

This is for everyone who has ever cared.

This is also for anyone who enjoys fantasy. Or historical fiction. Or truthful rants. Or truthful stories. Or just likes to be entertained.

This is also my first attempt at publishing anything of significance, so be kind when discussing it with neighbors, coworkers, friends, and relatives. Especially if they're mine.

\- J.S. Van Winkle

Table of Contents

Fantasy (From the World of Kalium)

A Chance Meeting (4)

Duel at the Imperial Cemetery (27)

The Inn at Tro'Mause (40)

The Whore and Drago Koyle (50)

Historical Fiction

His First Patrol, His Last Patrol (58)

Contemporary Fiction

The Juicy Rapture (74)

Rants and Ramblings (83)

Castration of the Saying "Bad Guys"

Did You Vote Today?

Forgive BP? Forgive BP? I'd Rather Have the Gestapo Knock on Mein Door

How About another Cup of Road Rage?

Protesting Planned Parenthood? Why?

Self-deception of the Muffin-Tops

Little People in Big SUV's

The Disappointment of Champions

The Gridiron is My Religion

The Twenty-First Century Clan Meetings

Voyeurism Hath Become the Norm

Why "Tea Baggers" Need Dirty Sanchez's

Women's Size Zero is Absolute Bullshit

You're "Fucked" Insurance

Non-Fiction

What it means to Be Irish American (111)

A CHANCE MEETING

Never one for being taciturn, Sir Trevan Lorell ordered a pint for himself and a pint for the woman at the bar as well. He threw down two copper coins and continued talking to the innkeeper - more to sound important then for want of companionship. "The Imperial Blood Knights have been raiding small towns and farms along the border, and Durheim heavy infantry was seen marching towards Dallashire yesterday. The King has ordered 'E' Company of the Twenty-Seventh Mounted Rangers Division - my company - to fortify this town and the surrounding network of roads."

In the interim the woman had taken a few sips of the refreshing lager, and was staring at Sir Lorell with an inquisitive glare. Made painfully aware of his mismatched eyes of red and blue, Sir Lorell glanced quickly at the woman and then smiled a shy smile. Too late, she was already interested in him. "What kind of knight are you?" Her voice was soothing but strong, with an allure hidden by a strong edge. Not understanding her question, Sir Lorell could only sit and stare at her with a dumbfounded expression.

The blonde began to laugh and idly twirled her hair in her fingers. "What I mean is what kind of man buys a girl a drink, and then doesn't entertain her with his company? Am I too intimidating to look at, Sir?" He silently scolded himself for already looking like an idiot within the first minute of their meeting, and would have been insulted by her mockery had he not been so embarrassed. He took another copper out of his coin-purse and distractedly threw it on the bar as a tip for the innkeep. The man closed his hand around it and slid it off the bar into his waiting pocket with the ease of tired habit.

"So where are you from?" He could have smiled at his own awkwardness, for here was a woman who knew she was beautiful and who knew how men operated. The sunlight shining through the windows and illuminating her face in its warm glow only added to her beauty, and made his befuddlement even more pronounced. She smiled slyly at him, drank another sip of the lager, and edged her seat closer.

"Is that the best question you can think of? Very well. So where do I begin?" She sighed and looked into her drink. A slight tremor crawled up her neck, and she suddenly looked lost. "I was a merchant's daughter once, until the bovine plague took my parents, during the year of disease," she began. "They died rather peacefully, their bodies giving up on life while they slept. I remember telling myself 'if I was to be robbed of my parents, than death while dreaming was the most merciful way they could go.'"

It looked to Trevan like she was someplace else, reliving a nightmare she had tried to suppress. He felt insanely guilty for some reason, and made to change the subject, but she beat him to it.

"Sorry," she continued as she shook herself and met Trevan's eyes with her own. "Not very often I get asked about my past, and even rarer that I talk about it." She took another sip of her pint, and broke into a smile. Whether forced or real, Trevan couldn't tell. "My aunt and uncle soon took me in and raised me as one of their own. I grew up in their inn. This inn, as a matter of fact," she said as she waved her hands in a gesture to encompass the building. "Been here for seven winters now, working when they need me, selling my paintings when they don't."

She smiled disarmingly, her emotional shield back in place, and let out a petite burp.

Trevan took a long pull on his drink before setting it back down, and rubbed the excess foam from his mouth onto his grimy tunic sleeve. "So, am I getting you drunk while you're working? I would hate to think I am depriving you of your living." She put a hand to her mouth and gasped, feigning surprise.

"Ahh! The soldier found his tongue, his wit, and his charms, all in one sip of beer. I'm impressed."

She looked around the room to where the bustle of afternoon traffic had increased since his entrance. "I make my own hours", she said with the bluster of someone with confidence in their social station "and besides I'm not needed nowit really isn't busy this time of day and there's three other girls working. So yes, you can get me as drunk as you want. Who knows, if you're lucky maybe I'll even let you catch a whiff of my undergarments." She laughed even louder when she saw the flush of cherry red rise across his face.

He finished his pint, stalling so he could think of something to say. "I would truly like to get to know you a little better first, before we go sniffing each other's undergarments. But I can tell you how that scenario would turn out. I would fall completely in love with you, while the stink of mine would make you want to marry a horse."

"I married a horse once," she shot back "and his shit-catchers smelled pretty clean, given his situation. Though his constant need to run and fuck mares, combined with his love of oats soon grated on my nerves. That and staying up late to rub his flanks put me in one hell of a bad mood in the mornings."

Abashed, he once again scrambled for something to say to the witty and charming woman sitting in front of him. She could only smile as he struggled in her web, a fruitless endeavor she had seen men do time and time again when confronted with her personality.

Sir Lorell had never met anyone quite like her before, of that he was sure. Mostly it was meek serving wenches, whores, and the occasional farmer's daughter that graced his presence. They usually wanted money, or escape from boredom, or gossip about the younger soldiers in his company. None of them had ever looked at Trevan with real interest or even attraction - it was always his damn mismatched eyes that unnerved them and sent them scurrying away once they got what they wanted from him.

"Another two pints innkeep," was all he thought to say. He produced two more copper coins and slid them down the bar into the waiting hand of the proprietor. The man looked at her, looked at Sir Lorell, shook his head in amusement, and then grunted as he filled up the two pints and slid them back down the bar. The knight immediately brought the pint to his lips and began to down the beer, while gesturing to her drink in a 'please, enjoy' pantomime.

"Thank you once again Sir," she said as she daintily picked up the pint. She made to sip it like a lady of the court, but after a moment of hesitation, and with Sir Trevan watching her intently, she tipped up the pint and began to chug it. Their eyes locked and she placed her pointer finger down on the bar and tapped it.

The race was on.

He finished his pint just ahead of her, and stifling a loud burp with the back of his hand he smacked his lips in satisfaction. Downing the last of her drink, she slammed the empty pint glass down and belched loudly. It drew a wide smile from the knight and unabashed he let the rest of his burp out. A few patrons within ear shot glanced over and shook their heads in puzzlement. They both laughed at this, their faces flushed and a semi-glazed twinkle in their eyes.

"By the gods I've never met a woman who could chug as fast as you. I don't know if I want to smell your undergarments - you might have a penis down there!"

"A bigger one than yours, I suspect."

"I don't doubt it. The way you swagger around the place I'd bet my next bounty that you got the shaft of a battering ram and the balls of a bull!"

Before she could form a response a grave faced Corporal dashed through the door. The youth darted through the crowd in an attempt to approach Sir Lorell faster, knocking over a table in his urgency. "Sir," the breathless man saluted, "enemy outriders have been seen a few miles from town. Our scouts also report a regiment of Durheim foot soldiers moving down the Red Hills Turnpike. They've split into companies and are slowly fanning over the Pensey Junction, towards Harbro's Crossing. We need you at the barracks now, sir."

The Red Hills Turnpike was twelve miles distant, Pensey Junction nine, and Harbro's crossing a mere three. The bastards are moving faster than we hoped they could, he thought.

"My name is Trevan," the knight said as he stood and shook her proffered hand "and it was an unexpected pleasure talking to you today. I only wish we had more time to banter about penises and undergarments."

She giggled at his comment, dropped her hand from his and ever so lightly and gently hugged him. The smell of her perfume and womaness invaded his nostrils making him shudder with an unexpected desire. She drew him more tightly to her and, with her lips brushing his ear, said "My name is Anne Marie." As she withdrew from his embrace she continued, "and I look forward to meeting you again..." For the first time since meeting Anne Marie, the knight saw her struggle for words, and end up saying nothing. He of course could think of nothing to say.

With a heavy sigh and bow Sir Trevan left the woman, and exited the Inn. He really hoped to see her again.

* * *

"Corporal Garson", Sir Lorell said to his officers as he nodded towards the aforementioned soldier "has filled me in on the situation. Gentleman, you know as well as I do that we have one of the best trained and best outfitted companies in all of Third army. You also know that we are heavily outnumbered and are about to be surrounded, pushed into a fight we'll be hard pressed to win." He paused to let the weight of his words sink in and slowly scanned the gathered men, looking for any signs of dissent, anxiety, or gods-be-damned weakness.

Lieutenant Henry Mallers, the second in command of E company, with his predatory stance, golden hair, and patrician face seemed to be unaffected by Lorell's words whatsoever. But that was just who he was - a fatalist who never wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a rare man - brought up in a noble house where military service was expected of him - but unlike most of the rich bastards peppering the army, Mallers actually knew how to fight, how to inspire men in dire situations, how to garnish loyalty from the middle and lower classes. A cultured gentleman in the ballrooms, a dirty brawler in the bar rooms, a tactician in the war room, and a selfless officer on the battlefield - Sir Lorell could never have asked for a better lieutenant.

Staff Sergeant Roy Dunlevy - the oldest man by far in the company - shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and scratched his balls. Hacking up a wad of phlegm he spit it out on the ground, all the while silently muttering to himself. He was another officer that Sir Lorell could trust, and count on. Dunlevy had been serving in the army for well over thirty years - as an archer, scout, warrant officer, and Sergeant-at-arms--before being promoted and subsequently transferred into E company.

Three summers had passed since then. Roy's salt of the earth demeanor, coupled with his lack of respect for others born higher than him on the social food chain had led him to become Sir Lorell's faithful watchdog, and detractor. When everyone else around him was agreeing with their commander - Dunlevy would make it a point to be the only voice of dissent. He'd also taken on the mantle of teacher for most of the officer corps and the regular rough-and-tumble soldiers of the company. 'Granddad' was the company-wide nickname he carried with grudging pride - as well as the company standard - on every march or muster.

The rest of the assembled officers took their cues from those two men; not a lick of worry or cowardice revealed itself on any of their faces. Sir Lorell smiled to himself and silently thanked the gods once again for having been so lucky with the makeup of his officer cadre.

"I heer those fooken bastards all got cunnies instead a' cocks. Bring em on, I says! I know how to get a cunny cooing," Dunlevy shouted.

The gathered men broke out into guffaws and outright laughter, their gruff voices echoing loudly throughout the lofty wooden building in waves of coalescing sound.

"Might'n be theys got both Roy," added one of the officers from the back.

"Old Roy'd fuck 'em both the same," was his dry reply. The laughter continued.

"Alright, alright, settle down, settle down," Sir Lorell remarked as he tried to curb his own laughter. "As much as your levity is needed in times like these Roy, we need to focus and come up with a strategy that will see us through these next hours." The laughter from the men slowly dwindled away. Each officer tried to gain back his composure and professionalism, albeit slowly and with difficulty.

Warrant Officer Hans Welliams was the first to speak up. He was a metalsmith's son, tall of limb and tanned to the color of oak from the years he spent training in the harsh sun. Through a stroke of luck he had got accepted into the Warrant Corps some years before. His sharp mind and ability to read people allowed him to effectively defuse situations between different companies of soldiers quickly, and with little blood. This innate ability had steadily ascended him to the company's chief Warrant officer position days before reaching his thirtieth birthday.

"From what Master Scout Pellen's men have reported, we should expect at least two companies of Durheim infantry bearing down on our position within the next few hours. Knowing those wild island bastards have no knack for deployment, tactics, or the four hells - even a grasp on strategy - I suggest we set an ambush in the wooded areas around the town. We hit them in force as they stagger up piecemeal, before they get a chance to bring their greater numbers to bear against our weak perimeter".

"That is assuming they will not divide their forces, Hans. Flank out into the plains abutting the forests," rebuked Sergeant-At-Arms Mele'n Falkern. He was a cautious soldier, of medium height and build, who never liked to show all his cards until the game was done. He also tended to overcompensate aggressively during tactical meetings and on the battlefield; at thirty-seven he had yet to kill a man, and thought of himself as less because of it.

"For all we know they might not even deem this town worthy of their attention, Mele'n. It's the network of paved roads and way stations that have always been the more valuable strategic objectives to the Emperor," countered Master Scout Jonas Pellen. He was usually the most silent officer, forever brooding, and he had a dark countenance coupled with a drab outlook on life that added to the mystique of his scout position. He had been orphaned at a young age, and some said he was adopted by the silent brotherhood of Kalamnic Rangers. Whatever the case was, Jonas had always been more comfortable alone.

"Gods be damned," he continued, "but the nearest way station is two miles distant, and one ass-fuck of a place to defend. The nearest cover is an overgrown berm some four-hundred yards from the road. I scouted the grounds myself this morning - not an easy place to fight outnumbered."

"Though being a mounted ranger company, the wide open space around the station might work to our benefit. Sir Galvon Brenner defeated a platoon of Terheim pikemen with just three other mounted knights not ten days ago at Ureen Ford. Using his advantage in armaments and speed, he scattered the enemy and demolished them as groups of two and three tried to cross the stream," Corporal Garson piped in. Though the most junior of the men assembled in the barracks, having just graduated from the Academy, E company's command structure allowed any officer to voice his opinion, regardless of rank or birth. Deny Garson was but twenty-one, pale and unassuming, a farmer's son by birth, and yet Sir Lorell's insistence on every man voicing his opinion without fear of reproach during the meetings allowed him to speak as an equal.

"You sound like a fucking text book," Mele'n retorted.

"A mere maiden of the realm," joked Mallers uncharacteristically.

"Enough," Sir Lorell said. "Can't form a battle plan if you idiots keep fixating on Corporal Garson."

The banter made him smirk. It reminded him of the time, at the company's inception, when a magistrator had coined E company's officers as "a band of misfits." In a report to division command, the man went on to say that E company "was wholly unfit for muster review, as they are led by a knight who cherishes their love and not their obedience, who allows the hierarchy of army command to wither away," and that "I have worries about the battlefield effectiveness of said company."

But Sir Lorell had not been a fool. Nor had his officers. They understood that the execution of a battle rested solely on the men knowing their places in the scheme of things. No officer under his command would test the hierarchy when lives were being shattered. It was that simple.

... And his approach to command had been vitiated time and time again since. E company was one of the most decorated units in all of the army.

"Deny's gots a good poin' though, Trevan. He might'n not made a cunny crow yet, nor got any wiskas on hes sack, but hes got a point."

Corporal Garson flushed slightly at Dunlevy's words. His flush turned into a crimson blush as the rest of the officers once again broke into laughter over the Staff Sergeant's comment. To his credit Garson quickly regained control of his emotions and shot back at Dunlevy in a jovial manner.

"At least I know my dick still works Granddad, and the skin on it is as taught as a bowstring, not wrinkled like an old woman's face after eating a lemon!"

Raucous laughter exploded from every man present including Dunlevy, shaking the single-paned windows of the barracks. It was loud enough that the rest of the company quartered outside wondered exactly what their officers were discussing, warfare or women. Sir Lorell even allowed himself to laugh momentarily, caught up in the youthful exuberance of the moment.

After a minute and after wiping the moisture from their eyes, the last peals of laughter died off. The officers once again tried to regain their composure. It was this camaraderie, Trevan told himself, that he lived for.

"Alright men, short of Corporal Garson's sex life and the sad state of Sergeant Dunlevy's phallus, does anyone have anything else to contribute?" Sir Lorell smiled as the men struggled valiantly not to break out in laughter once more. The stifled laughter continued briefly until the seriousness of the situation came crashing back. He waited a few more heartbeats. Satisfied that he would not be interrupted, he put his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth. He met the gaze of each man, nodding to him in turn, before completing his thoughts.

"As always, each of you has made a valid point. Durheim infantry is indeed a sad mockery of military discipline. They are unpredictable. They might be laying siege to a fort one day, only to catch the whiff of women from behind, and go gallivanting off the next day to find said women. They might retreat from a battle they can win, only to charge headlong into a conflict they can't."

He paused and silently burped out the rest of the alcohol from his time with Anne Marie before continuing. "The Durheim command structure is well-known to have a deep distrust and even a down-right hatred of other units. Any time two companies are fighting side by side, it's only because there's more than enough loot to satisfy both lots. Confounding I know, because this hostility is encouraged \- but more importantly - it can be extremely effective when channeled properly. Coupled with their fanatical faith in their Moon God, the Durheim fight like men possessed."

"Furthermore, General Talen has made it our Division's priority to possess the Pensey Junction at all costs. Holding the army of the Empire on the Northwestern bank is the first step in counterattacking across the Niel River. Having said that, E company's primary objective is indeed Haversfield's way station, not Haversfield itself." He nodded at Jonas Pellen. "Our top priority is to protect the way station at all costs. But, we know the Durheim will never leave an easily looted town behind them," he continued, acknowledging Welliams' concern. "Therefore we must leave some men in reserve to protect our supplies and our only bastion of safety this far North."

"Therefore I propose a two part strategy. First platoon led by Warrant Officer Welliams will fan out on foot into the surrounding wooded areas and set up a series of rolling ambushes. At the most you will have a full company to impede, at the least a squad. Kill, disable, and maim as many Durheim troops as possible. You need to keep them occupied and off our flanks. If you risk being overrun, then fall back and redeploy inside the safety of the town's walls. Hold on tight and resist whatever comes your way. You will be the only respite for the rest of the company. Any questions Welliams?"

"Only one sir - when do you want us to leave?"

"Right now, since you'll need as much time as possible to set up the ambushes. If the rest of the company is not back by tomorrow morning assume the worst, and send a rider to Division headquarters. May the gods go with you sir," Sir Lorell said as he brought his arm across his chest in salute. The rest of the officers followed suit, adding their own words of encouragement and wishes. Warrant Officer Hans Welliams made to say something but thought better of it, and instead returned their salutes. He quickly marched outside to assemble his platoon and don his armor.

Sir Trevan Lorell would never see his Warrant Officer alive again.

"So what is the second part, sir" asked Corporal Garson.

"Arr yes, ta secund pat" Roy Dunlevy chirped in, "da one in weetch we vali'ant few fook up a bunch of cunnies on da highway." The Sergeant's accent always got worse when he was nervous.

"The second part consists of a delicate blend of speed and force," Sir Lorell answered, choosing to ignore Dunlevy's banter. "As Garson so eloquently put it, Sir Galvon Brenner defeated a force ten times as large as his, simply by using the advantages given to him. Master Scout Pellen has checked the area, and has found us a berm to hide in. One of you will station a squad at the actual way station as bait - juicy, juicy bait - and wait for the infantry to swarm towards you."

"When you say, 'one of us' sir, by whom do you mean," asked Mele'n Falkern.

"Whoever lost at cards last night of course. The one who can't bear the shame of losing to his fellow cheating officers." The remaining Sergeants, Corporals, and others laughed as Sir Lorell pretended to guard his coin purse. "In all honesty," he chuckled "I figured one of you would volunteer, or if not - I'd do it. Does anyone..."

"I volunteer sir!" Corporal Garson exclaimed, taking two steps forward from the group. He sharply snapped his leather boots together and raised his arm over his chest in salute. Though he couldn't see it the rest of the officer cadre behind him took on the worried looks of parents. They were proud of his decision but worried for his safety nonetheless. Shooting each other sidelong glances, they looked towards Sir Lorell, hoping he would validate their feelings.

Garson had become the son some of them never had, or the stand-in for the ones they had been forced to leave behind to fight the invasion. Deny had always seen that as condescending, but it was a sense of familial love and mutual respect that drove the other officers to treat him as such. Sir Lorell knew this, understood it -since he too felt the same way about Garson - and yet he also understood the need for the young corporal to prove himself to his peers, and to himself.

"Very well Corporal," Trevan said as he met his gaze "I would trust any of the men gathered here to perform this dangerous task. It requires a soldier who knows full well what he is getting into. One that knows the risk and willingly puts himself into harm's way for his fellow soldiers. One who understands his chances of getting out of it alive are slim to none. One who needs not prove himself to me, or to any other in this company. I know that you are that soldier, Garson, and I applaud you for it."

"Poot me in fer hes second in command, ser"

"Sergeant Dunlevy... sad to say, I can't risk having two officers cut off from the rest of us."

"Thatsa lod uf horse sheet... sir," he added as an afterthought.

"Load of horse shit or not, I need the standard by my side for this fight. Inspiration may very well make or break us in this battle," Sir Lorell countered before addressing the rest of his officers. "We may have advantages in training, morale, and armament gentleman, but it still will come down to which side has more to lose, more to fight for. I don't want to risk losing any of you, but I sure as shit won't risk losing all of you."

Roy Dunlevy made to argue the point that Garson had never been in combat before, that this was too important of a command to place in the hands of the corporal. After stealing a glance around the room and catching the reproachful look Deny Garson was giving him, he thought better of it and remained silent, albeit grudgingly. The rest of the officers stood still, contemplative, and awaited their individual battle orders from Sir Lorell. It was the moment before the impending battle that would shape their destinies, for good or ill, and no man felt like breaking the silence.

The silence dragged on.

Motes of dust stirred around the room, catching the mid-morning sun as it penetrated the windows and the spaces between the wooden planks of the walls. It fell lazily - wherever the whim of the drafts inside the barracks pushed them -before settling on the dust-strewn floors, armoires, clerical desks, and weapon lockers. Satisfied his officers were ready - that each would do his part and fight until the last breath left him - Sir Lorell walked up to each of them in turn. He saluted them, relayed his individual orders, and then shook their hands.

He wondered how many of these men would still be alive by nightfall.

"Gather your command and saddle up. We leave town in ten minutes. May the gods go with you."

* * *

The horse flies lazily buzzed around his face, whether seeking the salt from his pores or just trying to be annoying, Sir Lorell didn't know. But - by the gods - it was hot. The mid-day sun beat down mercilessly upon the dismounted Rangers as they laid prone in the berm. For the first time since they arrived at the way station Trevan began to question his plan. The two platoons and their horses were concealed from the Northern approaches to the road, of that he was sure, but the waiting was starting to become unbearable.

He looked up and down his battle line; his men were just as uncomfortable as he, squirming and writhing in their heavy armor and battle gear. Their horses, as if mimicking their riders, were just as restless as they lay down on their bellies. He had told his officers that noise discipline was a must, yet he could see his soldiers struggling not to voice their discomfort. Struggling to keep their horses calm and quiet was even harder.

His plan--as all plans in the history of warfare tended to be - had been predicated on absolute surprise. But if they were forced to wait any longer - sweltering in the gods-awful heat - then he couldn't guarantee that tactical surprise could be achieved. That thought alone scared him more than any thoughts of the upcoming battle.

