August 1 - Maggie and the Mongrel Dynasty

The jig is up when the twins are born. The son, Paul, is white like his parents. The daughter, Maggie, is mixed race like hers.
It's called heteropaternal superfecundation--an extremely rare phenomenon in which each child in a set of twins is conceived by a different father.
Ben, the husband of the mother and the father of Paul, doesn't take it well. He shows up to a meeting of the three parents carrying a gun. After an argument escalates into a fight, there are two gunshots: one for his wife, the other for her lover, the father of the girl.
Paul and Maggie are awakened by the gunshots and are crying in the next room. Ben takes a deep breath and walks into the babies' bedroom. He stands over Maggie's crib and points the gun at her.
Maggie looks up, stops crying, and locks eyes with him. Squints.
Ben pulls the trigger. It jams.
Maggie chuckles.
His hands tremble as he tries to unjam the gun. The faint sound of sirens in the distance grows louder.
He clears the jam and then drops the gun, now slick with sweat, into the crib. Maggie rolls over on top of the gun, and her diaper and blanket get tangled up in it. As Ben frantically tries to untangle the gun and get it out from under her, Maggie's diaper becomes unfastened and she lets loose with a generous helping of #2 all over the gun.
"Shit!" yells Ben.
The sirens grow louder and closer as Ben wipes the gun clean with Maggie's blanket. Then he levels it at her, says good night, and pulls the trigger. It jams again.
There is pounding at the door. The police. He stands over the crib trying to unjam the gun, but it's no use. He looks at Maggie a final time and she looks back, her aqua blue eyes freezing him in his place for a few seconds that feel much longer. He shakes it off, puts the gun in his pants, grabs Paul, and escapes through the back window.
Over the next few months, Maggie bounces around child services and various orphanages before being adopted by Henry and Wendy Lin, a childless Asian American couple from San Francisco--as far as official records are concerned.
However, a couple weeks later, the Lins return to their real home in China and enroll Maggie in the Lin Xiao Ping Finishing School for Female Orphans of Mixed Race Parentage, where children such as Maggie are schooled in philosophy, the sciences, mathematics, world languages, international relations, art, literature, history, psychology, acrobatics, mixed martial arts, survival training, and marksmanship.
Lin Finishing is no ordinary school for orphans; it is a training academy and feeder school for China's most notorious, secretive, and deadly assassination squad, the Mongrel Dynasty. For more than 200 years, mixed race orphan girls from around the world have been brought to the Lins' school and trained in the ancient art of Finishing or assassination.
The girls--or sisters--of Lin Finishing and the Mongrel Dynasty are the perfect assassins. They come from nowhere, they have no past, and they are impossible to track. From before the time when they can walk or talk, they are trained as cunning, resourceful, remorseless, skilled, and disciplined killers.
Maggie quickly rises to the top of her class.
By the end of her 12th year at Lin Finishing, Maggie is fluent in Mandarin, Cantonese, English, Portuguese, French, Arabic, Hebrew, and Flemish. While girls her age in other parts of the world are choosing between pony camp and cheer leading, Maggie is choosing between metallurgy and toxicology.
A few years later, as millions of other girls her age are learning to drive cars, Maggie is learning to fly helicopters.
The next year, as girls her age are applying for college and working part-time at the mall, Maggie is carrying out her first solo jobs: taking out a corrupt politician-cum-diamond magnate in Lagos, a Hamas militant in Gaza, and a rogue Mossad agent in Tel Aviv.
When Maggie turns 18 and graduates from Lin Finishing to become a Mongrel Dynasty team leader, Henry and Wendy tell her about her past, as they do with all their girls upon completion of the school.
After giving the matter approximately 10 seconds of reflection, Maggie makes the murderer of her biological parents her next target. She knows very little about the man, only his name and a last known address that is more than 18 years old.
Even still, less than three days later, she is standing in his living room. Evading the police and the FBI for 18 years isn't easy. But evading a sister of the Mongrel Dynasty isn't possible.
Maggie looks her target in the eye and raises her gun to fire. In the moment their eyes lock, Ben recognizes her--with those aqua blue eyes--as the grown up version of the girl he'd tried to kill all those years ago.
"Don't kill me."
"I don't want you. I want Paul. Where is he?"
"Don't kill me."
"I said I don't want you. I want Paul. Where is he?"
"If I tell you, you won't kill me?"
She cocks her gun.
"OK, OK. He's in Albuquerque."
And she knows he's telling the truth because, as always, she's done her homework. The only surprising thing is how quickly he rolls over on his son.
"How does it feel to die knowing that your last act on earth was trying to save yourself by giving up your own son?"
But she shoots him before he can give her an answer.
Afterwards, she cleans the crime scene and destroys all the evidence and goes to the airport to board a flight not to Albuquerque but to Hong Kong. Her only business with her half brother had been completed before she left China.
A few days after Paul learns about the murder of his father, a Chinese lawyer contacts him to tell him that a $2 million education fund has been set up in his name by an anonymous donor. And that's the closest he ever comes to any sort of interaction with his half sister Maggie, one of the deadliest assassins in the world.

July 31 - Tempting Fate

Stu: Who are you texting?
Cliff: Dan. Gotta bust his balls about this at least a little.
Stu: Game's not over.
Cliff: I know, don't worry. I won't send it until it's over. Just writing it now.
Stu: Don't jinx us.
Cliff: I just said I know. Even though it is totally over.
Stu: Not over enough.
Cliff: It's 10 - 1. Ninth inning.
Stu: I know.
Cliff: The Phillies haven't done shit all day. Look at their dugout. They've basically written this one off. They're resting everyone for Sunday.
Stu: No doubt, but still. You know my position on this.
Cliff: Don't worry. I'm not hitting send even though I totally should because this game is so clearly over. Speaking of which, why haven't we left?
Stu: Like I said.
Cliff: No, I know. Don't jinx it, blah, blah, blah. But have you ever stopped to think how ridiculous that superstition is? Like there's some omniscient being watching over this game, completely impartial, but totally ready to intervene and effect the outcome if one random fan somewhere starts celebrating before it's officially over? This one bullshit game. And never mind that there are tens of thousands of other people watching this game, any one of whom could prematurely chalk it up as a win and thus incur the wrath of whatever being it is that monitors such things, causing him/her/it to change the outcome just to spite us.
Stu shrugs.
Cliff: It's kind of hilarious how, I don't know, absurd and arrogant that is, if you think about it. To think that of all the people in the world watching this game, you alone are the one that has the power to jinx it.
Stu: Ain't over til it's over. That's all I'm saying.
Cliff: OK, I know this is probably going to piss you off, but (Stands up and shouts) We won! We won! Game over! There's no way we're not walking away from this one as losers! (Sits down again) Oh, and watch this. I'm sending the text to Dan right now.
Stu: You're tempting fate.
Cliff: Here it goes. Hitting send. Oh my God.
Stu: You're a dick, man. I swear to God, if we lose . . .
Cliff: Dude, if we lose I'll suck your dick, OK?
Stu: Eww. Jesus.
Cliff: Just saying. I mean, the game's over. We won. I promise.
Elsewhere in the universe, on another plane of existence, the wrong/right omniscient being sees it all.
Twenty minutes later, Cliff is blowing Stu in the men's room when he receives a text from Dan, taunting him over the Yankees' epic 9th inning meltdown.

July 30 - Serenity Birthing Resort

A young, well-dressed couple sat in the office of Linda Gladstone, assistant director of marketing and outreach for Serenity Birthing Resort.
"Well, yes. To answer your question, we do have our own in-house genetic engineering department that monitors the growth and development of all of Serenity's youngest residents; however, many parents also feel more comfortable with regular visits from their own bioengineers as well."
"I hope you don't mind all our questions," said the young husband.
"Of course not," Linda said. "Finding the right birthing center is one of the biggest decisions you will make for your child. Please ask all the questions you like."
"Another one of my--our--concerns is language," the woman said.
"Yes, of course. Now, your surrogate is from," she glanced at her monitor, "The Democratic Republic of Nepal. You went through Annapurna Surrogates?"
"Yes."
"Good choice. On both counts. The Nepalese surrogates we've hosted have been incredibly easy to work with. For whatever reason, they really seem to have a calming influence on the other surrogates. Since the DRN reopened their borders, we've seen a big influx in Nepalese surrogates. It's like the Ukraine Federation of the '40s. And Annapurna Surrogates is incredibly selective. They reject more than 99% of applications from would be surrogates. So, again, good choice, but I'm sure you already know that. Anyway, about language: Concerning your case, we do have three care coordinators on staff who are fluent in Nepalese, so she'll be well taken care of. And of course we encourage all the surrogates at Serenity to take advantage of our free ESL classes, which most of them do with excellent results."
"How much of a problem is language at Serenity? We understand you have surrogates there from all around the world."
"Well, it is an issue. We always make every effort to have care coordinators on staff who speak the surrogates' language or languages; however, it's not always possible. At any one time, we have over 10,000 surrogate that speak more than 300 different first languages. What's more, the majority of them are illiterate in their native language, which, obviously presents a whole new host of challenges. That's why, as much as possible, we've largely taken language out of the equation for PEP, our Prenatal Education Program. Nowadays, more than 90% of PEP is conducted nonverbally via diagrams, animated films, and life-sized animatronic replicants. "
"Robots," the man said.
"That's a bit un-PC, don't you think?" his wife said.
Linda laughed. "You and my husband would get along. Yes, robots, replicants, whatever you want to call them. The surrogates really respond to them, which never fails to amaze some of the care coordinators."
"Why's that?"
"Well, they--the care coordinators-- just assume that the surrogates won't be comfortable around robots or replicants or whatever because they're so out of their frame of reference. As you know, almost all of our surrogates come from very underdeveloped countries. Pretty much everything about this whole experience is new to them, so it can be overwhelming at first. But the replicants are very well programmed and incredibly attentive, and the women find them quite comforting." She smiled and shrugged.
"Now, what about the 'glowshops'? I get it, but my wife still has some misgivings about the whole issue. Could you help put her mind at ease?"
"You read the Simmons article."
They nodded.
"Well, first off, let me say that you are absolutely right to be concerned. You would have to be inhuman not to be. There were some serious allegations in that article. And while I feel like we have always been an open book of transparency at Serenity--and by the way, so do the American Surrogates Council, the American Pediatrics Council, the AMA, the International Coalition of Labor Standards, you name it--it's understandable to have some doubts, and I'm very glad you brought this issue up.
"Surrogates generally spend at least nine months, often longer, at our birthing resort. During this time, their health and safety and the health and safety of your child are our top priorities. Their diet, health care, education, counseling, and monitoring all greatly exceed ASC standards. Ask any surrogate--and we encourage you to do so during our tour of the campus later on--and they'll assure that they are well taken care of. And the final six weeks of pregnancy in particular are like a vacation. Lots of time in tranquility spas and nature simulators. During the home stretch of pregnancy, your surrogate will experience the sort of pampering and luxury that would make mega-celebs and royalty envious.
"However, during the months preceding that time, we encourage your surrogate to stay active through exercise, classes, and, yes, employment. There are several reasons for this. One is that having a working surrogate can help offset the financial burden of an extended stay at a birthing center. Although study after study has proven that for couples in certain higher level income brackets such as yours, it is more economically feasible to outsource their pregnancy to a surrogate than it is to absorb the financial hit that is incurred in unpaid pregnancy leave, birthing centers in general--and birthing resorts in particular--can get expensive. Having a surrogate that works, even part-time, can help.
"Moreover, many women use their experience as a surrogate as their first step toward citizenship. By joining an artisan group or ethnic crafts workshop, they can learn valuable skills that will make them infinitely more attractive to prospective employers in the future.
"Finally, and this can't be overstated, it is incredibly beneficial to both the mental and emotional health of the surrogate to be as active as possible during the pregnancy."
The man looked at his wife. "OK?"
"I'm sorry I'm so concerned about the possibility that the woman who is carrying our child might be forced to engage in slave labor. Forgive me."
"It's a legitimate concern," said Linda. "During the last 10 years, the birthing center/birthing resort industry has experienced tremendous growth, but unfortunately, government oversight hasn't always kept pace. However, Serenity has always been committed to having greater governmental regulations of the industry. And you should be suspicious of any organization that isn't."
The woman seemed reluctantly satisfied. "We'll be able to visit her, of course."
"Absolutely. We encourage biweekly visits, particularly during the beginning and toward the end of the pregnancy. These visits really help to put everyone's mind more at ease. It's a big change and it helps to go through it together. At Serenity, we recognize that birthing through a surrogate isn't just any business partnership. It's a partnership for life."

