For five seasons HBO's smash comedy series Entourage has been entertaining its massive fanbase with the lifestyle of movie star Vincent Chase (played by Adrian Grenier) and his entourage. The series has had Vince going through his share of ups-and-downs Hollywood-style, the sixth series marked Vince's return to glory after a terrible indie and a hiatus to follow it up. Whether it be the insults of his super-agent Ari Gold (Jeremy Piven), the verbal backhanding between his two best friends Eric 'E' Murphy (Kevin Connolly) and 'Turtle' (Jerry Ferrara) or the strange antics of his older brother Johnny 'Drama' Chase (Kevin Dillon).
In my opinion and I'm sure other avid fans will agree with me on this, Entourage lost it's edge a little bit this season. After three episodes I haven't exploded into a fit of laughter or been as entertained by the story as I have been for the previous seasons.
It's too early to tell but this might be the last season for the boys from Queens. Everyone is growing up and it seems like the entourage might not be one for much longer. Turtle is eager to make something of himself, and is attached to girlfriend Jamie-Lynn Siegler (playing herself), Drama is the star of a hit TV show and has his own place, and E has moved out of Vince's mansion and is becoming a successful manager and producer. Not to mention Vince got his license and now no longer relies on the other guys to drive him around.
If the time for Entourage has come, so be it but I hope it goes out in style. If not then I hope the rest of the episodes this season bring us a whole new reason to laugh-out-loud and imagine with awe, having an entourage of our own.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Terror
Here's an old story I mine I found on a memory stick I thought I had lost, let me know what you think. King's influence is stronger in this piece than it has ever been for me.
She was scared; the terror was here. The terror was in her house and it was waiting for her. Waiting to kill her, to eat her to her bones, to put her through the most agonizing pain imaginable. A fierce chill started at the base of her spine and travelled to the nape of her neck. She shivered violently and tried to be as quiet as possible. She felt gooseflesh break out on her arms and chest. She sat up slowly and pulled the covers around her shoulders. She reached to her right and felt only the smooth sheets.
He’s already dead.
Kevin had been in bed beside her the last time she was awake. After they had made love, she had drifted into a pleasant sleep and he had stayed up to have a midnight snack and catch the score in the basketball game.
Now he has become the midnight snack.
The terror had come last week, and there had been much speculation as to exactly what it was. The plump Mrs. Dawkins who worked at the hair salon had said it was an ‘ancient in’jian curse to be certain.’ Pastor Collins had told her it was the towns sin that brought the vengeance of god down upon the small town of Pachitewa.
It doesn’t care what you think; it will kill you just the same.
Her heart thumped in her chest and the sound filled her ears. The terror was in the room, its presence hung in the air. There was a stink like a bog, like rotting flesh and organic material. The room was nearly pitch black but she thought she could see a large shadow where the TV closet normally stood. She could feel it. It was large, bigger than a man, and strong with large talons and rotten and jagged teeth. They would rip her to shreds in an instant; its hideous face would be unlike any animal that she would have encountered in her life. Like a cross between a snake and a man and a bear. She was not its first victim and she would not be its last. She could sense its eyes on her, it was like there was a presence in her mind that was not her own. This foreign invader probed her thoughts, her anger, her fears.
Can you feel it?
She was scaring herself, her mind was racing and she was seeing her own death in all the ways it could come. Her head ripped from her body as it pierced her stomach with razor sharp talons. It wanted to tear her to shreds; it wanted to pluck her eyes out so she couldn’t see what to be afraid of. Her last image would be of that terror. Its bright glowing, hellish eyes looking down on her, drinking in her fear, eating her heart and mind.
What are you afraid of?
“What ev’r the fuck it is, it’s tearin’ the town apart.” She had heard an old farmer mumble just the other day. Half the town had left to be stay with family far away, after the first few days. Of those who stayed most were dead by now. Dr. Marshall and his two nurses had stayed and each morning they went to each house seeing who was still alive and studying the dead. Kevin was good friends with Dr. Marshall and had visited him when he had gotten groceries from the store, which was abandoned, almost every day since the strange deaths began to occur.
“They all die in good health,” he had told her. “The only major medical concern is that their heart isn’t beating anymore, with the exception of Mr and Mrs. Tovsky who smoked like the devil and whose lungs were in rough shape. But, the scary part is that as they die they go crazy, they begin to etch their fears into anything and everything. Alexander Johnson had scratched into his forehead with a tack ‘MY TINY PENIS.’” He had paused at that point in the story and sipped his beer. “I mean; what the fuck is that?”
The local diner owner Jim Svenson had been the third body they found. When Dr. Marshall and his nurses broke in through the back door they had found that none of the lights in the house worked. The breaker was fine, the bulbs were new, and the electricity was flowin’ like the Mississippi during flood season, but there was a presence in that house that wanted the lights off. There were candles everywhere, burnt down to small clumps of wax. Jim was hanging from the second floor banister, four candles on his left side and four on his right still burned; the wax was completely un-melted. He had cut of the fingers of his left hand and the toes of his right foot and had cauterized the wounds with a blow torch Nurse Jenny Halliday found at the top of the stairs. Underneath his body he had, or something had, manoeuvred the digits to crudely spell, THE DARK.
Your soul will rot in hell while you body rots in its stomach.
Sandy Mackall was the mother of four kids and Ray’s wife, a man of questionably integrity. It was well known that on most Friday and Saturday nights Ray would get drunk and go down to Dorsey and go to a cheap titty bar to fool around with the local whores. It was rumoured that when Ray got home he would smack Sandy around a bit before passing out on the couch and getting into work a few hours late on Monday. Sandy had beaten herself one night; Dr. Marshall was sure of it because of the freshness of the bruises and the larger ones on her left side. She had taken a hunting knife and cut open her stomach, killing the three month old child she was carrying. On the white tile floor of the bathroom where she was found naked in the bath tub read: THAT OBUSIVE DRUNKEN FUCK, in bloody almost illegible letters.
Jonathan Jacobs was 10 years old, the youngest of three, and an average kid in almost every sense of the word. One night little Jonathon had crawled out of bed in the dead of night and taken one of his red crayons and began drawing a picture on the bare white wall beside his bed. After a while, Jonathan’s crayon was worn down and he began to use his bloody fingertips to continue his drawing. When his father found him, the next day the boy had small stubs for fingers, worn down to the first knuckle. The boy had continued his drawing even while his fingers were raw and bleeding and the hard plaster wall was wearing down the bone of his own little red crayons. The drawing was magnificent, far above the skill level of a ten year old boy; there was a closet, strikingly similar to the one of the other side of the room. Leering from within the closet was a dark hooded figure with glowing red eyes, blood eyes. Underneath the caption read: THE TERROR.
Oh shit, here it comes.
There was nothing she could do to stop it. It was like the passive presence in the room came forward violently and took control of her thoughts. The terror was looking for her fears, probing, organizing them into neat, little file folders to put away for later. It selected one, it was time to begin. She was breathing heavily, sweating like a madman and digging in her nightstand for something. She didn’t know what, she didn’t know until her hands clutched the scissors.
I don’t want to do this.
She removed her husbands t-shirt and looked down at her naked body. Where to start? There was no stopping it now, the terror had more than just a hand on the wheel now, it was in the drivers’ seat. It was taking her to hell. The terror must be very pleased, seeing her go crazy, watching her begin to dig the scissors into her tanned thigh. Warm blood trickled from the wounds, but the word was clear. ALONE. Her greatest fear, to be abandoned (by Kevin) when she needed (him) most. The prospect that she was facing the terror alone was worse with the knowledge that she would never she him again, touch him again, feel his warmth ever again. He was already in its stomach, he was crying out for her but she couldn’t save him. But she could join him, her fear began to diminish.
