40; Don’t know her alter ego – doubt she has one anymore. Probably withered away like an appendix, or a virginal ugly person. She’ll judge the Projectionist’s, as before – and the public will fail to convict.

12:45; I wind the story down; a mental maestro’s malevolent mind attack on Excelsoar addled his brain to temporarily turn violently insane. Cortex cad? Saniac? The Marquis de Made? The Three Cerebros?

12:50; Justine knows about last night. She knows the real intellectual influence on Excelsoar was from a bottle rather than a brain. She knows the Defenestration Stations had to pry him out of the street today.

12:55; She has been calling around and keeping me waiting to, among other things, figure out why I’m not trumpeting triumph from the rooftops rather than confessing to carelessly concussing the flying creep.

13:00; She can continue to wonder. I leave, ”free and clear”, with assurances that no legal charges shall be pressed nor monetary charges levied. Also, that E is being ‘debriefed’. Compulsory psych, I assume.

14:00; Returning to LPR, I remove my hat & extract my new mind-reading mechanism. Four hours of thought lie trapped between my fingertips. As stated I like to make friends. From spare parts of old ones.

15:00; The secret-hunter intuitive mind-reading of The Monochrone and the factual-telepathy of Mister Scripts, all wired into an old radio & tape-recorder cassette set, made the hat heavy hat upon my head.

15:10; As useful as was heavy. Quick scan: Justine’s bank account number this, Carole’s affair that; all filed for later. Pertinent info: Excelsoar has been given a ‘time-out’ by the Jeans d’Armes; very literally so.

15:20; E currently confined in ChronoCell, ostensibly to caution, quite certainly to analyse; what happened to E’s clout in our bout? BORE is an ‘all-natural’. Nothing in the blood, brain, braun or bones to find.

15:30; Then there was the PP prison projections. Possibility of penalty perfection is low – current public polls are low on bringing in the PPs. They have yet to be apprehended, but the judging is already over.

15:40; The apprehension itself is already planned at several Parisian pinch points the ‘Protector’s’ projectionist theme perfidy will not permit them to passover: awards show, movie set, the Cannes film festival.

15:50; For my further augmentation JJ’s well-formed & well-informed mind ‘thought’ the last known location of Cortex Cad, Saniac, The Marquis de Made & The Three Cerebros at their merest mention. Ha.

16:00; Invisible me was a possibility. But I needed to be physically present to provoke the psychic thoughts that I wanted to read, like where the hard-to-hunt telepaths CC, S, TMDM, TTC are hiding. Haha.

16:30; Did I mention I took an imprint of JJ’s work-safe mindstate? No? I took an imprint of Joan Justine’s worksafe mindstate! Then I projected the thought that her hair smells like poo!! Muhahahahahaha!!!

17:00; Rigged up rudimentary radio projector with MOM’s BORE. Oneshot, entirely unconfirmed. Joan’s hair-twining during the rest of interview was circumstantial. The intercom call for shampoo was v real.

17:15; Read her brain like a book – Patch in Psylent Film’s power; sepia-tone pictures – excellent for espionage, atrocious for action. I need constant updates, like Banky Edwards and the Weather Channel…

17:30; … If Madame Justine had been calculating when to kill me, I would have been none the wiser. Also the psychic ‘poo-prompt’ projection was pre-recorded; perhaps praise for pre-planning, yes indeed.

17:45; But I require a greater utility to have the ability if I am to incubate incomprehension in my experiments. Realtime mindreading & mental overwriting is requisite to scald a psychic’s third eye while smiling.

18:00; While I committed a Svengali Trojan Horse classic, Sir Claude Claustrophile, playwright, had occasion to call at LPR, leaving his card and tickets for ‘The Thunder Grave’. And Paradigm’s style show?

18:15; Odd. Claude comments that he cannot attend (re-rehearsals), would not want the tickets to go to waste. SCC probably prevaricates, perhaps distracting from the invitation to dinner tomorrow. Or not.

18:30; Waste? Throws away a fortune in kid gloves; made by & from children. Waste? Digs his new Armourdrillo rig to destruction at fabulous expense. Waste? Shoots his bad actors – so SCC isn’t all bad.