July 29 - The Unicycle Gang

Most of the girls who went to Sandra Day O'Conner All Girls Kindergarten lived close enough to the school to walk there. One day Mr. Samuelson, a teacher at Sandra Day (as they called it) with a background in science, came up with the idea to give the girls power generating unicycles to commute to school with.
He had outfitted the unicycles that were used in the girls' PE classes with power converters that would generate electricity every time the unicycles were pedaled. The electricity was stored in battery sized power cells that could then be removed from the unicycles and used to power the school.
It was a win/win situation: The girls had a fun and healthy way to commute to and from school, and the school had a renewable source of clean energy.
The problem came when Mr. Samuelson started organizing contests and competitions to boost productivity. Each class was divided into teams consisting of seven girls, and the team that could fill the most power cells within X amount of time would win a pizza party.
Things started out amicably enough, but it wasn't long before one particularly enterprising group of girls started borrowing some of the extra unicycles after school and taking them to neighborhood playgrounds, where they would chase down the other kids--the girls had become quite fast and skilled on their unicycles--and force them to pedal the extra unicycles and generate more power for them.
Unlike the Sandra Day girls--who had learned how to ride unicycles in PE class--the other neighborhood kids didn't have the balance to stay up on a unicycle. That, along with the girls' worrying about the kids riding off with the unicycles, was what prompted the girls to come up with the monkey bar solution: a makeshift unicycle harness that was dangled from the top of the monkey bars.
During that spring, every day after school was a terrifying time for the pre-schoolers in the once safe neighborhood near Sandra Day. One moment the kids were carelessly swinging, sliding, and playing. The next, a gang of unicycle pedaling, dodge ball toting psycho tots had shown up and was corralling them into the sandbox and forcing them up to the top of the monkey bars for five minute pedal shifts.
Threats were doled out. Don't talk. We know where you live. Before long, the playgrounds were empty. The pre-schoolers stopped coming, but by then it didn't matter to the Unicycle Gang. They had more than enough power cells to win their pizza party several times over. But more importantly, they had a taste for power.
The only problem was that the other kids in the neighborhood knew about them and never left their homes anymore, so the girls had to branch out into new neighborhoods. Every day after school they hopped on their unicycles and pedaled furiously to increasingly outlying neighborhoods where they held unsuspecting kids hostage and forced them to power up the spare unicycles they carried with them.
Sometimes they placed them on monkey bars like before. Other times they forced two kids to hold a unicycle off the ground while a third kid pedaled it. Whatever the case, they generated a lot of power.
With the pizza contest finished and Mr. Samuelson's mind occupied by other things, the girls were able to keep a lot of the extra energy from the unicycles for themselves. For every three power cells they gave to Sandra Day, they kept one for themselves. Before long they had enough to sell to a power station. They used the money from the sale to purchase a portable PlayStation 4, which they played nonstop before figuring out that it could be a huge money maker.
Short on memory, the girls' erstwhile victims from the neighborhood spent their after school hours and milk money at the makeshift arcade the girls set up in their tree fort.
Before long they had enough money to buy a portable snow cone machine, which in turn brought in more money. And when kids couldn't afford to pay for their time on the PS4, they worked off their debt by riding one of three stationary power generating unicycles they set up in the garage. A second PS4 came next. Then a third. Then more stationary unicycles.
The girls' enterprise grew, and they controlled it ruthlessly. They always pedaled around together, beaming random kids with dodge balls to keep them in line. The other kids in the neighborhood feared them, but what could they do? The unicycle gang had a snow cone machine, three PS4 machines, an air conditioned tree fort, and crazy games from Japan that nobody else had, so they kept going back.
One day, in a rare moment of clarity, one of the addicts on the stationary unicycles realized that they far outnumbered the gang members. Moreover, after spinning for hours every day after school, they were in pretty good shape. He hatched a plan wherein he and the others would steal the unicycles and . . . that's as far as the plan got, but at least it was a start.
The time came, the boy gave the signal, and the others scurried for cover as the girls pelted him with dodge balls. His co-conspirators had rolled over on him, sold him out for extra time on the PS4.
From then on, the girls tried to limit the amount of time that their power generators spent together unsupervised. They also cultivated a network of informants and moles and played the generators against each other.
Their empire grew: seven PS4s, more games, a second franchise. Girl Scout troop 54 was enlisted as extra muscle and a reliable source of cheap cookies.
The school year ended and the girls all went to different elementary schools in the fall, but that only served to expand their power exponentially. New recruits were brought in from each of the schools the girls attended. At the height of their power, the Unicycle Gang had 42 members across town running four tree house arcades, and generating hundreds of dollars in revenue every month.
It didn't last.
Their fall came not in one climactic moment. There were no betrayals, no back stabbings. They weren't victims of their own hubris. Their descent into irrelevance was gradual. The kids in their neighborhood just moved on.
They got burned out on PS4 and snow cones, and joined Little League. They discovered ponies, took piano lessons, joined the Boy Scouts, and found other things to do. And by about a year after they had come to power, the Unicycle Gang had almost completely disbanded.
Ask them about the Unicycle Gang now, and most of the kids from that time will claim that they don't know what you're talking about. But there was a time when the Sandra Day Unicycle Gang was the most feared prepubescent gang in town.

July 28 - The Insufferable Bastard, part VI

Marge: You're stubborn. Just admit it.
Ralph: Never.

July 27 - New Home

When he woke up there was a woman in his place who hadn't been there the night before.
"Hello?" he offered as his eyes adjusted to the lights.
Her arms were folded across her chest, and her eyes darted around his place as she backed away from him.
"Do you speak English?"
She didn't respond. She just looked at the glass walls of her new surroundings.
"Hungry?" He made a bowl with one hand and mimed eating with the other.
No response.
"Hello? Hungry?" He grabbed two cups and turned the nozzle of a stainless steel cistern on the wall, filling them with something that looked like tapioca pudding.
He approached her cautiously and put one of the cups a few feet in front of her, his paper gown rustling as he stood up again.
She eyed it dubiously.
"It's OK," he said, taking a drink from his and exaggerating how much he liked it. "Mmm."
She picked up her cup and sniffed its contents. Then she dipped a finger into it, sniffed again, and licked her finger clean, drying it afterwards on her paper gown.
"See?" he said. "Not so bad."
She gulped the pudding down and ran her fingers around the inside of the cup and slurped the leftovers off her fingers.
"Don't worry," he said handing her his cup. "We've got plenty."
He refilled her cup and she emptied it again four times.
For the next several minutes he tried to get her to talk, but failed. Then he showed her around his place, the large glass enclosed room where he lived, apologizing for the primitive toilet that sat out in plain view in the corner. He played his piano for her, demonstrated how to use the treadmill, put on a juggling show, and gave her a few more cups of pudding, which she wolfed down as quickly as possibly, as if she was afraid he might change his mind and take it away.
"Look," he said, as he sat on a corner of his bed. "I know you probably can't understand me, but hopefully we'll figure out some way to communicate because I think I can guess why she put you in here." He kicked at the floor to indicate what he meant by 'here'.
"I'm thinking we're probably meant to breed."
She didn't respond in any way, and he decided against miming what he meant.
They sat in silence for several minutes, and several times he was about to get up and go sit next to her. Finally, he got up to refill her cup again instead.
On his way over, the ceiling opened up and they both looked up reflexively. A gigantic scaly hand descended from the sky. It was huge. Big enough to block out the lights. Big enough to pick both of them up like action figures. The woman screamed and cowered in the corner as the hand set a tiny nightgown on the bed.
The men yelled over at her that it was all right, but she couldn't hear him through her screams. The hand gently picked her up and delicately tore off her paper gown before setting her on the bed and nudging her toward the nightgown. White as a sheet, she clutched it to her body as the hand disappeared through the sky and replaced the ceiling.
Once the hand was gone, the man ran over to the bed and wrapped a blanket around her. He knew she couldn't understand him, but he held her and told her again and again that everything would be OK.