“Come here you wretched piece of shit!” she cried, spittle flying from her mouth. Her eyes ablaze with an angry fire and the bloody scissors clenched in her right hand, she screamed from the terror to take her. She was no longer afraid, she could be beside him again, in death, in hell, and it didn’t matter to her anymore.
He is not where you’re going.
Its lies changed nothing, the closet door crashed open as she screamed his name as loud as she could. Oddly she couldn’t hear her voice, just the rumble and dark, deep voice of the terror. The top hinge of the door had been ripped from its frame and red eyes, the blood eyes, glared at her through the piercing darkness and the thick smoke that seemed to have entered her vision.
“Go back to Hell; I’m not afraid of you.”
The eyes burst into an even stronger red which dripped down. They were weeping blood. The terror shrieked and cursed her, and the eyes disappeared and the door slammed shut. The bedroom door burst open and the world turned into a blinding white, and a tall, dark figure rushed out of the door.
Ready to ride the white-knuckle Caddy to Hell?
“Jesus Josie! What’s happening? Why are you bleeding?” Kevin said as he ran to her side.
“Thank you,” she whispered too quietly for him to hear. She could hear the steady drumming of her heart as he picked her up into her arms and carried her from the bed. The numb sound of his voice was soothing, and Josephine Calloway slipped into a peaceful sleep.
Epilogue
Little Jonathan Jacobs found a black eagle’s skull a week before he died. He took it home with him and thought himself quite the explorer, pretending it was an ancient Indian war bird, or an alien, or the goblet of the devil. The eye sockets were a deep, blood red. Jonathan put the skull in his closet when he got home. Doctor Marshall and Kevin Calloway found it after Jonathon’s death; Kevin had brought it home and forgot to take it out of his leather jacket’s pocket to show Josie. He hung it up in their bedroom closet when he got home the night Josie had her encounter with the terror. Kevin jacket was in the back of their pick-up, the eagle’s skull tucked safely in the left hand pocket. It would remain there, even as they unloaded their belongings at Kevin’s parent’s house in Dorsey.
She was scared; the terror was here. The terror was in her house and it was waiting for her. Waiting to kill her, to eat her to her bones, to put her through the most agonizing pain imaginable. A fierce chill started at the base of her spine and travelled to the nape of her neck. She shivered violently and tried to be as quiet as possible. She felt gooseflesh break out on her arms and chest. She sat up slowly and pulled the covers around her shoulders. She reached to her right and felt only the smooth sheets.
He’s already dead.
Kevin had been in bed beside her the last time she was awake. After they had made love, she had drifted into a pleasant sleep and he had stayed up to have a midnight snack and catch the score in the basketball game.
Now he has become the midnight snack.
The terror had come last week, and there had been much speculation as to exactly what it was. The plump Mrs. Dawkins who worked at the hair salon had said it was an ‘ancient in’jian curse to be certain.’ Pastor Collins had told her it was the towns sin that brought the vengeance of god down upon the small town of Pachitewa.
It doesn’t care what you think; it will kill you just the same.
Her heart thumped in her chest and the sound filled her ears. The terror was in the room, its presence hung in the air. There was a stink like a bog, like rotting flesh and organic material. The room was nearly pitch black but she thought she could see a large shadow where the TV closet normally stood. She could feel it. It was large, bigger than a man, and strong with large talons and rotten and jagged teeth. They would rip her to shreds in an instant; its hideous face would be unlike any animal that she would have encountered in her life. Like a cross between a snake and a man and a bear. She was not its first victim and she would not be its last. She could sense its eyes on her, it was like there was a presence in her mind that was not her own. This foreign invader probed her thoughts, her anger, her fears.
Can you feel it?
She was scaring herself, her mind was racing and she was seeing her own death in all the ways it could come. Her head ripped from her body as it pierced her stomach with razor sharp talons. It wanted to tear her to shreds; it wanted to pluck her eyes out so she couldn’t see what to be afraid of. Her last image would be of that terror. Its bright glowing, hellish eyes looking down on her, drinking in her fear, eating her heart and mind.
What are you afraid of?
“What ev’r the fuck it is, it’s tearin’ the town apart.” She had heard an old farmer mumble just the other day. Half the town had left to be stay with family far away, after the first few days. Of those who stayed most were dead by now. Dr. Marshall and his two nurses had stayed and each morning they went to each house seeing who was still alive and studying the dead. Kevin was good friends with Dr. Marshall and had visited him when he had gotten groceries from the store, which was abandoned, almost every day since the strange deaths began to occur.
“They all die in good health,” he had told her. “The only major medical concern is that their heart isn’t beating anymore, with the exception of Mr and Mrs. Tovsky who smoked like the devil and whose lungs were in rough shape. But, the scary part is that as they die they go crazy, they begin to etch their fears into anything and everything. Alexander Johnson had scratched into his forehead with a tack ‘MY TINY PENIS.’” He had paused at that point in the story and sipped his beer. “I mean; what the fuck is that?”
The local diner owner Jim Svenson had been the third body they found. When Dr. Marshall and his nurses broke in through the back door they had found that none of the lights in the house worked. The breaker was fine, the bulbs were new, and the electricity was flowin’ like the Mississippi during flood season, but there was a presence in that house that wanted the lights off. There were candles everywhere, burnt down to small clumps of wax. Jim was hanging from the second floor banister, four candles on his left side and four on his right still burned; the wax was completely un-melted. He had cut of the fingers of his left hand and the toes of his right foot and had cauterized the wounds with a blow torch Nurse Jenny Halliday found at the top of the stairs. Underneath his body he had, or something had, manoeuvred the digits to crudely spell, THE DARK.
Your soul will rot in hell while you body rots in its stomach.
Sandy Mackall was the mother of four kids and Ray’s wife, a man of questionably integrity. It was well known that on most Friday and Saturday nights Ray would get drunk and go down to Dorsey and go to a cheap titty bar to fool around with the local whores. It was rumoured that when Ray got home he would smack Sandy around a bit before passing out on the couch and getting into work a few hours late on Monday. Sandy had beaten herself one night; Dr. Marshall was sure of it because of the freshness of the bruises and the larger ones on her left side. She had taken a hunting knife and cut open her stomach, killing the three month old child she was carrying. On the white tile floor of the bathroom where she was found naked in the bath tub read: THAT OBUSIVE DRUNKEN FUCK, in bloody almost illegible letters.
Jonathan Jacobs was 10 years old, the youngest of three, and an average kid in almost every sense of the word. One night little Jonathon had crawled out of bed in the dead of night and taken one of his red crayons and began drawing a picture on the bare white wall beside his bed. After a while, Jonathan’s crayon was worn down and he began to use his bloody fingertips to continue his drawing. When his father found him, the next day the boy had small stubs for fingers, worn down to the first knuckle. The boy had continued his drawing even while his fingers were raw and bleeding and the hard plaster wall was wearing down the bone of his own little red crayons. The drawing was magnificent, far above the skill level of a ten year old boy; there was a closet, strikingly similar to the one of the other side of the room. Leering from within the closet was a dark hooded figure with glowing red eyes, blood eyes. Underneath the caption read: THE TERROR.
Oh shit, here it comes.
There was nothing she could do to stop it. It was like the passive presence in the room came forward violently and took control of her thoughts. The terror was looking for her fears, probing, organizing them into neat, little file folders to put away for later. It selected one, it was time to begin. She was breathing heavily, sweating like a madman and digging in her nightstand for something. She didn’t know what, she didn’t know until her hands clutched the scissors.