He swatted a fly away from his face while fighting the urge to scream. He took his chain mail gauntlet off to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his leather liner. A horse near him began to neigh nervously, setting him on edge, but was soon quieted by the calming words and strokes of its rider.

Where was the gods-be-damned Durheim infantry?

As if hearing his thought Scout Master Pellen appeared at the lip of the berm, low-crawling noiselessly, his face greeting Sir Lorell through the pushed back blades of the tall yellow grass. Pellen held up his hands and reported the situation through the company's silent language.

An upturned palm - infantry approaching - two fingers circling the palm - two companies encircling the way station - four fingers thrust up - four hundred yards - a fist punching out - engagement in five minutes.

Sir Lorell nodded, mouthed a thank you to Pellen, and turned to his men. Up and down the line, all sixty soldiers and officers looked to him for his command. Feeling the weight of responsibility he closed his eyes and prayed to whatever deity might be listening. Taking a slow, deep breath he exhaled, and opened his eyes to focus on the task at hand. A sense of conviction only found on the cusp of combat entered his being, steeling his face into a fierce scowl.

He shot up and whistled. Unsheathing his sword he swung it in a violent arc before grabbing the reigns of his horse, mounting it in one fluid motion. The mount stood up and shook itself free of the dirt and grasses that had clung to it. The men and officers of second and third platoons followed suit. Wordlessly they guided their horses over the berm into the stirrup-high grasses, and withdrew their swords, horse bows, and spears. Sir Lorell was the last one over the berm, as was customary to Bretonic tradition. What he saw made him pause.

The Durheimese may very well have been called 'companies' by military standards, but what was charging towards Corporal Garson and his men was anything but 'standard'. In good conscience Trevan could not call them 'companies'. Rabble was the word that came to mind. Each Durheim soldier seemed to be racing the others for the glory of first blood, and any coherency they may have had before vanished in the haze of the sun-baked grasslands.

Garson sat absolutely still on his horse outside the reinforced structure of the way station, playing the part of the bait. The host, in its lust for battle, only saw the five Rangers at the way station. They were completely oblivious to the sixty or so others that had just risen from the berm.

Trevan thanked the gods his plan had started to work. Now all that was left was to press home their advantage. If they succeeded it would be a short, bloody victory.

Three hundred yards. Sir Lorell steadied his horse and grabbed his shield from the saddle.

Two hundred and fifty yards. He grabbed his steel helm and placed it on his head.

Two hundred and twenty five yards. He nodded towards Dunlevy, who raised the standard.

Two hundred and ten yards. He raised his sword in the air.

Two hundred yards. Sir Lorell swung his sword forward.

"CHARGE!"

Second and Third platoons of 'E' company let go a roar that echoed across the grasslands, across the scattered units of Durheim Infantry, across the cobblestone roads of the Pensey Junction, across the stone and wood way station, across Deny Garson and the four other Rangers at his side. They screamed bloody hell and kicked their horses into a gallop.

With the wind whipping across his sun burnt face and black hair, Sir Lorell raised his sword and pointed left, towards the North. First Platoon, left flank. He raised his shield and sword, dropping the reins momentarily, and with his legs he angled the horse towards the right. Second Platoon, on me, right flank. Then he took his sword and tapped it twice on his helmet--a masterful feat to accomplish in the middle of a hard ride into combat--and regained the reins in his shield hand. Standard, on me.

Roy Dunlevy, the E company standard in one hand his long sword in the other, gained quickly on Trevan and was soon at his side. The red horseshoe and "E IIIII" were displayed prominently on the violently flapping flag, which snapped at every heartbeat, at every horse stomp.

First Platoon, led by Sergeant Falkern began its quick envelopment of the rear column of Durheim infantry - some eighty men who were mostly standing still, milling around in confusion, and seemingly leaderless. Shielding his eyes from the glint of the sun shining off of his trooper's armor, Sir Lorell could not hide the grin slowly spreading across his face. The bottom jaw closes. Soon the top jaw will as well. Gods-be-blessed, its working!

That's when the gods played their hands. Corporal Garson kicked his boots into the flanks of his horse and led his command headlong into the approaching tide of violent, tribal men. That was not part of the knight's plan.

"Gods-be... ahhh fuck! What does he think he's doing," Trevan asked no one in particular, as even the closest of his men could not have heard anything short of their horses pounding the grass, and the pounding of their own hearts. Trevan caught Dunlevy through his peripheral vision shaking his head at the youth's rash decision whilst urging his horse on to faster and more reckless speeds.

It seemed to every Bretonic soldier on the battlefield that Deny Garson had just willingly committed suicide. Rather than fighting his own impetuous nature and awaiting the rest of 'E' company to hit the scattered enemy en masse, as was Sir Lorell's plan, Deny had decided to drive straight into the first elements of the Durheimese without regard for his own safety.

Trevan could only watch helplessly as the corporal and his men started cleaving through the heads and arms of the nearest Durheimese, slicing through their poor quality scalemail and leather caps with ease, leaving fountains of blood in their wake. As the tide of men inexorably surrounded them though, the four Rangers were systematically unhorsed. Deny was the last one to go down, his horse shorn at the knees by a savage looking Durheim Bloodkin, the necklace of finger bones signifying his leadership clear to Trevan even from where he was.

It happened so fast. He watched Deny struggle to rise against the shock of the fall and the weight of his plate armor. But it was too late.

With one downward sweep of his notched battle axe the Bloodkin calmly planted the weapon through Deny's helmet and into his skull. The man went about it with little worry or rush - as if he was a lumberjack taking his first swing of the season - just getting started. The young corporal's body thudded unceremoniously onto the ground, his last seconds of existence all but swallowed up by the waist-high grass. The long, black haired Bloodkin placed his foot on Deny's shoulder plate and heaved with all his might, his corded muscles bulging. After a few pulls he wrenched the fearsome blade from the corporal's head, splaying himself with brain matter. Ignoring the viscera as it slowly dripped down his armor he began to look for his next kill.

With a loud crash of men and horses First Platoon hit the Durheim rear and immediately started to roll them up like an old tapestry that had seen its last days. Trevan, despite his wish to keep the Bloodkin in view, took his glance from the gloating man to witness the envelopment. The Rangers had begun to scythe through the periphery of the enemy horde. Their bloody work was quick and efficient, as only elite warriors could manage. Chainmail-barded horses and platemail-armored soldiers soon began to intermix with the tall, leather and scalemail-clad Durheim infantry in the infernal heat of the afternoon, blurring the coherency of command and the definition of the battle lines.

In short - it was a slowly rolling ball of chaos - a slowly rolling ball of chaos and confusion that Sir Lorell could not affect the outcome of. The left flank was now in the hands of the gods, and they sounded like they were laughing.

It was with a heavy sense of apprehension that Sir Lorell finally wrenched his attention away from the left flank and focused it back on the enemy in front of him. He quickly found the savage Durheim commander in the midst of his own men. The Bloodkin, reacting to the envelopment, realized that he had walked his men into a trap. He suspended his own quest for killing and was busy trying to reorganize his men into some semblance of defense. Waving his arms and gesticulating wildly with his axe, the commander had started to form a staggered line abreast, hoping to blunt the Second Platoon's thundering charge into his lines.

To Trevan's left, Roy Dunlevy smashed into the makeshift line a heartbeat before he did. Battle proper was joined. The noise was deafening, and the taste bloody. It was too fast and fluid to feel anything, including fear. One only reacted.

Sir Lorell's war horse trampled two hapless men, their screams quickly drowned out by the blood beating through his ears. He clipped a third Durheimese with the bottom of his shield, slicing though his bearded throat with ease, leaving an arterial spray in his wake. Dunlevy ran over two as well, impaled a third on the standard, and sliced the face of a fourth. A Ranger to Trevan's right managed to trample another Durheim man, stab a second in the collarbone, and parry a pike thrust from a third before being unhorsed by another pike.

Then - just as with the First Platoon - it became a miasma of chaos.

A short sword was thrust at his leg. He parried it and kicked the man in the face, shattering bone and tissue. A rusty halberd grated across his shield, getting stuck in his battle harness. He hammered his shield down, snapping the poorly made shaft into two. His horse reared up and kicked the halberd wielder square in the chest, caving in his breast bone. A long sword got caught in his horse's chainmail barding. Instinctually the animal backed up, relieving the Durheimese of his weapon. Before he could recover Trevan smashed his sword through the man's leather cap, lodging it in his forehead. The sword dislodged itself with a sickening rip as gravity brought the soldier's bloody husk to the ground.

Sir Lorell found himself hard pressed to stay alive. His baser instincts kicked in, and his existence dimmed to the three foot killing radius his sword carved out.

The reflection of the sun off of a pike caught his attention. It was slithering towards his chainmail gorget, a sure death blow - when it stopped suddenly, hovered for an instant - and then dropped. Whipping his face towards the direction it came from revealed Dunlevy withdrawing his long sword from the stomach of a Durheim pikeman. Trevan nodded his head in thanks. Dunlevy just grunted and urged his horse over to another knot of men fighting, his latest victim all but forgotten.

It was then that an ear-piercing roar echoed across the killing ground. It was a roar of challenge, a roar of confidence, and a roar meant to instill terror - into which troops Trevan did not rightly know. But it rang like a clarion call across the desperate groups of men grappling and killing each other at Haversfield Way Station - and it made them all take a momentary pause in their grim duties.

The Durheim Bloodkin, the man who had killed Deny, was standing on a grotesque pile of dead Rangers and their mounts. Their limbs, weapons, armor, and bodies were horrifically juxtaposed together, forming a mound from where he was issuing his roar. The man was actually issuing orders to his remaining countrymen, Trevan realized belatedly. Issuing orders and ignoring the three broken arrow shafts jutting from his right arm, trying to bolster his men's morale.

He looked possessed. More than possessed - he looked violently alive.

Fighting the cold chill climbing down his spine and feeling there was nothing else he could do; Sir Lorell issued a challenge of his own. He dismounted his horse in one quick, practiced motion and landed deftly on his feet in a balanced battle stance. Without the slightest hesitation he began to slowly stalk up to the Bloodkin. Trusting Dunlevy to take the reins of his mount, Trevan issued his challenge again, this time smacking his sword against his shield. That drew the Bloodkin's attention.

"Come on you bastard! You've delighted in killing young lads and men locked in combat with others! Let's see how you do against one that is neither young nor distracted!" The knight pointed his sword at the Bloodkin and broke into a grim smile. "More than likely, you don't understand a word I am saying, but my intentions are clear enough. Come, you unkempt waste of a man, time to meet your Moon God."

With the battle still raging heavily around him the Durheim commander broke into a wide grin and began to laugh. It was a deep, feral laugh, starting in the pit of his stomach and ending at his bloody lips. He hopped down from the pile of human and horse corpses with surprising litheness, and regarded the Bretonic Knight in front of him with a look of cruel disdain. He pushed through a protective knot of his own men as he approached Trevan, barking orders at them.

Without thought, he suddenly stopped and swung his axe at the back of a Ranger locked in combat nearby. The blow sliced through the man's back plate with ease and severed his spinal cord in one fluid chop. The Bloodkin laughed his deep laugh once more as the soldier's body toppled over onto his feet. Maniacally grinning, he stepped over the discarded life and continued approaching.

Trevan meanwhile blocked the errant swing of a Durheimese swordsman with the bottom edge of his shield, punched the man in the face with the top edge - reeling him back on his heels - and finished him with a vicious downward cut that opened him from collarbone to groin. He parried another stab of a pike, spinning deftly around it, before letting it shoot past him. Fluidly, Trevan opened the throat of the bewildered soldier as he stumbled into his killing radius, unable to recover his defenses in time. Without remorse he ran through another Durheim swordsman as his back was turned.

There is no honor in combat. War is war, and if you have the opportunity to kill a man, his back turned or his attention elsewhere \- you do it. One less enemy was one less enemy, he told himself in justification.

It was that simple, and it was that simplicity that Sir Lorell reminded himself of. It was that simplicity that made combat so much more understandable than anything else he had ever known in his life, whether the workings of the gods or the workings of women. It was that simplicity that drove him forward to lock weapons in combat with a man two heads taller than him. It was that simplicity that made his duty easy.

Trevan stepped over a fallen Ranger, the man moaning softly, a bloody semblance of life. He issued a silent prayer for the man's soul, and gained the remaining ground between him and the Durheim commander. This was the moment - the winning or losing of the battle hinged on this confrontation - and the Bretonic Knight vowed to every life shattered that day he would defeat the Bloodkin - and look down upon his crumpled corpse. He vowed to his King that the Pensey Junction would remain clear of Durheim troops. He vowed he would blunt the invasion of the Northern passes.

He vowed he would survive and see Anne Marie -

Sharp pain rippled through his head.

And then all he knew was darkness.

* * *

His eyes fluttered open, revealing the soft glow of sunrise - or sunset -warming his face. Confusion overtook him shortly before the searing pain behind his eyes blinded out all other thoughts or feelings. Darkness took him once more.

* * *

"Trevan, you must stop moaning. You've been moaning for hours. The other tenants in the building might actually think I have a virile man in my bed. Or I have a prisoner I've been torturing all night and day." He heard a light chuckle from somewhere beyond his consciousness. He sighed before the searing pain came back, and darkness descended upon him once more.

* * *

The smell of buttermilk biscuits, warm apple cider, sizzled bacon, and fried potatoes assailed his nostrils. He heard birds singing their innocent songs. He heard the soft rustle of leaves and branches. He heard the dulled murmur of a city going through its day. He felt a soft wind caressing his face. He felt a soft mattress and pillow underneath him, supporting, cradling his body. And he smelled - her.

Sir Trevan Lorell's eyes shot open to reveal a blurry image of wooden rafters, their beams and crossbars forming a lattice work of structural support designs accented by the soft glow of morning light. As his vision sharpened he could make out the individual grains of the wood, their haphazard patterns being the only pattern nature ever intended. Slight wisps of smoke wafted above him, dancing and lapping throughout the room like currents in an ocean.

"Where. Where am I," he groaned to no one in particular. As existence filtered back into his head, the pain lessened but the confusion grew. What happened? The last image he had in his mind was of the tall Durheim Bloodkin smiling, licking his lips and laughing - eagerly awaiting the clash of their weapons. The battle had been raging around them, and he remembered the conviction he felt. Vaguely, he also remembered that the tide of battle had turned for the Bretonic Rangers.

E company!

A sudden surge of worry erupted throughout his being, and he attempted to rise up from the bed he found himself in. Pain - like a thousand shards of glass puncturing his brain - shot through him and left him speechless, unable to rise but an inch. His vision swam and bursts of white filled the corners of his eyes. Defeated, he sank back down into the mattress, closed his eyes again, and started to moan once more, the tremendous torture his body felt all but unbearable.

"No, no, no Sir. We can't have you starting that all over again. I already had to explain to the couple living across the hall I was doing my civic duty and nursing a war hero back to life. Granted, they probably didn't believe me, but a second bout of moaning might force them to seek out the constable. I already have enough violent men in my life, I don't need more."

It was Anne Marie's voice. The seductive allure he had fallen for was still present, but it had a new edge to it - one Trevan had not heard during their chance meeting from the time before. There was care, compassion, and worry tingeing it. It had a mother's cadence, a lover's intimacy, a sister's protectiveness, and a cousin's loyal undertone to it. It reminded him of being home with his family. It reminded him of those who would not judge. Those who would love him no matter what.

"And to answer your question Trevan, you are in my apartment, overlooking the textile district." He heard a smile in her voice. "Though - I must admit, this is the first time a man has gotten into my bed by nearly getting himself killed. Usually they get me really drunk, promise me riches and baubles beyond comprehension, or swear they will pull down kingdoms for just one night in it. It's admirable what you did - and a little romantic, I think."

Despite himself and despite the pain wracking his body Sir Lorell formed a smile with his cracked lips, and groggily said "If I'd had known... all it took... to grace your bed... was pulling a kingdom down... I would have gone about it a different way... I think." He barked a parched laugh and winced before gathering himself and asked "What happened... to my men? What... what... happened to E company... Anne Marie?"

He felt her hesitation in the air. She got up from a rickety chair across the room and walked over to the bed, the smell of food before her. "Why don't you open your eyes, get comfortable, drink some cider, and eat - before we discuss that?" Her aversion to answering his question directly turned his stomach in knots and had him worrying about the battle all over again.

Obviously, he had been bludgeoned into unconsciousness.

Obviously, he had lived and had been taken back to Haversfield for recovery.

Obviously, by her carefree nature, the city was not in any immediate danger.

Obviously, some men must have survived.

He dreaded opening his eyes and reentering reality more than anything he had ever dreaded before. The dread of making love for the first time, of being in combat for the first time, of killing for the first time - paled in comparison. But just as the boy becomes the man, he knew in the depth of his soul he had to open his eyes, had to face whatever stark reality awaited him.

"Oh come now - looking at me in a nightshirt holding a tray of food for you can't be that bad."

He cracked a smile, opened his eyes, and immediately lost his breath. Anne Marie looked simply... angelic. Her face, the perfect balance of symmetrical beauty and carefree nature, was open and inviting. Her eyes were pools of bright green that reminded him of spring and entranced him with their desire. A slight rush had entered her cheeks, giving her a healthy glow, and her smile greeted him with its warmness. Her body - more voluptuous in the thin white garment than he remembered - showed off her womaness in a way his sore body responded to immediately.

And yet he felt... guilty. Duty has been his life for so long, duty his only lover, his only satisfaction. His men meant everything to him. And yet... he couldn't help but try to ignore his duty as he stared at Anne Marie. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to, the feeling of his head warring with his heart.

Trevan caught himself staring down her sagging nightshirt, catching a glimpse of her finely shaped and delicate breasts. Anne Marie smiled, catching his overt act of ogling. His face burned red hot with embarrassment and he felt like a young boy staring at the merchant's daughter through her bedroom window. "I'd like that... a lot," he managed to whisper before meeting her eyes once more.

"Now the bandage," she said cheerfully. She gently lifted his head from the pillow, felt the tightness of the bandage, and then checked to make sure there wasn't blood or pus leaking from the wound. "Looks good," she commented. "Now time to get you some food and drink."

Trevan sat up gingerly in the bed. The sheet fell off of his chest, revealing his unclothed upper body, and a host of yellowed bruises and small cuts. His shock at being naked in her bed only made Anne Marie laugh once more, and he began to blush. She flashed him a coy look in response to his self-consciousness. Still laughing light-heartedly she handed him a clay mug of the cider, and watched him intently as he downed the drink in one long gulp. Smacking his lips he smiled at her.

"Thanks. Didn't realize how thirsty I was."

"You've been in and out of sleep for three days now," she said as she broke a biscuit in half. "Here, you're probably just as famished as well." He took the biscuit from her hand, hesitating momentarily as his hand touched hers, before setting out to devour the biscuit in two bites. She laughed, and broke off a piece for herself.

"I can't believe how fucking hungry I am!"

"I can imagine. Do you think you can be a big boy and handle the tray by yourself?" she asked sarcastically before handing him the tray. Without any sense of propriety he greedily snatched the food from her and began to devour it. Anne Marie watched him happily, a sparkle in her eyes. Since arriving at her door a bloody mess three nights earlier, she was glad Trevan was awake, animated, but more importantly - safe.

"Damn right I am! My gods" he said between mouthfuls of another biscuit "I haven't tasted a biscuit like this since my mom made them for me as a child! And this bacon" he managed to spurt out as he grabbed three slices and shoved them into his mouth, devouring them without pity "tastes like it was cut right from the pig's ass!"

The merchant's daughter, the successful painter, his by-proxy nurse, began to laugh anew.

"I'm glad you like it. This is the third breakfast I've cooked since you were unceremoniously dumped at my door. The physician didn't know if you were going to awake, ever, but I knew being in my bed would wake you up soon enough. How could you enjoy the bed and not enjoy the body lying next you, I had asked myself. I knew you'd want to taste..." she looked down at her body "my cooking."

A piece of fried potato got caught in his throat and he coughed uncontrollably. Whether it was the food that made him cough, or her suggestion, Trevan didn't rightly know, nor did he care. It was the first time he had truly felt happy and safe since the campaign had started the year before. It was a feeling he hadn't expected to find all the way out on the fringe of the Kingdom, away from his friends and family, away from his home and community. It wasn't a feeling he thought was possible during war.

"So what happened to my men?"

"Fine," she dramatically sighed "I guess I can let you know what I know." She stopped, a look of contrition washing over her face. Trevan's men were like his family, she had to remind herself. "The physician and a rather rude man named Roy brought you to my door. Said you had taken a hammer blow to the back of your head during the battle. Said they needed someone to nurse you while they reorganized your company. Said I was recommended by my uncle. So I agreed. Also said they would be back in a couple of days to check on you."

"And that's it," he asked.

Her shoulder shrug told him everything he needed to know. She wasn't told much.

How many men did I lose? Who wouldn't be going home to Bretonia because of my decisions? What happened to the Durheim? The questions nagged him. His sense of duty reasserted itself, battling once more with his desire to succumb to the comforts of Anne Marie.

When all the food was finished Anne Marie took the tray and the plates out the bedroom into an adjoining room. While waiting for her return, excited as to what might happen next between them, he began to scan the room he had taken his convalescence in for the past three days. He needed something to take his mind off of what might happen next - what the culmination of their chance meeting might entail - anything to keep his heart from bursting and his loins from exploding.

Though the ceiling may have been bare, the walls and floors were alive with colors and life. Paintings of sunsets, of various women and men, and intricate tapestries lined the walls, whilst ornate rugs consisting of thousands of colored threads plastered the wooden floor. They added humanness to the room, impressive for a rather lackluster apartment. Also contained within were two armoires, a wardrobe with a mirror, two dressers, four chairs of various size and design, and an ornate desk on which laid a rat's nest of scattered parchments and leather bound books.

Anne Marie had taken a squat, drab, three-windowed apartment and turned into a welcoming, enchanting, and beautiful place. A place a man could get used to coming home to, a place where spending days on end just laying in bed and making love seemed entirely feasible. It was a place that spoke more about its owner than surely the owner would ever tell a soldier like Trevan. It was a place he wished to stay for as long as the tides of fortune would allow him.

It made him think about being a soldier. The mud of battlefields, the suffering of combat, the banter between men on the thin line between life and death - that had been his reality. What is my reality now, he wondered. The duty my country deserves, or the love my heart desires?

"What are you thinking about" Anne Marie asked, snapping him out of his day dream. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and turned in the bed to look at her.

"I was just, I was just..." he trailed off as he regarded her naked body silhouetted in the doorway. He imagined Tallamina - the goddess of life and love - would be hard pressed to look as divine as Anne Marie did at that moment. It took all his willpower to not jump up from the bed and start ravaging her right in the doorway, forsaking all human civility. As with battle and they way it affected him, his baser instincts kicked in and his vision dimmed to just the woman standing in front of him, in all her unblemished, fragile glory.

"You are so. Gods-be-blessed... beautiful Anne Marie."

"It's too bad I don't have any undergarments for you to sniff. But I guess we'll just have to settle with this" she whispered softly, referring to her body. "I hope it'll do?"

A loud, commanding knock on the apartment door made them both jump, pulling them unwillingly from their burgeoning romance. Hesitating, they didn't move, hoping in some small way whoever it was would give up and go away. The knock persisted.

"WHO IS IT" Anne Marie asked with such venom in her voice that Trevan was shocked, and a little worried.