July 26 - The Zoobomb Turks

"Can I help you?"
"Sorry?"
"I said, 'Can I help you?' You've been looking at us since you got on the train."
"Have I? Sorry about that. I was just looking at your son there."
"And?" the woman asked.
"I was just wondering if you were in the habit of letting him take stuff from kiosks without paying for it, or if what I saw on the platform was something new."
The toddler sucked his fingers and his parents glared back at the man in silence.
"Look, I'm not going to turn you in over a bag of M&Ms, but you might want to have a little pull aside with your little one there. How old is he, three? Seems a bit young to be starting down that road, don't you think?"
They didn't say anything in reply. The woman held her son a bit closer.
"Very good, very good," the man said. "Congratulations. You just passed the first test. By the way, the name's Ralph."
None of them said anything.
"Don't you want to know what the first test is? I'll tell you anyway." He leaned in closer to them. "You kept your cool when a stranger made unfounded accusations about your child. Well done." He clapped a bit.
"Your continued silence tells me I've got your attention, but your flaring nostrils tell me I might want to make it quick. Fair enough. I'll come to my point."
He looked at the little boy.
"Do you like the zoo?"
And over the next 10 minutes, he told them his proposition. He was with the Animal Defense League, a fairly controversial animal rights activist group that monitored zoos and other animal-related businesses to make sure they complied with the basic ethical and hygienic standards set by the World Zoo Council.
Sometimes that required going undercover, and that's where families such as theirs came in. It was easier to excuse--and harder to be suspicious of--families who accidentally entered off limits areas. Left unmonitored momentarily and unable to read, a toddler might wander into an area that was open to authorized personnel only. And in a panic, his parents might barge in after him. And while in there, they might "drop" a microscopic camera or microphone in that area before zoo security escorted them back to the visitors' area.
After listening to Ralph's story, the couple were interested but incredulous. It was an absurd story, and they couldn't believe a word of it, from the way Ralph had approached them, to the work his "Animal Defense League" did, to what he was (doing an impressive job of keeping a straight face while) trying to talk them into consider doing. But it was a long ride, so they let him continue.
He apologized again for his opening gambit, explaining that he needed people who could keep their cool, especially in awkward and potentially angering moments involving their children.
As for why he'd approached them, the woman was wearing a WWF t-shirt, the man had Greenpeace and PETA patches on his bag, and all three of them were wearing or carrying at least one item made of hemp. Thus his staring earlier. He wanted to make sure of their credentials.
And the work itself? He'd already explained it, but he did so again, emphasizing how safe and relatively easy it was, especially in terms of how valuable the information they could get could be.
After a few more stops, the husband was on board. Since becoming a father, his life had settled into a comfortable routine/stifling malaise. He missed the life of the activist, which is what they were when they'd fallen in love. He missed the adventure and the sense of purpose. This was a chance to return to that, while also giving his son his first taste of the life. It was also a great opportunity for him and his wife to do something exciting, edgy, and worthwhile again.
And it was this tact that convinced his wife to sign on a few more stops down the line. Afterwards, neither of them could believe how quickly they'd gone from being ready to kick Ralph's ass to being conscripted by him into perpetrating borderline illegal acts of activism. It made them feel alive.
Their training was minimal for several reasons: It reduced their culpability, boosted their perceived innocence, and made them appear more authentic.
The Animal Defense League started them out with petting zoos, and as they proved their abilities, they were promoted to surveilling circuses, rodeos, aquariums, and zoos.
As much as possible, they kept their son in the dark about what they were doing. Stationing themselves near off-limit areas, they let him wander around and open doors (while surreptitiously keeping an eye on him), and then follow him into wherever he'd gone where they would quickly install mini cameras and bugs before staff found them.
During their run, the Zoobomb Turks, as they came to be known within the ADL's ranks, were credited with doing the recon work that led to more than 37 arrests for various charges of animal cruelty, four temporary closings of zoos and animal parks, and improvements of living conditions for countless animals across the country.
Their run came to an ironic and unsettling end when the father of the family was mauled to death by guard dogs at a dude ranch in Wyoming.

July 25 - Apartment 2G

He was already out the door, down the hall, and in the elevator by the time she remembered that she needed cash, so she texted him and told him she would drop her bank card down to him. He waited below their apartment in the courtyard as she leaned over the balcony.
"Ready?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
She let go and it sailed down toward him, but a sudden gust of wind blew it onto a second floor balcony.
He stood beneath it for a few seconds, waiting for it to change its mind and jump down to him. When it didn't he went into the lobby and buzzed apartment 2G, but nobody answered.
"Do you think you can just climb up there and grab it?" she asked him on her cell.
"Sure, because I'm Spiderman," he said, but then tried anyway, and managed to hoist himself up onto the balcony after two failed attempts. He picked up the card and put it in his pocket, and climbed over the railing. But just before he started lowering himself back down, he looked in through the sliding glass door, and even through the white curtain he could that the biggest fish tank he'd ever seen in his life was on the floor of apartment 2G's living room.
He stepped back onto the balcony to try to get a better look at it. Pressing his face up against the sliding glass door, he strained his eyes to see through the curtain. The walls of the aquarium were about six feet tall and it took up almost all of the living room. Tropical plants and trees, giant rocks, sunlamps, and serious looking scientific equipment filled the rest of the room.
He pressed his face in closer, trying to see what was in the tank. His face was so close to the door, he was practically kissing it. He blinked and his forehead touched the glass, and a buzzing filled the air.
His cellphone.
"Are you OK? Did you get it?"
He told her that he was OK and that he'd gotten it. She asked him what was taking him so long, and he told her he would tell her later, that he was leaving. He hung up the phone and when he looked back at the door again there was a man in a full body wetsuit and scuba gear on the other side of the door looking back at him. In one hand he had a spear gun. With the other, he slid open the door and motioned for him to come in, and he did.
The room was like a rain forest. Hot, humid, sticky, steamy. The walls were covered with mold and mildew, and it smelled like mud. The man in the wetsuit took the regulator out of his mouth and asked him who he was and what he was doing.
He told the man his name was Larry and then explained why he had climbed onto his balcony. As he did so, a parrot swooped across the room and perched itself on the top edge of the aquarium near where the men were standing. At about the same time, something long and dark swam by and bumped the aquarium before disappearing into the murk.
"This is quite a set up you've got here."
The man didn't reply. He looked back at Larry through his face mask.
"It's like a whole ecosystem."
Still nothing. Larry looked around the room a bit more and then thanked the man for his time and turned around to leave.
"Wait," the man said. "Do you want to see what's in here?" He nodded toward the tank.
"Um."
"It's OK," the man said, and curiosity got the better of Larry. Ten minutes later, he was in a wetsuit and flippers and wearing a face mask with a snorkel. He followed the man awkwardly up a stepladder and onto a platform that overlooked one end of the tank. Then the man lowered himself into the water and so did Larry.
The man swam to the bottom of the tank and pointed out colorful fish, eels, and other creatures to Larry who bobbed at the top of the water with his snorkel. There were a lot of shellfish and plant life at the bottom of the tank. A couple of baby alligators swam by. Several more colorful fish, many quite large. Two turtles the size of wheelbarrows.
Still swimming, the man led Larry out of the room and into the hall. Larry hadn't even noticed that the tank extended beyond the living room. As they swam toward the bedroom at the end of the unlit hall, the water in the aquarium grew darker and cooler.
Larry could see that the bedroom's door frame had been outfitted with a door made of a series of stainless steel bars that extended from the floor to the ceiling. The man unlocked the door and motioned for Larry to swim through before going through himself and closing the door again behind them.
Once inside, the man turned on a flashlight, and dozens of crabs scurried away from them, flinging up silt and sediment in their wake.
The man surfaced. Larry pulled his own face up from the water and removed his snorkel, but treaded water instead of standing. The walls of the room were rocky, and the ceiling appeared to be painted black. The only light in the room came from the man's flashlight, still underwater. Larry shivered in his wetsuit. The air and the water were noticeably colder in the bedroom.
"You ready?"
"For what?"
The man ignored his question.
"Have you ever gone scuba diving?"
"No."
"That's OK. For a situation like this, it should be no big deal. We're only going to be a few feet underwater. If you start to freak out, just stand up and you'll be fine, OK? Here. You can use my extra regulator." He handed it to Larry." Just hold onto my arm and you'll be fine. Go on. Try it out," he said, indicating the regulator.
Larry put it in his mouth.
"Yeah, that's it," the man said. "Just try it out a little right here until you get the hang of it. I know it feels a little different, but trust me. You're gonna want to see this up close."
Larry practiced using the regulator a bit and it felt OK, so they went under together and stayed close as they moved toward the darkest and coldest corner of the room.
The only sound was from their regulators and their bubbles. They reached the far corner of the room where there was a walk-in closet with the door removed. They squeezed together and swam through. Then the man shined the light straight ahead of them and Larry saw it.
It looked human, but it wasn't, at least not completely. Its hands and feet were webbed and its sallow skin was scaled like a fish's or snake's. Thin slits in its chest opened and closed rhythmically. It was about five feet tall and laying down as if asleep. Its eyes and mouth were closed. It had no nose, ears, or hair.
Larry was fixated on the slits on its chest. He looked closer and noticed water getting gently sucked in and then pushed out.
He got closer still. The man shined the light on its face.
It opened its eyes.
Larry took a deep breath from his regulator and tried to swim backwards away from the thing on the floor, but he ran into the man. He felt himself hyperventilating, unable to get enough air. He sucked deeply on his regulator but he felt light-headed and dizzy. He looked over at the man, who pulled Larry's mask off, ripped the regulator out of his mouth, and pushed him down toward the thing at the bottom of the closet. Larry lashed out and grabbed at the man in a panic, but he was too fast. He kicked Larry in the chest and swam out of the closet.
Larry swallowed water and tried to stand up, but the thing on the closet floor wrapped its arms around his legs and pulled him down. The last thing he felt before losing consciousness was the thing's teeth biting him through his wetsuit.
About ten minutes later, Larry's girlfriend received a phone call from Larry's cell phone. The man on the other line introduced himself and then invited her down to apartment 2G to join her boyfriend for a drink and maybe a bite to eat.