18:45; Also received nine tickets for same event as apology by proxy from Excelsoar, compensation from the Defenestration Station and as gratis gratitude for UNDEAD from Paradigm. Fate’s drunk nudges.

19:00; At a sum of some thirteen tickets up, I call down the following for a night on the town; Open Palm, Reel Deal, Barbie Bay-Bee, Daisy Bloomers, Lulu Lollypop, ViVi LaBoom, Big Mama Mammary …

19:30; … Mitzi Creampuff, Zelda de Syn, Mandy Handy, Canary Mellow & Jerry Dipper. Dressed to the nines in stolen designs, our sum number is unlucky for some. A fast-paced life in a slow-motion walk.

20:00; The show is the upcoming summer Paradigm collection. The walls are decked with her most famous figures from shows past. The Jockey’s frictionless jodhpur pair. Cheshire’s invisible ‘Emperor’ duds.

20:05; Most famously, the style that averted a war and stopped a storm, that defined dressing dangerously and outlined the place for clothes in the Geneva Convention; the Excelsoar and Windsoar costumes.

20:10; British Windsoar & French Excelsoar are similar in name, power range, lack of intelligence & rabid devotion to country. So rabid in fact, that they both created costumes composed of the colours of …

20:15; … their respective national flags. Which, unfortunately for them, have the three same colours of red, white and blue. Mistaken identity issues eventually drove W & E sufficiently insane to wrestle over …

20:20; … the British Channel, or the French Channel, as those copycats call it. Weather conditions degraded; Excelsoar’s website claims he has water powers from a princely heritage of the Kingdom of Ys …

20:25; … whereas Windsoar’s blog attests to wind powers from an aristocratic background in the ‘Storm Saxon’ Saxe Coburg Gotha family. As both these ability announcements occurred around the same …

20:30; … as their writers pursued the respective roles of ‘Water’ and ‘Wind’ in then-reforming Elemental Five (later beaten by Aqualine and GasMass), they are dubious. But a superstorm formed nevertheless.

20:35; Ports froze solid & tornadoes eroded. Stormclouds massed & waterspouts exploded. Then Paradigm swandove off a high altitude private jet, punched two louts out & struck a backstroke back home.

20:40; Towing two unDarwinian dullards home, she proceeded to redesign. Excelsoar is the classic blue spandex, symbol a blue ‘E’ inside a matte black rhombus narrowest at the bottom, blue block below …

20:45; … Forming the now-iconic blue exclamation mark ‘E’ on a black background, blue overall. Windsoar had the same boots-cape-belt spandex, except in an entirely red-black colour scheme. Symbol …

20:50; …was the ‘W’. Unlike a regular font double-u, which really resembles a double-v, this really did appear as ‘UU’, thus resembling a black crown. Enclosed in an inverted triangle, it was extremely regal.

20:55; Thankfully, creative tailoring controlled these Cretan cretins & averted future conflict when United States citizen Eaglesoar ensembled red-white-blue, P redesigning to an all-white outfit & golden eagle.

21:00; Like Joan Justine, taking the cases of supers, Paradigm’s designs gained their fame. The fact that, also like Justine, she also works on more mundane models is what has won her international authority.

21:05; Such as designs deigned buxom, catwalked & worn by mannequins of major size & maturity. Not fat; fully-fleshed in hearty, healthy & hale fashion, promoted physically by muscular metahuman maids.

21:10; Current display: ‘dumpy’ demigoddess in white chemise, black business-casual jacket, waist defined by a red belt-sash, the distressed hem of the pencil-skirt making the models legs look alluringly long.

21:15; Next: ‘beanpole’ venus, in a summery floral print; full leg length indistinguishable in diaphanous decolletage of chest and calf, that makes this a tree in full bloom, green-veiled hat only adding to the effect.

21:20; Following: ‘unelite’ athlete in ergonomic, economic & aesthetic tennis top with patented superheroine standard ‘superbra’ below. Matching pleated skort, socks, and sneakers of a frictionless firmament.

21:25; Spotlight: ‘unslim’ prima donna evening gown, bodice bedecked with diamonds, and wrap of the same colour, making the waist immaterial in the dark material. Floor-length frock devours thigh turbines.