The muffled reply came. "Regimental Surgeon Tellern - newly arrived from the capital. I'm here to check on Sir Lorell's condition. If able bodied, his presence is requested at the barracks. E company is moving out tomorrow, ma'am."

And just like that reality asserted itself. Battles still needed to be fought, the Kingdom still needed to be defended, and the gods still moved mortals like the pawns they were.

Theirs was destined to be only a chance meeting.

DUEL AT THE IMPERIAL CEMETERY

The cemetery had been there for hundreds of years. Imperial records stated that Emperor Daren sanctified the grounds following the horrendous casualties the Empire suffered during the first Vallaheim Campaign. Though all Imperial citizens knew that what the records stated - and what was the truth - were usually two different things. It originally spanned some fifteen acres, but as more wars slipped into Imperial History and more bodies became permanent residents, it had grown to just over forty acres.

Thirty-nine acres more than what was needed for a man to get lost in, thought Sir Allaric Thyge. Forty acres of bloody, violent Imperial history.

He pushed his long, golden hair away from his green eyes and surveyed the grounds his opponent chose for their duel. It was a military cemetery, and as such was laid out in concise rows of similar headstones, their faded gray construction numbing to the eye. Each marker was a grim reminder of the cost of war, and the Imperial Blood Knight felt a vast indifference reflected in their similarity. He also couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy as he stared at the silent sentries of history, suppressing a cold shiver down his spine as he did so.

"I think Sir Tallon was trying to make a point when he chose these grounds for the duel," Sir Edris Thyge grumbled to his side. Allaric chuckled at his father's comment as he continued to scan the cemetery. He chose not to respond, knowing that Edris would continue to blithely talk if he engaged him. The old man was nervous, of that Allaric was sure. Four hells, I'm nervous as well, he thought.

His enemy was a pompous ass from one of the elite Imperial families, for all intents and purposes trained from birth to be a fighter. He was cruel, shallow, and callous. And bitter--mostly because his wife had slipped away during the Harvest tournament, and engaged Sir Allaric in a secretive romance. How they were found out, Thyge would never know; the fact that Sir Fyn Tallon did find out put him in the predicament that he was now in.

Always thinking with your dick, Allaric thought. Imperial law stated that a wronged party could challenge any citizen of the Empire in a style of their own choosing. If refused, the challenged lost all title and claim to land. It was that simple. Fight or exile. Fight and maybe die, or run and definitely die. No knight, especially an Imperial Blood Knight - the elite of the elite - had ever been exiled and lived to tell the tale. There was too much money promised for their deaths. Eventually someone caught up to them.

"Where in the four hells is Fyn and his second," Allaric asked rhetorically. His patience was starting to wear thin, and the sweat was building under his crimson suit of hauberk-chain. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the Imperial Blood Knight began to tap his long sword's boiled red leather scabbard. "Can't believe that fucking bastard chose to duel in full battle equipment, minus helmets. What's the thinking?"

A breeze stirred through the cemetery, prompting the low-hanging branches of the Imperial Ironwood trees to sway and dance in a macabre fashion. They, just like the headstones, were laid out in a precise military grid - for every block of fifty graves there were five trees running down the middle. They looked like officers of Talzus, the god of death, standing vigil over his eternal possessions. But then again, that was the reason why this genus of tree was planted in the cemetery, mused Allaric. To further the beauty of his shrine.

"Here comes the moderator Al."

Allaric glanced quickly at his father. Sir Edris Thyge was a grizzled veteran of the Empire, the many battle scars marking his face and exposed arms testament to his forty-plus years of service. He was unarmored, dressed in the dark green uniform of the Empire, and his hands were resting on the hilt of his broadsword. Unlike most men he looked more intimidating out of his armor than in it. Steam rose from his bald head. His gruff, salt-and-pepper bearded face was staring intently across the rolling green grounds of the cemetery. It was scrunched up in worrisome scrutiny, his eyes all but closed and his brow furrowed in an apprehension Allaric had never seen before. The old man is truly worried that I'll be killed. Should I be as worried then?

The moderator, his gray tunic and pants matching the color of the headstones, was casually walking towards the pair. He carried a paper tablet and charcoal pencil clutched tight in his arms, reminding Allaric of a mother navigating a battlefield squeezing her child to her bosom. His steps were evenly spaced and with little punctuality to them, like he was out for a Moonday stroll. The man was taller than most, and his gait seemed ackward for one of his social station. He soon covered the distance to the awaiting Thyge's.

"Sir Edris," he said as he acknowledged the elder, as Imperial culture warranted. "Sir Allaric. Gentleman, Sir Fyn and his second, Sir Laurel Monmant, will be arriving soon. In the interim I will say this. I wish you the best of luck Sir Allaric, though I don't know why. I cannot, nor will not agree with the decisions you made that got you here. But in acknowledgement of your father's admirable service to our glorious Empire, I feel the need to tell you: I hope you are alive by the end of this... cock-wagging contest."

"Aye, thank you Gheof. My son's phallus tends to get him into trouble more often than not. Though, when we were his age, our phalluses had gotten us into the same amount of trouble. Just never with another nobleman's wife," Sir Edris said as he shot his son a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to Gheof. "If I may ask, why has Fyn chosen Laurel Monmant as his second? To my knowledge they do not know each other well, and their houses are from opposite ends of the Empire, both geographically and politically."

"It's rumored they're secret lovers dad. Met during the Wine Rebellion on Plankt Plains. Sir Laurel took an arrow in the stomach shielding a semi-conscious Tallon, dragging him two leagues to an abandoned aid station, before collapsing in his arms. They say it turned from brotherly love to manly love shortly thereafter." He paused, deep in thought. "Though being an Imperial Blood Knight makes it hard to believe."

"I sometimes forget you're only twenty, been an IBK for only two years, and still take creed in what the rumor mill churns out from the capital, Al. I was asking Gheof the significance of Laurel's part in all of this, politically and militarily. Did Sir Hew the elder and House Monmant have a hand in picking Laurel as the second, and if so, what do they look to gain from it? We of House Thyge have no concrete political affiliations, we're strictly a military family, as you know... whereas the Monmant's have a stake in seeing House Tallon lose one of its most politically savvy scions. The smallest of actions can have the biggest of ramifications Allaric. You've been taught that time and time again."

Slightly embarrassed, as only a youth being chided by an elder can be, Allaric began to flush. He wiped sweat from his brow and looked back towards the cemetery for any sign of his opponent, anything to take the sting out of the air. The three men continued to remain silent as Sir Edris's words sank in. Gheof because he could not think of a clear answer, Edris because he was still abhorrently worried, and Allaric because he could find no fault in his father's admonishment.

The morning, having started dry and partly sunny was now overcast with rain threatening. An ill foreboding that the superstitious knight couldn't suppress began to claw throughout his being. Will this be my last day on Kalium? Will my father's last memory of me be one of dishonor and bloody death? Will Talzus greet me with open arms? He began to shiver anew. He became impatient once more. The wait was worse than anything he had ever experienced before, including the first time he tasted blood in combat.

The silence dragged on.

"I believe House Monmant looks to its political future," Gheof said to break the silence, "In one of two ways. It gains favor in the Shrine Party by acting as Tallon's second. It also gains an advantage if Fyn falls here today. His position on the noble council will be up for grabs, and Sir Hew the junior is the favored replacement, in most circles." The moderator smirked, something he looked unused to doing. "Monmant has delivered a deft stroke in respect to this duel." He met Edris's eyes with his own, nodded, before facing Allaric.

"If it wasn't for your father during the Free States War, Sir, I would not be alive today. If it wasn't for your father introducing me to Lady Catalin, I might never have found my life companion. It is because of these debts that I tell you this now." Gheof placed his paper tablet and pencil in the nook of his arm and began to rub his hands together. A nervous gesture that wasn't lost on Allaric, adding gravitas to what he was about to say. "Sir Fyn Tallon is strictly right handed, unlike most Imperial Knights who are ambidextrous, including yourself. A birth deformity prevents him from fully articulating his left wrist, leaving it rather useless in any type of combat. It is this advantage you must press home."

Right handed? He can only use his right hand? By the gods, this is wonderful. I could kiss you right now Gheof, thought the Imperial Blood Knight, but instead of voicing his joy he merely said "Thank you Sir. If Fyn Tallon had any honor whatsoever, I might feel ashamed of knowing his weakness ahead of time. I might even have taken umbrage for you including me in such a blatant act of dishonor, but again, Sir Fyn is a manipulative asshole who deserves my derision, and not my respect."

"Speaking of Sir Fyn," rasped Sir Edris, the emotion apparent in his voice "he approaches with Monmant." He pointed towards the hill the moderator had just come down from. "And my, what odd bedfellows they make." Gheof and Allaric turned towards the approaching knights. It was tough to size up an opponent from a distance, but one did not need to size up Sir Fyn. He sneered at Allaric like the pompous ass that he was. He swaggered towards the group like the overconfident fighter that he was. He made a comment to Monmant from the side of his mouth like the coward that he was.

Indeed, one did not need to size up Sir Fyn Tallon. There was nothing to size up.

Sir Laurel Monmant on the other hand carried himself with an altogether different bearing. Though Imperial customs dictated that a duelist's second need not arm or armor himself, Laurel was bedecked in full Imperial Blood Knight battle gear, minus the helmet. His crimson red hauberk, plate skirt, greaves, gorget, arm guards, and underlying chain mail matched Sir Allaric's in its unblemished beauty and subtle suggestions of controlled violence. His blood red leather scabbard housed End Time, House Monmant's legendary sword. Reputed to have been forged with the blood of Pen'eallet, the patron goddess of Old Kalium, the sword had been bequeathed to him on his introduction into the Imperial Blood Knights, some ten years past.

Sir Laurel, just like Sir Allaric, held himself to a different standard than most Imperial soldiers and knights. Soldiers and knights like Sir Fyn fought for the thrill of fighting, for the loot, for the prestige, or for the women - but never for the Empire alone. Those types of fighters fought for personal reasons and only for personal reasons. The Imperial Blood Knights, and indeed - very few other Imperials - fought for the Emperor, for the Empire, and for each other. They fought for an idea, for a group, and not for themselves - which made them the most dangerous of all fighters on the continent. Monmant and Thyge were brethren through and through, a forged link that nothing could break.

Including Sir Fyn Tallon.

Sir Laurel spoke first and cut off whatever snide remark Fyn was about to make, further deviating from Imperial customs. "Brother Allaric. Sir Edris. Moderator. I wish we could have met under different circumstances. Indeed, this is a sad event that has come upon us." He tucked his right arm across his stomach and bowed deeply, his golden hair dipping over his face and draping towards the ground. He held the pose for a long moment, an act of extreme respect in Knightly circles, before rising. His blue eyes met Allaric's. He said nothing.

"Yes, yes, very well, very well Laurel. Enough of this camaraderie and flowerily banter. I swear I'll never understand Imperial Blood Knights and your sense of duty to one another. One would think you'd rather be Thyge's second and not mine. After I put this..." Fyn glanced condescendingly towards Allaric. "Whelp into Talzus' embrace, we'll discuss your impertinence." He sneered once more before breaking into an ugly smile, the smile that drove his wife into Allaric's arms. "I still can't see what my wife saw in you Thyge, short of your title as Imperial Blood Knight. You're a young shit from a backwater family with no significant land or prestige. Guess she wanted to slum it, huh?"

He began to laugh a cruel, nasally laugh and looked towards Laurel for a response. The Imperial Blood Knight, to his credit, did not acknowledge him. He stood stark still, right hand resting on End Time's hilt, and stared straight ahead. Fyn let his laugh dwindle away, seemingly stolen by the breeze. He racked his gauntleted sword hand against his plate skirt twice, a nervous tic he was infamous for, before unsheathing his longsword. It grated against the boiled leather, punctuating the nearly silent air of the cemetery. No one moved.

As moderator, Gheof made to say something but hesitated, waiting for the challenger to make the first move.

"Enough of this shit," Fyn said as he took a few swipes in the air with his weapon. "If my second doesn't even want to be here, or rather - be an active supporter - than there is no need to drag it out. Sir Allaric Thyge, I have challenged you to a duel. To the death. For my honor. For my wife's honor. For the honor of House Tallon. For the honor of the Emperor. For the honor of the Empire. Now unsheathe your sword and prepare your soul for the eternal sleep."

"Gentleman - as Imperial custom dictates, this duel cannot start until the proper clerical procedures have been observed," the moderator said as he stepped between the two combatants. He held his left hand up in a placating gesture towards Sir Tallon. Satisfied the noble would not do anything foolish or break custom, Gheof lowered his arm and grabbed the paper and pencil from the nook of his arm. His face was unreadable as he scanned the words he had already written down the night before. Finished, he cleared his throat. Both Sir Edris and Sir Laurel remained motionless as the mid-morning breeze picked up.

"On this day, the fifty-second of harvest season, nine-hundred and twenty-two years after the fall of the Kalium Empire, Sir Fyn of House Tallon has challenged Sir Allaric of House Thyge on the grounds of impugning his honor and his wife's honor. He has chosen the Imperial Cemetery of Raggsburg as the grounds. He has chosen combat to the death, each combatant armed with a longsword and armored in their respective battle gear without helms or shields. I have been instructed by the Emperor himself to record what happens here and moderate said duel, making sure it is conducted in a fair manner."

"Standing for Sir Allaric is his father, Sir Edris, a veteran of over forty years of Imperial service. Should his son fall, his father has agreed to carry his son's body home. Standing for Sir Fyn is Sir Laurel of House Monmant, an Imperial Blood Knight of ten years and garrison commander of Fort Tern. Should Sir Fyn fall, Sir Laurel has agreed to bear his body to the capital and deliver it into the arms of Sir Hew Tallon."

"Quarter may be asked and may be given gentle..."

"I'll not ask for such favors, nor will I give such favors," Fyn said, interrupting the moderator. He spat upon the ground, scuffed it with his boot, and took a few more swings with his sword. He squared his broad shoulders and faced Allaric with the same condescing sneer on his face he had displayed before. Unfazed, Allaric returned the look with a fierce smile of his own and unsheathed his sword, the rasp of metal on leather a clarion call across the cemetery. Gheof looked from one combatant to the other before continuing.

"As I was saying gentleman, quarter may be asked and may be given. Though custom does dictate the removal of a hand or a foot from the loser, should such quarter be given. On my command you will face one other, salute each other, turn towards the capital and salute the Emperor--may the gods protect him - before starting the combat. Is this clear? Are there any questions before we begin?"

"I have one moderator, but it is for Sir Edris. Sir Edris," Fyn asked casually, addressing the elder. "What will House Thyge do once its only remaining scion is unceremoniously wiped from this Empire? Will you yourself marry again, hoping your seed still spouts from the spigot, and produce another cunt of an heir?" Though no laughter touched his face, his eyes had the look of a cruel joke being played out.

"Why you piece of shit..."

"Dad, don't waste the effort," Allaric said as restrained his dad with his left arm. "He's not worth it. Fyn likes to squawk like a pigeon when he's nervous. He fights the same way, leads soldiers the same way, and apparently beds his wife the same way." Edris struggled a few more moments with his son before giving up. Allaric was a head taller, thirty pounds heavier, and forty years younger. Edris sighed and calmed himself down before taking a step back. Sir Laurel still did not move, nor make any motion that showed he planned to stir from his balanced stance. Gheof looked restrained and about ready to walk over and backhand Fyn for his disrespectful nature.

Once again, silence spread between the gathered men.

"I accept your challenge Sir Fyn of House Tallon. Furthermore, may it be recorded that I acknowledge your reasons for calling this duel. I acted in a manner unbecoming of an Imperial Blood Knight, and for that I am ashamed. I acted in a manner that brought shame to my House and to my father, and for that I am truly sorry." The last part Allaric had said to his father, the slightest signs of regret on his face. The Thyge's stared at each other a moment longer before Edris broke eye contact, and nodded his understanding. Though he never would have said it, as he never had the capacity to, he was proud of his son. He was a man well before his time, on a better path than he ever was. The slightest drops of moisture touched his eyes before he turned to look towards the capital.

Never seen the old man cry. By the gods, he's one tough soul.

"If this heart-to-heart moment is over with, let's get on with your death Allaric."

"Might I just say," blurted Sir Laurel, breaking his stoic silence. Everyone turned towards him, Fyn with a look of derision on his face, Gheof expectantly, and the Thyge's with curiosity. "That the conduct of Sir Fyn Tallon is not a reflection upon House Monmant, nor is his actions deemed appropriate for this setting. This is a sacred affair, a custom dating back to the founding of the Empire by Daren himself, and should not be mocked as such. Nor should it be demeaned in anyway. It is thus I challenge Sir Fyn Tallon to a duel, should he succeed today."

That's why you wore your armor, you crafty bastard. One way or another Fyn Tallon was going to be removed from the political picture after today, thought Allaric. You crafty, cheeky bastard! My god am I glad to call myself an Imperial Blood Knight. He, just as his father, smirked approvingly towards Laurel, but remained silent. Gheof looked like he was going to shit himself, flustered beyond words.

Sir Fyn Tallon shook with a rage seldom seen on the battlefields of the Empire, let alone during its duels. The veins on his temples began to throb, and his bird-like face began to slowly color with red. Even his short matte black hair seemed to be enraged, standing on end and pulsing like lightning does to someone just struck. He clenched and unclenched his left hand so hard that the gauntlet made an audible scraping sound against his palm. His legs shook. His sword arm trembled making him nearly lose the grip on his weapon.

And he showed fear for the first time in his life.

"What, what... this is absurd! Inconceivable! Preposterous! You have no right! Moderator, moderator," Fyn blustered while turning towards Gheof. "What is the meaning of this? Tell him how absurd this is! Tell him that a second cannot challenge the knight he chose to sponsor! Tell him a knight cannot be expected to fight two duels in a day! I don't know what you're playing at Laurel," Fyn continued, pointing his sword towards the Knight. "But this will not stand! When my father hear of this ..."

"ENOUGH," shouted Allaric as he took a step towards his opponent. "When your father hears of this? My gods man, what are you twelve or forty? You're not going to survive our duel, so why are you even worried? What's the point? Just make your peace with the gods, and let's end this banter!"

"But," Fyn countered as the bile slowly rose to his throat. "This is an outrage. How can one duel, knowing his second wants to fight him as well? Gheof Ballent, as moderator you must please explain the rules to these knights. Tell them how I am in the right. Tell them how this duel has now been sullied, and thus must be postponed!" The man - though at first resembling a trapped bird in a cage - slowly started to gain his ardor back, and the cruelness came flooding back into his eyes as he looked at Sir Laurel. "I'll see you hanged for this treachery Laurel Monmant! I'll see your House of shit tumble down like the asshole it was born from!"

"In all actuality Sir Fyn," countered Gheof, "my correct title is Moderator Ballent - not Gheof Ballent, another infraction of the dueling custom. You best remember that. As to your 'outrage', it is well within Sir Laurel's legal rights to challenge you to a duel on the grounds he has stated. Breach of sacred rules during a duel is a grievous act, one that commands any true Imperial citizen to make recompense however they see fit. In our case, Sir Laurel would have brought shame upon his house had he not redressed the blatant disregard you have shown for this duel."

He made a wry smirk, the first sign of emotion he had shown since Fyn's arrival. "Furthermore, said duel must be commenced immediately after the first duel. An affront to the Emperor and the Empire must be met swiftly. It is all stated explicitly in the Imperial Dueling Codex, section four part three. It is too bad you did not deem the study of that book necessary before embarking on your quest of revenge. As moderator, I have spoken. There is no law that supersedes mine."

Sir Fyn staggered back a step and looked like he had been hit by a charging warhorse. His eyes darted back and forth between the gathered men, looking like a rat cornered in an alleyway. Sweat visibly began to drip down his face, running in rivulets past his jaw line and pooling on his dimpled chin. His sword hung limp at his side as his body unconsciously twitched. The man looked lost.

"A man who feels he has no options left to him is a dangerous man Allaric," his father whispered from his side. "Best to let him tire himself out with his rage before you step in and make the killing blow." Allaric glanced sideways at his father. Edris had a paternal look to his face - but it was one of peace, one of pride. He almost looked like a man content with what was to come. It gave the Imperial Blood Knight a rush, a sense of confidence he had not felt all morning. Somehow, he felt, things might turn out well after all.

And that's when Sir Fyn chose to strike.

With a feral scream he launched himself the ten paces separating him and Allaric. He brought his sword down in a viscous arc meant to cleave the knight through the collar bone. Thyge did all he could to respond to the savage, and unannounced, attack. He raised his sword just in time to parry the cut, the blades screeching against each other and separating with a metallic squeal. He grunted with the effort and was forced back, almost losing his footing.

Sir Loral Monmant withdrew End Time and took another step towards the combatants. "This is another breech of protocol. This is another example of Sir Fyn's total lack of regard towards the traditions of the Empire, and another example of how much he is undeserving of his noble title. Moderator," he said as he glanced towards Gheof "I ask to be allowed to immediately engage in my duel, should Sir Allaric fall."

"Wish granted Sir Monmant."

As if to punctuate his desperation Sir Fyn swung his sword in a series of fore cuts and back cuts, aimed at opening up Allaric's stomach and spilling his intestines. All of his swings were blocked deftly and with an efficiency of movement only found in an Imperial Blood Knight's training. But Allaric's face showed his surprise. Sir Fyn was a better fighter than he had originally anticipated, and the look he flashed Sir Monmant seemed to say you might have to fight him after all.

The cemetery showed a consciousness and responded to the duel. As if holding its breath in anticipation of a new acquisition, the air became still and the sounds of life dwindled away until they were muted. The only sounds now were the grunting and heaving of the two men locked in mortal combat, the screech of sword on sword, and the scraping of armor articulating. Even the grasshoppers who normally chirped during the midday heat had become eerily silent, another life force stilled by the clash of arms.

"Bastard," Fyn growled as he took another swipe at Allaric's head. The Imperial Blood Knight deftly deflected the swing, sending the longsword off to his side. But Fyn was lightning quick; he recovered from the errant swing, squared his shoulders, and thrust the sword towards Allaric's face. Allaric did all that he could to fan his sword in a blocking maneuver. The swords made contact and pinged off one another. Allaric ducked and took his first offensive swipe of the duel towards Fyn's knees. Surprising Allaric once again, the man jumped out of the way with a shadow dancer's inspired spin and planted his feet back on the ground, immediately launching into another series of attacks.

But the man was getting slower. His rage had started to wear him down - just as Edris had predicted.

The two men began to circle each other like beasts of the forest, Fyn panting heavily, Allaric breathing slightly heavier than when the duel started. Age and fitness had become factors, and Sir Fyn knew his time was running out. The Imperial Blood Knight was twenty years his younger and fifty pounds of muscle his superior. If the duel continued on as before, Fyn knew he would start to get sloppy and leave himself open to wounding attacks. Wounding attacks would lead to a mortal blow. His tact would have to change.

Sensing this shift of thinking Allaric launched himself in his first serious offensive maneuvers of the duel. He feigned towards Fyn's face with a poke, recovered, and took a massive forehanded swing towards the man's left side. Fyn had instinctually taken a step back and swatted towards the feint, only to recover quickly and block the cut to his left side with a downward-angled backhand parry. Allaric quickly threw a strong backswing towards Fyn's collarbone. The man lunged backwards in an attempt to avoid the blade and just barely got out of the way.