July 24 - A Deleted Scene from The Road Warrior

The leather-clad, S&M party, post-apocalyptic gang led by Lord Humongous was perched outside the base of the good guys, revving their engines, shaking their fists in the air, doing wheelies with their motorcycles, and shouting insults at the heroes in white who cowered behind their thin walls wondering how much longer it would be before they broke through and killed them all. All to get to their supply of the juice, the precious gasoline that was in such desperately short supply in the post-WWIII Australian desert.
That was what they did. That was the gang's existence: trolling the limitless highways of the wasteland and terrorizing anyone they came across. Always in search of a few more drops of gasoline to keep them on the road.
A guy who was a dead ringer for Rob Halford of Judas Priest motioned for a guy with a red mohawk and shoulder pads to cut his engine. He had something to say.
Red mohawk cut his engine and looked at Judas Priest. "GWAAAA!!!"
"Ha ha. Right. Gwaa!" He yelled back.
Red mohawk waited for Judas Priest to talk. His expression could not have been described as patient.
"Hey man!" He yelled to be heard over the din of the other engines. "Just thinking out loud here! But you know how there's almost no gas left in the world?"
Red mohawk's eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
"Well, it's just that, you know, since there isn't that much gas left anyway? Maybe instead of always racing up and down the highway at top speed looking for people whose gas we can steal? Maybe instead of that, we could use the gas we have? And drive someplace where there's water? And, you know, plant some crops for food or something? So we can eat? And then we could just, you know, live? What do you think?"
Red Mohawk's eyes started to look more and more rabid.
"Because all this," he motioned around himself, still yelling over the roar of the other engines. "Well, it's OK, I guess. I mean, it's exciting, don't get me wrong. But don't you think it's kind of, I don't know, stupid? Because there is next to no gas? And it might run out at any time? So what I'm saying is, let's use what we have of it and go someplace nice?"
Red mohawk got off his motorcycle and walked over to Judas Priest.
"I mean, do you think Lord Humongous would go for th--"
Judas Priest was cut off mid-sentence as Red mohawk cracked him upside the head with a club. Then Red mohawk syphoned the rest of his gasoline and went back to revving his engine and yelling into the night sky.
"GWAAA!!!"

July 23 - Coming Attractions

Have you seen the trailer for Social Network yet?
Oh my God, like three times. Isn't that amazing? I'd never heard that choral version of Creep before. Love. It. It's perfect for the opening montage of different people's Facebook pages.
I know, right? And, like, the story is really good, and the editing and God, yeah, freaking awesome trailer.
OK, this is going to sound kind of weird, but the trailer for Social Network actually kind of reminded me of the trailer for Middle Men.
No, I'll give you that.
Right? Both show kind of geeky guys getting started on internet revolutionizing ideas while still in college--
Hitting it big, getting rich, surrounding themselves with hot chicks--
--Stepping on the wrong toes, imploding, and turning on each other.
Yeah, pretty much.
Both are really good trailers. They really draw you in. Hell, even the non-red band version of Middle Men is pretty sweet.
The red-band version is better, though.
Well, duh.
Just saying.
Yeah, but neither of them is as good as Inception's.
Oh man, Inception's trailer is sick.
Don't even get me started.
I really wanted to see that trailer on the big screen.
Oh, I've heard it's just insane on the big screen.
I saw the preview for the new Harry Potter on the big screen.
Yeah? How was that?
It was OK, but I don't know. All the Harry Potter trailers are starting to kind of blur together for me.
Really? Shoot. I'd read that this one was really good. And the preview I saw for it before the Alice in Wonderland trailer for it made it look freaking sweet.
I know, right? But don't waste your time. If you've already seen the preview, don't bother. You've already seen all the best parts. Besides, it totally gives away, like, everything that happens in the trailer.
I hate it when they do that.

July 22 - An Apology to the Residents of Sunny Hills Apartments from the Resident in Apartment 3G

Howdy neighbors!

It's me, Jimbo from apartment 3G, although after last night you might be tempted to call me Randy, you know, like in the Austin Powers sense of the word.
Yes, things got a little loud around apartment 3G last night (or as the ladies like to call it, "Screwtopia") and for that, I apologize. But seriously dawg, I was taking care of bidness last night, and the resulting loudness could not have been easy to sleep through. I promise: The next time I'm going to get my bone on, I'll try to give you a head's up so you can check into a hotel or at least put in some earplugs.
As if that would help.
No, but really, please understand that I didn't go out from my apartment last night with the intention of leading a nubile young woman to sexual nirvana. It just worked out that way. Seriously, if I'd had any idea that Brittany would end up being so, um, vocal, I never would have let her talk me into taking her back to Senor Jimbo's Casa Del Amor.
In hindsight, I should have known better. Arena football cheerleaders are generally an uninhibited lot to begin with, but Brittany was really something special. Girl had the tri fecta working: belly piercing, blond streaks, and a tramp stamp. Any one of those by itself is a ticket to booya(!), but then you get all three of them together and add a few Jager bombs to the concoction? The only advice I can give you is to hold onto your butt, thank your favorite God that you were born a man, and let the good times roll, my friends.
The only downside (for you, not me) is that in those situations things can tend to get loud, especially when I'm on the job. But just to put your mind at ease: No, she was not possessed by the devil. No, she was not giving birth. And no, she was not high on PCP.
She was just enjoying several hours (seriously, I'm like Sting up in this bitch) of class A, professional level boning, courtesy of yours truly. And when that happens, the first casualty is silence. Again, my apologies.
I'll try not to let it happen again, but no promises!
Anyway, see you around the building!

Best,

Jimbo

July 21 - Release

Deadlines looming and missed. They've been waiting for you in the meeting room since 9, but the conference call you're in refuses to end. There are a million emails that need to be answered, the office line is ringing, the cell phone is vibrating. Forget lunch. Forget dinner. Forget ever going home again.
Everything is a priority. Everybody needed it this morning. It's a trainwreck of conflicting pressures. The ship is sinking. Too many decisions. No support. Nobody else in the office cares anyway.
The threads are bare and the tires are about to burst. We'll never make it in time. The files are missing. It's an irreversible meltdown, a total systems failure. The patient is flatlining, the body rejecting the transplant.
The accounts are overdrawn. They lost your reservations. The warranty is expired. They're saying it's your fault. The boss has been asking where you've been. No, that meeting was yesterday. What do you mean you missed it?
We'll have to cover the costs of the reprint.
They're not going to settle out of court.
A fatal error has occurred. The document is unrecoverable, and it's looking like another all-nighter. We have to make this disappear from the books. Everything is overextended. But you said you had it covered. Isn't this your signature? They said the package never arrived.
Everything is black. I'm hurtling toward the earth at mach 3, engulfed in flames. The tsunami is about to hit. Impact is imminent. There's no way to avoid it. I close my eyes.
And then.
Nothing.
A white light.
I pull the ripcord on my parachute and suddenly I'm floating in the clouds and everything is calm. It's all miles beneath me, minuscule.
Everything looks like a miniature train set from this height, so neat and tidy.
I am the pearl in an oyster at the bottom of a raging sea of hurricanes, shipwrecks, and chaos.
I am the Buddha.
I am serenity.
I am one million miles away from the cosmological shit storm.
I am bulletproof.
And it's all because I have just uttered the two most magical and liberating syllables ever spoken in the history of language:
I quit.

July 20 - Calamity Pain

Nobody knew her real name, but most people in DEPARRTED knew her as Calamity Pain.
aka Big Bad Mama.
aka Alabama Thunderpussy.
aka Ripley.
aka the Thresher.
She was the bestest, baddest, hardest, and meanest killer in DEPARRTED (Detroit's Elite Paintball Assassination Round Robin Tournament for Every Deviant), Detroit's premier underground paintball war game. Boasting an unfuckwithable kill rating of 21.07, Calamity Pain was the most formidable foe, the most ruthless assassin, the most resourceful killer ever to take part in DEPARRTED.
Not only did no one know her true identity, but nobody even knew what she really looked like. Her greatest asset was her seemingly limitless collection of costumes, disguises, wigs, prosthetics, and make-up, which, rumor had it, she had inherited from her great uncle who was the head of wardrobe for MoTerror City Studios, Detroit's B movie factory that pumped out ultra cheap exploitation flicks of every variety in the late 60s and early 70s: Cannibal Gyno!; This Little Piggy Went to Hell; Como Se Dice 'Vengeance, Pendejo; Santa Claws; and Fist Full of Wampum, were among MoTerror City Studio's most notorious hits.
Because of her inexhaustible supply of costumes, nobody knew how, when, or where Calamity Pain was going to strike. She could be your waitress, your UPS delivery person, your dental hygienist, your taxi driver, your masseuse. There wasn't an identity that Calamity Pain hadn't co opted to get close to a target.
When she fell pregnant, a lot of people thought motherhood would slow her down.
Wrong.
She just incorporated her baby daughter into her revolving/evolving collection of personas and aliases: the doting grandmother, the Colombian au pere, the hot fitness mama. These were just a few of her updated identities, each coming with an innovative paint dispensing weapon. The breast pump pistol, the safety pin blowgun, and the baby bottle spray can were among the sneakier additions to her arsenal.
Although a few members of DEPARRTED cried foul and endangerment of a minor, those voices never gained traction. Part of DEPARRTED's allure was that it was one of the few underground paintball circuits left in the country that still stayed true to paintball's no rules ethos. Even as they were being picked off methodically by Calamity Pain, just about everyone in DEPARRTED had a grudging respect for her.
In recent years, Calamity Pain has been conspicuously absent from DEPARRTED. Some say she's retired. Others insist she's grooming her daughter to take over the family business. Still others say she's relocated to Sao Paulo to use her formidable talents in South America's biggest citywide paintball assassination tournament.
Nobody knows for sure.
But her ghost is alive and well in Detroit. Not a week goes by that a pizza delivery person, meter maid, or panhandler isn't mistaken for Calamity Pain and pelted with a barrage of paintballs.
And every time it happens, the shooter in question insists he or she can feel the presence of Calamity Pain just around the corner, laughing at them, but they never find her.