21:30; Attention: ‘bridget jones’ of delightful muscle tone, dressed for business in a pink-pinstriped black pantsuit. Salmon shirt and socks, crimson belt drawing all eyes to the sexily sizeable appabellum asset.

21:35; … Look, testosterone drone, it is my finding that female fashionphelia goes towards lessing barriers in undressing women. Also an excellent avenue to win trust of, and later blackmail, male transvestites.

21:40; The smaller designers before the interval. Art Decolletage’s boxy ‘Tesseract’ night negligees. Beaulingerie’s edible underwear’s non-fat line. Pirate Pete and Plunderwear’s new ninja-proofed Plunderbra.

21:45; Quarter of an hour to canape-devour. Instead, I visit Saint Bright, sitting peaceably, with the VIPs. Experiment; I tell her: ”Loved, ‘Skepticalmity’, I, Third Track, On Your, ‘Gymnasty’, The, Album, a.”

21:50; ‘Saint’, unperturbed, is grateful I loved ‘Gymnasty’, the third track on her ‘Skepticalmity’ album. Ah, The Deadly Light Shade & her word recognition software. I’m talking at, rather than to, a hologram.

21:55; Quite perfect really; one expects Toussaint to be here, too big a star for anyone to talk to if she didn’t initiate it. Star Bright. If this light-based illusion is present, then apparently TDLS means to be also.

22:00; Our common cadre of delectable intellectuals reassembles, Open leaning on my shoulder as a hint to hold her, when The Monochrone and Psylent Film break in, in a doomed dash to doom everything.

22:05; This is why audience-Toussaint was a avatar, I assume; Paradigm’s Femme Fatale Fashions Parade was one of the police’s possible pinch points, predicting public Projectionist Protector’s appearance.

22:05; Not the cinematic or theatric thematic MO of the PPs. But TM’s & PF’s have had many captures and incarcerations at the hands of P and TDLS. Poor dears probably thought they were being original.

22:10; Paradigm, at the podium, is arrayed in a classic white costume, strapless with strong sleevecuffs and her patented, tastefully abbreviated-cape for the non-flier, reaching sweetly to the small of her back.

22:15; P is the supermodel of superb super taste. She has a hundred diverse styles and suits of both fashion and function, all associated together by the perfect ‘P’ monogram on belt, bracelet, boot or bosom.

22:20; The Monochrone, by contrast, is standing on the catwalk and spitting out stereotypical spiel, dressed in a baggy khaftan she has almost tripped over twice & a veil that keeps sliding in front of her eyes.

22:25; Silent-but-Deadly, Psylent Film looks on in Labour Day dismay. Blanched, head to toe, basic fashion tips he does not know. Resembles the Ice-Scream Phantom. Fabulous Four would eviscerate him.

22:30; P humours unstudied understudy talk. Gendarmes have closed off the building & evacuated all adjacent rooms. P receives some unseen sign, then shotputs a shoe in an unlikely shot, pulping TM’s face.

22:35; Where TM implodes off the catwalk, struggling to keep her skirts straight, PF advances. Physically & psychically strong, PF is an albino rhino of featureless figure and possessing a rage, often uncaged.

22:40; TM resurfaces sufficiently to sniff for sin. Announce audience’s atrocities, if P acquiesces not. An older gentleman who, smelling of silence, stands, presses a belt button, illusion incandensing into TDLS.

22:45; Incandescence condensing only description of The Deadly Light Shade’s holograms. As encore, six more Shades coruscate into existence, and proceed to do violent deeds upon TM’s personal person.

22:50; Only one Shade connects – no hard light holograms, as of yet – but TM can’t sniff out which one is having the fun. Tip my hat to TDLS, panache partially, but mostly as my mental rig is stolen from hers.

22:55; PF & P grapple, P’s B-4 Braun already ahead but hindered by combat honour & an attempt not to injure PF. One despairs of heroes; P has self-defence on her side, why not a career-ending crippler?

23:00; Sigh. Instead, P conscripts an industrial-deco pole and, under the auspice of a fist deflected, sort-of jabs PF in an irisless eye. PF huge hands, with the fiddler crab claw thumbs, scythe around her skull.

23:05; PF’s finishing move; making a skull-bowl of brain porridge. The audience gasps in tense terror – I suffer a minor melancholia. Not scared Paradigm is in danger; I know that she isn’t, unfortunately. Sigh.