Fyn backpedalled as Allaric unleashed a snarl of his own and began to throw well-placed cuts and stabs towards his midsection. Now Fyn was truly being overwhelmed. For every swing he took at Allaric he received four back. For every parry he completed, two more swings barely missed him. His sword arm began to tire and his wrist felt like it was burning, like an unquenchable fire had sprung up in his carpals. He continued backing up, desperately defending himself, but the inevitable inexorably crawled into his psyche.

He backed into a headstone and toppled over unceremoniously.

With a grunt of pain he landed on his back, his grieves and plate armor scraping the rough hewn stone. Edris stepped forward in spite of himself, an observer caught up in the moment. Gheof shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and got ready to record what was about to happen. Loral remained impassive with no emotion on his face. He kept End Time at his side. Sir Allaric lazily stepped forward, no rush or worry to his motions. He shook his sword at his opponent.

"Get up Fyn."

Fyn stayed panting on the ground a moment more. "Too honorable to strike an opponent when he is down Thyge? Very well, I'm not ashamed to take charity when charity is given." With an exaggerated intake of breath he rose and nervously shook himself free of the dirt and grass that clung to his armor. "That's your mistake. I never would have done that."

"I know," retorted Allaric. "But that's what makes us different men. I still cling to what honor I have, whereas you are willing to sacrifice any honor you might have had to further your pathetic existence."

A chord was struck in Fyn, a final desperate energy sprouting from his being. With an animalistic rage he flung himself at Allaric, throwing a series of feints and reposes' that left the younger knight backtracking once again. His sword struck Allaric three times on the shoulder and once on the elbow in a matter of heartbeats, neither accurate nor powerful enough to draw blood but enough to make him grimace in pain. And like the ebb and flow of the oceans, the duel's momentum began to swing in favor of Sir Fyn.

That's when the gods played their hand.

Fyn made to take a savage hack at Allaric but ended up tripping on the ground in front of him. Like a waterlogged sack of potatoes the older knight dropped to the ground with a shocking thud. The air in his lungs was expelled in a pitiful wheeze. He coughed up flecks of blood as well as bits of grass and loamy earth. He flipped over and writhed on his back, making no move to get up.

"This duel is over. I have satisfaction. Let it be recorded Moderator."

Allaric spat on the ground, nodded towards Gheof, and flashed his dad a smile.

"You bastard!" Fyn shot up with a speed that surprised everybody and made to skewer Allaric through the back. Had he not been a highly trained Imperial Blood Knight, he may very well have been run through. But battle instincts kicked in before conscious thought entered his head. He sidestepped Fyn's lunge and in one fluid motion separated his sword and right wrist from his body in a mist of blood. He recovered his swipe and separated his left wrist a heartbeat later.

Fyn's cry was one of shock, not pain, and it echoed across the cemetery in waves, reverberating and echoing off of the headstones. The man immediately dropped to his knees and began to hug his stumps in a vain effort to staunch the bleeding. He was defeated.

"That's it Fyn. I'm done. We're done. There's no honor in killing a man who can't defend himself. Moderator, let it be recorded that Allaric of House Thyge showed mercy when mercy was not on the table." Allaric sheathed his sword, not deeming to wipe the blood from it. Sir Edris ran over and hugged his son, overcome with joy. Moisture speckled his eyes.

"Let's go home Al."

"Yes sir," Allaric said as he withdrew from his father's embrace, fighting his own tears as well. He turned towards the Moderator, wiped the moisture from his eyes, and bowed. Recovering, he turned towards Sir Monmant and bowed as well. Both men bowed back, their eyes not on Allaric but on the crying, blabbering man on the ground. Gheof looked at Fyn in pity, Loral like a shark deciding whether or not to eat the maimed fish in the water.

The two Thyge's turned from the scene, smiles of satisfaction on their faces, and with arms on each other shoulders marched away. Their work was done. The gods were satisfied, their honor maintained, their lives still intact.

The duel was over.

"What will happen to Fyn father?"

Edris grunted. "Gheof will probably stop the bleeding, leaving him a crippled man for the rest of his life. Fyn will lose his perspective seat in the council, more than likely. Then he'll blame you for his failures and probably end up starting a faction war with us, dragging his whole family into the mix - which the Emperor will crush out of hand, forever eradicating House Tallon. House Monmant will gain the seat left vacant by the Tallon's, and Loral will continue being a leader of men - and your eternal brother-in-arms."

Sir Fyn Tallon's death scream hit them from behind; its pain and finality curdling their blood like milk curdles in summer heat, and ended in an incomprehensible gurgle. Allaric made to turn around and witness what had happened, but was restrained by Edris.

"Never mind that lad. Not our business anymore. We know Loral Monmant is a man of his word. Puts honor, especially his and his House's, before most anything else. He puts his House's political future above all. There's a lesson to be learned from all this."

"What's that? Be aware of impugning on a man's honor? Respect the sanctity of marriage, no matter who's involved? Always be cognoscente of your respect, dad?" Allaric scratched his chin and flashed his father a toothy smile.

"I know: in politics you always have to be three steps ahead of your opponents?"

Edris chuckled once more. "Nay lad. The lesson is to stay the fuck out of politics!"

THE INN AT TRO'MAUSE

A dust cloud rose from the east, buffeted onwards by the steady wind coming from the borderlands. The innkeeper sat on his rocking chair, whittling away at a wooden pipe, and ignored the particulates as they gently kicked up into his weathered face. The inn's porch creaked and moaned in response to his rocking, the planks shifting slightly. The breeze was a welcome relief from the infernal heat.

"Is the inn open old man," asked the stranger standing to his side. He looked oddly comfortable in the heat, bundled up as he was in a long woolen coat.

"Aye it is traveler. Susie and Hank are in there taking orders and serving drinks," he replied without looking up from his work. Mikhail Garret heard the man push through the front door as he continued to worry the wooden block with his carving knife. A wave of subdued noise hit him, punctuated by controlled laughter and embellished tales being told. The Leaping Lion was quiet for this time of season, thanks in part to a new border conflict erupting between Bretonia and the Empire. Most of the soldiers had left, and most of the townsfolk didn't have the heart for entertainment.

Mikhail could have cared less.

The modest township of Tro'mause spread out before him, a haphazard collection of residential buildings, granaries, and military installations. From his perch the closest of the farms could be seen out on the grasslands, the slowly dying sunlight revealing them through waves of hazy heat. The farmer's market across the street was beginning to close down; the groups of families shopping dwindling away until only the farmer's remained, breaking down their stalls. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, their fatigue from the long day of selling in the sun having finally shown its face.

Mikhail coughed up some phlegm and spat it out over the porch railing, where it landed in a solid green mass on the withered yellow grass. A passing Bretonic Townguard, his chainmail armor rusted and scalemail helmet sliding down over his forehead, avoided the wad of phlegm with a grunt. The man stopped and turned towards the innkeep, his scarred face barely visible through the shadows of his ill-fitting helmet.

"Slow week, eh Mikhail? This pseudo border war must be biting into your business, one would think," the man commented with his raspy voice. A mocking smile was plastered on his face.

"One would think Townguard Keller. One would think," Mikhail shot back. He couldn't stand the man. Of all the Bretonic troops quartered in the town, Ullthan Keller rubbed him the worst. The man was cocky when he should be humble, boisterous rather than quiet, and cruel when he should be caring. He was forever rattling on about House Keller, about what a powerhouse they were back in the capital. Mikhail doubted they were even a minor player in politics, barely known outside their own courtyards. But the thing that pissed the innkeeper off the most was that Ullthan made it a point to harass Mikhail at every juncture of existence, for slights real or imagined.

"Is Susie working tonight? Maybe I'll go in and talk to her. My shift's done anyhow."

"I told you before and I'll tell you again. The Leaping Lion is off limits to you. When you stop being an ass and show me, and my employees some respect, I might consider lifting the ban. But you and I both know you won't stop being an ass, so stop asking me for admittance." Mikhail looked up from his project and threw the man a fierce scowl, tempting him to argue the point. Ullthan stood there for a second with a pathetic look on his face, before sending his own wad of phlegm onto the porch.

"One day Commander Bresen will be transferred from this garrison. Then we'll see how long your ban will stand, old man. One day."

"Yes - one day Townguard Keller," Mikhail countered. "But that day is not today. So go tuck your tail between your legs and run along. Run along now," he said as he took the knife and waved the man along.

"You'll rue the day I have a commander who isn't your friend Mikhail," the man stammered as his face began to flush red. "You'll fucking rue the day." Keller spat one more time, catching the railing with his spit, before abruptly turning and marching down the dirt-encrusted road, defeated despite himself. Unperturbed, Mikhail watched the spit slowly drip down the wood before returning to his work. Ullthan Keller was but a gnat biting into his side. He had bigger things to worry about--like the completion of his new weed pipe.

He continued whittling away at the block of wood, his mind elsewhere. It was the simple action of creating something useful from the scraps of lumber behind his inn that left him content, and motivated to not do anything. In the end, he was a creature of habit. His ritual of being on the front porch from dusk until evening was something he always did. The townspeople had got used to it - and indeed - eventually began to rely on his crotchety presence as a welcome reassurance that everything was right in their universe.

It was his way of being involved in the town's day to day activities without ever leaving his establishment. People would stop by and chat him up, share news, drop off recipes, debate politics, religion, and military strategy, and - in the case of Ullthan Keller - annoy him to wit's end. It wasn't a normal day if he didn't hand out some drinks on the house, entertain a soldier with tales of his old campaign days, or wish congratulations to someone on their impending nuptials.

It was his allusion of indifference and the devil-may-care attitude he maintained and reinforced that kept the dogs of his past at bay. That's why he had moved to Tro'mause and bought the dilapidated building from the Bretonic government - his past had gotten too close to him in Ysguarde. The night after his fate in the city was sealed he set his brothel on fire, changed his name, and fled the city with but his wits and seventy gold pieces.

His time in Tro'mause since that fateful night had been the most quiet and peaceful of his violent life, and he aimed to keep it that way.

He coughed up another wad and spat it over the railing before continuing with his weed pipe.

The breeze started to die away, and with its departure the heat returned. He was comfortable enough before, but almost immediately sweat began to bead on his forehead. His face started to flush, and he felt lightheaded. Swearing to himself he put his knife away in its sheath and pushed himself up off of the chair. "Damned heat," he grumbled to himself. Sauntering over to the entrance of the inn, he pushed open the door and was immediately hit by a wave of heat, lantern smoke, sweat, stale beer, and poorly cooked venison. He staggered back momentarily, swearing like a pirate of Raker Sound. Shaking his head to regain his composure, Mikhail pushed through the door with a grimace on his face.

The common room of the Leaping Lion was sparse in comparison to other inns throughout Bretonia. A blue granite fireplace was ensconced into the wall and cobwebs zigzagged across its mouth. The winters were mild in this part of Bretonia and warmth was always in abundance, making the fireplace an aesthetic addition opposed to a practical one. Next to the fireplace the dark brown wooden bar sat, lacquered to a shiny sheen, some sixteen stools long and waist-high. The many dents, nicks, stains, and knife marks embedded in the surface told its story all too well.

The kitchen door was behind the bar and open - revealing Marice the cook, chopping up a deer and splaying himself with viscera from the animal. Hank was leaning on the bar top in a deep debate with 'Nutbag' Gunneson, a local trapper known for his outlandish stories and penchant for drinking himself into stupors just about every night. Not a day went by without him spending at least twenty silvers.

He was one of Mikhail's favorite customers.

Hank and Gunneson looked up as Mikhail entered the common room and nodded towards him. He returned the nod, to which Gunneson took a long pull on his pint of beer before returning to the discussion with Hank. Two others patrons were sitting at the bar, alone in their thoughts and cradling their pints in their hands. Susie was busy serving dinner to a group of off-duty soldiers. They were surprisingly subdued, talking to each other in low voices as they watched Susie deposit their food on the table. She looked up and flashed Mikhail a smile, to which he nodded non-committally.

The bard, Horatio Oppen, was strumming his harp in the far corner of the common room. He was in the middle of a beautiful ballad entitled 'The Elvin King of Tears', which had brought three elderly farmers close to tears themselves. "Life be too short oh son of mine, I feel as if we had no time. I will try to conjure up some cheer, but alas 'tis for naught--said the Elvin King of Tears." The bard himself looked ready to cry as he sang the song. He was an effective entertainer and at that moment reminded Mikhail why he chose to pay him his exorbitant salary night after night.

Crying people drink more, fight less, and pry into my affairs not a lick, he thought.

The stranger who had approached him earlier was sitting alone at another table with two pints in front of him. His eyes were locked on Mikhail. The light from the oil lanterns hanging throughout the common room made it hard to see the man's face clearly, the shadows thrown by his blackened tricorn hat obscuring most of his features. But there was no denying that the man was staring at Mikhail. The look set the innkeeper on edge, the hackles on his neck rising. The man knew something. And that was more than Mikhail could stomach.

He steadily approached the waiting man, never breaking eye contact. He waved Susie away as the stranger pushed the chair opposite him out from the table with his foot. It skidded a few paces across the hardwood floor before the man withdrew his foot.

"Who in the four hells are yah stranger," Mikhail asked without any preamble.

The man grinned like a sly fool and beckoned to the pint he wasn't drinking from. "Please, sit down Mikhail Garret, and enjoy this pint of your world renowned Border Ale. I swear, the trip from Ysguarde was long but well worth it to enjoy such delectable beer."

Ysguarde? That's a whole continent away, he thought. Why is he here?

Mikhail looked around the room expecting a trap before he took the proffered seat. The stranger was unfamiliar to him, yet there was something familiar about him at the same time. The sense of déjà vu tugged at the innkeeper's mind, and put him into flight or fight mode. He guardedly grabbed the pint and took a sip, all the while edging his free hand closer to the carving knife at his side.

"Can't say that I know you stranger, but I'll entertain your company nonetheless."

"We have a... mutual friend from your past... Mikhail," the man said over the lip of his pint glass. "One who is interested in... a certain amount of recompense... for your past endeavours."

"Could you be any more circumspect boyo? Listen, I'm a man who doesn't mince words, so just get to your point. Who are yah and what does our mutual friend want of me?"

The man smirked at that and revealed a gleaming row of perfect, predatory teeth. He took another gulp of his pint and smacked his lips in satisfaction before answering. "I'm known as Deanis Theiry on this continent. My employer is a long time friend of yours Mikhail, one that has known you most of your life. The scar you left him he still wears proudly on his face."

Mikhail shot up knocking over his chair in the process, and withdrew his carving knife in one blurry motion. The loud thud the chair made as it hit the wooden floor stopped all conversation; the blade in his hand abruptly silenced Horatio, infecting the common room with a silence so sudden and tangible that Marice stopped his attack on the deer carcass and came into the common room, blood all over his apron.

"Did someone die in here or..." He shut up immediately and stood just as enraptured as everyone else. The normally calm and peaceful owner of the Leaping Lion was brandishing a knife in his own common room; that fact alone made Marice slowly stutter step backwards into the kitchen. "The deer's not done being partitioned..." he muttered under his breath to no one in particular, closing the kitchen door behind him.

The off-duty soldiers shot up from their meal, withdrew their short swords and knocked over their barely-touched drinks in the process. Hank leapt over the bar in one practiced act, brandishing a cocktail knife, while Nutbag Gunneson methodically pounded his pint and withdrew his dirk. Susie let out a soft whelp and retreated behind the bar. The other patrons sat still, fearing that the slightest of movements might set off the already volatile situation.

"Is everything alright Mikhail," Hank asked as he carefully edged closer to the stranger.

"Of course it isn't Hank," replied one of the soldiers. "You ever see Mr. Garrett draw a knife on anyone in your life, let alone in his own establishment?"

"Might'n be this stranger needs to have a bad accident out back," grumbled Nutbag Gunneson as he too approached the stranger, a confused look on his bearded face but a glitter in his dark eyes.

"Gentleman, this is none of your concern." Mikhail turned to Hank. "Hank, get everyone out of here. Me and Deanis Theiry have some matters to discuss. Private matters. No," he said, forestalling any response Hank was going to make. "This is a private matter, and as such I need no man's help. Just calmly get everyone out Hank," he ordered the bartender. He turned his attention back to Deanis Theiry.

Half a dozen mutters-under-breaths erupted from his patrons but he kept his eyes on the stranger. Mikhail knew everyone would eventually listen to him and leave the common room – Susie would go upstairs, Hank and Gunneson would retreat to the kitchen, and the soldiers would stand outside on the porch with the bard and the other patrons. A minute later the room was empty. The only sounds to be heard were the muffled conversations out on the porch and in the kitchen. Mikhail chanced a glance towards the kitchen--Hank was peering out - and towards the front windows - the soldiers and patrons alike were jostling to gain positions at the windows.

No tact, he thought, but what did you expect?

"Now that we are alone," the man said as he peered at Hank and then at the soldiers outside, "I can tell you what I'm really here for. But why waste a good pint, eh?" Unceremoniously he downed the pint in front of him before grabbing Mikhail's barely touched drink. He belched loudly before taking a sip from the other pint. "Ahh, I swear--I have never tasted a better ale in all of my travels. You should be proud Mikhail."

"Stop stalling and get on with it. What exactly does Vernion Tallaw want?"

"Why," he said with a sardonic look on his face, "I figured you'd have guessed by now. Mr. Tallow wants what he's owed. Plain and simple. The rules have always been fair and just Mikhail. You take from Tallow and then you give back. You do not take, take, take, and then burn his fucking property down. You do not take, take, take and then slash him across the face when he comes for his recompense. You do not take, take, take and then flee across the continent, change your name, and disappear for fifteen years."

Slowly the man's hand had fallen off the table and edged down to his hip, hidden by the hard wooden top. He was good at what he did though; not once did his body move, revealing his intention, nor did his face leave Mikhail's, or even hint at what he was thinking. Deanis Theiry had been 'The Collector' for the crime lord Vernion Tallaw for most of his life, and as such had honed his profession to a deadly art. The past due clients never saw what was coming. One second they were busy trying to explain why they did this or that, and the next second they were dead.

Even being surrounded by Mikhail's friends and the Bretonic Townguards did not deter him from his mission. Tallaw was owed well over five thousand gold coins and a scar by Mikhail. Fifteen years on the run had only compounded his anger at Garrett; now his price was death, and Theiry was the dealer.

The click of the flintlock hammer was muffled by Deanis's heavy woolen coat.

"You know as well as I do Theiry that Tallaw crossed the line with me. That business with Nicole, killing her baby right after it was birthed... well that was the final straw. I never spoke up when he raised his take to four tenths, when he claimed Vanessa as his own personal whore, or when he replaced my guards with his own hired thugs. He took and pushed and pulled me for years and years, never expecting me to push back."

Mikhail smiled ruefully and let out an exasperated laugh, like he was privy to a joke Deanis did not know. "Well, I pushed back. Hard. So like I told him that night I left Ysguarde, I'll tell you now. Fuck you."

Deanis Theiry smirked weakly and licked his lips. For some reason sweat had begun to bead on his forehead, and he felt light-headed. He started to flush as cramps assailed his legs. Soon, his stomach was in knots and his arms were on fire. Sharp pain erupted behind his eyes, and he found it hard to focus on Mikhail. His wrists shuddered involuntarily. He dropped the flintlock musket from his grasp and it hit the floor with an audible thunk.

It went off with a loud bang.

Smoke gathered around Deanis's legs, a thick white cloud that obscured his lower half and left an acrid smell in the air. Mikhail did not flinch as the musket ball zipped past his head and buried itself in the rafters above, throwing wooden splinters everywhere. They rained down on him like a quiet storm. The innkeep ignored the shavings as they fluttered onto his shoulders, and just stood there with a look of victory on his face, the carving knife gently cradled in his hand.

The gunshot brought everyone hurdling back into the common room, their individual shouts and pleas combining into one loud, raucous sound. Theiry heard none of it, saw none of it, and responded to none of it. His body began to convulse and his teeth shattered together as they ground into each other. He struggled to speak, his slowly bloating tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as if he had just eaten a whole bowl of peanut butter.

"What... how... what... I... what", he managed to sputter out.

"Didn't see me throw that crystal into your drink when I shot up from the table, did yah?" Mikhail stalked towards the man, the satisfactory grin still plastered on his face. Deanis Theiry's bowels started to let go, but he was too far gone to realize, or care. "It's called the 'cadavers kiss'. Made from the stalks of the willowbern plant in Este Wilde - very hard to come by, and very costly. When it's ground up and added to water, then allowed to dry, it forms a clear crystalline material that dissolves quickly in liquid. The taste - I'm told - is horrendous, but by the time a person tastes it, they're already well on their way to shitting their stomach out."

Choking and wheezing and clawing at his throat were Deanis's only response.

"What in the four hells did you do Mikhail," asked Hank as he appeared at the innkeeper's side.

Mikhail shot him a sidelong glance. "I made sure nobody had to do the killing for me."

Deanis unceremoniously fell from the chair with a thud, his body crumpling up like a slowly burning piece of paper in a fire. One of the townguards, a corporal by the up thrust sword emblem emblazoned on his blue tunic, went to examine the slowly dying man. He sheathed his short sword with an audible rasp. Kneeling over him, he examined his eyelids and felt for a pulse, shook his head to signal the man's finality, and looked up at Mikhail.

"You do realize I have to report this don't you Mr. Garrett?"

"Report what, Corporal Eisenbrook," asked Nutbag Gunneson as he strode up to the dead body. "I can't speak for anyone else, but I was just enjoying a quiet drink at my favorite inn this side of the border tonight. Nothing untoward happened, at least in my reckoning. Ain't that right," he asked the crowd of patrons that had slowly gathered around Deanis Theiry's blue and bloating corpse.

"Aye Nutbag, me and the wife were just having a drink and enjoying the lyrical genius of Horatio Oppen, just like any other night," replied the farmer Wilco Jenkins, his arm around his wife. "Ain't that right, dear?" She nodded her agreement, unable to take her gaze off of the body. Wilco winked at Mikhail. "I ain't seen no strangers in Tro'mause for a good three weeks now, and that by-the-gods is the truth of it."

Other patrons began to take up Gunneson's version of the story, until everyone but Corporal Eisenbrook agreed that what had just transpired, hadn't transpired. I could kiss all of them right now, thought Mikhail. They are willing to lie and cover up my past without knowing exactly what they are lying to cover up. Gods bless them.

"So Eisenbrook, what's the story," asked Marice as he appeared from behind the bar. The cook was cleaning his hands with a dirty rag. He cocked his head and spat in the slop sink. "I'm thinking this body needs to disappear out back, quick-like, and Commander Bresen doesn't need to be none the wiser. Just so happens I was digging up the vegetable garden earlier today, getting ready to plant some tomatoes."

"Any good garden needs good fertilizer," Susie commented as she tentatively made her way down the stairs. "My dad always said so."

"Aye, decomposing bodies are great sources of fertilization," another Townguard agreed from the doorway as he peered outside. His short sword was still drawn. "There's not a soul on the street right now, 'cept the lantern lighters doing their jobs. Might'n be we should head back to the barracks Corporal. It's been a pretty boring night," he drawled as he turned to look Eisenbrook in the eyes. "So boring cus nothing happened. Nothing ever happens in Tro'mause these days."