I don’t want to do this.
She removed her husbands t-shirt and looked down at her naked body. Where to start? There was no stopping it now, the terror had more than just a hand on the wheel now, it was in the drivers’ seat. It was taking her to hell. The terror must be very pleased, seeing her go crazy, watching her begin to dig the scissors into her tanned thigh. Warm blood trickled from the wounds, but the word was clear. ALONE. Her greatest fear, to be abandoned (by Kevin) when she needed (him) most. The prospect that she was facing the terror alone was worse with the knowledge that she would never she him again, touch him again, feel his warmth ever again. He was already in its stomach, he was crying out for her but she couldn’t save him. But she could join him, her fear began to diminish.
“Come here you wretched piece of shit!” she cried, spittle flying from her mouth. Her eyes ablaze with an angry fire and the bloody scissors clenched in her right hand, she screamed from the terror to take her. She was no longer afraid, she could be beside him again, in death, in hell, and it didn’t matter to her anymore.
He is not where you’re going.
Its lies changed nothing, the closet door crashed open as she screamed his name as loud as she could. Oddly she couldn’t hear her voice, just the rumble and dark, deep voice of the terror. The top hinge of the door had been ripped from its frame and red eyes, the blood eyes, glared at her through the piercing darkness and the thick smoke that seemed to have entered her vision.
“Go back to Hell; I’m not afraid of you.”
The eyes burst into an even stronger red which dripped down. They were weeping blood. The terror shrieked and cursed her, and the eyes disappeared and the door slammed shut. The bedroom door burst open and the world turned into a blinding white, and a tall, dark figure rushed out of the door.
Ready to ride the white-knuckle Caddy to Hell?
“Jesus Josie! What’s happening? Why are you bleeding?” Kevin said as he ran to her side.
“Thank you,” she whispered too quietly for him to hear. She could hear the steady drumming of her heart as he picked her up into her arms and carried her from the bed. The numb sound of his voice was soothing, and Josephine Calloway slipped into a peaceful sleep.
Epilogue
Little Jonathan Jacobs found a black eagle’s skull a week before he died. He took it home with him and thought himself quite the explorer, pretending it was an ancient Indian war bird, or an alien, or the goblet of the devil. The eye sockets were a deep, blood red. Jonathan put the skull in his closet when he got home. Doctor Marshall and Kevin Calloway found it after Jonathon’s death; Kevin had brought it home and forgot to take it out of his leather jacket’s pocket to show Josie. He hung it up in their bedroom closet when he got home the night Josie had her encounter with the terror. Kevin jacket was in the back of their pick-up, the eagle’s skull tucked safely in the left hand pocket. It would remain there, even as they unloaded their belongings at Kevin’s parent’s house in Dorsey.
Good Footing
June 17, 2001
The last time I couldn't catch Charlie, it was because I broke my ankle, pushing too hard off a rotten stump that gave away under my weight. It seems I'm always chasing after Charlie. But that's because he always starts the race and I'm forced to catch up to him. And I always do catch up to him. There was always one secret that I had that I told no one, especially Charlie, and that was that I focussed on the ground just ahead of him to catch him. I think maybe it was something my father had said before he died on the highway by a drunk driver. I was nine and nursing a broken ankle, the ride to the hospital in the cab on my dad's old Ford was silent for a long while. When we were finally getting close to the city and the hospital, he turned to me and watched as I winced in pain at every bump and pothole in the old country road.
"You know why you broke your ankle son?"
I mumbled a response that evidently couldn't be heard over the rumble of the engine.
"Speak up son, do you?"
Looking out the window, watching the cornfields, this time I spoke loud enough to be heard but to the window. "Because Charlie is too fast and I fell."
He seemed to ponder that for a moment.
"You fell because you weren't focussed on your own footing, you were focussed on his," he paused looking at me and when I didn't respond he continued. "In trying to catch him you focussed only on him, not trusting yourself to be fast enough to catch him."
"He had a head start!" I bursted out in defence of myself.
My father raised his fingers from the steering wheel and looked at me with amusement. "I know that son, but you are fast enough. But to catch him you have to carefully choose your own footing. Act as though you were ahead of him and be calm. If you are merely chasing him you will focus entirely on his back and you will fall behind. But if you run as though you are in the place of strength, you will find real strength. You always have been and always will be fast enough, all you have to do...is run."
For years I would hear my fathers voice in my head, long after he had passed on, telling me I was fast enough, I just had to run.
This time Dad was wrong. This time I couldn't chase after Charlie because the race had started and ended before I even realized there was a race to begin with.
Reality began to take hold again and my attention snapped back to the large courtroom. To my right, twelve people filed out of a door and turned to their left and took their seats in the hury box. A black women, in a black gown turned to them and asked them if they had reached a verdict.
The leader of these twelve, a middle-aged white man in a business suit stood and said that they had, unnanimous 12-0 vote for guilty. I could feel the eyes of every person in the room but there was only one pair whose gaze I met. Seated over my right shoulder, Charlie sat in the second row behind the federal prosecutor.
My attorney told me to focus and I tore my stare away from Charlie's icy expression and prepared to recieve my judgement. I shifted my feet from one foot to the other and looked up at Judge Williams. She first consulted the federal prosecutor in private, overruling the protests of my attorney. They exchanged words for a couple minutes and the fed walked back to his table, eyeing me up with something close to pity.
Judge Williams asked everyone to stand. When everyone had complied with her command she continued.
"John Michael Jennings you are found guilty of possession of an illegal firearm, grand theft auto and resisting arrest. You will serve either 12 years in a federal penitentiary or 8 years in a branch of the armed services. The prosecution has extended to you the second option and you will have four hours to decide which you shall choose. From that point on you will be a prisoner of the state, one way or the other. Case closed." The gavil hammered against the desk with finality.
Four hours later I was on a bus. An hour after that I boarded a plane headed for Ellis Island, famed training ground for the United States Marine Corps.
The last time I couldn't catch Charlie, it was because I broke my ankle, pushing too hard off a rotten stump that gave away under my weight. It seems I'm always chasing after Charlie. But that's because he always starts the race and I'm forced to catch up to him. And I always do catch up to him. There was always one secret that I had that I told no one, especially Charlie, and that was that I focussed on the ground just ahead of him to catch him. I think maybe it was something my father had said before he died on the highway by a drunk driver. I was nine and nursing a broken ankle, the ride to the hospital in the cab on my dad's old Ford was silent for a long while. When we were finally getting close to the city and the hospital, he turned to me and watched as I winced in pain at every bump and pothole in the old country road.
"You know why you broke your ankle son?"
I mumbled a response that evidently couldn't be heard over the rumble of the engine.
"Speak up son, do you?"
Looking out the window, watching the cornfields, this time I spoke loud enough to be heard but to the window. "Because Charlie is too fast and I fell."
He seemed to ponder that for a moment.
"You fell because you weren't focussed on your own footing, you were focussed on his," he paused looking at me and when I didn't respond he continued. "In trying to catch him you focussed only on him, not trusting yourself to be fast enough to catch him."
"He had a head start!" I bursted out in defence of myself.
My father raised his fingers from the steering wheel and looked at me with amusement. "I know that son, but you are fast enough. But to catch him you have to carefully choose your own footing. Act as though you were ahead of him and be calm. If you are merely chasing him you will focus entirely on his back and you will fall behind. But if you run as though you are in the place of strength, you will find real strength. You always have been and always will be fast enough, all you have to do...is run."