23:10; Paradigm’s B-4 potion protects from the psychic, psychologic, pharmacologic, phantasmagoric & fearful with Bravado formula. B-4 hasn’t failed to turn back PF’s attack before ; PF’s on rerun revival.

23:15; An audience breathless, P pulls pincer-fingers from her face, brings a knee up into PF’s midsection. As he folds up she is still holding his hands, she plants her shin on his shoulder, & pushes down hard.

23:20; A chitinous-sadist, chiropractical, crack occurs. Somehow still up, PF staggers, charges. Industrial-deco stick, still in P’s off hand, slaps PF’s scalp & sweeps his feet out from under, on the backswing.

23:25; TM’s bulk birthed a blade. Better with predicting people she can psychically intuit, she is having to keep up with the ‘merely’ mortal and mentally-protected wing chun whirlwind of Deadly Light Shades.

23:30; TDLS’s gang of doppelganger doubles shouldn’t be able to move as independantly, as they do. Each an individual in action, TDLS is hidden among her holographic hashishirrim, hand-delivering justice.

23:35; A cartilagonising, rhinoplastic rendering resounds. Nasal passage punched, TM turns from the true TDLS, steeplechasing across chairs and stairs, only to be full-body bola’d in a Brobdingnabian sense.

23:40; TDLS reels in her bola, TM’s olfactory area iron-flat. P picks up PF, his arms hanging at an odd cut-puppet-string angle, taking out his tactile telepathy & pressure-sensitive projection. No death. Sigh.

23:45; Not fond of mortification out of mere morbidity; it’s simply a good sign when something unexpected happens (except when fighting the Resurerection). As I consider inhumation of superhuman an art …

23:50; … watching the PP’s pathetic play, repetitive and derivative, is to watch paint splashed against a wall. As a student, later consultant, to 100 ‘Napoleons of Crime’, a 1000 ‘Masters of Space & Time’ …

23:55; … & a series of ‘World-destroyers’, I see no self-innovation. Dr Languedoc, Mr Misadventure, Prof Antartica, Operating System ‘Terror-Hurts, Terror-Bites’ – tried to change the world, never the self.

23:56; Saw nothing here tonight that Youtube couldn’t have put to a music montage. Self-learn opportunities lost. Then red dot lights up on TDLS’s back, and the gunman stands up and sights down the barrel.

23:57; Her hologram harem gone, the sniper dot centres on the real Shade. PP supporter, probably unknown to them, not part of their poor plan, quite possibly perfect person to penetrate TDLS’s protection.

23:58; Isn’t going to monologue – lesson learned from his idols – and despite Paradigm’s Pico reaction times from B-4’s Brain, she won’t quite be able to leap in front of the bullet with her B-4 Braun hard skin.

23:59; Mister Pistol tenses in shooter stance and cocks his … glock? Yes glock. Safety first to be undone. At the resulting gun click, Shade spins, demon quick. Her paranoid psychology super-accelerating …

00:00; … several scenarios in an instant, she suddenly stops & smiles. I, in conflict with conscience, countermand it & choose ‘cudgel the gunman’. Hate what heroes make me do more than hate what they do.

Villainy's Simon Cowell & Paula Abdul

Villainy's Simon Cowell & Paula Abdul

Daftwager Twitter Fiction: Day 42

August 1, 2009

Two of Eight

Two of Eight

Day 42: 


07:00; Sometimes dawn bells depress me. Then I recall; they merely sound that the death tolls of all my enemies are a day nearer. Mister Dead Horse will get them all eventually – but he’ll never take me, alive.

07:15; Morning service in Notre Dame cathedral. Generally don’t confer with Him, but needs must. This is His House after all and, given current events in Paris, he must not have left it for some time recently.

07:30; Earlier at La Pantalon Rouge, Open tempted me to stay in bed with an offer to do something that would have made me see God, or at least call out his name. “Immanestitizing the Eschaton” – Curious.

07:45; Confessions going on. Tempted to ‘confess’ my deeds; wonder if my confessor would condone or condemn my standing aside at Frey Druss’ execution, given public misconception on what Druss was.