Defeated, Corporal Eisenbrook shrugged his shoulders and held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Fine, fine. Mr. Garrett, thank you for your hospitality, as always. Wilson, Bradley, Cooper - on me." The two remaining townguards and the one by the door sheathed their swords as one, saluted Mikhail, and made their way outside to the porch. "Just know that you owe me one Mikhail," Eisenbrook said as he walked towards the doorway. "I expect a good dinner with the wife one of these nights."

Mikhail chuckled and placed his hands on his hips. "Aye Jeffray Eisenbrook. Next dinner is on me, of that you can be assured."

"I believe I have an appropriate song in my repertoire for the removal of the body. Would you like me to sing it, Mikhail?"

The innkeep turned towards Horatio, a smirk on his lips. The bard, to his credit, had mirth in his eyes and a grandiose smile on his lips. He was disarming as ever. Hank, Susie, Nutbag, and Wilco all began to chuckle. Soon the whole common room was filled with a morose merriment. Marice snorted in feigned annoyance. "Easy enough for you to sing Horatio. Me and Hank are the ones that gotta take care of this bag of shit," he said as he waved towards Deanis Theiry's dead body.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," was the bard's retort.

Mikhail sighed agreeably as Hank and Marice picked up the corpse and began to lug it towards the back of the inn. Horatio began to strum his harp, trying to find the right chords for his verse. Susie began to clean up the mess from the assassin's final moments. Wilco Jenkins, his wife, and the other farmer sat back down to their drinks and began to egg Horatio on. Nutbag Gunneson made his way around the bar to pour himself another pint. The other patrons went back to their dinner or to their drinks.

"Life is a challenge, to be so great. Death is easy, just ask the ingrate," began Horatio.

Just another night in Tro'mause, at the Inn of the Leaping Lion, thought Mikhail.

THE WHORE AND DRAGO KOYLE

Drago Koyle was drunk when he staggered into The Horsepen, an infamous brothel on Mitre Street. Suffice to say, he could barely see, barely talk, and barely smell (which was a plus - since the brothel always smelled of rotting wood shavings, stale wine, sweat, and broken dreams). Yet he had the wherewithal to order a jug of piss - cheap wine for later, a room for a few hours, and a whore - all for a silver and five coppers.

At one time he had been a world-renowned tracker in the service of the Este Wilde government... but that was many years and many miles ago, when he was still a young, dumb lad with a chip on his shoulders and reflexes like a water sparrow.

Now... at forty-seven winters, Drago Koyle just wanted a woman to warm his bed and make him forget about all his troubles.

"Ish Darrie available t'night," he slurred as he asked the proprietor, a hawkish woman in her late fifties with a broken nose and a stern countenance. Though he had frequented the brothel more times than he cared to remember the past year, he still couldn't bring himself to meet her withering glare. It always judged him and found him lacking.

"Not in the state you're in Drago," she replied curtly. "Darrie is only available for the sober lot, who tip better than they look and keep their stomachs in their stomachs."

"Ahh fook that woman. Da' last teem was an anom... an anoma... an anomaly."

"Look at you man," she snorted derisively. "You can't even form a proper sentence or keep your vision on a single object. You'll get who we have up there, and that's it." She checked her list on the desk and harrumphed. "Room seven. Now get out of my face before I decide to kill myself."

"I'll kill myself wench, just from your looks," he muttered under his breath as he turned to ascend the stairs. Though they were only fourteen in number, the wooden planks became the hardest things he had ever climbed. Step by laborious step his feet found the stained oaken platforms, and he did all that he could from spinning and falling down, grabbing the handrail every few heartbeats.

Don't fall, he told himself. That bitch downstairs would get a laugh out of it, and you'd probably shit yourself too.

After what seemed an eternity, he made the second floor. Breathing heavily and feeling absurd because of it, he gathered himself and staggered down the long wooden hallway - his hand on the wall to steady himself. The oil lanterns in the sconces cast flickering shadows across the hall, making the task of finding his room more difficult than it needed to be. The thick, oily smoke clung to him as he shuffled towards the room, masking the smell of dried vomit and mildewed throw rugs.

Room seven was just as plain and unassuming as any of the other doors that lined the hallway. The oak was chipped, warped, and stained from the long years of misuse it had suffered at the hands of the patrons. It creaked open with but the lightest touch, and Drago Koyle found himself stumbling into a squat, seven foot by seven foot room. It reminded him more of the cells he had seen (and thrown criminals in) at Tarlen prison than a comfortable room to have sex in.

There was a dirty straw mattress in the corner, a bed stand, a washing bowl, mirror, a ratty cloth rug long since faded to anything but brown, and a half-asleep whore staring out the open window at the lantern-lit street below. It smelled like old sex and cloistered sweat in the room.

A candle flickered on the stand, painting the room in somber half-shadows. The pillows on the mattress looked like they had been there for as long as the brothel had been, and the back of the whore didn't look any better. Dirt and semen stains crusted the mattress and pillows, as it did the whore's ass.

She turned towards him at the sound of the door opening, and flashed a toothy smile. She looked more beautiful from the front than he would have thought, (or had hoped - given his cold welcoming downstairs) and she seemed genuinely happy to see him. She had tanned skin, an hourglass figure, perky (but small) breasts, and very little hair (anywhere). Her stomach was flat, her face was framed by short-cropped chestnut hair and finely chiseled, and she seemed to have all her teeth. Her eyes were deep pools of liquid brown, flecked with green.

Definitely more beautiful than he had hoped for.

"Hi thar," Drago sputtered out as he felt himself getting hard, despite the alcohol coursing through his veins.

"Hello sir," she responded in a husky voice, full of secrets and promises.

He stood there with a blank look on his face, still trying to get over the fact that he had been given one of the better looking whores he had ever seen frequenting The Horsepen. The whore just stood there, naked, and stared at him, waiting for him to make the first move.

There was a silence that hung in the air, punctuated only by Drago's heavy, drunken breathing. It drowned out all other sounds from outside the room and had an edge of desire to it. The desire reached his eyes as he soaked in the beauty of her body, the flickering candle light having painted dark, dancing shadows across her tattooed chest.

And then he got self conscious.

Drago Koyle was by no means handsome, nor sexy, beautiful, charming, witty, or smart. He was a grizzled man, having spent the formative years of his life brawling and stealing from his betters. That had earned him two notched ears, a scar across his brow, and burns on his throat that never healed properly. He caught a case of the maiden's kiss that had left pockmarks down the right side of his face once it had run its course, and he still had a deep indentation in his left temple from where a cudgel had cracked it.

And that was before he went to prison for the first time.

Thanks to his brushes with the law during his teens, he now had three very distinct tattoos on his shaved head, from the three different gangs he crossed whilst locked up. The star of the snakes was above his right ear, the spear of the dragons was inked on the nape of his neck, and the shield of the manticores was centered on the top of his head.

All of them had hurt, and all of them had stories behind them. Stories he would never part with.

"You have the most beautiful green eyes," the whore whispered, as if fearing to break the silence that had stretched out between them. He almost felt... affection from her, like a crofter's daughter with a crush. She is so beautiful, he thought. Than just as suddenly, and I am just a horrid fool, paying her money to fuck me. Best remember that, and not get caught up in any ideas of affection. This is a business contract; nothing more, nothing less, he scolded himself.

His ire rose.

"Get on the bed whore and spread them legs. And stop with the coy looks and words, I'm not fooled. Old Drago knows what you're up to whore." That ended her charade of affection in the hopes of getting a better tip, and she took on a pouty, sullen look. But she did what she was told, wordlessly gliding over the carpet, and laid down on the mattress. Drago could see the wetness of her slit glistening in the candle light, and couldn't help but be impressed with her, despite his annoyance.

She was a whore. She spread her legs for forty different men each day of the week... and yet somehow found the desire to want more. Instead of losing interest in the acts of her profession, she seemed genuinely eager to have him enter her. Women can't fake that can they, he wondered. He didn't rightly know the answer, but his growing arousal made it a non-issue.

He stepped into the room and slammed the door shut.

He unhitched his scabbard and belt from his waist and hung them on a peg by the door. His coin-purse jingled lightly as it swayed on the belt, a reminder that this whole night came down to its contents and not on his winning personality or devious charms. He was a broken man, a despised mercenary, and the world he lived in only cared for him as long as his money kept freely flowing. The second he forgot that, he was a dead man.

He slowly undid his pomegranate-colored jerkin, fumbling with the laces, and ripped it over his head. His bare chest was testament to the type of work he did; there was a lattice-work of scars, bruises, semi-healed cuts, and dried blood across it. He tossed it on the ground before he began unlacing his brown woolen pants. That task proved to be the more difficult of the two, thanks to his arousal, but eventually they swished to the ground.

He always felt ackward whenever he was completely naked, always fought the urge to cover his manhood with his hands. Even being naked in front of a woman whose job it was to pleasure men still didn't abate his embarrassment. Drago hesitated for a moment before he lunged towards the bed, hoping to outdistance the loss of his resolve. He landed on his knees on the foot of the bed and fell onto the whore, ungraceful as could be.

Their knees hit together, their elbows entwined, and their stomachs smacked into each other. She gasped as the air left her, he groaned as their foreheads clunked into each other. The smell of cheap perfume and sex invaded his nostrils and made him dizzy. He drunkenly made to kiss her, but she turned at the last minute and he ended up kissing her temple while slamming his nose into her forehead.

After a few seconds of fumbling their organs found each other with a sharp, sloppy sound, and they began their encounter. She did all that was needed of her, dutifully if not warmly, and he tried his best to perform well... and not vomit anywhere, though his head was spinning and his stomach was doing summersaults.

He ended (though she didn't) just as he'd begun - nervous, awkward, sweaty - and embarrassed. He rolled off of her panting, his penis exiting her with a juicy pop of noise. His seed seeped from her onto the bed, while her love was intermixed with the sweat on his groin. She had barely worked up a sweat, her chest and stomach barely rising, and she seemed to shiver every few heartbeats. Whether from pleasure, sickness, or disgust - Drago couldn't tell - and didn't want to find out.

"Did I please you sir," she asked quietly in his ear.

"Aye, I've had worse just as I'm sure you've had better."

For whatever reason that made her laugh, a slow laugh full of honey and sweet wine. His anger flashed for a heartbeat before he too started to laugh inexplicably. Their chuckling soon meshed together into one synchronous sound, reverberating off the walls, and it left him light-headed and giddy.

It ended just as quickly as it started.

There was a loud bang against the door. The hinges creaked and the lock shuddered. Before either one of them could react, a second bang ripped the door off its hinges, pushing it into the room, and sent wooden splinters showering onto them.

Drago lurched out of the bed as quickly as he could, and tried to reach his sword - laughingly close to the bed - but it could have been halfway across the world for all the good it could do him. He had been caught unawares. He had been caught (literally) with his pants around his ankles.

He was an arm's length away from wrenching the sword free of its scabbard when the man entered the room.

His shadow blotted out the lights from the hall, and filled up the entire room. He was tall, stooping as he entered the room, and bulky; the crimson-red plate armor made him seem more a bull than a man. His face was sharp-edged and patrician; his eyes were dark and set into an equally darker face. The man painted an imposing visage that made the whore yelp in surprise and panic; the sword in his hand made Drago Koyle grunt in annoyance and admiration. It was blood-red from hilt to tip, sharp as the edge of a diamond, and was three feet long.

Imperial Blood Knight, he thought and what in the four hells is he doing here?

"Drago Koyle," the man boomed "in the flesh."

The man said no more, but quickly stepped in front of Drago's scabbard, all the while hovering the point of his sword in the direction of the ex-tracker's groin, lining it up for a killing thrust to the genitals. The gauntlet on his other hand was clenched into a fist at his side, ready to send a haymaker if need be.

I'd rather take the armoured fist in the face than the sword to the dick, he distractedly thought.

Drago Koyle was cornered, trapped, unarmoured, and more importantly unarmed. Unable to do anything else, he locked his eyes onto his assassin, trying to discern the reason for his forthcoming murder. But he couldn't find the answer in the steely-eyed gaze of the knight. All he could see was his impending death reflected back at him, and it made him shudder with fear despite himself.

That's when the whore chose to strike.

Forgotten during the seconds of his violent arrival in the room, the whore had grabbed a knife from underneath the bed and had slipped to the side of the Imperial Blood Knight. With a scream she launched herself at the man, stabbing with a precision that left Drago utterly impressed, and stupefied. The knife had somehow found the hinge between the front plate and back plate, punctured the chainmail and leather underneath, and found the soft flesh of the man.

A gush of hot blood shot from the wound into her face as the man jerked wildly. He backhanded the whore with the force of a catapult, sending her flying into the wall with a sickening crunch of bone and blood. She slid down the wood and crumpled into a pile on the floor, whimpering and crying.

Drago raced to his scabbard and withdrew his sword with a loud rasp of metal on leather. The knight reacted slowly, but not as slow as Drago had hoped, and brought his sword around in a whirlwind swing. He tried to back away from the errant swing, but the tip caught him across the forehead. A deep, angry red line opened across his brow and plunged his existence into a waterfall of maroon.

He screamed and threw his sword out in a last ditch effort.

The screech of metal on metal greeted his ears. The shock of his sword blocking the knight's return chop shuddered down his arm, through his spine, and to his feet. His whole body screamed out in pain, but only a slight grunt escaped his lips. The soldier must have weighed a good twenty pounds more than him; his solid mass of muscle and metal armour knocked Drago back a few steps. He stumbled over one of the crumpled up carpets, teetered for a second, and then fell to one knee.

The swish of the Knight's sword catching air greeted his ears, and he felt the edge brush against the top of his head, nicking him. Grimacing in pain, he swung his own sword in a haymaker attack, knowing how futile it would be, but still determined to die swinging his sword - not begging for mercy.

Instead of hitting hard steel it whipped through the air. He did all that he could to reign in his swing and stop his own sword from cutting into his side. His world was still a stinging shade of red and the beating of his own heart was roaring in his ears. Panting, he took another backhand swing with his sword, only to catch air once more.

What in the four hells, he thought.

Drago unsteadily got to his feet and let his sword arm droop down. Catching his breath he tried in vain to wipe the blood from his eyes with his free hand, only succeeding in irritating them more. He swore to himself and shook his head, sending droplets of his life throughout the air.

"What... what... happened", he managed to groan out.

It was then, as his heartbeat slowed, that he heard the slow rasping gurgle of the Imperial Blood Knight and the quiet dignity the whore had afforded herself. Shaking his head once more, he cleared enough blood from his right eye to survey the room. What he saw made him smirk, despite the pain that racked his body.

The knight's massive form was on the ground, the wound in his side leaking like a sieve into the carpet. He was barely alive; his chest was rising and falling in an almost unperceivable cadence, and his breathing was ragged, strained and pain-filled. He had a look of hatred on his face for Drago.

The whore was huddling behind her knees in the corner, slowly rocking herself back and forth, murmuring and crying softly. An angry red welt had formed on her cheek, marring her face, her nose was broken, and one of her teeth was on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood, bile, and frothy spit. Tears streaked down her face and fell freely onto her naked chest.

He made to drop the sword and go over to comfort her but thought better of it, and switched his attention back to the knight. Smiling, he walked over to the man, kicked his sword away from his almost life-less hand, and straddled him. He switched the grip on his sword and grasped it with both hands.

"Here's a mercy you never would have gave me Sir."

With a grunt he drove the sword point through the man's gorget, parting the armour with ease. It ripped through his throat and neck with a sickly sloshing sound before thumping to a halt into the wooden floor. The man gurgled one last time before a death rattle escaped his mouth, and his eyes went blacker than they had been.

Drago left the Knight there, and left his own longsword slowly rocking back and forth on its blade (from the impact of biting into the wooden floor, making it a comical sight if one was in a dark comedic mood, which Drago wasn't). He gingerly approached the whore, his hands held out in a stalling gesture, wondering how to placate a woman who had just been beaten savagely. Who had tears streaming down her face and sorrow sending spasms down her spine.

"It'll be alright" he said in a completely sober tone. "Why did you do that?" Why did you save me?

She looked up with her one good eye and sniffled. Never had a person looked so retched and pitiful to Drago as she did at that moment. Her face was bruised and bloodied, her hair disheveled, and her perfect body marred. But it was her disconcerting, inappropriate smile that set his hackles rising.

It was perfect except for the one missing canine.

"I need you alive so you can find my brother," she answered matter-of-factly, all business. "I have fifty-seven silvers... and secrets... and other favors to pay you with. Please, you must help me." The look she shot him told her desperation better than her pleas ever could have.

And just like that, Drago Koyle was employed once more.

His First Patrol, His Last Patrol

The young man from Pittsburgh closed his eyes and prayed.

"Go, go, go", yelled his stick leader over the drone of the C-47 engines and the cold wind. Staff Sergeant Benson was a good man, a family man, and a true American. The paratrooper trusted him, just as every other man in the stick did. He would lead them to glory. He would lead them to safety. He was a born leader, intelligent and always aware of the tactical situation – and he would get them home alive.

The young man placed his hands on his parachute harness for the thirtieth time since leaving England, tugged on his M-1 Garand sling twice, and satisfied it was secure he exhaled deeply before opening his eyes. His stick leader had already exited the door as well as the first three boys behind him, the paracord remnants flapping haphazardly against the interior being the only trace that they were ever in the belly of the plane.

Another man gripped the door frame, braced himself, and then jumped out of the plane. Than another. And another. Unconsciously he had shuffled forward a few steps every time another man plummeted out of the door until he finally found himself behind the only other paratrooper left in the plane. His fellow traveler made the sign of the cross and looked back at the young man from Pittsburgh. Their terrified eyes met for the briefest of moments, but that was all that was needed to convey the thoughts going through both of their heads - God help me. See you down there. And then he was gone as well, swallowed up by the great blue sky and the white, wispy clouds.

The young paratrooper from Pittsburgh closed his eyes and prayed to whatever saint was listening.

Snapping them open, he slid up to the door frame and gripped it with his hands. He felt the cold metal of the C-47 through his canvas gloves. He felt the weight of his equipment digging into his shoulders and hips. He felt the brisk wind whipping against his face, making his eyes water, and he felt it ripping through his clothing, chilling him to the bone. He had never been more scared in his life and for a single heartbeat he toyed with the idea of just sitting down and riding back to England, to his shame and to his inevitable court martial.

He closed his eyes once again and with another prayer on his lips he threw himself out of the plane...

... POP...

Within a split second the prop blast rattled him, shook him violently, and then deposited him into the air. The force on his chin from the chin strap was unbearable; and then the parachute deployed, snapping him from the fast descent into an almost lackadaisical flutter. The roar of the C-47 engines and the howling, animalistic wind gradually left his ears until all he could hear was the peaceful hush of the atmosphere. Warmth soon began to coalesce throughout his body, and the panic and the seemingly insurmountable fear he had felt only moments before lessened. He could even feel his toes for the first time since leaving England.

The brief weightlessness that always occurred during a drop made him feel giddy – it was, and always would be - an indescribable rush.

The Dutch countryside spread out below him as far as he could see; it was a deep carpet of green and yellow interspersed with large tracts of forests, gently rolling hills, windmills, slow meandering dirt roads, and modest townships. On the ground other squads were assembling with all due haste. They were making their way to the company rally point, scurrying like ants' do after a rock is lifted. He breathed a sigh of relief at that sight; there weren't any Germans defending the drop zones like he was told they were during D-Day. He could at least count on living a few more minutes.

Slowly dropping through the air he cracked a smile and let the sun warm his face. He laughed to himself and thought: who would have thought I could have found such peace and quiet in the middle of a war zone? If only he could stay up in the clouds for a little while longer he fantasized, silently riding the winds and reveling in the inaction. But it was a day dream that he knew couldn't last; gravity was a determined force no one could fight and the ground, like reality, was rushing up to meet him.

Hitting the ground feet first the young paratrooper tucked and rolled to lessen the blow like he was taught, and immediately became entangled in the parachute with all of its accruements. He felt stupid and somewhat embarrassed; emotions that seemed so out of place on the battlefield and better suited for the classroom. He struggled briefly, kicking his feet until daylight crept into the silken cocoon and he was able to untangle himself. Standing up and removing his helmet, he hit the quick release ring on his jump harness and stepped out of the parachute's embrace.

Without thought, thanks to the months and months of jump training he unhitched his rifle, unclipped his jump harness, and put his helmet back on. Despite the fact that the landing zone had looked secure and free of danger during his descent, he shouldered his rifle and began to scan the horizon for potential threats. His sense of alarm was short lived though, as Staff Sergeant Benson and the rest of his squad sauntered over to his position with their rifles slung over their shoulders, and with an easy gait to their steps.

"Hollins, glad to see you made it down in one piece... and with all your gear", greeted his stick leader, his gruff voice a welcome reassurance.

"I figured he would have shot himself in the foot before he jumped so he could've taken that luxury ride back to England", joked Corporal Rawlings to a chorus of chuckles and outright laughs. Steven Rawlings was a New York City man; he was a smart ass, tall of limb, and short of patience. He was also one of the best soldiers Glen Hollins, the young man from Pittsburgh, had ever met.

"I was thinking of doing that myself Steve, 'cept Glen was three behind me and I figured he was rearing to jump just as much as the Sarge was." Gregory Dunns was an ox of a man, a farmer by trade, and one of the oldest ones in the stick. His southern drawl led many to believe he was slow, but he was quick-witted and even quicker with the trigger. He was one of the squad's Thirty-Cal operators and had jumped with the extra forty pounds of weight without complaint. But that's how Dunns' disposition was; he would shoulder any burden thrown at him and remain quiet with any of his reservations.

"Alright, enough of the chatter boys. We got five miles to cover in forty-five minutes. Warren, Miller – you're on point. Rawlings, you got the rear – and from what I've heard that isn't new territory for you." The uncharacteristic jibe from the Sergeant set the whole squad into guffaws and made them relax, if just a little a bit. With his laughter dying off Glen drew a deep breath and exhaled deeply. Here we go.

* * * * *

Glen Hollins' squad met up with the Company commander in the city of Grave and soon integrated into the rest of Able Company, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division. They had not lost a single man during the drop; in fact the 504th as a whole had landed with all of their equipment intact and without a single casualty – a feat that was unexpected but warmly welcomed.

The commander had informed his men that the regiment's objective was to secure the city and then wait for the tanks to roll in from the South. It sounded simple enough – but it was during a break outside of an abandoned Café on the main thoroughfare that Hollins' third platoon got a rude awakening. The paratrooper had just sat down on the curb with an audible groan and had lit a bummed smoke when Lieutenant Smith, his platoon leader, came walking up. Without thought or hesitation the whole platoon stood at attention and saluted.

"At ease men," the Lieutenant said as he returned the salute, "I got good news and I got bad news." Smith cleared his throat, shifted his weight from one leg to another and continued, visibly disturbed. Rawlings, who had given Glen the cigarette only moments before was standing near him and whispered "Get ready to clench your asshole, Hollins" out of the side of his mouth. Casper Jenkins, the five-foot-nothing sniper from Minnesota with a bad lisp and smelly feet was standing close by and overheard the Corporal. The normally serious sniper stifled a laugh.