For years I would hear my fathers voice in my head, long after he had passed on, telling me I was fast enough, I just had to run.
This time Dad was wrong. This time I couldn't chase after Charlie because the race had started and ended before I even realized there was a race to begin with.
Reality began to take hold again and my attention snapped back to the large courtroom. To my right, twelve people filed out of a door and turned to their left and took their seats in the hury box. A black women, in a black gown turned to them and asked them if they had reached a verdict.
The leader of these twelve, a middle-aged white man in a business suit stood and said that they had, unnanimous 12-0 vote for guilty. I could feel the eyes of every person in the room but there was only one pair whose gaze I met. Seated over my right shoulder, Charlie sat in the second row behind the federal prosecutor.
My attorney told me to focus and I tore my stare away from Charlie's icy expression and prepared to recieve my judgement. I shifted my feet from one foot to the other and looked up at Judge Williams. She first consulted the federal prosecutor in private, overruling the protests of my attorney. They exchanged words for a couple minutes and the fed walked back to his table, eyeing me up with something close to pity.
Judge Williams asked everyone to stand. When everyone had complied with her command she continued.
"John Michael Jennings you are found guilty of possession of an illegal firearm, grand theft auto and resisting arrest. You will serve either 12 years in a federal penitentiary or 8 years in a branch of the armed services. The prosecution has extended to you the second option and you will have four hours to decide which you shall choose. From that point on you will be a prisoner of the state, one way or the other. Case closed." The gavil hammered against the desk with finality.
Four hours later I was on a bus. An hour after that I boarded a plane headed for Ellis Island, famed training ground for the United States Marine Corps.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Update
Fearless Reader, I've been very busy lately and I have two short stories on the go right now and its left me pressed for time when it comes to keeping up with blogging but here's an update on how everythings going.
Co-authored untitled project- starting to come together and I hope before the end of the year to bring you this story in installments on this very blog.
The prologue of the project suggested by Raidersfan is on its way! I hope to have that posted for you before the end of the week.
In other news, the zombie based video game Left 4 Dead is released a sequel, it is highly anticipated by zombie hunters everywhere, keep your eyes open Fearless Reader!
'til next time
C. Mudge
Co-authored untitled project- starting to come together and I hope before the end of the year to bring you this story in installments on this very blog.
The prologue of the project suggested by Raidersfan is on its way! I hope to have that posted for you before the end of the week.
In other news, the zombie based video game Left 4 Dead is released a sequel, it is highly anticipated by zombie hunters everywhere, keep your eyes open Fearless Reader!
'til next time
C. Mudge
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Choose Your Own Adventure
Ok this may be a project that goes down burning like the Hindenburg before it but in an attempt to get my readers involved in this blog I want to open the floor briefly to you. Recently I've been on fire with the keyboard and can't seem to stop writing and from what I am told I am producing quality work. Well I've had lots of ideas over the years and few have come to successful fruition.
Fearless Reader I ask this of you, come up with your favourite idea for a short story and use the comment section of the blog to convey the basic idea, possible characters, themes, setting, plot events etc.
Producing something of quality from an idea sparked by another person is an interesting challenge that I want to try out. If nothing comes to mind, don't feel obligated to suggest something but if you can think of something, the next post of this Zombie Warrior may very well be your raw idea in the form of a short story.
'til next time.
C. Mudge
Fearless Reader I ask this of you, come up with your favourite idea for a short story and use the comment section of the blog to convey the basic idea, possible characters, themes, setting, plot events etc.
Producing something of quality from an idea sparked by another person is an interesting challenge that I want to try out. If nothing comes to mind, don't feel obligated to suggest something but if you can think of something, the next post of this Zombie Warrior may very well be your raw idea in the form of a short story.
'til next time.
C. Mudge
Monday, June 29, 2009
Writing's and the Writing Writer's that Write Them
Fearless Reader, as I sit in front of my keyboard I can't help but feel an overwhelming desire to write. It's like a slow itch that needs scratching (why is it that a scratch is always itched and an itch is scratched, would it not be more appropriate for each type of ailment to be cured by a similar action?!).
And so for a minute I want to talk about a few things that inspire me to write.
Thunderstorms appeal strongly to me. Ever since I was a child I have always watched a good thunderstorm from a window with amazement at the beauty of it. There's something about a thunderstorm that makes it somewhat akin to writing. There's a chaos to it and yet there is also an orchaestrated order in it all. The sharp flash and stab of lightning is always soon followed by the boom of thunder. Each lightning bolt is a quick plot turn and the thunder is the impact upon the character. The unpredictability of where the lightning will strike next is the intrigue of a new setting. I love a good thunderstorm, in fact I think I see one brewing outside my window.
A great book by an incredible author. Without great books I don't think I would have ever had to desire to put pen to paper and try to create something of my own. There's is something to be said about a fantastic book and what it does to one's creative side. I think my family would describe me as unique and in possession of quite the imagination so naturally the next step for me when enjoying a good piece of writing is to create one of my own. For me there is a select group of authors that are so good at what they do, they inspire me to create something 1/8th as good. There are some characters that I feel I know because of how perfectly this author has portrayed them in the story.
My family more than anything inspires me to write. Each of them have read something I have written and told me to pursue it but not all have really inspired me to be great. My Dad always supported me and although it was difficuly living 150 kilometres away, he has managed to have a massive impact on my life. A huge reader and a man who always encouraged me to read, my father wants the best for me. When I told him I wasn't going to university to pursue writing for a year, he supported my dream. And even though over the year I failed to finish my first novel, he never told me that he didn't believe in me or that I had made a horrible mistake. Dad I start college in september and I think I finally know the direction I've been searching for, and although it isn't a career in writing I will always write. And when I write, I write for you, because one day I'll be great and it's because you taught me to shoot higher than I dreamed I could.
I also write for my brother and my uncle. Both of you were added to my family through marriage but over the years I have seen our relationships strengthened and I can honestly say that I love you as though you were my own blood. Both of you have always incouraged me and pushed me to better my writing with helpful advice.
Finally, I write for my mom. A woman whom I am convinced, that even if I wrote a cookbook she would want it nominated for the Pulitzer. Her blind devotion and love has always supported me and I wouldn't be the man I am today without her influence. And it would be amazing to see the pride in her eyes if I became a great writer.
'til next time, and with much love.
C. Mudge
And so for a minute I want to talk about a few things that inspire me to write.
Thunderstorms appeal strongly to me. Ever since I was a child I have always watched a good thunderstorm from a window with amazement at the beauty of it. There's something about a thunderstorm that makes it somewhat akin to writing. There's a chaos to it and yet there is also an orchaestrated order in it all. The sharp flash and stab of lightning is always soon followed by the boom of thunder. Each lightning bolt is a quick plot turn and the thunder is the impact upon the character. The unpredictability of where the lightning will strike next is the intrigue of a new setting. I love a good thunderstorm, in fact I think I see one brewing outside my window.
A great book by an incredible author. Without great books I don't think I would have ever had to desire to put pen to paper and try to create something of my own. There's is something to be said about a fantastic book and what it does to one's creative side. I think my family would describe me as unique and in possession of quite the imagination so naturally the next step for me when enjoying a good piece of writing is to create one of my own. For me there is a select group of authors that are so good at what they do, they inspire me to create something 1/8th as good. There are some characters that I feel I know because of how perfectly this author has portrayed them in the story.