July 19 - Just the Other Day

My mom and I were walking down this empty street the other day a little after sunset. It was just getting dark and there wasn't anybody else around, but suddenly we became aware of a car creeping a few feet behind us. It wasn't really doing anything, it was just following us.
We kept waiting for it to pass, but it just hovered there behind us going about five miles an hour, just fast enough to stay a few feet behind us. My mom and I looked at each other, but didn't say anything. We just walked a little bit faster.
There was a gas station a few blocks ahead of us, and even though our car was a few blocks beyond that, we reached a kind of unspoken agreement that we would go there and wait until the car behind us went away.
As we closed the distance to the gas station, the only sound was from the car's engine behind us and my mom's heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk still wet from that afternoon's rain.
We passed some parked cars and picked up our pace a bit more, but so did the car, and we could feel the driver's eyes on our backs.
I was about to turn around and say something, but my mom grabbed my arm and said, "Just keep walking." So I did, and both of us forced ourselves not to break into a run. The gas station was getting closer, but it was still more than two blocks away.
We felt the car speed up a bit to move alongside us.
My mom and I braced ourselves.
Here it comes.
The car pulled up even with us, and the driver leaned across the front seat and yelled, "Fuck her, I did!" before laughing and speeding off.
My heart was pounding as the car disappeared around the corner with a squeal of its tires. When it was completely quiet again, my mom turned to me and said, "I swear, your father is such an asshole."

July 18 - Turn the Page

It's a chill, cozy spot. No smoking. So intimate it almost feels like somebody's living room. The music is acoustic and it's an older crowd. The kids are all out clubbing in another part of town, but you're here with Her, and you smile because you're so bloody content. You're where you want to be, at a small friendly pub within walking distance from your place. No more Going Out, no more dealing with The Scene. No more loud bars, clubs, smoke, cover charges. That part of your life is finally over, thank God. Now it's just you and Her in this small pub where you already feel like you're regulars.
The song ends, the musicians take a break, and you smile and look at Her and you're just about to say how happy you are, but she cuts in and says, "I just got a text from Sarah. They're going to a club downtown. Do you want to get out of here?"

July 17 - Uncle Fucky

Of all my uncles, Uncle Fucky was probably my favorite. Him and his second wife, Aunt Buffy, would take care of me and Becky whenever my mom and Steve wanted to go out for the night or get away for the weekend.
They lived on a boat just outside of Cape Coral and even though they didn't take it out that much, Becky and me didn't care. A boat was a boat. Uncle Fucky would always put on this black eye patch and put a fake parrot on his shoulder and play pirates with us. He would try to make us call him Cap'n Jack, but we always called him Uncle Fucky because that's what everybody else called him. Anyway, we had sword fights with these cardboard tubes and then he would always make us walk the plank. And even though he didn't actually have a plank and walking the plank was just walking off the side of the boat into the water, we didn't care.
Whenever we got out of the water he would always be standing up there on deck with a Corona in his hand and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned all the way so his gut was sticking out. And even though he lived in Florida year round, he always got a really bad sunburn. His belly would be the color of baby mice. Sometimes he would make Becky and me slap him in his belly to see who could make a bigger whiter hand print. It looked like it hurt like crazy, but he always just laughed.
When I was 11 years old, Uncle Fucky took me to my first Jimmy Buffet concert. And it was during the tailgating before that concert that he gave me my first beer. It made me really dizzy and I couldn't stand still, and Aunt Buffy was giving us both all kinds of dirty looks, but we didn't care. We just laughed it off and went into the concert and had a blast.
All the time I was growing up, I must have seen Jimmy Buffet like a thousand times or something. And even though he always played the same songs, you didn't care. You were too busy dancing around with all the parrot heads in your Hawaiian shirt and shit to care. God, I loved the summer.
Later on after high school, Uncle Fucky got me a job being a roadie for Jimmy Buffet when he was out on tour. It was hard work, but it was a blast. Getting out there on the road, seeing the country, getting fucked up every night. Man, we had a blast. Even though we never got to meet Jimmy Buffet himself, it was cool just being in that environment. Everywhere we went it felt like summer.
Uncle Fucky and Aunt Buffy split up a few years ago. They ended up selling the boat. I don't know where Aunt Buffy is, but Uncle Fucky is still in Cape Coral. We hang out every once in a while and listen to Buffet and drink beers. All these years later, he's still my favorite uncle.

July 16 - My Girlfriend is Banging the Guy from the Old Spice Commercial and Nobody Thinks Any Worse of Her For It (Including Me)

Look at the guy from the Old Spice commercial.
Now look at me.
Back at him.
Which one would you rather bang?
The Old Spice guy, right? Yeah, I wonder if you and my girlfriend have anything else in common. Not only would she rather bang him, she does bang him. She's probably banging him right at this very moment.
And everybody knows.
Everybody I know knows that my girlfriend is getting banged nine different ways til Tuesday by that jacked, suave, hilarious dude in the Old Spice commercials. And not one person thinks any worse of her for it. Incredibly, that goes for me too.
Yeah, that's right. I get it. I'm not happy about it, but I really can't hold it against her. What's not to dig about that guy? I'm no homo or anything, but who are we kidding? That dude's a piece of ass. Jesus, those pecs? Those biceps? Those abs? And you just know he's packing some incredible heat under the hood. You can tell. I mean, you don't have that kind of swagger unless you can back it up. And he can. Just ask my girlfriend--you know, the one who is getting railed silly by that handsome, handsome man.
The hell of it is that not only does he blow me out of the water in the looks department, but he's also way freaking funnier than me. And more charming. That character he plays in the commercials? That's not a character. That's really what he's like. Dude's always on. And apparently allergic to shirts because he never wears one.
Oh, and you know that now I'm on a horse, now I'm holding tickets to that thing you like, now they're diamonds stuff he does in the ad? Way more impressive in real life. He comes walking out of our kitchen all, "Now I'm finishing your last beer. Look closer. Now it's your iPhone. It's dialing your sister. Now she's here giving me a rubdown." And my girlfriend's there laughing her ass off. How am I supposed to compete with that?
I can't.
And everybody knows it, just like everybody knows he's just destroying her ass on a nightly basis. My female friends? Jealous. They don't even bother trying to hide it.
My dude friends? Basically the same thing. They're like, dude, that's fucking awesome. He's cool as shit. And there's a total disconnect. They don't get that it's not like he and my girlfriend are co-workers or something. They're screwing. I remind them of this, but all they can do is tell me about the time he was like, "It's an ashtray. Now it's a pitcher of beer."
At least my mom tried to sound sympathetic, but as she was hanging up, I overheard her laughing and saying, "Now, I'm on a boat."
Yeah, it's a crap situation when your girlfriend is banging the most popular guy in the world. But at least now that she's talked me into using the Old Spice body wash, I can smell like him. So there's that.
Let's try this out.
Look at me.
Now look at the Old Spice Guy.
Back at me.
No, really. Look at me!

July 15 - A Conversation with the Guy Who's Dating Monica Lewinsky

Not THE Monica Lewinsky.
Yes, THE Monica Lewinsky.
Get out.
Seriously.
Like . . . Monica Lewinsky Monica Lewinsky.
Yes, Monica Lewinsky Monica Lewinsky. The one you're thinking of.
You're dating Monica Lewinsky.
Yes.
Seriously.
Yes.
What? I don't even know where to start.
OK, I'll give you the abbreviated version. We met at a party, started talking, got along, exchanged numbers, started dating, and here we are.
OK . . .
And the answers to the questions you're going to ask are no, not really; funny, smart, cool, and completely past it; no; only once; no, and I doubt I ever will; and no, I wouldn't dream of going there.
OK, what are the questions?
Don't you feel self-conscious?
What's she like?
Is she still in touch with Bill?
Have you asked her about "it"?
Have you seen the blue dress?
And have you "smoked" a cigar with her?
Wow.
I've had this conversation before.
I would imagine.
Yeah.
Does it ever bother you?
What?
Um . . .
Just say it. I promise I've heard it all before.
Well, does it ever bother you that pretty much the whole world knows certain things about your girlfriend?
Like what?
Like--you know.
Maybe I know. But I don't want to assume I know what you're talking about, so for clarity's sake you should just ask.
Seriously? It's not pretty.
Like I said, I've heard it all before.
OK, well. Here goes. Does it ever bother you knowing she blew the president?
Does it bother you knowing that yours isn't the first penis that's been in your girlfriend's mouth? Because I guarantee you it's not.
Well. I--I don't know. I really don't think about it much.
Well, neither do I. Every chick has an ex.
But she's--I mean, she blew Clinton!
More than 10 years ago.
He, um, did stuff with her with a cigar.
Again, more than 10 years ago.
Dude, your girlfriend is Monica Lewinsky!
Yeah.
And like, that doesn't drive you crazy? Come on, how can you be so 'whatever' about that?
OK, OK. Calm down. It took a little getting used to. I didn't realize who she was until we'd already gone on our first date. I didn't ask her her last name. She was just 'Monica.' Plus she looked pretty different from how she looked when the whole scandal was going on, so I didn't recognize her. And by the time she told me, I already knew I liked her.
And you're OK with that.
She's cool. I like her. And we're together. What do you want from me?
Monica Lewinsky. Just--wow.
(smiles and shrugs)

July 14 - The Insufferable Bastard, part V

Marge: I've noticed that you tend to respond to criticism with denial and projections.
Ralph: That's complete bullshit. If anybody does that, it's you.