"First and Second platoon have already taken up positions two blocks over in the warehouse district," continued the Lieutenant, either ignoring the comment or having not heard it at all. "I just received word that foot elements of II Panzer Corps have started to skirmish with Charlie Company patrols to the North of the city. Our sister platoons have been ordered to repel the Germans at any cost until relieved."

"What's the good news than sir," Private Warren asked from the back.

"The good news is we're not going to be sitting around and waiting for the enemy to attack in force, as they are sure to do. Third platoon has been tasked with probing the enemy flank to the west of the city under the cover of darkness. We're to gather Intel and capture prisoners if possible."

The young man from Pittsburgh closed his eyes and prayed once more.

* * * * *

Dusk slowly crept over the horizon as Glen Hollins sat in a three-legged chair outside the Café, smoking another bummed cigarette. The steady staccato of machine gun, rifle, and mortar fire reverberated down the streets of Grave, punctuated by the occasional shrieks of incoming German shells and artillery explosions. The line of wounded and dead streaming past Third Platoon's position had started as a slow trickle hours before, but now was as constant as the gunfire.

The pain-filled cries of the wounded and the dreadful silence of the dead had started to erode the young paratrooper's morale until it seemed he couldn't take it anymore. He had tried to think of home and of his family at first, but the reminder of what he might never see again only made the waiting and the stress that much harder to bear. He dwelled on the only thought that he could: if he was going to die during his first patrol.

He imagined shrapnel from a grenade ripping into his stomach; he contemplated whether getting shot through the jugular was a better way to go than having a hundred pieces of hot metal rip through his fragile flesh. Would getting stitched across his chest with machine-gun fire be more painful than losing a hand in close combat? Would God grant him mercy and just put a bullet between his eyes, welcoming him into Jesus' embrace instantly?

The morbid thoughts that were churning through his head might have shocked him had he been back home, working in the steel factory with his father - but in Holland, after seeing countless bodies torn apart by man's hatred of man - it seemed normal. What was even worse was the self-awareness he felt dwelling on his own death; of how sick and wrong it was to imagine such things. It soon became the only thought that was keeping him sane.

"Alright gentleman – the grab ass break is over with! Gather your gear and report to your Sergeants! Five minutes men! We're moving out in five minutes!"

Lieutenant Smith's voice dragged him back into reality and made him focus on the present. Shaking off his dark thoughts Glen stood up, stretched, grabbed his rifle, and looked around. Sometime during his inner seclusion it had turned to night. The constant chatter of bullets and explosions had stopped by then - though the relative quiet was occasionally broken by the lonely crack of a rifle, a short spurt of machine gun fire, or by the far-removed rumbling of artillery to the South.

Private Lucian Flannery, an Irish boy from New York City who had bad teeth but a happy-go-lucky outlook on life sauntered over to Hollins, the bandoliers on his kit quietly rattling. He lit a smoke, took a deep drag and coughed. Glen Hollins had immediately taken a liking to Flannery during boot camp – it was hard not to with his optimistic outlook on life – and Lucian had quickly become his best friend in the platoon.

"I was going to come over earlier and chat you up boyo, but you looked like you was a million miles awey. Tinkin' of da family again, huh? Aye, me too. Me too. Me mum is probably cooking breakfast for the family right now and me dad is probably still getting drunk and losing all his pay at the tables." Lucian took another drag of his cigarette and looked up at the full moon as it slowly made its ascension in the sky.

"Yeah, I was thinking of them again," Glen quickly lied, "Just wondering how I'm ever gonna tell them about what we did over here, of the things we've seen and the things we're going to hafta do." He was too ashamed to admit the truth of his thoughts. They were still too fresh and they still had the chance of happening. Best not to voice his fears – it was an unmanly thing to do – and he didn't want Flannery thinking less of him.

"Aye. Aye. I know wud yah mean. Saw me first dead body when I was but a young lad, floating in 'da Hudson River. Me and some utter lads poked it with some steeks until it turned ova'. The bloated face haunted me dreams for years. But da' horrible things I've seen today probably haunt me for the rest o' me life. I don't tink I'll know wud to say either... that 'tis, if the good lord decides to return me from dis fooken country. Sheet, he'll probably send a bullet into me liver, that ironic bastard."

Hollins tried to fight the urge to laugh, but when Lucian took another drag on his cigarette and shot him his trademark look of Irish coyness, he broke out into an uncontrolled giggle. It just felt so good to laugh, even at something so dark and morbid. A heartbeat later the Irish boy joined in the revelry and soon they were teary eyed, laughing, and struggling to draw breath.

"What the hell are you two laughing at?"

Staff Sergeant Benson was walking over with the rest of the squad, most of them with grim or non-committal looks on their faces. Rawlings was the only one who shared their jovial mood, which only made it that much harder to gather themselves. Not trusting their voices Glen and Lucian stood up and flicked their half-smoked cigarettes to the ground. With wide grins on their faces they saluted the Sergeant.

"I truly hate breaking up the knitting club," Benson continued as he returned the salute, "but we got a job to do. Hollins – you just volunteered for point. We're falling in behind Sergeant Hutchin's squad, so don't worry – you won't be the spear point of the platoon tonight. They're assembling around the corner." The two friends, slightly chagrined, un-slung their rifles and moved into formation with a final chortle.

"Are we done ladies?" When no response came Staff Sergeant Benson nodded and said "Good. Now move out. And keep it quiet for Pete's sake."

* * * * *

He never thought the sounds of crickets and the illumination from the moon could ever make him paranoid, but as the platoon exited the city limits and slowly made their way across the wet grassy fields into the surrounding forest they were doing just that. He remembered reveling in relative silence back home, but there, in the Dutch countryside during Operation Market-Garden, it was just as scary if not more scary than the sounds of gunfire he had heard earlier. Every breeze that swayed tree limbs, every snap of a twig, every sound that could have signaled a human made him crouch and raise his rifle.

The young and immature man from Pittsburgh wasn't the only one affected in this way, to his guilty relief. The closest soldiers to him, Private Collers, Bradley, O'Connell, and Jeremies – all of whom were from Chicago, and who were best friends before enlistment – all were performing some type of herky-jerky dance whenever a shadow close by seemed to move. Even Lucian Flannery and Steve Rawlings would swing their rifles up to fight a phantom foe and then silently scold themselves. Gregory Dunns and the point man Casper Jenkins were the only soldiers besides the Lieutenant and the Sarge that didn't react to each and every stimuli the night had to offer.

Then again, Hollins had thought, they are the only ones in this platoon that dropped into Normandy the night before and fought during that confused mess. They probably went through the same ritual we are going through right now. He wouldn't admit it at the time, but they were like heroes from another age – tall, handsome, swaggering men who didn't take shit from anyone and knew what they were doing at all times. They seemed more than human, more than mortals put on the planet to struggle and question their existence. They were demi-gods who could control lightning and fire and hurl boulders on a whim.

"You men are greener than the forest for Pete's sake – would you stop jumping at every little sound – Casper is on point. He'll let us know well ahead of time if something..." The sniper, as if on cue and playing a part in the parody, whistled audibly and dropped to the dense shadows of the forest floor before the Sarge could finish his sentence. Like playing a game of 'Simon says', the whole platoon fell flat on their stomachs and within heartbeats thirty-three men had disappeared into the dense foliage.

It was hard to believe for Hollins that they found themselves lying prone – they were only a mere fifteen minutes outside of the city, not even a mile distant. Had they already made contact with the enemy? With that on his mind he made to ask the Sarge what was going on but was sternly cut off by a single finger across the lips. Dunns, ten feet ahead of them, silently grabbed the thirty caliber tripod from his assistant and assembled the weapon within a few seconds – making not a sound except for the audible click of the action grasping the belt of ammo. It was an impressive feat, and had Glen not been scared shitless and scolded he might have remarked on it.

Glen Hollins watched as Casper, like a living shadow, shot up and ran a few feet forward before dropping down again near a group of trees. The sniper cocked his head back towards the platoon and signaled for two men to move forward to his old position. Without hesitation Flannery and Miller bounced up from their positions and scrambled forward before lowering themselves to the ground, rifles raised. Lieutenant Smith signaled for four men to split up and extend the flank of the platoon. Collers and Bradley, after making the sign of the cross, maneuvered over to the right, while John Gibbons and Henry Allen stumbled over to the left.

By now the sweat that had formed on Glen's brow had started to run in rivulets down his face and the panic he felt began to press heavily against his chest, shortening his breath. It felt like the Germans could be anywhere; there could be a Jerry sighting him in with the iron sights of his Mauser as he laid there prone and helpless. His head swam. His vision dimmed. Cramps began to send daggers of pain up and down his sides. He did all that he could just to keep his mind.

Alerted to the movement of humans in their domain the crickets stopped chirping and complete, unnerving silence followed. It was horrifying. Hollins' heart was hammering in his chest and the blood was pounding in his ears. His skin became flushed and hot to the touch. He had never felt anxiety quite like he was feeling at that moment and it was easily the worst thing he had ever felt in his life. It seemed every second brought a more horrible emotion to the surface, only to be replaced by an even worse emotion.

The audible crack of a twig echoed throughout the forest, coming from somewhere ahead of the platoon. It's very rare when thirty-two men ever think the same thing at the same time, but the soldiers of Third Platoon, Able Company, 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division all silently thanked the lord that they had a man like Casper Jenkins. Had he not warned them of whatever was approaching they may very well have walked into an ambush and ended up as names on a casualty list back home.

A few more twigs snapped ahead and off to the left and the nearly silent clinking of battle equipment reached Hollins' ears, along with some muffled voices speaking German. Making the sign of the cross he shifted his weight to get into a comfortable firing position. Other men around him began to do the same. The two Browning Automatic Rifle gunners from the platoon slid their actions into place while Lieutenant Smith signaled the 'get ready' command.

The bone white moonlight filtering through the canopy illuminated an ominous picture ahead of the Americans, a painting none wished to witness painted. It was through this canvas that the first silhouettes of the Germans appeared, their trademark helmets giving them away and adding a surreal element to the wooded backdrop. One of the moving shadows – now a stark contrast to the rigidly straight trees - laughed at some remark one of his comrades made. That was when Casper Jenkins chose to strike.

The crack of the sniper's rifle shook Glen Hollins and the rest of the platoon out of their haze. Immediately one of the shadowed helmets exploded into a misty, opaque cloud of brain matter. The moment hung suspended in slow motion, the barely visible human body staggering for a moment as the head jerked back violently before dropping with an audible thud.

Than all hell broke loose.

And the young paratrooper from Pittsburgh closed his eyes and prayed once more.

* * * * *

Working in the steel factory had introduced Glen to loud sounds and confusion at a young age. The incessant clanking of metal on metal, the sizzling of molten materials falling into vats, and the ever present screaming of the foreman to the workers led him to appreciate how loud life could get. It became a constant drone one could get used to, and as long as you kept your wits about you it was a relatively safe place to be.

His first taste of combat was anything but.

Opening his eyes Hollins was thrown into a realm he never imagined could exist on Earth. A thousand million muzzle flashes erupted into his cornea's followed closely by a thousand million individual thunderstorms. A thousand millions bees began to zip and hum past his position and a thousand million particles of dirt were kicked up around him. Had he known the term at the time he would have said he was in shock; his brain just shut down and tried to process every single stimuli being thrown at it. Had it not been for the Sarge he might have just laid there with a befuddled look on his face until fate intervened and sent a bullet his way.

"Hollins," he screamed over the din of the firefight, "Hollins! Return fire, return fire!" One small part of Glen's consciousness heard the Sergeant and fought like a caged beast to snap the rest of his brain out of its malaise – but it was to no avail. His eyes simply refused to believe what they were seeing and he remained motionless. It was only when Sergeant Benson came running over and threw himself down besides the scared paratrooper that his cognitive functions started firing.

"Hollins, wake the fuck up and start firing that rifle soldier!" The Sergeant placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him – and that was all Glen needed. His fight or flight reactionary systems kicked in and he pulled the trigger on his Garand. Though it but was one crack of a rifle in the middle of one hundred rifle cracks - easily lost in the crescendo of violence – it gave Hollins a satisfied feeling. It fortified his psyche and the hard recoil into his shoulder was something real, something reassuring, and something seductive to the boy from Pittsburgh.

It was the first time since jumping out of the C-47 that he didn't feel helpless or consigned to a fate not of his choosing. With that singular pull of the trigger, the first time he fired a weapon with the intent to kill another human being, he felt complete, untouchable and immortal. His second and third shots, aimed at muzzle flashes and not tangible targets made him smile. His fourth, fifth, and sixth shots made him scream in ecstasy. The last shot in his clip got him addicted – to the adrenaline, to the fear, to the power he felt holding the life of another in the palm of his hands.

"Good job Hollins! Now reload and give Jerry hell!" Sergeant Benson smiled and gave him a thumb up before he scurried over to the soldier on his right. The Sarge proceeded to bob and weave up and down the line alternating between shouting encouragement and taking pot shots with his M-1 Carbine. It was a magnificent sight to behold – one man risking his life for the welfare of others – tempting fate because someone had to. Had Glen not been concentrating on slamming the stripper clip into the action of his rifle for round two he might have seen the Sarge lose to fate.

Sergeant Benson was standing over the Platoon's other thirty caliber machine gun, yelling to private Mallers and Keller where to direct their fire when a round zipped into his him. The 7.92mm rifle round hit him in the meat of his shoulder and exited out the back, leaving a crater of shattered bone, broken meat, and torn flesh, splaying blood across the faces of the two machine gun operators in the process. It happened so fast that the two men didn't register what the hot liquid dripping down their faces was – it was only after the Sarge dropped onto Mallers that they understood the situation.

"Medic! Fucking Medic! Sarge is down! Sarge is down!"

The call for the medic passed quickly throughout the platoon, but Hollins found he was yelling the words without registering what it was he was saying. He was giving lip service to the dire situation his Sergeant was in – which should have made him feel cold and callous - but he was too busy firing his rifle and reveling in his newfound addiction to combat. They could have been screaming that Hitler was in the trees and he would have screamed right along with them.

Glen unloaded his second and third clip into the German line with stunning speed; in fact he was still on his first screams for Lansing, the platoon's medic, as he was rummaging for another stripper clip in his bandolier. He was experiencing what the Regimental surgeons would later call 'battle frenzy'. His vision constricted, blurring out everything in his peripherals, and all his conscious thoughts were singularly concentrated on the enemy in front of him. The mantra of "reload, fire, reload, fire, reload, fire" was streaming through his head, and nothing else mattered.

Geoffrey Lansing, with the Red Cross signifying his non-combatant status displayed prominently on his uniform, streaked past Hollins' position followed closely by Rick Parsons, the Master Sergeant of the platoon. Bullets were still zipping over the platoon's position and two grenades went off near Flannery and Rawlins, who thankfully remained unhurt but dazed. The horrendous screaming of Benson and the grenades exploding, coupled with the movement of Lansing and Parsons finally grabbed Glen's attention. He fired off his forth clip, reloaded, and looked to down the line.

What he saw stuck with him for the rest of his life.

The medic arrived at Benson's side and began to work frantically on the Sergeant's shattered shoulder while Parsons ran past the thirty-cal gunners and took aim with his Carbine at two Germans that had stumbled past Jenkins' position. They fell to his deadly accuracy, each with four rounds punching through their chests. The Master Sergeant than ordered Mallers and Keller to reposition the gun farther down the flank to stop the German envelopment that was starting to take place. Mallers scooped up the weapon and Keller the bipod, both obviously scared but willing to do their duty.

They got but two steps when a loud, piercing shriek echoed in the air. Hollins, no more than fifteen feet away watched as an eighty-eight millimeter FLAK round hit the position. Benson, Parsons, Mallers, Keller, and Lansing were there one second; than the FLAK round exploded, sending blinding light across the American line followed by hundreds of tiny pieces of hot metal, and a rumbling shock wave. The next second they were gone; there was nothing left but a drifting cloud of viscera and smoke, scraps of uniforms, melted metal, and an ugly hole in the ground.

The young paratrooper from Pittsburgh blinked away the after effects of the explosion and wiped his eyes clear of the liquid human that splashed across his face. His ears were ringing to the sounds of church bells and his stomach started to heave. Close on the heels of the first round a second one shrieked in and detonated farther to his left. Glen slowly turned his face to see Privates McCarthy and Williams thrown up like rag dolls. The boys from Atlanta and Sioux City did grotesque flips in the air before slamming down to the earth, both missing their legs below the knees.

Still dazed and off balance with the ringing incessantly loud in his ears, Hollins watched as a third FLAK round struck seven feet in front of the prone Bradley. Shards of white-hot metal flew into the Private's face, ripping off gobs of flesh and shattering the bone underneath. Like a marionette from a horror show the boy staggered up and grabbed his destroyed face. He stumbled around drunkenly while trying to hold his shattered flesh and bone together. Three pistol rounds mercifully hit him, dropping him dead.

Glen knew he should have felt some sort of emotion, had some sort of reaction to the shattering of the lives around him. He should have had tears streaming through his eyes, not blood. He should have had a fierce pain in his stomach, not hate in his heart. He should have been looking for peace, not biting his tongue for blood. He should have been looking at the approaching Germans as humans, as his brothers and not as demons, not as things that were subhuman.

The moonlight revealed a pale white face peering around a tree not more than twenty feet ahead of him. By the helmet Hollins could tell he was German, by the look in his eyes he could tell the boy was scared, and by the Mauser Rifle pointing at the unsuspecting Flannery four feet away he could tell he needed to act. Shaking off the confusion and the daze from the FLAK blasts, he took aim with his Garand. He sighted the enemy down his iron and wooden barrel, hesitated slightly, and then pulled the trigger.

* * * * *

Growing up in downtown Pittsburgh wasn't easy. His parents were of moderate means – his dad a foundry worker and his mom a maid – but Glen Hollins grew up happy, with clothes on his back, food in his stomach, and a roof over his head. His parents always reminded him how lucky he was to have such things and that God in his infinite wisdom bestowed such gifts upon the worthy and the humble. They instilled upon him the belief that however small something might be it was still a blessing.

He lived his childhood and teenage years in relative innocence and peace. Of course there were the occasional beatings of black men, worker's riots, and the constant talk of communist and socialist conspiracies – but all in all he wasn't exposed to the worst life had to offer – one could even venture to say he grew up sheltered. He picked his fair share of school yard fights and in turn was dragged into just as many. He kissed his lifelong neighbor Michelle in the park by their houses. He made plans to marry her when the time was right, to buy a house near his parents, to continue working in the steel mill, and to raise a family.

All of that changed once America entered the War. Like everyone else he read about the horrors of Pearl Harbor, saw the violence of the European conflict in the theatres, and talked to the First Great War veterans that lived on his block. He learned firsthand through their words and recollections about the travesty of war and he soon understood that all of his childish hopes were for naught. He was but one boy caught up in the middle of events that shook nations and changed the very nature of humanity – his plans, the veteran's loved to remind him - were next to nothing when the cogs of humanity began to turn.

His uncle Bart was drafted in 1942. His cousin Albert joined the Marines in 1942. Michelle's older brother joined the Navy in 1942. Seven of the older boys from the neighborhood volunteered for Officer Training in 1942. His best friend John Thompson, who was two years his senior, volunteered for the Airborne in 1942. His aunt Betty joined the Nurse Corps in 1942.

All of those people who had been stable parts of his life had suddenly been whisked away, leaving him with a childish longing to join the great crusade and to rid the world of tyranny. He felt abandoned. He felt like he was left out of the schoolyard games that everyone else was playing. He felt it was unfair he had to wait two more years until he turned eighteen to volunteer. The war might have been over by then and he would have missed out on his chance for glory.

He made it a point to enlist on his Eighteenth birthday, despite his parent's misgivings. He wanted to be in the thick of it. He wanted to see combat. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to fight for his country. He wanted to return home proud and full of great stories of chivalry and camaraderie, of big battles and even bigger egos, of harrowing escapes and of exotic women he bedded.

How naïve he was.

* * * * *

The bullet entered the eye socket of the German just as the kickback of the rifle hit his shoulder. Like a watermelon being dropped from a tall building, half of the boy's head exploded into a thousand tiny pieces of bone fragments and chunky meat, spraying the tree, Flannery, and the surrounding ground in a thin sheet of humanity. Glen Hollins didn't even have time to register the gravity of what he had just done before the other German, unseen behind the same tree, stepped out and launched a grenade at Flannery.

"Christ, Flannery! Grenade! Look out!"

The young paratrooper from Pittsburgh watched as his best friend since jump school, his true brother in arms disappeared in a fiery explosion. It was like the time his family was watching his uncle John light the fireworks for the Fourth of July too soon and he got caught up in the pyrotechnics. John made off with light burns and some singed clothing. Lucian Flannery was not so lucky.

"Oh god, no! No, no, no, no!"

Hollins shot up from his position and sprinted towards the cloud of smoke and debris obscuring Flannery's position. Bullets zinged by him and the shouts of the surviving platoon members telling him to keep down became background noise. Besides his own heart beating and his own heavy breathing he heard nothing else; besides the acidic smell of cordite and gunpowder in the air he smelled nothing else; besides the shadows from the moon and the dark trees and the white cloud of detritus swirling around the last place he saw his friend, he saw nothing else.

The convulsing husk of humanity - half twitching, half alive - that he came upon brought him to tears. The whole left side of the Irish boy was a lattice work of torn uniform, torn flesh, blackened skin, and exposed muscles. Lucian's left arm was a barely recognizable mess. The face that greeted Glen was partially caved in and the helmet lying on the ground nearby was dented and punctured in numerous places.

It was the pitiful wheezing and coughing that finally made Hollins shut down. His friend was trying to say something, trying to enunciate the last thoughts of his existence but the punctured lungs and the torn wind pipe prevented him from doing it. All Flannery could do was look up at Glen Hollins with eyes full of confusion and bewilderment, cough blood up, gurgle, and hope that death took him quickly.

The boy from Pittsburgh threw his rifle down, picked up Lucian, and cradled his dying friend in his arms. Rocking back and forth and sobbing heavily, he kept quietly whimpering how it would be alright, and everything was fine, and help was on the way, and his father would be proud, and his mother was cooking a meal for him, and his sisters would marry good men, and his brothers would change the world for the better. He kept telling Flannery that they'd tell the world together how it was over in Holland, and they would buy houses next to each other, and they would marry twin sisters, and they would raise their families together, and they'd enjoy peace together.

But Lucian Flannery was already dead.

It wouldn't be alright.

Help wasn't on the way.

His father wasn't proud of him.

His mother wasn't making food.

His sisters didn't marry good men.

His brothers didn't change the world for the better.

Glen and Lucian wouldn't tell the world what they experienced.

They wouldn't live next to each other.

They wouldn't marry twin sisters.

Their families wouldn't be raised together.

They couldn't enjoy peace together.

* * * * * *

Glen Hollins never knew what had eventually knocked him unconscious during the patrol. It could have been the mental stress of combat or the anguish of seeing Lucian Flannery as a torn husk of humanity. It could have been the pain from the bullet that ripped into his hip. It could have been the shock from the grenade shrapnel that flayed his left side. It could have been the butt of the German rifle stock concussing his temple. It could have been any of those things that finally released him from the hell that was consciousness, but he never found out. All he remembered was cradling Lucian Flannery's dead body in his arms and crying before darkness enveloped him in its warm embrace - taking him away from the forest, from the horror, from the Dutch countryside, and from the futility of war.