My family more than anything inspires me to write. Each of them have read something I have written and told me to pursue it but not all have really inspired me to be great. My Dad always supported me and although it was difficuly living 150 kilometres away, he has managed to have a massive impact on my life. A huge reader and a man who always encouraged me to read, my father wants the best for me. When I told him I wasn't going to university to pursue writing for a year, he supported my dream. And even though over the year I failed to finish my first novel, he never told me that he didn't believe in me or that I had made a horrible mistake. Dad I start college in september and I think I finally know the direction I've been searching for, and although it isn't a career in writing I will always write. And when I write, I write for you, because one day I'll be great and it's because you taught me to shoot higher than I dreamed I could.
I also write for my brother and my uncle. Both of you were added to my family through marriage but over the years I have seen our relationships strengthened and I can honestly say that I love you as though you were my own blood. Both of you have always incouraged me and pushed me to better my writing with helpful advice.
Finally, I write for my mom. A woman whom I am convinced, that even if I wrote a cookbook she would want it nominated for the Pulitzer. Her blind devotion and love has always supported me and I wouldn't be the man I am today without her influence. And it would be amazing to see the pride in her eyes if I became a great writer.
'til next time, and with much love.
C. Mudge
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Fearless Reader, I apologize for the delay in posting but as they say, c'est la vie.
I think there's something to be said for what happens when drunk people gamble, there really isn't one word that properly defines the combination of pride, confidence, idiocy, courage, glory, and indignation. To the eyes of a sober man, a drunk man's quarrel with another drunk man when one is clearly right is almost amusing but as I'm sure you've found out, there is no way to reason with a drunk man. I'm not leaving out the females but that is a whole other bag of worms I don't care to open right now, I'm merely sayin drunk men because the story you are about to read is about drunk men.
Being 18 and unable to legally drink really only means that you can't purchase alcohol, because there is always and likely always will be underagers who consume alcohol bought for them by an adult. I've never been to a bar, but I've been to my share of high school, college and university parties and there is always one thing that you find consistent. Drunk people.
And only slightly less often do you see those same people gambling.
Fearless Reader I hope I can confide this in you; I have been drunk before, but even in that altered state I make sure I remember to keep my tongue in check and my money in my wallet.
Last night I arrived at a large party a friend of mine was having in his large backyard, just outside of Ayr, ON. Immediatly upon arriving I notice that he is engaged in a game of beer pong with a friend of his, whose acquintance I had made on a couple occasions, against two of my best friends, with three other friends of mine standing around the table cheering loudly. I walk up to them and handshakes are exchanged with greetings and claps on the back.
I take up a spot surrounding the table and watch as the game comes to an end. Each man with ten dollars on the game is focussed and with the stakes high the tempers come out to play.
Chirp's and insults fly across the table more than the ping pong balls and eventually both sides are sure that they've won.
So being the diplomat that a sober man must be when he is surrounded by drunks, I suggested a third game, for all the chips and the right to be champions. Dreams of cup's and trophy's, showers of confetti and roaring fans, dazzled by the eyes of the four and them and they eagerly fished out their money and handed it to me.
While I watched and umpired the game that followed, the intensity of the game when I arrived was paled to what I was now witnessing. My two friends beat the two hosts fair and square and I gave them the money and even celebrated their victory with them. High fives were exchanged and then the losers began to get upset. The host that was my friend had no problem with being beaten and was a man about it. We won't hear from him again for the rest of the story though. The other host though, he had a huge problem with losing, maybe it was that or the insults but either way he got very upset. Not long after we were sitting down in lawnchairs by the tent my friends would sleep in later.
They nursed beers and I sipped on a diet pepsi and life was good. Laughter and stories were shared and smiled creased the face of every man in the circle. That was when the evening started to take a turn for the worse. Because that was when SB stumbled up to our circle and found momentary courage in a bottle of Coors. SB is short for, sniveling-bitch, Fearless Reader I apologize for that but it's so hard to have a cowards name in my story (shout-out to Nasir Jones, keep doin it boy, one love).
SB approaches my friend who had done most of the chirping, his partner had just recently turned in for the night. One on one they began to rehash the insults and comments that were made earlier in the night. That was, until I heard SB threaten my friend with a bloodied nose. Now I'm not a terribly large fellow but I'm wiry enough and like all boys I've seen my share of good fights and bad. Not to mention, I'll be damned if you're going to threaten one of my friends and I'm going to sit there and let it happen. I colourfully tell SB to leave if he knows what's good for him. He asks me if I'm serious and looks at me for a long time, I tell him I am serious. I wait for that to sink in and neatly hand my can of pepsi to my friend and see him reaching out to either point at me or grab me. Either way he never got the chance, I snagged the hand at the wrist and elbow and pulled it behind his back and applied pressure. I again ask him to leave, I told him that I was only protecting my friend and wasn't the aggressor, and that I felt he wasn't being fair to my good buddy.
He leaves. We continue our small party and another small group joins us and we make friends with them.
I pull out my cell phone and see that it's approaching 2 and I tell the boys I should be gettin home because I was getting cold and tired. That was when things really went down the shitter. A large group of guys, I counted nine but it was dark so I could be wrong, surrounded our group. This was a scenario that all of us were familiar with and while be laughed and joked, our eyes told quite another story.
Suddenly one of the new guys pipes up and asks if we had been chirping SB. I answer that yes we had but it was earlier in the night and it was over an overexaggerated beer pong game and it was nothing for anyone to get excited about. Well these guys were itching for a fight and outnumbered more than two-to-one I was not about to feign strength in a position of weakness because I didn't want my drunk friends broken noses on my conscience. I also didn't want my own broken. So after at least a hundred assurances that all was well, they left.
We all breathed out a sigh or relief. I wish I could tell you we kicked their ass and found SB and gave him what was coming to him. But being sober I realized what I would likely not have if I was drunk, that there are times when you should fight and their are times when you should let it go. This was the latter.
As much as it goes against what I believe in as a man, I didn't feel the joy of crushing SB's nose and jaw beneath my fist. I'm still in awe of what happened, it was a new experience for me, I've never seen such a spineless whelp of an excuse for a man cry for help from every other guy at the party to intimidate four guys.
I want to end on two points.
One, drunken gambling is not a great idea, for quite a few reasons.
Two, maybe I'm old fashioned but I think I man should fight his own battles. Of the nine that surrounded us, he was not amoung them and of the nine, none of them threw a punch. Maybe it was because I threatened to burn down their pissant town. Whatever the reason is, I felt I only acted in defense of a friend I didn't think could defend himself and in the process played the part of the bigger man by not knocking him out right there.
'til next time
C. Mudge
P.S. Fearless Reader I am sorry for the length of the story I just told, if I ever make it to the big-time I will undoubtably be judged for having diarrhea of the keyboard.
I think there's something to be said for what happens when drunk people gamble, there really isn't one word that properly defines the combination of pride, confidence, idiocy, courage, glory, and indignation. To the eyes of a sober man, a drunk man's quarrel with another drunk man when one is clearly right is almost amusing but as I'm sure you've found out, there is no way to reason with a drunk man. I'm not leaving out the females but that is a whole other bag of worms I don't care to open right now, I'm merely sayin drunk men because the story you are about to read is about drunk men.
Being 18 and unable to legally drink really only means that you can't purchase alcohol, because there is always and likely always will be underagers who consume alcohol bought for them by an adult. I've never been to a bar, but I've been to my share of high school, college and university parties and there is always one thing that you find consistent. Drunk people.
And only slightly less often do you see those same people gambling.
Fearless Reader I hope I can confide this in you; I have been drunk before, but even in that altered state I make sure I remember to keep my tongue in check and my money in my wallet.