July 13 - Get in the Van

Funk: the
Ultimate
Chaos
Kick-starter
If they had a mantra, that was it. That's why most people called them the F.U.C.K. 7.
Otherwise known as the Clowns of Chaos.
Otherwise known as Brothers from the Anarchic Planet.
aka Co-conspirators from the Land of Funk.
aka the Seven Samurai, the Magnificent Seven, the Unlucky Seven, the Merry Funksters.
Seven of the deadliest funk assassins the world has ever known--or not known. Their identities were a mystery. No website, no schedule, no nothing.
Their MO was simple: show up unannounced and in disguise at corporate shareholders' meetings, political rallies, commercial sets, and press conferences. Take the stage. Overpower the proceedings. Steal the spotlight and blast everyone through the back of the room with funked up New Orleans brass reworkings of stick-it-to-the-man anthems (Anarchy in the UK, Killing in the Name, Fight the Power, etc.) and then leave as quickly as they'd arrived.
No amps. None needed. Brass is loud.
And portable. By the time the police/security arrived, they'd be gone, leaving behind a swath of anti-status quo flyers, pamphlets, leaflets, misinformation, disinformation, and piss-information, which isn't even a word, which is why it fit the F.U.C.K. 7 perfectly. Their aim wasn't to make sense, it was to make chaos.
Their politics were a mystery. Everything was a target. Conservative, liberal, communist, capitalist, red state, blue state. Everything had a bulls eye on its back.
They were thorough. Meticulous anarchists, which should have been an oxymoron but wasn't.
Abandoned getaway vans with the windows painted black would be found later on, wiped clean of all fingerprints. Registered to Mickey Mouse, George Bush, Yo-yo Mama.
Near the scene of the disruption: discarded brass instruments with planted fingerprints and saliva traced back to death row inmates, the college age daughters of senators, and high ranking clergy. More pranks.
But who were they?
Nobody knew.
They always showed up in different thematic uniforms: ninjas, utility workers, Wall Street traders, bike messengers, clowns, Japanese anime characters.
Always with masks with mouth holes cut out so they could play.
But otherwise impossible to identify.
Copycats? Not often. Why? They could play. This made them impossible to copy, even though lesser musicians tried occasionally. Or maybe it was the real F.U.C.K. 7 pretending to be copycats to throw people off their scent.
In the Venn Diagram that shows where world class brass funkateers intersects with unflinching anarchist pranksters and tireless chaos creators, well, there is no intersection. The F.U.C.K. 7 shouldn't have existed.
And yet they did.
And yet they do.
And there's no telling where they'll hit next.

July 12 - Shiner's Cove

The Tap Room, July 2000. His opening line: Our football team kicked your team's ass last year.
Blunt but it was an in. Turns out she knew football.
And sarcasm.
Introductions.
Flirting, teasing, beers.
More conversation, more beers.
Hey, my friends and I are heading over to Maxwell's. Come with?
Sure.
More bonding over making fun of ABBA-cadabra, the Abba cover band/magic revue.
Breakfast at Causeway's Diner at 3 am.
End of the night. Numbers exchanged. Frequent road trips for the rest of the summer.
Senior year: long distance. Then together in Charlotte, Atlanta, Chicago and then Charlotte again.
Marriage. No kids.
But happy.
And now? Ten years to the day since the night they first met. And so, back to Shiner's Cove.
New Prius instead of a second-hand Camry; iPod playlists instead of CD mixes; onboard navigation system instead of printouts from Mapquest.
Songs they hadn't listened to since their wedding. And before that, not since college.
Familiar roads. Fewer trees, more stores.
Shiner's Cove. Busier.
I'll bet ABBA-cadabra are in town.
God, can you imagine?
The Tap Room: Now a Friday's.
Maxwell's: Home Depot.
Causeway's Diner: boarded up.
Dinner and drinks at a quiet place on the beach. Clean hotel room instead of friends' couches; an early rise instead of hangovers.
Down the beach to the next town.

July 11 - Breakfast with the Orcs

The torches in their hovel flickered as the fierce orc Shrenglorf chased his last bite of ram gristle with a swig of raven grog. His wife Gylfglum snorted and sat next to him.
"Mraw thraw Brlak bloctrimi gnodpl." (We got a letter from Brlak.)
"Hurgh? Griple Orc Camp snoffle?" (Oh? How's Orc Camp?)
She handed him the letter. "Shnorfta. Thraw bloctrimi kruktled." (Here. Read it yourself.)
He took another sip of raven grog. "Mrgrimbald noka?" (Where are my glasses?)
"Thrgrimbald kraqipl noka?" (Where did you leave them?)
"Grawh hawr." (Ha ha.)
She handed him her glasses. "Shnorfta. Mrgrimbald glubbled." (Here, take mine.)
He put her glasses at the end of his short snout and began reading. "Gwrim mama o gaga, grwim glak Orc Camp. (Dear mom and dad, hello from Orc Camp.) Mraw 3 glurg snorp flarghim ghlifpl mraw thrunk! (I've only been here three days, but I love it!) Mraw glaw bgaim o tylixdar shrtump uuriplammpl o glagig vbrim xvak uuriplammpl. (Today we practiced pounding our battle axes and spears on the ground while perfecting our war cries.) Mraw glaw higally mraw wekrthm thraw glaw filx Brathsbine okigrambxpl. (We were so loud I bet you could hear us all the way in Brathsbine.) Mrglmugallim gelkcrum mraw glaw yiklypl higally o gokrnch taw dump tblakx shrektimpl. (Our camp leader told us we were so loud and scary he took a dump in his pants!) Grawh hawr! (Ha ha!). Mraw o Blipscrad o Thomborg mrakiling kalisnarf brumplix mrglmugallim civpl. (Me and Blipscrad and Thomborg just about died laughing when he said that.)
"Graw hawr!" (Ha ha!) Raven grog spilled out of Shrenglorf's snout he was laughing so hard.
"Graw hawr!" (Ha ha!) Gylfglum laughed with him as she wiped off his snout and Shrenglorf continued reading.
"Mraw glaw klenkorum grilpasht whongsych Snaggledorg grumphrpl. (Oh, and last night we released a bunch of fire rats in Snaggledorg cabin.) Thraw glaw zaoglurbguzil dak grooyple taw glaw phlaxksnorfpl! (You should have seen how freaked out they were!) Graw hawr! Gulkunchdimpl! (Ha ha! It was hilarious!) Mrglmugallim gulkunchdim blekmedalkpl. (Our camp leader didn't think it was too funny, though.) Taw yukplax mraw glaw 2 plaxin shrtump roxglishpl, emma snroflbaozpl. (He gave us double duty pounding steel stuff with hammers in a fiery hot room, but it was worth it.)"
"Taw yukilplax thraw," Gylfglum said to Shrenglorf. (He gets that from you.)
"Mraw ilzgifmemarfl!" (No argument here!)
He continued reading out loud. "Mama, yulk zrap tlip koki. Mraw urg taw qwenchbl kranken politshfl garngk arts and crafts quifclpl. Shlegalam! (Mom, thanks for the toad biscuits. I made you a necklace out of kranken teeth in arts and crafts today. It's really cool!) Wrathsh mraw yatak jaikyz. Mraw glaw okl Camp Vasgawacth orc glagig vbrim quifcl. Taw glaw vreknlich, emma mraw glaw gowelshr taw glaw vblamguk! Qvanchkok, Brlak. (I should get to bed. Tomorrow we've got battle games with the guys at Camp Vasgawacth. They think they're so tough, but we're gonna show them! Sincerely, Brlak)"
"Kanshsiz? Mraw gelkrum thraw taw OK yiklypl. (See? I told you he'd be OK.)
"Taw flarn shtvv gowkly (He does seem to be enjoying himself.)"
"Glark. (Yeah.)" He took a last swallow of grog. "Begnvt! Yovlsh shraglatted. Mraw glip shrnaffleguz. (Oh God! Look at the time. I have to go.)"
"Shnorfta. Thrhozsh phlrarmedded. O thrsalad garzsheded. (Here. Don't forget your lunch. And be sure to eat your salad.)"
"Mrak salad. Hemishrzat salad. (Again with the salad. Always with the salad.)"
"Shrenglorf. (Shrenglorf)"
"Mraw grbvizl (I will.)."
"Knoablply? (Promise?)
"Mraw knoablply. (I promise.)"
Then they kissed goodbye and Shrenglorf left for work.

July 10 - Linda's New Boyfriend

Have you met Linda's new boyfriend yet?
Yeah. He's pretty cool I guess, but he's really judgemental.
Yeah?
Yeah. Like whenever he meets somebody new, if there's just one thing he doesn't like about that person, he'll be like, "Nope. I'm done with him." And then that's it. Never hangs out with that person again.
That's too bad.
Yeah. Other than that, he's pretty cool, but there's no way I could hang out with somebody that judgmental.