08:00; No illusions on the PF & TM affair; I don’t mourn a dreamer like Frey Druss, I fear for my professional self. Despite the pleasingly-French dead resulting from their attacks, to lose Paris itself? Terrible!

08:30; Also know I’m not the first to work this out; not Dan Brown, thankfully. I know that those who Psylent Film & The Monochrone portray as murderers haven’t really murdered. As does everyone else.

09:00; The gendarmes know. P & TDLS know. Percule Heureaux, odd French detective, knows. Il Grande Tigre Libre, masked luchadore sleuth, probably knows while his E Zodiac Circus tours the States.

09:30; Doesn’t matter about evidence. There isn’t an impartial jury in France that would convict these ‘Projectionist Protectors’ because there isn’t an impartial jury when it comes to these villainous vigilantes.

10:00; If I could hide my infamy as justice, I’d like such legal precedents. But they could come for me. There are already places the bad cannot bide within – Townsend, Velo City – Paris shall not be the next.

11:00; The cathedral finally empties – I am alone with Him. Time to talk. You know how to talk to Him, of course; press the hands together, hold the silent whistle steady, and blow. Above, the old wings stir.

11:05; For a monster, His landing is quite agile. The ape-like body, the bat-like wings, the human features, the leathery skin; the Beast of Our Lady resembles the gargoyles outside more than the angels inside.

11:10; Oh, he is scientifically explicable, just imponderably old. Rather than a demonological soul-taker, BOOL is a genetic Hannibal Lecter. He has imbibed so many species the only certainty is His gender.

11:15; Maybe He was human, ages ago, who developed a talent and parlayed it, over time into … this. Maybe He is older than that, and just looks human because he has eaten quite so many of us, over time.

11:20; Many would like to know – He won’t tell us through words, and many would favour He tell them beneath their scalpels. This is why He has been sniffing me up and down for anything too ‘questionable’.

11:25; Some are complimented when, of legal age, they are still asked for I.D. because they look so youthful. Myself, when old acquaintances are still tense when I’ve been scanned & sniffed, I smile. Inside.

11:30; Finally, I state my business; I have some hair for BOOL to taste, identify. If this is not incentive enough in and of itself, I also have payment if He identifies the DNA’s owner. Payment: fresh Excelsoar.

11:35; He is tempted I see, but tries to play me false. He has Excelsoar. Of course, I respond, but You have heard about he can breathe in space now. New Power. New vineyard vintage. He is still nervous.

11:40; BOOL has good reason. His … evolutions … are incident-triggered. Asbestos skin because He was burned alive. Bat hearing because His eyes were taken. Wings because He was pushed off of cliffs.

11:45; Hence Notre Dame. Sanctuary. Lives in the bells, turns his hearing on and off. Sure He is immortal – but getting crushed, cut or throttled hurts every time. I’ve had a lot of fun with ‘immortals’ that way.

11:50; Still, like the genetic addict he is, he takes the hair sample. Sniffs it. Chews it. Swills & gargles it. Eats it. Quite the epicure. Rattles off the details: Male, young (when sampled 3 months ago), telepath.

11:55; Liberated DNA from Morgue Ann’s last night. The gendarme forensic scientists tied this DNA sample to the ‘Peeping Tom’ character as seen at the scene of the crimes. They know he knows the PPs.

12:00; However Peeping Tom wasn’t in the DNA database, or rather, their database. But The Beast of Our Lady, while as discriminating as the police in collecting DNA, collects to very different standards.

12:05; Ask for a name. He laughs, of course. Why, he hasn’t been out this cathedral since 1945. The terms of his sanctuary only release him when Paris is in danger or under occupation. He isn’t very current.

12:10; He is still laughing. I even join in. Then I ask him how He already has Excelsoar’s DNA if He does not go abroad. Sure, it was a simple slip in His conversation, but He doesn’t entertain much. Ooops!

12:15; He backpedals but I switch tracks, to terribly mix metaphors, and mention that I do know the terms of His sanctuary here. He is released in defense of the city. In payment, He takes a virgin sacrifice.

12:20; As I have mentioned, not demonological. Literal virgin sacrifice. They are quite alive afterwards. They need to be, to bear his children. 1870, 1914, 1939 – Manchild, Wrathchild and Lovechild borne.