Last night I arrived at a large party a friend of mine was having in his large backyard, just outside of Ayr, ON. Immediatly upon arriving I notice that he is engaged in a game of beer pong with a friend of his, whose acquintance I had made on a couple occasions, against two of my best friends, with three other friends of mine standing around the table cheering loudly. I walk up to them and handshakes are exchanged with greetings and claps on the back.
I take up a spot surrounding the table and watch as the game comes to an end. Each man with ten dollars on the game is focussed and with the stakes high the tempers come out to play.
Chirp's and insults fly across the table more than the ping pong balls and eventually both sides are sure that they've won.
So being the diplomat that a sober man must be when he is surrounded by drunks, I suggested a third game, for all the chips and the right to be champions. Dreams of cup's and trophy's, showers of confetti and roaring fans, dazzled by the eyes of the four and them and they eagerly fished out their money and handed it to me.
While I watched and umpired the game that followed, the intensity of the game when I arrived was paled to what I was now witnessing. My two friends beat the two hosts fair and square and I gave them the money and even celebrated their victory with them. High fives were exchanged and then the losers began to get upset. The host that was my friend had no problem with being beaten and was a man about it. We won't hear from him again for the rest of the story though. The other host though, he had a huge problem with losing, maybe it was that or the insults but either way he got very upset. Not long after we were sitting down in lawnchairs by the tent my friends would sleep in later.
They nursed beers and I sipped on a diet pepsi and life was good. Laughter and stories were shared and smiled creased the face of every man in the circle. That was when the evening started to take a turn for the worse. Because that was when SB stumbled up to our circle and found momentary courage in a bottle of Coors. SB is short for, sniveling-bitch, Fearless Reader I apologize for that but it's so hard to have a cowards name in my story (shout-out to Nasir Jones, keep doin it boy, one love).
SB approaches my friend who had done most of the chirping, his partner had just recently turned in for the night. One on one they began to rehash the insults and comments that were made earlier in the night. That was, until I heard SB threaten my friend with a bloodied nose. Now I'm not a terribly large fellow but I'm wiry enough and like all boys I've seen my share of good fights and bad. Not to mention, I'll be damned if you're going to threaten one of my friends and I'm going to sit there and let it happen. I colourfully tell SB to leave if he knows what's good for him. He asks me if I'm serious and looks at me for a long time, I tell him I am serious. I wait for that to sink in and neatly hand my can of pepsi to my friend and see him reaching out to either point at me or grab me. Either way he never got the chance, I snagged the hand at the wrist and elbow and pulled it behind his back and applied pressure. I again ask him to leave, I told him that I was only protecting my friend and wasn't the aggressor, and that I felt he wasn't being fair to my good buddy.
He leaves. We continue our small party and another small group joins us and we make friends with them.
I pull out my cell phone and see that it's approaching 2 and I tell the boys I should be gettin home because I was getting cold and tired. That was when things really went down the shitter. A large group of guys, I counted nine but it was dark so I could be wrong, surrounded our group. This was a scenario that all of us were familiar with and while be laughed and joked, our eyes told quite another story.
Suddenly one of the new guys pipes up and asks if we had been chirping SB. I answer that yes we had but it was earlier in the night and it was over an overexaggerated beer pong game and it was nothing for anyone to get excited about. Well these guys were itching for a fight and outnumbered more than two-to-one I was not about to feign strength in a position of weakness because I didn't want my drunk friends broken noses on my conscience. I also didn't want my own broken. So after at least a hundred assurances that all was well, they left.
We all breathed out a sigh or relief. I wish I could tell you we kicked their ass and found SB and gave him what was coming to him. But being sober I realized what I would likely not have if I was drunk, that there are times when you should fight and their are times when you should let it go. This was the latter.
As much as it goes against what I believe in as a man, I didn't feel the joy of crushing SB's nose and jaw beneath my fist. I'm still in awe of what happened, it was a new experience for me, I've never seen such a spineless whelp of an excuse for a man cry for help from every other guy at the party to intimidate four guys.
I want to end on two points.
One, drunken gambling is not a great idea, for quite a few reasons.
Two, maybe I'm old fashioned but I think I man should fight his own battles. Of the nine that surrounded us, he was not amoung them and of the nine, none of them threw a punch. Maybe it was because I threatened to burn down their pissant town. Whatever the reason is, I felt I only acted in defense of a friend I didn't think could defend himself and in the process played the part of the bigger man by not knocking him out right there.
'til next time
C. Mudge
P.S. Fearless Reader I am sorry for the length of the story I just told, if I ever make it to the big-time I will undoubtably be judged for having diarrhea of the keyboard.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Stand
For the last month I was reading The Stand by Stephen King and just two days ago finally finished it. From my early days of reading, maybe six years ago, I was told to read The Stand even if I didn't want to read Stephen King. Well when I finally mustered up the courage to move on from techno-thrillers and Tom Clancy, I didn't read The Stand. It sat on my book shelf for about two years before I finally decided that I did have to read this. So I began an adventure that I can honestly say will never forget. I picked up the extended version, which was longer and more detailed than the version originally released for my parents generation. And even at its fantastic length (over 1100 pages) I can't imagine missing out on one sentence. King's brilliance is at an all-time high with this one and it's epic scale is rivaled only by the entire seven novel long Dark Tower series. If you are going to read King or if you just feel like reading a really good book, definately pick up The Stand. It shot my expectations out of the water and that's after being told multiple times that it is a must-read.
It is the story of the survivors of virus that nearly wipes out the entire human population. At first the story is one of death and the struggles of living in a post-apocalyptic world, but it quickly becomes one of the greatest stories of the struggle between good and evil ever written. Ultimately the struggle is engaged not only in the physical realm but also in the hearts and minds of every living survivors in both camps. It realism and King's uncanny ability to capture the essence of human nature is what makes the character's so vivid and enjoyable.
Don't start this book if you can't keep with something for a little while and certainly don't try to finish it in one night, otherwise enjoy this book, it's truly one of the greatest stories told by a legendary author.
It is the story of the survivors of virus that nearly wipes out the entire human population. At first the story is one of death and the struggles of living in a post-apocalyptic world, but it quickly becomes one of the greatest stories of the struggle between good and evil ever written. Ultimately the struggle is engaged not only in the physical realm but also in the hearts and minds of every living survivors in both camps. It realism and King's uncanny ability to capture the essence of human nature is what makes the character's so vivid and enjoyable.
Don't start this book if you can't keep with something for a little while and certainly don't try to finish it in one night, otherwise enjoy this book, it's truly one of the greatest stories told by a legendary author.
Monday, June 15, 2009
007
The world's favourite super-agent, Bond, James Bond, is perhaps the most idolized and recognizable action hero. Spawning comedic offshoots, Mike Myers' "Austin Power's" series and paving the way for other espionage movies since the 60's. I intend to break down the six men who have portrayed the character on the silver screen and rank them based on my own personal preference.
I have seen all 22 Bond films to date and I will be basing my ranking solely on my opinion, feel free to comment on it or add your own thoughts!
George Lazenby is sixth on the list and some of you may ask yourself...who the f@#k is that!? Well fearless reader, that is exactly why he is last on the list. Starring in only one Bond film, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, leaves him at the back of the pack where he will undoubtably remain forever.
Timothy Dalton checks in at number five on the list. Starring in, The Living Daylight's and License to Kill, this 007's short reign during the late 80's and slightly better films earns him the second-to-last place.