July 9 - An Appeal From Your Asshole

I realize I'm probably the last, um, thing you expected to hear from, but there's something that has been gnawing at me for, well, for as long as I can remember. And I can't put this off anymore.
First off, let me tell you where I'm coming from so you don't think I'm getting too big for my britches (or yours for that matter). I'm an asshole. I know it. You know it. What this means is that I almost certainly have the shittiest job on the planet. It all comes through me, Jack. Every last bit of it. And sparing you all the gory details, I've dealt with some nasty ass shit in my day--and without complaint, I should add. Not like certain other body parts I could mention (I'm looking at you, stomach. It's no accident that another word for complain is bellyache.).
Point is, I'm the backdoor, the end of the line. As such, I put up with a lot of shit. And I like to think that I do so with integrity and dignity. But do you appreciate me for this? Do you sing my praises?
No. No, you do not.
And if a lack of appreciation were my only concern, I could live with it. But it's not. No, what's got me perennially down in the dumps is this habit you have of using my good name as a catch-all insult, epithet, and put-down for anyone you don't like. Anyone who is rude, offensive or grating is an asshole. The same goes for people who cut you off in traffic, answer their cell phone during a movie, smoke in public, let you down, piss you off, or wrong you in any way: They're all assholes.
If you'll forgive me for being blunt, what the fuck is up with that? When did I become the bad guy? What I have done to deserve these associations? How did it come to pass that my name became synonymous with all the wrongdoers of the world?
My being the portal through which every speck of your shit passes is not ignominious enough for you. On top of that, you use my name to describe every person in the world that bothers you in any way. Let me give you a partial list of who you called an asshole just today: Rush Limbaugh, Lebron James, Dick Cheney, your brother-in-law, your boss, your ex-girlfriend, her current boyfriend, the cashier at Fred Meyer, the postman, the neighbor's dog, the guy who was driving behind you, the dead batteries in the remote control, everyone from BP, and too many people on commercials to even count.
Do you have any idea how much it hurts and demeans me when you call these creeps assholes? If you did, I'd like to think you would stop, that you would find some other invective to hurl at whomever it is that's wronged you. What's wrong? You don't have any other names to call them? Then let me suggest a few: Shithead, jerk, moron, twit, jackass, buffoon, idiot, and horse fucker.
Actually, I rather like horse fucker. And yeah, sure, there might be some actual horse fuckers out there who wouldn't take too kindly to having every offending jerk head out there be compared to them, but you know something? They should have thought about that before they started fucking all those horses. Besides, fucking horses is something they have (at least some degree of) control over. All they have to do is stop fucking horses and that will unburden them from the oppressive yolk of being the namesake for all that is worthy of contempt in this world.
I, on the other hand, don't have that ability, nor do I want it. You may find this hard to believe, but I'm proud to be an asshole. It is a badge I wear with honor. And I dream of the day when my name is no longer tossed around with such bitterness and disdain, and instead used to describe any noble person who can be relied upon to do an unappealing job without complaint. I dream that someday the garbage men, ditch diggers, toll booth attendants, and meter maids of the world will all stand proudly and loudly proclaim, "We are assholes."
But until that day comes, I implore you to simply show your asshole more respect. Stop using my name as an insult.
And also, some of that Charmin Sensitive that's infused with the aloe lotion wouldn't go unappreciated.

July 8 - The Time Out Room

They called it the Time Out Room. It was about the size of a living room, and you could reserve it for up to 12 hours at a time. There wasn't much in it. Just some furniture and electronics.
But when the room was activated, when the door closed, time froze on the rest of the ship. Everything--time, people, gravity, chemical reactions, motion--everything outside the Room paused. But inside the Time Out Room, time continued. It was the only place on the ship that time wasn't paused.
People reserved the Time Out Room for consequence free laziness, chill time. The rest of the ship waited (or paused) while you read, took a nap, vegged out in front of the TV for hours, painted, practiced yoga, did whatever you wanted. It was pure, guilt-free relaxation. You could waste as much time as you wanted without worrying about falling behind.
And when your time was up, you opened the door again, and everything unpaused and resumed what it had been doing the moment you'd entered the Room and closed the door. The transition from pause to unpause was seamless. It was like everyone and everything blinked at the same time.
In the early days of the Time Out Room, there was a murder. Apparently the murderer figured with the rest of the ship frozen he would be able to commit the crime and flee the ship before anyone noticed. However, he forgot that the Time Out Room was designed to unpause the rest of the ship the moment its door was opened again, which was what happened when the murderer opened the door to drag his dead wife out of the Time Out Room and to the incinerator, seemingly the very second they'd gone in and closed the door.
The Room was closed down for a couple of weeks after that, just as it was when a man died of a heart attack while in the Room by himself (the door automatically opened again after 12 hours). In both cases, use of the Room resumed shortly thereafter but after modifications were made to the Room, such as sensors that would trigger an automatic opening of the door if it they failed to detect a pulse from all in the Room.
There were other controversies--drug overdoses, attempted fraud, blackmail--but the Time Out Room survived each time, because what it offered--an opportunity for relaxation, rejuvenation, laziness, and recharging--was too good not to.

July 7 - Yes, It's True. I Got My Ass Kicked by a Back-up Dancer in a Boy Band

OK, fuck it. I'm not going to sugarcoat this. You know that band boy band 98 Degrees? One of their back-up dancers kicked my ass. There, I said it.
Which one? The pouty one that kind of looks like a lesbian. I think it's Joey or Schmitty or something like that. Something with a Y.
Yeah, go ahead and laugh. Laugh all you want. Go on. Get it out of your system. Finished yet? Nope? That's fine. I'll wait.
There, you done yet? No? That's cool. I got all day.
How about now? Ready to listen yet? Yeah?
Good.
OK, first of all? The guy was fast. If you've ever seen one their videos you know what I'm talking about. And yeah, they edit the shit out of those things and put in all these jump cuts and what not, but whatever. The guy was faster than lightening. Seriously.
And agile. Speedy little fucker could kick, man. Cranked me right in the nose from a complete stand still. That I was not expecting.
Yeah, I'll admit it. I underestimated the guy. I saw him over there signing autographs looking like a dick and all the kids loved him and everything and I just started messing with him and shit, like pushing him a little and knocking his hat on the ground, that kind of thing. I didn't mean nothing serious. I just figured he would take it like when those townies were messing with the Die Hard villain Amish guy in Witness. But instead, he totally started kicking ass. Like Harrison Ford in Witness.
And the shit totally caught me off guard. I never expected him to take the first swing, especially not at Disney World. Not with all those kids around.
By the way, speaking of which, nice role model there, Cody or Ricky or whichever one you are. Don't turn the other cheek or anything. Just come out punching as soon as someone is taunting you and shit.
Actually, I would have preferred that. A plain old fashioned ass whooping would have been far preferable to that fancy ass dance inflected shit he was breaking out. Dude was just fucking with me and there wasn't nothing I could do about it. I felt powerless. Those airplane bottles of Jim Beam I'd been nipping at all day couldn't have helped.
Man, I felt like such a dick. He really won the crowd over--like they weren't already on his side as it was. But I never would have thought kids would go so crazy over a street fight. Completely desensitized to violence, man. Jesus, they were cheering like somebody was giving away free ice cream or something. Hell, even my own step-daughter was dancing and clapping along. That was the worst part, especially since I was only messing with the guy to try to impress her in the first place.
Actually, no. I take that back. The worst part was when he got a high-five from Donald Duck afterwards. That hurt. I always thought Donald was one of the good ones. Now I know the truth.
And then, to add insult to injury, Crystal told me Dakota insisted on cranking that pretty boy 98 Degrees bullshit all the way to the police station when they picked me up the next morning.
Anyway, Scotty or Pauly or whoever it was was actually pretty cool about it, which actually made me hate him more if that makes sense. They agreed not to press charges if I made a formal apology to the band, so I did and then they invited Dakota to be in their next video, so yeah, great. Go 98 Degrees. Fucking dicks.
Oh, and of course I'm banned from Disney World for life, like that's a big loss. Shit, if I'd known it would get me 86ed from that overpriced shit hole, I would've gotten my ass kicked there by some pretty boy back-up dancer a long ass time ago.

July 6 - Pointless

Everything you need to know about this story is right there in the title. It's pointless, man. So you may as well stop reading now.
Seriously. There's no freaking point to this story and it's probably just going to end mid-sentence or something anyway, so just move on. Move on dot org, mothafucka! Nothing to see here. Doop-do-do-do-do. Blah, blah, blah.
It kills me that you're reading this. It really does. Hell, I could write any old freaking thing and you would probably read it. Zippity do dah, zippity aye. My oh my it's a blah blah blah a day. Totally screwing around here. And yet you continue to read.
Oh, Jimmy crack corn and I don't care. Jimmy crack corn and I don't care. Actually, no. How about this: Jimmy crack corn and I do care. I do. Jimmy crack corn and I totally freaking care. I do give a shit. Everybody's always all, I don't give a shit. Well guess what, jackass. I do give a shit. I really do. How you like them apples, Matt Damon? Last time we talked you were Bourne the shit out of me, no lie.
Check me out, fools. I'm like Kevin Bacon in Quicksilver. Sign says one way east--BAM! I go west. You think I'm zigging, but I'm really zagging. Forget what you know or what you thought you knew. Screw your man Samuel L. Jackson. My wallet's the one that says BAD MOTHERFUCKER on it.
Yeah, I guess maybe this story isn't so pointless after all, is it? Look at all you've learned. And we still haven't even gotten to the big twists yet. Well, get ready, bitches because there ain't no spoiler alerts for you. I'm plowing into the twists head on!
Dig: It turns out Bruce Willis was dead THE WHOLE TIME.
Brad Pitt? Edward Norton? The same freaking dude.
You know that exotic chick from The Crying Game? She's pretty hot, isn't she? Know what's the hottest thing about her? Her penis! She's a man, man!
I'm dropping twist bombs all over your ass. Know that.
Hell, you're so caught up in all the excitement you probably forgot all about what I told you in the beginning of this story about how there's no freaking point to it and it's probably just going to

July 5 - Where I'm At

Lately I've been trying to fit in with the nonconformist crowd.