12:25; He says they’re just his children. I counter that his children are ‘just’ nothing. He is the vine, they the branches. They have brought their papa blood, sweat, tears, hair, saliva, semen, ovums & stem cells.

12:30; There isn’t a super in Paris – and beyond quite possibly – that those three haven’t stolen a lock of hair or a kiss from, haven’t cut in battle or taken to their beds, to take home to Father for His approval.

12:35; One of the 3 children ‘sampled’ Peeping Tom. Or was a parent of PT’s, possibly. BOOL has a handful of powers He can use, but He can genetically impose any of his wide repetoire upon conception.

12:40; BOOL divulges. Lovechild took PT some years ago. Telepath – distinctively, an ability to predict what you were going to say. Doesn’t call himself Peeping Tom, refers to himself as Mr. Scripts. Writer.

12:45; I procure an address. I hand over the glove I pumped Excelsoar’s hand with (That cretin, barehanded? Never). I turned it inside out and scrubbed my own DNA off, to the best of my ability, of course.

12:50; Strange. Oh the trade is good, BOOL even figures out how Excelsoar can breathe in space now (wrestling an alien gladiator by the light of other suns will do that to you), but He can tell something else.

12:55; Somehow He knows E was in his secret identity when I took this sample. Just off the job – adrenaline still high, but something in the sweat chemicals, indeed the fact he was sweating, says E’s alter ego.

13:00; Return to La Pantalon Rouge to dine – no cafés today, and I left all my DNA-laden B.O.R.E. at LPR when calling on old gene pool BOOL. I took enough chances as it is, UNDEAD smelling as I am.

14:00; Cherry-Blossom Bosom serves Elysian appetizers while Open hand-feeds me oysters. When I mention that I must depart to acquire my mindreader, she asks me to read her mind now. It is very Open.

15:00; So that is an ‘Immanestitizing the Eschaton’. I can see why it took the full hour. The thirteen-step gallow-pyramid, the giant golden apple costume, the American Medical Association CD. So very busy.

16:00; BORE armed & forewarned, I ring for Mr. Script’s ‘modest’ apartment. Or ‘social climbing’ pit. On intercom he is inquisitive. I tell him I am interested in his screenplay. Buzzed in expediently. Writers!

16:05; As Mr. Scripts realises I am not a film producer deathly interested in ”The Faceless Brides of Doctor Dread Desireé”, not because he can read it in my mind, but because he can’t read my mind at all …

16:10; … I bop the slack-jawed schmuck on the head with the freshly imprinted BORE blocking his powers. Tie him up, down on the floor, with all the new knots De Syn & Mandy Handy showed me earlier.

16:15; The screenplay play was an educated guess. Anyone pun-obsessed enough as to give MS as their writing initials certainly has an unread ManuScript lying around. Unread for a pun reason, the hack …

16:20; … and similar signs of low intelligence and high desperation led him to fall for my ruse. Leaf through ”The Faceless Brides of Doctor Dread Desireé” while waiting for my tied down telepath to wake up.

16:25; “TFBODDD” is a sensitive Gothic Historical Comedy, complete with undead butler, evil twin brother, secret skeleton selpuchres in the walls and silver floorsafes under the carpet. It is also quite bad.

16:30; It isn’t the love interest achieved who is, overtly, an unrequited crush. It isn’t mortal enemy overthrown who is, palapably, a schoolyard bully. But these things don’t help father-figure fanfiction flashback.

16:35; Read rest of the manuscripts, expecting the same. Quite the opposite. They are all books, films and plays that are powerfully written, delicately scripted, ingeniously stage-directed. They are also stolen.

16:40; “The Lovely Parade”, Wonderboy’s latest new classic. ”The Vitamin Devil”, a Vita Min biopic. ”The Thunder Grave”, a three act masterpiece by Sir Claude Claustrophile, first staged in Paris last night.