In forth, Pierce Brosnan, the Bond of the 90's and early 2000's. Brosnan was the man I watched portray 007 growing up and for that he will always have a special place in my heart but having watched every other film in the series, I have to slot him in at number four. Despite the undeniable swagger and hot female co-stars, Brosnan's films are a bit too outlandish and that is the reason he falls to this spot on the list.
Roger Moore makes it to third on the quantity and popularity of his films from '73 to '85. In those twelve years, Moore starred in seven Bond films, the most by any actor and the twelve years are enough to make him the longest serving Bond as well. Although the quality of his films are what stops him from climbing higher up the list. Two of 007's worst adventure's, Moonraker and Octopussy are films starring Moore, and his last film as Bond, A View To a Kill really show's his age (58).
In second, Daniel Craig. The lastest man to pick up the mantel of 007 earns himself the second spot after just two films. With the most high-tech effects and action sequences, unparralleled beauties, and a bright future ahead of him Craig is my second favourite Bond ever. Perhaps in time and with a couple more films under his belt he might be able to swipe the top spot but for now we can await the 2011 release of his yet untitled third Bond film.
The legend himself Sir Sean Connery, the first actor to play the charming action hero has been the greatest to date. Without Connery's performance's as Bond, the series wouldn't be around today. With classic's like, Dr. No, From Russia With Love, Thunderball, and Goldfinger the original Bond simply outshines the rest.
Fearless reader, the series born in 1962 with Sean Connery in Dr. No, through to decades to Daniel Craig's Quatum of Solace, has entertained and thrilled audiences with laughs and drama, with wit and charm, and captavated with sexiness and mystique. May Bond live forver in the films we cherish and may his future lay in the hands of great actor's years from now.
'til next time.
Mudge, C. Mudge (333)
I have seen all 22 Bond films to date and I will be basing my ranking solely on my opinion, feel free to comment on it or add your own thoughts!
George Lazenby is sixth on the list and some of you may ask yourself...who the f@#k is that!? Well fearless reader, that is exactly why he is last on the list. Starring in only one Bond film, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, leaves him at the back of the pack where he will undoubtably remain forever.
Timothy Dalton checks in at number five on the list. Starring in, The Living Daylight's and License to Kill, this 007's short reign during the late 80's and slightly better films earns him the second-to-last place.
In forth, Pierce Brosnan, the Bond of the 90's and early 2000's. Brosnan was the man I watched portray 007 growing up and for that he will always have a special place in my heart but having watched every other film in the series, I have to slot him in at number four. Despite the undeniable swagger and hot female co-stars, Brosnan's films are a bit too outlandish and that is the reason he falls to this spot on the list.
Roger Moore makes it to third on the quantity and popularity of his films from '73 to '85. In those twelve years, Moore starred in seven Bond films, the most by any actor and the twelve years are enough to make him the longest serving Bond as well. Although the quality of his films are what stops him from climbing higher up the list. Two of 007's worst adventure's, Moonraker and Octopussy are films starring Moore, and his last film as Bond, A View To a Kill really show's his age (58).
In second, Daniel Craig. The lastest man to pick up the mantel of 007 earns himself the second spot after just two films. With the most high-tech effects and action sequences, unparralleled beauties, and a bright future ahead of him Craig is my second favourite Bond ever. Perhaps in time and with a couple more films under his belt he might be able to swipe the top spot but for now we can await the 2011 release of his yet untitled third Bond film.
The legend himself Sir Sean Connery, the first actor to play the charming action hero has been the greatest to date. Without Connery's performance's as Bond, the series wouldn't be around today. With classic's like, Dr. No, From Russia With Love, Thunderball, and Goldfinger the original Bond simply outshines the rest.
Fearless reader, the series born in 1962 with Sean Connery in Dr. No, through to decades to Daniel Craig's Quatum of Solace, has entertained and thrilled audiences with laughs and drama, with wit and charm, and captavated with sexiness and mystique. May Bond live forver in the films we cherish and may his future lay in the hands of great actor's years from now.
'til next time.
Mudge, C. Mudge (333)
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Z-Day
After just one post I have chosen to change the name of my blog. And in celebration of the new title, I have decided to maintain the theme of zombies, but more specifically about the event that will be known as "Z-Day."
Z-Day is the day that many conspiracy theorists, crazies, and teenage boys have dreamed about and have been waiting for for many years. It is the day that zombies will take over the world as the dominant predator on the planet. It is an event that has been struggled against by heroes in all forms of pop culture, and after hours (seriously) of thinking about this topic with friends; I have decided on a list of five weapons which are essential to acquire for Z-Day.
According to zombie "experts" George A. Romero (film director) and Max Brooks (journalist/author) it is a virus that turns you and I into terrifying creatures bent on the consumtion of all living creatures. This virus will spread quickly and efficiently. The virus itself causes you to die and then the fun part begins. Zombies infect human's through any transfer of liquids from them to a living host, who will then die and join the ranks of undead. In less than a day anyone infected with the virus will die and become a fully functioning zombie.
To really understand what weapon to take and why, we have to look at the physical capabilities of the zombie.
It is said that a zombie has a similiar sense of sight to that of a human but that it can see equally well in both daytime and during the night, this ability gives them a distinct advantage when fighting at night.
A zombies' sense of smell is far more acute than that of a human, they are able to distinguish what direction their prey is in because of this heightened ability.
The undead's hearing is thought to be of equal strength to that of a human but that it's brain isn't inclined to make one sense dominant over any other's (human's are sight oriented), which would make it react to any sound, whether made by a human or not.
A zombie is incapable of feeling in every sense of the word, but it literally does not feel anything. It feels no pain, and will not react to anything that would hurt a human.
Now, with an understanding of what a zombie is capable of, how do we kill the bastards?
Well the ONLY way to kill a zombie, it to destroy its brain. Body shots, or even decapitation will fail to destroy this hellish creature. The five weapons I have decided will best serve the dirty deed are as follows:
1. Semi-automatic hunting rifle. Any weapon of this type will become a zombie hunter's best friend. Capable of eliminating targets at distance and in close, the semi-automatic rifle is a must. My favourite is the Ruger mini-14, a modern carbine that if equiped with a scope will be your best bet at keeping the zombie hoards at bay. Also the ammunition 5.56mm is easy to aqcuire from civilian and military storages alike.
2. 12-Gauge shotgun. This weapon gives you ultimate zombie stopper. Nothing says "Hey zombie scum, go to hell!" like a Remington 870 Tactical. With this, you will be able to demolish zombies at close range and in confined spaces. No matter where you hit the zombie if you are firing within a few feet, this sucker is gonna take them down and possibly kill them depending on the pellet spread. A head-shot is a guaranteed kill and ammo will not be hard to find.
3. .45 caliber handgun. When it comes to killing zombies, firepower and high-impact energy is the name of the game. A .45 will give you the power you need to obliterate the brain of zombie's in confined and close areas. Firing a slug this large will take some practice and getting used to but the thought of a zombie's brain's exploding out the back of its head bring a wry smile to my lips. In my opinion it is the at the discretion of each individual warrior to choose either a revolver or a semi-auto handgun, although personally I favour the revolver only because it is easier to maintain and can handle more abuse which make up for its smaller round capacity.
4. E-Tool. The E-Tool or entrenching tool is essentially a folding shovel that can be used as a saw, axe, and shovel and can also become a deadly last stand weapon. Easy accesiblity, ruggedness, and versatilty are the main factors behind my taking an E-Tool instead of a knife or machete. The E-Tool has a better range than a knife and is actually a better weapon for crushing skulls and destroying brain's than a machette.