July 4 - Birth of a Nation

A cold January wind whipped snow and sleet through the streets of Philadelphia. Inside Independence Hall, 56 men were poised to cast the die that would put them in future history books, either as hanged insurrectionists or as venerated heroes. The completed Declaration of Independence sat before them, awaiting their signatures.
John Adams rose and spoke.
"It is critical that we all understand the consequences of our actions at this moment. By signing our names to this document, we are entering into a covenant that could very well bring about the very demise of the fledgling democracy we wish to create, and in the process see us all hanged for treason. We must all enter into this agreement on our own free will, fully committed to the task at hand and cognizant of the consequences that shall be wrought in its wake."
The other signatories looked back at Adams, stone faced. Some of them nodded.
"Once we have signed this document, there is no going back. Is that understood?"
The men answered his question with looks of steely resolve. They understood.
"Then let us begin."
They moved toward the document, quills in hand.
"Wait," said one man.
"What is it, John?"
John Hancock leaned forward in his seat and fixed his gaze on Adams. "This is a moment of intense gravity. The ramifications of the action we are about to undertake will be felt for years, nay, centuries to come." The winds howled outside, rattling the windows. The candles flickered. "Future generations will look back on this moment as the birth of our nation."
"What are you driving at, Mr. Hancock?"
"Only this, sirs," he said, rising from his seat. "If this goes according to plan--if this document truly brings about the beginnings of a great new nation--it will be this moment that shall be remembered above all others. This is the day that will be commemorated and celebrated for all perpetuity."
The others nodded in assent.
"That being the case, I humbly propose that we wait until the weather is nicer before we sign it."
The other delegates murmured amongst themselves. Adams banged his gavel and they quieted down.
"What did you have in mind?" asked Thomas Jefferson.
"Sometime in July, perhaps," he said.
"Could I be so bold as to ask why, Mr. Hancock?"
He cleared his throat.
"Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Adams, fellow delegates: If this experiment in democracy works--No! When this bold step forward in self rule succeeds beyond all existing measures--the day that it is set in motion will be a cause for celebration for our sons and our sons' sons and all future generations of Americans for years to come."
The others nodded, seeing where he was going.
"And so I ask you this, gentlemen: Do we not owe our descendants the everlasting gift of national holidays every summer? Think of the barbecues they shall have. The trips to the beach. The parades. The concerts. The long weekends."
The nodding grew in enthusiasm.
"Mr. Jefferson, you have crafted a stunning document in this Declaration of Independence. And when the time comes, I shall proudly be the first to sign it. But I propose we wait until the weather is warmer, more agreeable. Say, July? What say you, gentlemen?"
The agreement was unanimous, and the document was put in a safe until exactly six months later. And that is why American Independence Day is celebrated on not the 4th of January, but the 4th of July.

July 3 - Stuck

You step out of the subway station, off the bus, out of a building and you see him or her: Some guy from work, an outlier in your circle of friends, that dude you play pick-up with every couple of weeks, the chick who hangs out at the same bar you do. Someone you know, but not that well; just well enough to feel obligated to talk to him or her even though you don't have anything to talk about and both of you know it.
You're tempted to look the other way, look at the ground, go back where you were, whatever, but it's too late. You made eye contact and you're both going the same way and now you have to walk together and that Podcast you were into will have to wait.
Small talk. Labored as hell, the anti-flow, stops and starts, and you just want to call time out and be like You're not feeling this, I'm not feeling this. If we were going to be friends, it would have happened by now. We tried. Kind of. Not really. But whatever. Let's just admit that neither of us is into this conversation . We both wish the other was 1) someone else, 2) not here, 3) more interesting, 4) two or more of the above. Let's be progressive about this. Why force it? Why not pull the plug? I was way more into my Podcast than this conversation, and I'm sure you have something you'd rather be focused on. Let's make the call. Let's not talk.
But you don't say that because, well, you don't know why. And you wish you had because it's painful, but at least you're trying, unlike the other person. You're asking questions, feigning interest, doing an admirable job of going through the motions.
But the other person isn't. No kind of reciprocation. And it's not like you want to talk about yourself, you just want to fill in the awkward silence. That's why you volunteer opening lines about what you've been up to like they were sets in conversational volleyball, hoping he/she might bump them or spike them:
I'll be doing a lot of traveling in the coming weeks.
Saw this kick ass band the other night.
Finally caught up with Breaking Bad.
Three sweet sets in a row, and each one of them would have ticked at least a few minutes off of this awkward exchange, but the other guy just watches them float by the top of the net and then drop to the ground. And so now you're stuck in this conversation, you can't think of a thing to say, and all you want to do is get to your office so you'll be out of it.
Next time you'll go the other way.

July 2 - An Appeal to Stop, Look, and Listen (and Maybe Even Give) to Buskers

Because they're there.
Because they practiced.
Because they probably put a lot of time into what they're doing.
Because this probably isn't what they do for a living, it's what they live to do.
Because you've got a few minutes to spare.
Because it's something different.
Because look how into it all those kids are.
Because it's a nice day.
Because they came all this way, lugged all their equipment, cleared a space, set their equipment up, and will have to do it all again in reverse afterwards, and all you have to do is watch.
Because it's easy.
Because it's a chance to watch someone do what they genuinely want to do in life.
Because it will probably be good and it might even be really good.
Because even if it's not good, you haven't really lost anything except your time, and you can make that up if you walk fast enough.
Because I promise you they'll appreciate it.
Because your iPod can wait.
Because this particular assemblage of people will never be together again in the same place at the same time and you don't want to miss your chance to be a part of it.
Because it's probably the most direct form of entertainment possible.
Because they might not be here tomorrow.
Because you might not be here tomorrow.
Because if it were you, you would want an audience.
Because it's your chance to support local arts in the purest and most unfiltered sense.
Because they're there.

July 1 - Father Tongue

The plane went down somewhere between Seychelles and Mumbai, and the only survivors were Pierre (a Frenchman), Anatoly (a Russian), Henry (an Englishman), Murat (a Turk), and a 9-month-old baby boy that each of the men believed was his own.
None of them knew for sure, though. That was the purpose of their trip--a flight to India to take a paternity test that the boy's mother Marjorie had arranged.
The baby could have been fathered by any of them. They had all been with Marjorie around the same time while working together at a posh diving resort in Seychelles. Thus, the paternity test.
Marjorie was waiting for them in Mumbai, having gone there the day before to finalize the test arrangements. The men had all agreed to go along with Marjorie's mother and the baby the next day.
And then their plane had gone down.
Following the plane crash, the men were able to swim with the baby to a nearby island. Although it was uninhabited, the island had plenty of fruit, fish, and fresh water, and the weather always stayed clear and balmy. In better circumstances, it would have made an ideal vacation spot, but it also made for a nice temporary home. They built a shelter, made sure their surroundings were safe, and waited for a rescue plane to spot them.
That was roughly three years ago.
Since then, the men had worked, sometimes together and sometimes against each other, to raise the boy. His was an unconventional childhood to say the least.
The main reason--other than the fact that his only human interaction since he was old enough to remember was with four father figures on an otherwise deserted island--was that all four of the men spoke a different language, and none of them spoke anything beyond basic greetings in any of the others' languages.
Perhaps inevitably, each man tried to raise the boy to speak his language only.
And to an extent, each man succeeded, but only to an extent. The boy heard only Turkish from only Murat, only French from only Pierre, only English from only Henry, and only Russian from only Anatoly. The language that he ended up learning was like a cut and paste mashup, a slapdash collage, a recklessly slapped together language patchwork quilt. He didn't have one native tongue. He had four intersecting, overlapping, contradicting quarters of four different father tongues. Any sentence he produced would have a French subject, Turkish verbs, and Russian adjectives all held together with English grammar. Or the same elements in different combinations. It was like a linguistic wagon wheel where the boy was the hub and the other four men were spokes. He was able to communicate with barely passable clarity with each man one on one, but things got pretty chaotic when all five of them were having a discussion together.
The fathers found it maddeningly difficult to communicate this way, but to the boy it was normal. Since he had no other experience to compare it to, and since life on the island was his only frame of reference, as far as he was concerned, his circumstances were normal. His existence consisted solely of the trees, vegetation, fruit, fish, and surrounding waters of the island, and the four men who took care of him. He had no concept of anything beyond that. It wouldn't even have been accurate to say that he thought of his situation as normal. Notions like normality didn't exist to him. His life was simply what it was.
But to his fathers, it was aggravating. To only be able to count on understanding (maybe) 25% of what their son was saying soon became too much to bear, so they began making more of a concerted effort to learn to communicate with each other better, and in time they all came to be fairly proficient speakers, not of the others' languages, but of their shared ramshackle cobbled together Frankenstein's monster of a language--Ruenfranturk, as they came to call it.
Years passed.
The boy grew older and so did his fathers.
In time, the men separately came to the same conclusion that they were all fathers of equal standing to the boy. The cooperative aspects of their child rearing increasingly outweighed the competitive aspects and eventually crowded them out entirely.
By the time he was 13, all five of them were completely fluent in Ruenfranturk, and they used the language to talk about topics of increasing complexity.
Although life on the island wasn't cushy, it also wasn't difficult. Food and water were plentiful and easily acquired. During the day, they had plenty of time to swim, dive, and explore. At night they entertained each other with storytelling contests, all in their shared Ruenfranturk. Life was good.
And then they were rescued.
A fishing boat that had gone way off course when its captain passed out drunk for more than 12 hours spotted the men and took them to the mainland.
By then, Ruenfranturk had completely supplanted each man's native language, and in their medical examinations doctors from England, France, Turkey, and Russia had to work together to decipher what the men were saying. Even then, it was guesswork at best.
Meanwhile, news of their rescue quickly spread: The missing baby and his four "fathers" were alive!
Marjorie learned of their survival and flew to the resort town where they were being examined. She and her new husband wanted custody of the boy.
There was a media circus.
Politicians from England, Russia, France, and Turkey all tried to claim the boy as a citizen.
There were requests for studies from linguists and behavioral psychologists from around the world. Movie offers. Book deals. Reality show development offers. Agents. Cameras. Lights. Chaos.
The boy didn't understand any of it. He may as well have been on a different planet. Ruengfranturk was already fossilized in his brain as his native tongue, a language that was understood by only four other people in the world.
Seeing the effects that all of it was having on the boy made the men's decision easy. And the fact that nobody could understand what they were saying also made it easy to make their escape plans right in front of their handlers without having to worry about being found out.
Late one night, they absconded with scuba gear from the diving resort where they were being put up, and swam to the boat of the fisherman who had initially rescued them. Together, they were able to communicate their request to be taken home, back to their island.
Upon arriving there and getting the fisherman to promise not to show anyone else where they lived, they waved goodbye to him and resumed life on the island.
The first order of business was to come up with a name for their island. The name they decided on was Babapatchvestland, a Ruengfranturk word that translated roughly to "Fatherland."