16:45; Of the above, only “The Thunder Grave” has seen the light of day, and that was the prior night. All stolen, all so new that he would have to steal from the publisher’s to get them. Or so it would seem …

16:50; … to the publishers. All of these are returns, with attached threats of legal action if MS doesn’t stop stealing scripts from their offices and resubmitting it as his own. Sounds unreasonably stupid, even …

16:55; … for a serial & unashamed punster. The plagarist’s punishment attached to such stupidity would far outweigh any possible payoff. So, to a supposed telepath, or so BOOL tells me, ideas may occur …

17:00; … without control. The pansy scrivener finally comes around from an hour-long coma. I hold up an intellectually-purloined paper and ask if he thinks that he wrote it himself. He replies yes, without lie.

17:05; His story, like Mr Scripts himself, is quite simple. He was born with a talent to pick apart minds, of the exact type I have hungered, for years, to acquire and he uses this insidious instrument to … write!

17:10; Its a common disorder; Super can build robots, so every desire is articulated through robots. Want a girlfriend? Either build an android amour or some rough-tough bots to kidnap a real one. Synoptic.

17:15; Similarly, Mr Scripts wishes to write, is serially rejected and, rather than ‘putting in the work’ (as if what writers do is work!), has lifted manuscripts from the minds of their original writers, in the writing.

17:20; Doubt very much MS knowing exactly what he was doing. Oh, I have no belief in his innocence, just an equal lack of confidence in his mental cogniscence. Mr Scripts lacks the focus his ability merits.

17:25; The legal costs of his mounting unconscious, incontinent plagarisms reduced his already meagre finances. He suffered a brief attack of love for a stranger – Lovechild’s sampling – who became the crush.

17:30; Thus the Projectionist Protectors were attractive to MS. Saw them in a cafe, where he did the most of his ‘writing’ (because he was unconsciously reading the other pretencious patrons for inspiration).

17:35; On his own Mr Scripts could only read the topmost thoughts of others – audio of everyday stuff. But as the Monochrone could search out guilt in the brain, and Psylent Film could provide the imagery –

17:40; – Mr Scripts was suddenly supplied with secret horrors, tragic perspectives and realistic terrors. In return, he helped the Projectionist Protectors find people to fall beneath their psychic gavel of justice.

17:45; They used to be quite embarassing, the PPs. Rush into a café, declare a death warrant on evil, and the guiltiest thought they could project was the mistreatment of a duck. Mr Scripts changed all of that.

17:50; Cafe: MS conversed on cellular telephone, implied police presence, stirred old crimes to top of true murderer’s thought & mind. Text to that effect (Terrible writing explained) to the PPs to come judge.

17:55; As to why he wasn’t there yesterday, his reply is simple. Growing anxiety over the PPs make every diner nervous, guilty thoughts at the top of their minds constantly. The PPs don’t need Mister Scripts.

18:00; Working with a highly fiction-fermenting mind as Mister Scripts has attuned The Monochrone to dread fantasies, of which their are far more in Paris, than the realities. I take my new BORE and depart.

19:00; Why are Psylent Film’s projection’s of the mind’s mysteries in black and white? Because dreams are colourless and quiet – MRI of sleeping REM-brains suggest this – sound and colour are added later.

20:00; Return to LPR notional. Tempted to discard the situation and retain my trophy – finally, a mindreader. But a facist France, that I don’t rule, disquiets. Then Excelsoar defenestrates a front window table.

20:05; Wonder what I would have decided if that boor hadn’t interrupted my reverie. Conclude it elsewhere? But he is trashing my current abode and, the greater insult, his beserker fit isn’t actually about me!

20:10; Apparently, E heard this was a house of ”ill-repute”. Open opened with her standard double entendre; ”Oh, it is very well reputed house, sir, and we have no illnesses or sickneses except that of love.”

20:15; E added to his state of already-drunkeness by imbibing most of the bar, coercing the entertainment to repeatedly play ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ and began tossing the furniture around like a riot in an IKEA.

20:20; Excelsoar’s manifesto here seems to consist of punishing the patrons & staff of LPR for destroying the plexiglass pyramid upon landing, plying a trade inconsistent with E’s ideals and having a good time.

20:25; I have obtained this information by listening to E’s ranting over the past twenty minutes. Assuring myself sufficiently that this doesn’t regard me, I proceed inside to check on my mail. Screams echo out.

20:30; Depressing thing is that Excelsoar isn’t really drunk. Constitution is far too strong – only Fratboy could metachemically methylate something strong enough to outdo that. He just believes he is inebriated.