* * * * * *

Glen Hollins dreamed of his favorite fishing hole just outside of Pittsburgh. It had always been the one place he could go to escape reality and the sometimes unexplainable series of events known as life. There was always a quiet hush to the place and the smell of fecund grasses always greeted his nostrils. It was one of the few places he had ever visited that made him want to stay forever, to sink into the ground and become a part of the wonder of nature.

It was also the only place where he felt he understood existence. There was a cycle to life that only made sense when he was fishing at the hole. Maybe it was the mundane existence of the flies buzzing to a fro; maybe it was the trout flopping lazily just out of his pole's reach; maybe it was the chatter of the squirrels and chipmunks in the trees. Whatever it was, it made him understand. He understood that existence is not meant to be understood, it just exists.

His best days on the planet were spent wasting time by himself at that fishing hole.

* * * * * *

Three years after his first and last patrol Glen Hollins awoke in a hospital bed in Pittsburgh, surrounded by doctors and nurses giving him injections and prognoses. He awoke to his family and his friends saying how happy they were he was alive. He awoke to reporters asking him questions about his experiences over there. He awoke to Army officers bestowing accolades on him for things he didn't do. He awoke to his lifelong sweetheart Michelle crooning over him, and telling him she'd marry him, and start a family with him, and live the American dream with him.

He gritted his teeth every time he was given a shot or a bad prognosis, and thought what could be worse than what Lucian went through?

He told them he was happy to be alive and thought but why am I alive when so many others are not?

He told them he was just doing his duty and he wasn't a hero, and thought how can I put words to my experiences over there? War is beyond comprehension. Even experiencing it still leaves outright incredulity.

He accepted the medals and the praises and the accolades without saying a word, and thought is this how we justify war? Blur the tragedy and the shame of destroying others' lives with shiny medals and pep talks about duty and honor?

He thanked Michelle for her love and her care, and thought how can I love you when I can't even love myself?

* * * * * *

And then one day he was released from the hospital.

He found his father's pistol in the armoire where he had always kept it.

He walked the fifteen miles to his favorite fishing hole, just outside of Pittsburgh.

He leaned against his favorite tree, took off his shoes, and put his toes in the water.

He breathed a deep breath and cocked the hammer on the pistol.

He realized the world of peace could never accept the man from war.

He realized he had never truly come home alive from Holland.

And then he shot himself in the head.

The Juicy Rapture

"I'm not that young", the catholic school girl said to the entranced man as she switched between licking her lollipop and twirling her long, golden hair. The man said nothing. Indeed, the only response she got was a slight upturn of his chin. He didn't fidget; he didn't move from his seated position. As he had since she entered his small apartment, he just sat there with the same look of animalistic desire and guilty longing.

The girl continued to lick her lollipop but soon switched her tact. With a mischievous glean in her eyes she started to swallow it whole, only to slowly and seductively pull it out of her mouth with an audible, wet, sucking sound. Drooling down her chin she giggled and wiped the saliva away with her candy-red tongue. That got a response from the man. He closed his eyes, moaned softly, and pushed his fast-growing erection down the left side of his mesh shorts. Heat began to flush into his prickly bearded face.

He had always wanted this - had always wanted to get one of the girls from the catholic school across the street into his apartment. For the months since he moved in he would finish his daily blog only to smoke a joint, drink a beer or two, and watch the girls hang out on the school lawn. He would sit and stare out his window fantasizing about what he would do to them, how he would exert the utmost sexual control over them. How he would be the only god they screamed for.

It had started off innocently enough – his first encounter with Sarah Jean. He was out in his driveway, drinking a beer and cleaning his car while The Kings of Leon blasted from his living room window - when he had noticed her staring at him from across the road. He had ignored her at first, trying to fight the urge to stare. Of course he knew by sight who she was. She was the loudest and the sexiest girl out of the harem that snuck outside during breaks to smoke cigarettes and laugh at the passing cars honking at them.

As he was finishing the buff she had called over to him with an innocent "hello" and a playful wave. He had looked behind himself to make sure she was actually waving to him before he cracked a meek smile and waved back. And that was it. She had turned around and sauntered back to her group, confident that he was watching every sway of her ass and hips. With a quick look back to confirm her suspicions she joined the other girls, and soon they all began to laugh a conspiratorial laugh.

Abashed, the man had stopped buffing his car on the spot, leaving the passenger doors still covered with wax, and went inside to get out of their eyesight. He had felt guilty at the sexual rush he felt from seeing her across the street waving at him. It was what he had fantasized about and yet when it finally happened he had frozen with fear. So without conscious thought he went right to his living room window hoping she was still outside with the other girls. They were still there, smoking their cigarettes and looking towards his apartment.

A few days after their first encounter, the girl had intercepted him on his doorstep while he was heading out to have a few drinks and dinner with some friends – catching him completely off guard once more. Already buzzed from the shots of Jack Daniels he had just pounded made him more daring than he thought possible. He smiled his charming smile and shook her proffered hand.

"John Callen, nice to meet you."

"Sarah Jean Williams. Am I catching you at a bad time?"

"No, you caught me at a great time," John said as he smirked a licentious smirk.

"Well – it's just – well – you looked like you had someplace to go," Sarah Jean replied with a little trepidation in her voice.

"I'm actually going to meet some friends for dinner and drinks, but I'm in no rush. I have a tendency to be fashionably late anyways. Occupational hazard."

"Oh, what do you do for a living," she asked while cracking a heart-melting smile.

"I'm an author of sorts... and a blogger for the New York Times. I lead an eccentric life, keep eccentric hours, and have eccentric friends," he explained to the catholic school girl.

The look on her face was all John Callen needed to realize he had hooked Sarah Jean. She had taken on the qualities of an enamored crush, smiled coyly, and then looked at her shoes as they scraped the sidewalk – all the while blushing. After a few seconds she looked up and met his wolfish gaze. They stood there looking at each other, sizing each other up, and scrambling for words to say before they finally took their semi-ackward leave of each other.

There was a particular pep to John's steps as he walked down the street later that evening. It was a cocksure swagger – one that he had never really felt before in his life – but it was akin to the confidence he had once felt as the senior talking to the freshmen. The kind he had felt pumping the keg and handing out foamy cups to the doe-eyed girls soaking in all the sights and sounds of their first college party – the first party they didn't have to worry about cops breaking up, or parents calling to find out where they were.

At dinner that evening he remained aloof and non-committal to his friend's inquiries into his affairs. Simple one or two word answers were closely countered by questions into their lives. He meant to deflect their interest, to get them talking about themselves, and not about him. John caught himself asking the questions but not really hearing their answers – he was too caught up in thinking about Sarah Jean - about her curves, her eyes, her lips, and the all-too feminine sway of her legs.

His friends knew something was amiss, knew he was avoiding talking about himself, but they also knew how eccentric and downright weird he had become after college. A few glasses of merlot later and they chalked it down to one of his many mysterious idiosyncrasies – the kind that had presented itself once he had become a secluded writer and set in his ways.

Staggering home that night, inebriated just as bad as he used to get in college John found himself singing "Aqua Lung" by Jethro Tull, while swinging off of light posts like he was a Mary Poppins stand-in during "Singing in the Rain". He'd mutter a verse to himself, walk up to a light, swing himself around it, and then continue on his way.

The one verse he found himself drunkenly repeating was the one that highlighted the guilt he had been feeling since his meeting with the catholic school girl earlier that night: "Sitting on a park bench - eyeing little girls \- with bad intent. Snot is running down his nose – greasy fingers – wearing shabby clothes. Hey Aqua Lung!"

He entered his apartment, threw his keys on the dining room table, and fell onto his bed. Maybe it was because of the spins, maybe not, but he found he couldn't get to sleep right away. He just laid there for countless heartbeats staring at the ceiling – for the first time not thinking about his novel in progress or the subject for his daily blog. He was thinking of her and of what he was getting himself into.

Talking to a seventeen year old? Fantasizing about her? Wishing she was there right than, cuddled in his arms? Wanting to meet her family? Christ – he was thirty five years old! He should be pursuing the women his friends were trying to hook him up with – not some jailbait that was half his age - that went to a catholic school across the street!

Sleep finally took him despite his body's unwillingness to cooperate.

He awoke the next morning –

No wait, scratch that John thought. By the height of the sunlight streaking in through his bedroom window it had to be well after twelve.

So he awoke the next afternoon, and through his sleepy haze John realized he was being dragged from his semi-coma by the sounds of delicate and deliberate knocking. Throwing himself out of bed he half walked half dragged himself over to the door and swung it open.

"Hey John, how's it going?" Sarah Jean was on his doorstep, resplendent in her school uniform with her long golden hair swaying slightly from the breeze. "Boy you look like hell. Did you just wake up," she inquired, "Or was someone being a bad boy last night?" She laughed coyly and toyed with the strap from her backpack.

"I'm um," he said as he cleared the phlegm from his throat, "I ahhh... yeah... just woke up. Had one hell of a night. Didn't get in until four in the morning, give or take a half hour." He winced as the blatant lie left his mouth. Why was he bullshitting her? It must have been eleven o'clock at the latest when he arrived home the night before – so why trump it up like it was a night from college?

He stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds, his face slowly flushing from embarrassment, before he realized he was shirtless and in his boxers. It had been one hell of a night he realized. Now utterly embarrassed he shifted his feet back and forth on the carpet, looked down at his nearly-naked frame, and then attempted to look everywhere except at the nubile young girl standing on his stoop.

"Oh look at you, all embarrassed! You got nothing to worry about – it's not like I haven't seen a boy in his boxers! My brother's college friends like to strut around half naked in the morning after they spend the night, and then act like they didn't realize I was home when I see them. It's nothing to be ashamed about!"

"I'm not ashamed Sarah Jean," countered John, "But you say you've seen boys naked. Well – I'm no boy. I'm a man, and it's pretty damn inappropriate for you to see me like this. Actually, on second thought – it's pretty damn inappropriate for you to even be on my steps." Stupendously flustered and caught flat-footed, John asked "what do you want anyways?"

The girl took a step into his apartment before answering him, immediately setting his internal alarm bells off. But the flush of adrenaline – of the danger and guilt inherent in what she was doing – started to arouse his hung over extremities. John retreated a few steps, looked around to make sure he wasn't a cornered animal, and took a deep breath.

"Why don't you put some clothes on so you don't feel at a disadvantage and I'll tell yah", Sarah Jean stated with no discernible emotion. "I don't think you mind if I close this do you", she asked as his front door slowly swung shut. It hit the frame with a loud 'smack' – as if signaling the finality of the statement – and the uselessness of arguing with her.

"Umm... yeah... sure... come on in. Make yourself at home in the living room while I go put on some clothes. Help yourself to some juice or water... and no" – he said as he responded to the look she shot him – "You can't have any of my beer or wine. I'm already one felony deep, I don't need to be two or three."

Without looking back John Callen found himself scurrying into his bedroom with a veritable dust cloud following him. What the hell is going on and what the hell am I doing, he thought as he frantically searched for some mesh shorts and a t-shirt to put on. I'm going to jail. I'm going to have an irate father shoot me. And then I'm going to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars John Callen.

Within seconds he was decently clothed and back into the living room. Sarah Jean was stalking around the room looking at the framed pictures and the framed posters on his wall – either really intent on the deeper meaning of them – or trying to look intent for his sake. He couldn't tell. In the interim she had produced a red lollipop in which she was voraciously licking, more out of habit he hoped than a conscious effort to arouse him.

"You're way too young to be in my apartment Sarah Jean. I think you should leave."

She turned towards him with a dangerously playful look in her eyes, like when a cat sees a mouse scurrying across the floor and gets ready to pounce on it. Indeed, John felt like a mouse being toyed with at that moment. There were so many things that could go wrong for him, not including succumbing to his baser instincts and actually having physical contact with her. He felt so nervous in front of the catholic school girl he doubted he could even become hard had he wanted to.

"Why don't you just sit down and let me explain myself," she suggested with a slight hint of amusement in her voice. Inexplicably he followed her direction, and without a word he grabbed one of his kitchen chairs, dragged it into the living room and seated himself Indian style on it, a look of intense longing splaying across his face.

And that was how he found himself seated in front of a catholic school girl in his living room with a hard on, a juicy rapture all but ready to happen.

"I'm not that young," Sarah Jean had started while staring at John and sucking on the lollipop, "besides, I'll be eighteen in two months. By the standards of the state I'll be an adult, and responsible for my own actions."As if that was the only thing that needed to be said she continued attacking the lollipop with a purpose before continuing.

"You're certainly an interesting man, John Callen. Don't think I haven't noticed you since you moved in – staring at us when you thought we weren't looking, grabbing your crouch after one of us bends over, quickly looking away when one of us glances over at you - we all know you're watching us. It's became a game of sorts," she laughed, "We compete to see who can get the biggest visceral reaction from you."

"I know I'm the one that drew your attention the most," Sarah Jean continued as she tried to seductively turn around and slowly pick up a piece of fuzz from his carpet "because I was the one that you didn't furtively turn away from when caught. I'm the one that you were man enough to keep staring at."

"That doesn't mean anything," John said dismissively. "I have a penchant to zone out and get a faraway look in my eyes from time to time. Especially when I'm outside, stoned, and listening to music... occupational hazard, of course. And it just so happens that your school takes up one-hundred and eighty degrees of the view from my front porch. And it just so happens you guys go outside to smoke cigarettes all the time."

"So you don't just 'zone out' do you?"

John Callen winced inwardly, realizing his mistake a second too late. He gave away his hand; he told James Bond all his nefarious plans before they had a chance to come to fruition.

"Ok, you got me. I do happen to notice when you guys go out to smoke cigs. But that's only because I recently quit. They say that quitting smoking is harder than quitting a heroin addiction – and I believe it – because seeing anyone smoking, or smelling the smoke, or even taking a deep breath in the winter reminds me of how much I liked smoking. So don't think I stare over there because of you guys," John said as he awkwardly coughed, "because I don't. It's seeing you smoking that draws my attention."

"Who are you trying to bullshit – me or yourself? I certainly don't believe you despite how young, innocent, and dumb you may think I am."

Convinced of her verbal victory Sarah Jean slid over towards John, depositing the half-sucked lollipop on his kitchen table, and grabbing his shoulders she suddenly brought her crotch over his, straddling him, but leaving a few inches between their nether regions. She brought her face within a few inches of his. Her breath was intoxicating, her smell almost too hard to bear.

The sudden contact made him jerk in reaction while sending waves of ecstasy throughout his being. The wrongness of what was going on only added to his arousal and sent an orgasmic shiver down his spine. He could have struggled, could have pushed her off and boldly sent her on her way, but her grip and the nearness of her vagina to his penis made that all but impossible.

"What are you doing," was the only thing he thought to ask.

"Whatever I want to," was her sheepish reply.

They remained in that position for what seemed like lifetimes, staring into each other's eyes, greedily siphoning the expelled air from one another, and anticipating the feeling of their bodily fluid exchange. There was no doubt about it for John anymore - he was going to enter Sarah Jean sloppily and with no regrets. Jail was worth the feeling their sex would entail.

Their hormone-induced trance was broken suddenly by the sound of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Confused, John made to make a comment but was hurriedly cut off by Sarah Jean's "shush" pantomime. It's my phone, she mouthed before retracting herself from the hovering position she was in.

"Hello," she cheerfully answered in a high pitch tone, followed closely by "Hey mom, how's it going?"

And John froze like a wild animal cornered.

"No, I'm just studying with Sue and Jenny at the library. Yeah, we're looking over our notes for the big English test coming up next week. Ok – yeah, I'll tell her. Yup, be home soon. Love you too. Bub-bye!"

Sarah Jean closed the phone with a wry smile on her face and put it back into the interior pocket of her skirt. The movement in and of itself wasn't meant to be sensual, and yet John found himself envying the cell phone. It spent most of the day next to her young skin and silky underwear, and it was near enough her inner thigh that he figured she felt its weight near her crouch. He found himself wondering if she kept it on vibrate while she was in school, and whether or not her vagina felt the vibrations from all the text messages and phone calls Sarah Jean got throughout the day.

"What was that all about", he croaked in a hoarse voice.

"Nothing. Just my mom wondering where I was, since I didn't tell her I was coming over here."

No shit you didn't tell her you were heading over to a thirty-five year olds house, John thought.

"I think that's a sign. Now – I'm not one to believe in deities and their interventions – mind you. But I figure a phone call from your mother as you're hovering you're"... John nodded down to her skirt "nether region over my penis is a sure sign of how wrong this is. I think you need to grab your lollipop and head home. You probably shouldn't come back over, either."

"Ha", Sarah Jean barked as she picked up her discarded lollipop "I'm the one that goes to Catholic school and you're telling me about signs? How about this for a sign – you ever think maybe I was really disillusioned with the whole population of mankind until you moved in across the street? That I felt like it was a sign that you came into my life? That maybe, just maybe, there was something to look forward to? That a shy, secretive, quiet, good looking man moved in across the street to prove to me all men weren't immature pigs?"

"But Sarah Jean – you don't even know me! Besides my looks – which, thanks for the compliment – you have no idea about who I am. Maybe I'm just as immature and brutish as most men... correction, as most boys you know. How do you know that I don't fart, waft it to my nose, and laugh? That I don't have sex with random women and then never call them? How do you know that I'm not a serial killer that stalks women in the park late at night? You don't know anything! You're just a young girl, not even a woman yet! You're just a naïve little girl with no understanding of the world or how it works! You're just a bitch waiting to happen! A whore dressed in religion! "

He had not meant to hurt her or insult her, but John immediately realized how harsh he had sounded, how mad he had got – and the shock, closely followed by the hurt and then the sorrow on Sarah Jean's face made him regret ever lashing out at her. She's just a young girl with an innocent crush on you John, don't be a dick he thought to himself. He made to stand up and apologize but before he could act the catholic school girl erupted into a bout of anger best described as something reserved for the fury of hell.

With tears in her eyes she began to scream and cry out for help. With vengeance and betrayal in her heart she began to knock over chairs and throw books off his book cases. With a warped sense of zealot righteousness and deviousness she began to tear at her clothes. With a startling lack of self control and self preservation she began to hit herself in the face and the body with whatever she could lay her hands on.

"Would you just calm down? I'm sorry; ok I'm sorry Sarah Jean. I didn't mean to hurt you or offend you when I called you a girl. That's a good thing! You still have so much life to experience, so much innocence to lose, and so many bad choices to regret! I didn't mean to call you a bitch or a whore; it just came out of nowhere. I didn't think before I spoke ... What are you doing to yourself? You're bleeding, my god! My god Sarah Jean, what's wrong with you? I'm going to call the..."

And then it hit him.

She was making it look like an attempted rape.

By now his neighbors were pounding on his door asking if everything was alright.

By now the cops were being called for a domestic disturbance, and when they arrived to see Sarah Jean, a seventeen year old catholic school girl, bloodied, bruised, desecrated, and crying – he was finished.

No one would believe his word over hers. He was thirty-five, eccentric, and a loner. She was seventeen and in his apartment with no signs of forced entry.

He knew the justice system; it wasn't based on what happened - it was based on what you could prove. He couldn't prove shit, but she could. What had started out as a bad idea had just turned into the ending of his life; Sarah Jean, not getting what she wanted had quickly out maneuvered him, and her spite was all John could see.

Her spite is what was going to get him arrested, thrown in jail, and killed sometime later on.

His juicy rapture was his demise.

Castration of the Phrase "Bad Guys"

"Bad Guys".

It's a phrase we've heard our whole lives, from various sources and in various contexts. It's also a phrase that is dangerous, in my mind. To so generalize a group of people opposing you as "bad guys" creates the illusion that those opposed to them must be the "good guys". It's a childish way of looking at the world, putting unimaginable and misunderstood concepts into neat little boxes. Just like the concept of good and evil in religion, "bad guys" versus "good guys" polarizes issues and justifies anything and everything. To have such extremes in life goes against the very fabric of being.

In nature there is no good or evil, nor any right or wrong. It's an existence of gray where survival and reproduction is paramount – good or bad does not factor into it – and in that vein of thought we can see how human those concepts are. The woodpecker who drills holes into a tree – is he evil? The cheetah that attacks the person stupid enough to provoke it – is she evil? The dolphins that save the swimmer from a shark – are they good? Only as we examine nature and natural phenomenon do we do the truly human thing and try to justify Mother Nature's ways.

It's how we try to understand the biological symphony of life - by putting inherently human ideas into the context of a non-human world.

So why is the phrase "bad guys" such a bad thing? Admittedly, I have used the term before and I'm sure I'll slip up and use it again. It makes things easier that way. Just look at the "War on Terror". If we had been told that our enemies were actually just pissed off nationalists who didn't approve of our meddling in their daily lives and culture, we might have questioned WHY they attacked us and WHAT drove them to this end. We might have restrained anger in lieu of empathy. We might have taken a few minutes to organize an educated discourse with our friends and co-workers.

Of course, as soon as the 911 attacked happened, human nature took over, as it always does. It was justified and totally plausible to be sad, angry, morose, confused, and filled with rage. I was. You were. We all were. There was no other reaction available to our simple psyches. Americans who had woke up that morning never realized it was their last morning in bed with a loved one, their last cup of coffee, their last moments of happiness or sadness.

But where we went wrong, where we were thrown off course was also during that same morning. When we could have been asked to do anything - to improve the world and the due course of history - we were fed simple, yet powerful rhetoric – the kind the masters of propaganda used during World War II Germany – to turn our attention away from healing and the reserved, quiet dignity afforded us, to ignite the hatred and emotionally-charged parts of our hearts. It was a sad day, not only because so many Americans lost their lives. So many Americans lost their souls, as well.

Remember, our founding fathers were called terrorists by the British. We called ourselves patriots. Why does that simple fact still elude the mass public today? "Jihad" is just the same as "Crusade". "Justified Violence" is on the same coin as "Unjustified Violence" – it just depends on who you ask. We were the "bad guys" in every one of our wars – just as we were the "good guys".

I know I will try to make an active effort to castrate the saying "bad guys" from my vocabulary. I suggest you do the same.

Did You Vote Today?

So, who did you vote for?

Oh sorry, is that too personal?

What's your favorite sexual position than? That's not too personal, right?

In this heated election season we've seen the "Obama Hope" turn into the "Tea Party Anger". We've seen big egos and even bigger idiots scream loudly about how they want their America back. We've seen rational debate and discourse (once again) succumb to the feelings of fear and disenfranchisement. It makes me wonder, will we ever change? More importantly, can we?

The most successful politicians realize the majority do not vote for what's in their best interest, they vote about what they fear the most. Or rather, they vote for the candidate who represents the less-frightening of platforms. They vote for the person they could have a beer with. They vote for the person that seems like they could be a good neighbor. They vote for the publically articulate, the socially adept, or the politically savvy. But they never vote for the most important thing:

The person who doesn't have a moneyed interest in politics.

Unfortunately our current system doesn't allow for this type of politician to exist. We've somehow incorporated public service and civic duty into a business, as it seems we have incorporated just about everything else into a business these days. Where true empathy should exist we now have money dictating policy, rather than policy dictating money. Where true responsibility should exist we now have lobbyists dictating morals, rather than morals dictating lobbyists. Where true separation of religions and politics should exist we now have faith dictating choice, rather than choice dictating faith.