5. Hand grenades. The last weapon I will make sure I have is easily the rarest and most difficult weapon to acquire on the list. On the actual day it will likely be a rigged, crude homemade explosive until an actual military grade grenade can be found. The hand grenade will serve two purposes. First, you never know what troubling situation you may encounter and as a wise man once said, "Any problem can be solved with the proper amount of high explosives." The second use for this weapon is to take myself out of the fight if I find myself overwhelmed by zombies. I will NEVER be taken alive!...or dead?
For more on zombies see: "Dead Rising" (video game), "Left 4 Dead" (video game), any films by George A. Romero, and the books "The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection From The Living Dead" (non-fiction) and "World War Z: An Oral History Of The Zombie War" (fiction) both by Max Brooks.
'Til next time, stay alert and ever vigilant my friends.
C.Mudge
Z-Day is the day that many conspiracy theorists, crazies, and teenage boys have dreamed about and have been waiting for for many years. It is the day that zombies will take over the world as the dominant predator on the planet. It is an event that has been struggled against by heroes in all forms of pop culture, and after hours (seriously) of thinking about this topic with friends; I have decided on a list of five weapons which are essential to acquire for Z-Day.
According to zombie "experts" George A. Romero (film director) and Max Brooks (journalist/author) it is a virus that turns you and I into terrifying creatures bent on the consumtion of all living creatures. This virus will spread quickly and efficiently. The virus itself causes you to die and then the fun part begins. Zombies infect human's through any transfer of liquids from them to a living host, who will then die and join the ranks of undead. In less than a day anyone infected with the virus will die and become a fully functioning zombie.
To really understand what weapon to take and why, we have to look at the physical capabilities of the zombie.
It is said that a zombie has a similiar sense of sight to that of a human but that it can see equally well in both daytime and during the night, this ability gives them a distinct advantage when fighting at night.
A zombies' sense of smell is far more acute than that of a human, they are able to distinguish what direction their prey is in because of this heightened ability.
The undead's hearing is thought to be of equal strength to that of a human but that it's brain isn't inclined to make one sense dominant over any other's (human's are sight oriented), which would make it react to any sound, whether made by a human or not.
A zombie is incapable of feeling in every sense of the word, but it literally does not feel anything. It feels no pain, and will not react to anything that would hurt a human.
Now, with an understanding of what a zombie is capable of, how do we kill the bastards?
Well the ONLY way to kill a zombie, it to destroy its brain. Body shots, or even decapitation will fail to destroy this hellish creature. The five weapons I have decided will best serve the dirty deed are as follows:
1. Semi-automatic hunting rifle. Any weapon of this type will become a zombie hunter's best friend. Capable of eliminating targets at distance and in close, the semi-automatic rifle is a must. My favourite is the Ruger mini-14, a modern carbine that if equiped with a scope will be your best bet at keeping the zombie hoards at bay. Also the ammunition 5.56mm is easy to aqcuire from civilian and military storages alike.
2. 12-Gauge shotgun. This weapon gives you ultimate zombie stopper. Nothing says "Hey zombie scum, go to hell!" like a Remington 870 Tactical. With this, you will be able to demolish zombies at close range and in confined spaces. No matter where you hit the zombie if you are firing within a few feet, this sucker is gonna take them down and possibly kill them depending on the pellet spread. A head-shot is a guaranteed kill and ammo will not be hard to find.
3. .45 caliber handgun. When it comes to killing zombies, firepower and high-impact energy is the name of the game. A .45 will give you the power you need to obliterate the brain of zombie's in confined and close areas. Firing a slug this large will take some practice and getting used to but the thought of a zombie's brain's exploding out the back of its head bring a wry smile to my lips. In my opinion it is the at the discretion of each individual warrior to choose either a revolver or a semi-auto handgun, although personally I favour the revolver only because it is easier to maintain and can handle more abuse which make up for its smaller round capacity.
4. E-Tool. The E-Tool or entrenching tool is essentially a folding shovel that can be used as a saw, axe, and shovel and can also become a deadly last stand weapon. Easy accesiblity, ruggedness, and versatilty are the main factors behind my taking an E-Tool instead of a knife or machete. The E-Tool has a better range than a knife and is actually a better weapon for crushing skulls and destroying brain's than a machette.
5. Hand grenades. The last weapon I will make sure I have is easily the rarest and most difficult weapon to acquire on the list. On the actual day it will likely be a rigged, crude homemade explosive until an actual military grade grenade can be found. The hand grenade will serve two purposes. First, you never know what troubling situation you may encounter and as a wise man once said, "Any problem can be solved with the proper amount of high explosives." The second use for this weapon is to take myself out of the fight if I find myself overwhelmed by zombies. I will NEVER be taken alive!...or dead?
For more on zombies see: "Dead Rising" (video game), "Left 4 Dead" (video game), any films by George A. Romero, and the books "The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection From The Living Dead" (non-fiction) and "World War Z: An Oral History Of The Zombie War" (fiction) both by Max Brooks.
'Til next time, stay alert and ever vigilant my friends.
C.Mudge
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Remember Your First Time?
One of my best and closest friends started a blog that I began to follow and the idea of creating my own intrigued me. Stephen King (one of the greatest writer's alive IMO) has stated that he writes primarily for himself. So regardless of whether this blog becomes wildly popular or recieves a relatively small following, I do this as an outlet for my own creativity. But I digress; aftering posting what I was hoping to be an intelligent and thoughtful comment (more for his sake than for mine) he approached me and told me that I should do my own blog.
So here I am 8 hours later in front of my computer screen, clicking away at the keyboard and feeling in a place of zen. Hearing my friends words echo in my head; "You're quite the writer."
I guess the focus of this post is to be somewhat motivating to those out there who read blogs but have never started your own. I encourage any aspiring writer or anyone who feels as though freeing your thoughts in a stream of words for the entire world (or at least those with internet access) to read, to do so.
And if you do end up reading my blog you'll probably find some funny stories and some sad ones. My opinions and views as honestly as I can provide them. And so amusing quirks about life and some things that I have a serious problem with.
At all times your opinions are your own and you are free to express them, although I do ask that for my mother's sake you refrain from personal attacks (did I mention she is a master of ninjiutsu?).
Anyway I'll wrap things up and let you get back to your own life but I encourage you to come back soon and see if anything I write impacts you or amuses you or (godforbid!) makes you cry. I'm open to suggestions and creative criticism, requests and at the risk of inflating my ego, even some praise.
The Last Word: no matter what you think you're capable of, you can ACTUALLY do more!
C. Mudge
So here I am 8 hours later in front of my computer screen, clicking away at the keyboard and feeling in a place of zen. Hearing my friends words echo in my head; "You're quite the writer."
I guess the focus of this post is to be somewhat motivating to those out there who read blogs but have never started your own. I encourage any aspiring writer or anyone who feels as though freeing your thoughts in a stream of words for the entire world (or at least those with internet access) to read, to do so.
And if you do end up reading my blog you'll probably find some funny stories and some sad ones. My opinions and views as honestly as I can provide them. And so amusing quirks about life and some things that I have a serious problem with.
At all times your opinions are your own and you are free to express them, although I do ask that for my mother's sake you refrain from personal attacks (did I mention she is a master of ninjiutsu?).
Anyway I'll wrap things up and let you get back to your own life but I encourage you to come back soon and see if anything I write impacts you or amuses you or (godforbid!) makes you cry. I'm open to suggestions and creative criticism, requests and at the risk of inflating my ego, even some praise.
The Last Word: no matter what you think you're capable of, you can ACTUALLY do more!
C. Mudge
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