20:35; LPR shakes as I open a Whitby package. As mentioned, eviscerated remains of my household servants were happened upon. Exponentially more interesting, more of my old BOREs have been found.

20:40; Imprints taken before the rage of Nation. All of the projectionist, pre-telepath type; DoomBrain’s teleport and so on. Sent for them when it emerged psychics were abroad in Paris; careful forethought.

20:45; Asked for them to be sent separately; extra packaging protection against the mail-handling monkeys at Le Harve. This one is … M.O.M.’s. He could project mental states upon his subjects. I do smile.

20:50; A great gale rushes through the building. I take Henri Jambe’s mental imprint from the telepathic absorber that created it and, with MOM’s imprint I build a rudimentary mental state projectionist. HaHa.

20:55; Small charge primes it, then I proceed to the ballroom, where Excelsoar tosses defensive soldiers & sailors around like rag dolls. Time to strike at Excelsoar’s mind, I think. A sharpshooter’s tiny target.

21:00; Sailors & soldiers sag into unconsciousness. Excelsoar asks, who else dares! Tap his shoulder with wooden cane & theatricality. If desperate for acceptance from strangers, I could have been an actor.

21:05; He turns in rage and irrecognition – the persona P.I. Stephen Staker wears glasses, just the type of trick that would fool Excelsoar. Make it clear he can leave now without injury to himself, overmuch.

One of Nine

One of Eight

21:10; E laughs the laugh of the brave rage, and throws a fist that would split my chest. Which I catch in my fist, then twist to the side sufficiently to further knee him in his gonads with an anatomist’s precision.

21:15; Falls, then gapes at me in confusion. Inspiration strikes, as slow as a wave on a long beach; this new offender must merely be strong. Easy. He arises, akimbo, and strikes his patented pose for flight …

21:20; … and nothing happens. He even hops a bit. Doubt he has been without that little power since his late teens. Instant aerial attack. This angst allows the opening I require, and I begin beating him. Hard.



21:25; Any martial arts expert could take me apart with ease. Excelsoar isn’t one. Always confident to fall back on his powers, he has no other strategy. I meld boxing & fencing into a cane-wielding weapon.

21:30; Of course, I have to be careful that neither my cane or my bones shatter when attacking him. I’ve already acquired an aching bruise where I caught his fist and my knee took a bollocking from his ‘nads.

21:35; When E believes he is drunk, he is. A placebo. As Henri Jambe he has developed a subconscious supression of his powers. No floating down stairs. No crushing with a hug. No typing faster than light.


21:40; As BOOL informed, there is a distinct change in Excelsoar in his alter ego’s mindstate. Much like how one’s mental state can control breathing, Jambe’s stength, speed and flight are subject to his mind.

21:45; But not his invulnerability. Much like how one can’t stop one’s heartbeat by thought, his skin is still steel. Must make his social life difficult. The man of steel in a world of kleenex women. Explains a lot.

21:50; No matter. In fact, its a great benefit; he also has Jambe’s sensitivity to touch – can inflict all the pain I want and raise nary a bruise. Innocent. All my Christmas Days & Walpurgis Nights come at once.


21:55; Stand by the window the table exited through. Excelsoar attempts to rush me and I step aside – a cartoony trick, yes, but to Excelsoar’s now only-ordinary speed & reaction times, a very effective one.

22:00; An Excelsoar-shaped silhouette in the street around Excelsore. Vaudevillainous speech rises unbidden in my throat, ready to declare my victory over France’s champion; cut off by a round of applause.

22:30; France is topsy-turvy. Destroy a national monument – get a parade. Defenestrate a superhero – everyone wants to buy you a drink. And, if there was any drink left, that would actually mean something.

23:00; Open insists on tearing off my clothes to examine my injuries. Then she insists on tearing up her clothes to make bandages for my wounds. Open further prescribes plenty of bed rest for the both of us.

23:30; Playing Doctors & Nurses takes me back to my nursery days, when I spayed and lobotomised the cat. Open has a very interesting PVC nurse’s number, while I sport something very Doctor Horrible.

00:00; I administer 2 injections of something and tell her to call me in the morning. Early morning call. Excelsoar decided my reverie significantly. I am a bad man & just a bad man. I have situations to worsen.