With that train of thought chugging through my mind I entered the polling station unsure as to who I was going to endorse. Unlike most voters I refused to take any of the politicians on the ballot at face value. I refused to be lazy and base my decisions on what pundits or attack ads or other people were telling me - which I find is usually insulting to my intelligence and grossly disrespectful – because I realize the fast-fading beauty of this Democracy is our ability to decide for ourselves what is right and just. We have the freedom to question motives and demand explanations, not excuses, for political actions. We have the freedom to investigate how one candidate's decisions really affect us, rather than being bullied into believing what their campaign tells us (or what their opponents attack ads tell us).

I'd be lying if I told you I didn't spend countless hours digging into the candidate's pasts; their public voting records – indeed – even their value as humans. Surprisingly (and in all likelihood laughably) I found a lot of information through the BBC and CBC - two news organizations that have no biased interests vested into our politics. One looks at us as the upstarts across the pond, playing in our own little sandbox and eating paint chips, while the other looks at us as the crazies that live in the flat below. It's that type of removal from everyday American life that really helped me to compare and contrast the information we're presented with from our own news organizations.

Let's face it, whether left leaning or right leaning, our news is staunchly in the category of "America – Fuck Yeah". CNN, MSNBC, FAUX News – all of them have a vested interest in our politics – and all of them have a moneyed interest in our politics. They are businesses afraid to bite whatever hand is feeding them, and I find it hard to believe the inherent biases in their owners and financial supporters doesn't bleed into the way they report the news – thus the highly skeptical nature I take when I find information about politicians – and why the BBC and CBC are blessings in disguise.

So I did my research as independently as possible, removed my fact gathering from the clutch of the mainstream media as much as possible, and formed my opinions based on the most unbiased information I could find. I approached the table for my district, found my name, signed my signature, and approached the booth. I took all of the information I gathered and I voted for...

Well, I'm not going to tell you because that's pretty personal. But I do like doggie-style the best.

Forgive BP? Forgive BP? I'd rather have The Gestapo Knock on Mein Door!

It's one of the rare issues that doesn't involve politics and yet infuriates and galvanizes us, the general public. It's one of the rare issues that highlights the failure of all political parties and every greedy politician and CEO on the planet. It's one of the rare issues that started off as a hiccup in the road of progress and has become a condemnation of the whole human race. It's one of the rare issues that creates arguments and fierce, vocal debates with just its existence. It's one of the rare issues where the rape of the natural world at the hands of humanity is actually being covered by the amalgamation of news and opinion, the mass media.

I am, of course, referring to the BP oil spill in the Gulf Coast.

If there is to be a murder trial at the end of humanity's reign on this planet, I imagine the plaintiff's would present the court with their star witness - Oil – and the defendants would moan and squirm in their seats. They would know how fucked they were and would begin preparations for their forgiveness speech to the wronged parties. They would make sure to add lots of tears and stuttered sobs and swooning legs and invocations of sorrow and regret and explanations of stupidity, or the tried and failed method of repeating, "We were just doing what we were told".

The judge, Mother Earth, would listen politely to the Defense Lawyer's case whilst staring at the defendants without an ounce of pity or empathy bedecking her eyes, and all the while silently scolding her most progressive children for their hubris. She would turn her head and look at the plaintiff's – her other children which number in the tens of billions – and see the injustice in their faces, their inability to assert their right to live in the face of humanity's overbearing and uncontrollable nature. Her soft heart for humanity would cease to exist and in its place a wild, uncontrollable fury would erupt. There would be no argument to sway her decision this time. Humanity, for all of its promise and progress, would have to die.

This scenario is of course a fictitious and fantastical account of what is probably going to happen to humanity sometime in the near future. Minus the over-simplified courtroom case, the signs are starting to pile up. Global warming should have been the canary-in-the-mineshaft wake-up call for humanity, back in the EARLY NINETIES. Acid rain and its destructive nature should have been the litmus paper test as to how much we were affecting the symbiotic relationship we have courted with this planet. We should have realized how anathema plastic is to the cyclic circle of life. We should have realized Hurricane Katrina and the successive tsunami's of the Indian Ocean were the clarion calls for something more dire and deadly and destructive.

We should we should we should we should.....

Of course now that our backs are against the wall and the shit is literally splaying us as it travels through the fan, do we realize our folly. Mother Earth, just like any jaded lover, can only take so much abuse and degradation and patronization and negligence before it lashes back. Mother Earth, just like any system of existence will try to find a happy medium and an ecological balance, a positive that is equal to the negative.

So here we are in June of Two-Thousand-and-Ten, hanging onto the earth like a flea does to skin. Terra has risen from her silent slumber and has begun to scratch at the annoying sensation littering her. And through all of this, through all of this travesty and horrendous bullshit and self-fulfilling debates, the most galling and despicable utterances have been coming out of people's mouths.

"There's no one to blame",

"BP tried its best",

"BP did no wrong because humanity needs energy",

"It's not that big of a deal",

"We survived the Exxon-Valdez spill, what makes you think we can't survive this",

"We should just forgive BP and move onto finding solutions to the growing problem in the Gulf".

British Petroleum is the perfect example of all the failures of humanity and human nature, all nice and neatly bundled up. A company that was driven by the all-consuming thought of profit. A company that overlooked all but the most basic safety procedures because anything else would have reduced their profits. A company that knowingly risked the health and safety of the Gulf Coast and all of its residents to fill their mouths with salty loads of profits, before the well ran dry (no pun intended). A company that is now scrambling to stitch a hole in their pockets at whatever cost – to the earth, to the residents of the Gulf Coast, to our sense of morals – to make a PROFIT from the worst man-made disaster in recorded history.

FORGIVE BP? FORGIVE BP? I'd Rather Have the Gestapo Knock on Mein Door!

How About another Cup of Road Rage?

Admit it. You've done it. I've done it. We all do it.

You're running late and decide to take the initiative on the road, cutting off the person going three miles per hour slower than you'd like. Maybe you have Boston bumping in your car or perhaps some Jay-Z. The music is inconsequential – the act isn't. It's a modern form of aggression that speaks deeply about the human psyche. Not only is it dangerous, it's downright frustrating – especially when you're the one that gets cut off.

I'm not sure what it is, but I always take it personally when someone cuts me off. Like they took off their black leather glove and backhanded me before pissing in my face and laughing. Most of the time I'm sure they don't even register as to what they've just done (I know I usually don't) – which makes it even more pathetic when I start screaming and yelling obscenities at them. My heart rate rises, my ire peaks, and then – almost as fast as the bout came upon me – it vanishes without a trace.

Almost immediately following the oppressive and all-consuming rage that I feel because of the asshole in front of me, I start to wonder why that anger bubbles to the surface of my mostly placid emotional state. I mean, when I'm driving there's a sense of calm that is always there. Maybe it's the tunes I'm listening to, or the destination I'm driving to that keeps me happy – but rage always spikes in me when I have to deal with the inane actions of another driver. I scream stuff such as "you fucking moron" or "you cock-sucker-mother-fucking-whore-bag" or even a simple, one word statement such as "dick".

So why do we always react to stupidity on the highways with swift violent aggression? Does it originate from the same neural pathways that religious fanatics use when they kill in the name of their peaceful religions? Is it the same psychosis that drove ancient man to kill first and ask questions later? It must be – because what else can describe such an inane act of misplaced anger? Most of road rage, I gather, isn't premeditated or preordained. It's a knee-jerk reaction to a specific series of stimuli. So it must be something latent in the genome of humans to go from simmer to boil in less time than it takes to eat a French fry.

Personally, I never have enough energy to follow someone and create a scene because of what happened on the road. Anger – just like a lot of human emotion – is a waste of time and energy and hardens our hearts every time it enters it. We so easily like to point out other people's mistakes but then shy away from admitting and recognizing our own.

So how about another cup of Road Rage, dick?

Protesting Planned Parenthood? Why?

I was driving by a Planned Parenthood in Saratoga the other day when I noticed protestors outside the clinic with pictures of dead babies prominently displayed across banners, being waved like victory flags from a long forgotten era. My first reaction was disgust. My second reaction was bewilderment. Who were these people that had the time and the motivation to protest a women's right to choose? Who were these people that felt they knew what was right and good and just for other people?

Suffice to say, I decided to stop and witness this dichotic embarrassment to free thinking and free will. We as a people tend to espouse freedom of choice, but usually as long as that choice is compatible with our own world view – and we react passionately, even violently – when we feel that a person's choice has assaulted the bedrock of our beliefs. The act, in and of itself, is a large hypocrisy that we fail to acknowledge. "Do as I say and not as I do", might be the best way to sum it up or, "you have a right to choose as long as your choice is the same one I would have checked off on the test".

It's ironic, the people that were there protesting that day – either they were too old to reproduce any more, too young to understand what they were doing there, or too convinced of being right by their fucking religious righteousness dogma bullshit – but one in all they were cocksure idiots. The most dangerous kind of idiots. The ones that will scream and spit venom at women walking in and out of the front door and not even bat an eye at how cruel and absurd they are being. The ones that can quote scripture whilst using it to justify an inordinate amount of shit that literally isn't in the bible. The ones that are a living irony – for indeed, despite their faith in going to heaven, if there is a hell – these people are certainly going to it.

That's when it struck me – sitting in my car in the parking lot – these people were fucking insane.

I'm sorry but there's no other way to word it. These people have bought one way tickets to fucknutville and the train is a' rollin. So, the question is, from where does this violent psychotic break emanate from? What environmental stimuli leads to this displacement of reality for fantasy? Or is it that age old battle of nurture versus nature - are some people just born with an unlimited capacity for ignorant hate and dumbfounding stupidity? I personally believe, just with everything else in life – one needs to take their cues from nature – and realize it's a balance between the two opposing forces. Life is never black and white and nor will it ever be – it will always be a gray area – with room to wriggle and fluctuate. Thus, it must be a volatile mixture of who we are as humans and who influences us during our developmental period.

All of these threads – religion, nurture versus nature, the human capacity to be cruel to other humans, the depths at which ignorance plumbs, cultural insanity – stem from one basic fact. One universal failing of the human mind and body and society and culture and circumstance. Our ability to deceive ourselves into thinking we have CONTROL. All of us spend our lives thinking we have control – over our minds, our bodies, our societies, our cultures, our circumstances – when all we do is buy a ticket to existence and go along for the ride.

That must be why all these people get so loud and violent over abortion - it's the undeniable truth that stares at them in the face every day - and no amount of religious inebriation can deaden that.

Self-Deception of the Muffin Tops

Remember that old adage "if you got it, flaunt it"? Well I have a chest full of hair that makes Austin Powers pale in comparison. My point being? I don't take off my shirt in the summertime and I don't go kayaking with just a life jacket on. I don't give little babies being pushed in strollers reasons to have nightmares for the rest of their lives. So if you have a gut, please don't wear a midriff.

I feel compelled to save others from unpleasant memories - as you should. It's our collective civic duty. It's a moral and social imperative. Women don't like hairy chests (reference any Abercrombie model) and men sure as shit don't like folds of flap smiling at them beneath a half shirt. Even if everything else about you is as pristine as the fountain of youth is envisioned – do us a favor and restrict the view of the flab.

Now some of you might be calling for my castration and uttering phrases such as "chauvinistic pig" or "who is he to judge other people" or even "he's not that good looking, so why does his opinion matter". I'm not here to tell you that I'm right. My opinion doesn't matter - just as everyone else's opinion you pass on the street doesn't matter. Be happy with who you are and fuck anyone who thinks otherwise.

I am here to tell you though that constant self-deception is a terrible malady. It's an ego trip of the worst degree. To be so oblivious to your own shortcomings is not only dangerous to the health and well being of others but it only helps to magnify any negative opinions they might have of you. You might be hot and like to make sure others know it – but did you ever stop to think of how shallow that is? You might be really funny and successful - but does your own hubris ever cross your mind?

Of course, some self-deception is necessary in order to achieve a balanced sense of confidence. We can't all be self-deprecating all the time. We'd go mad and withdraw from the human drama known as life. Nobody likes a shut-in. Even shut-ins don't, though they don't realize it because of their own flavor of self-deception. Just as everything else in existence is predicated on a delicate balance between positive and negative forces, so is this concept of 'self'.

So, you, you women who possess a Muffin-Top and purposely present it as a Broadway show for all of us to view, please do us all a favor, take a step back, and pull a Socrates - "Know thyself." I mean I can't speak for anyone else, but I sure as shit don't like seeing your mudslide of flesh bounce by as I sit outside the Stadium Café having lunch with my mom.

Small People in Big SUV's

Maybe I'm just an ass, but I swear I get a convulsive laugh every time I'm driving somewhere when I spy someone small of stature driving a huge fucking SUV, and I know I'm not the only one. My initial guffaw comes from the image in and of itself; the diminutive figure barely taking up half of the driver's seat, looking like they are sitting on telephone books with wooden blocks strapped to their shoes, their arms at a high angle to grasp the steering wheel, and their faces poking out just above it.

The absolute disparity in size is akin to a really big person driving in a car way too small for their bulk – like too much toothpaste squeezed into too small of a tube - it just doesn't seem to fit, and it illicits an instantaneous visceral reaction.

After I get over the initial laughter I tend to think deeper about the situation I had just been privy to, the fact that one person is driving the civilian equivalent in bulk to a tank. Now, I've been accused time and time again in my life that I over-analyze and over-think the mundane and the miniscule – which perhaps I do – but screw it, that's how my neural pathways lead. This is no different.

So I ask myself, when did the soccer mom and the urban jockey feel the need to drive a vehicle that was built for a totally different reason? When did the SPORT UTILITY VEHICLE become the casual car to drive to and from work, to and from school, to and from the grocery store, to and from practice? Why did it take precedence over a Jeep or a mini-van or a sedan? Why did it become just another vehicle rather than a Sport Utility? Is it because Americans don't understand the acronym of S-U-V? Are we that stupid or ignorant? Hopefully not but possibly so, because if you break down the phrase, this is what you get:

SPORT: To me, something that is competitive and physical, and for safety reasons requires a shit ton of equipment per person.

UTILITY: Think of what a utility company deals with. A plethora of different situations may arise in the course of their day to day responsibilities and thus a huge amount of tools to combat said situations is required.

VEHICLE: Transportation to and from distances we don't have the time or the motivation to walk or bike to.

Good, so now we have SPORT \+ UTILITY + VEHICLE. A coach, a trainer, or an EQUIPMENT MANAGER fall into this category – they, in my mind are the only ones I can think of that rightfully deserve to drive an SUV. Other than that, the person that needs to travel down roads that normally can't be accessed by low-clearance, miniscule, or two-wheel drive cars has that right as well – i.e. forest rangers, fire department captains, and the occasional logger.

So why is there such a prevalence of normal, everyday people driving vehicles they have no right or need to drive? Why are there so many people wasting gas and creating a carbon footprint well beyond what a human should be producing?

Is it because they are safer?

No.

\- Maybe safer in their heads but an SUV can crash and burn just as easily as any other car.

Is it because they are more economical?

No.

\- Maybe more economical if you don't have to worry about money.

Is it environmentally safer?

No.

\- Maybe it's safer if it runs on hangover piss and emits pure atmosphere back into the air.

So if it's not safer for the driver, for the wallet, or for the environment, why do people who have no reason to buy them and drive them do it?

Because its America people. That's what our culture has become. We're wasteful because we can be wasteful. We can be decadent because nothing is stopping us. We're like the Roman Empire before it fell – greedy, lustful, decadent, wasteful, a thin veneer of power stretched over a rotten and cancerous core. We don't produce anything of value except money and entertainment. We are relying more and more on outsourced protection.

We are living our way of life on borrowed time and soon the piper is going to exact his payment. My only hope, the only idea that is keeping me going every day, is that things will change before it's too late.

But alas, History teaches us differently. Just ask the Romans.

The Disappointment of Champions

Sometimes I wish the Penguins had never won the Stanley Cup. Granted – it was one of the crowning moments of my short existence on this planet and a memory I will cherish forever – but it has passed just as water inexorably passes the bridge. And with its passing came the forlorn hope that they would repeat it again, like a meth fiend coming down off of a high only to jones for it that much more.

Having that championship, that victory, in my pocket made the stress of watching the playoffs that much harder to bear. I kept thinking to myself, how does one go back to liking a team that isn't a champion? It was easy enough for me to start since I began following hockey after the Penguins had won their two Cups back to back. There wasn't the visceral experience of having everything on the line and winning against all odds twice in a row. There was just the team with gold and black and a Penguin prominently splayed across the chest.

In my youth winning meant praise from family, and friends, and a pizza party, or some such event after the game. It was more meaningful to have the cookies than to actually win. There was no pride involved – I mean fuck, we were just kids and our whole lives were ahead of us – and we played it just to play. There's purity to sports that only children can understand and thus cultivate. Having said that, permit me a cliché when I say there's a purity surrounding anything children and young adults put their minds to. The weight of the world, pride, vanity, camaraderie, disappointment, regret, and conformity were all ideas and concepts that hadn't entered our minds yet.

So, my question is, why does winning and winners and champions and championships matter so much to us?

If one were to look at it from a social psychology aspect, the uncontrollable euphoria we feel when besting another human being might be the answer. In a country where we are told we are all equal on one hand and then prodded to win at any cost on the other hand produces this mentality, this drive, to be better than everyone else because that's the measure of success and happiness. No one remembers the second-best except for the second-best, right?

It's a flawed way of looking at things. To only see one facet of a competition is not only ignorant, it's downright repulsive. To only concentrate on lauding the winners and chiding the losers is a sure fire way to produce animosity and aggression. But the problem is, is that it feels so good to wipe someone's nose in the bullshit that was just shat out, still steamy and fecund. It feels good to know you're better than someone else, even for an instantaneous moment. We as humans need to feel superior from time to time, superior to nature and superior to each other. To so fully dominate someone or something and enjoy it is intricately woven into the fabric of being human.

After being chided for so long for being a Penguins fan, I had my revenge, my recompense, for a year. And how very short that year seems now. But after winning a championship nothing will compare to that achievement short of another championship.

It's the disappointment of being a champion.

The Gridiron is My Religion

I realized some time ago that I'm not a morning person, especially on the weekends. The thought of getting up before noon used to give me nightmares – and the thought of getting up early just to sit on hard, wooden seats and listen to some man drone on for an hour about intangible fantasies filled me with dread. But as the obedient son that I once was, I relinquished my reservations and went to church every Sunday. The only thing I can remember that filled me with wonder on those mornings was the stained glass windows depicting epic scenes of battle, recompense, remorse, and forgiveness. It soon became the only reason I went to church – to imagine celestial battles and dudes in robes teaching the muddied and ignorant masses.

Once my parents divorced it was no longer a requirement to show up on Sundays – so I dropped that shit quicker than a dead body voids its bowels – and it was only years later that I became vehemently opposed to the glaring discrepancies and abuses inherent in the system of Religion. So the initial reasons I left were ones of abject immaturity, only later justified by my emerging sense of right and wrong, of reason versus illogicalness.

My point?

I saw my old priest years later during High School while shopping at a grocery store and instead of exchanging pleasantries and catching up on new developments in our lives, he repeatedly told me he was praying for my eternal soul because he knew I was going to Hell for abandoning the church. I think I was looking at the cover of a Playboy when our ways converged, but that's neither here nor there.

I was filled with an incredible amount of incredulity, annoyance, and anger. Who was this wrinkly old man who thought he had the right to make comments like that to an almost complete stranger? My face must have reddened because he threw his liver-spotted hands up in a placating manner and told me he only wanted the best for my soul. I remained quiet and tried to stymie the gag effect I was feeling from the cloying sense of presumption he was emanating. Sensing that his initial statements weren't going to get a response from me he chose a different tact.

"If church isn't important to you, than how do you spend your Sundays? Do you spend your time productively and with any meaning?"

Fuck – he was dead on target. I really couldn't think of anything extra special that each and every Sunday held for me. It was the weekend but it was also the day I did most of my studying and homework. It was the day I slept in late and gorged myself on food. It was the day I spent countless hours hanging out with friends getting into troublesome situations. It was the most depressing day, because the school week was only hours away.

Annoyed, now more at myself for having nothing to say as opposed to the priest, I told him to have a nice day and I hastily made my exit.

That question had bothered me for years and years, to the point that I strived to make Sundays the most memorable day of the week. I'd hook up with women that had shown an interest in me on Sundays. I'd write whole reports and projects on Sundays. I'd hike and snowshoe and ski the hardest on Sundays. I'd spend hours volunteering on Sundays. I'd spend hours tutoring History and visiting with family and reading in the park on Sundays.

It was during my first winter break from Oswego when the epiphany happened. I had cracked a beer and sat down to watch football with my dad. We spent the whole day laughing and swapping stories and making armchair comments and predictions and talking shit about players and coaches and commentators and fans. We'd shut up and barely breathe as the fourth and ones came up, as the two-minute drills started, as the long passes flew through the air.

It was then that it had hit me – what I should have told the priest those years before - and only now do I feel the words flowing through me.

The gridiron is my religion. My faith is in football. My prophets don helmets and smack the shit out of each other. They embody everything powerful and just about the human spirit just as much as they embody everything corrupt and wrong with it. They leave the viewer to decide which is which. They teach me more about right and wrong every Sunday than the Church ever had or will. They are part of a musical play, a symphony in motion.

And unlike some other nefarious parts of our society – they don't pray for your damned soul - they know it's already lost in the game, alongside theirs.

The Twenty-First Century Clan Meetings

Racism is dead.

No really, it is.

Newt Gingrich calling Obama a "Loud Tribesman" is justified because we all know that he hails from a violent, primitive tribe. Besides, I think I saw a YouTube video of our President chucking spears at targets made of bone whilst smoking Newport Lights and listening to gangster rap on a boom box with his homies.

Burning a Quran on the anniversary of 9/11 is justified because we all know that every Muslim on the planet wants to destroy freedom – and God (of course being white, male, American, and Christian) wants us to burn their beliefs. In fact, if you didn't know, he speaks to his true followers and gives them his Providential Sanction on a daily basis (Oh, only if I could hear voices in my head). Besides, I think I saw a report on Faux News about the Muslim's insidious plans to spread sand and sorrow across the globe.

Staggering drunk into a Mosque and urinating on the prayer rugs is justified because we all know that we are a Hypocrisy and not a Democracy – freedom of religion for all – except, of course for terrorist religions.

We speak and react with such abject horror about the NYC attacks but conveniently forget that we have rained down just as much death and destruction across the globe, if not more. But that's looking too hard and long into the mirror, so let's just stick to:

1)People who attack us are terrorists.

2)The only patriots in World History were the American Terrorists of 1775.

You see none of this is racist – from crusty old white men making bigoted remarks – to the radical right saying they want their cherished America back. It can't be racism; we have a half-black President, a minority leader of the free world. That apparently gives any backward ignorant activist a get out of jail free card.

It's not racism if no one's wearing any bed robes.

It's not racism if it's just a political platform.

It's not racism if the media legitimizes it as news.

It's not racism if our leaders not only condone it but join in on the fun.

It seems, to me at least, that there has been an underbelly of fear and anger brewing in our country for some time now. Things that normally wouldn't be said (and shouldn't be) are now becoming the norm. Ignorance may very well be bliss but it also opens the door for hate – and hate is the precursor to violence, as we all know. Hate allows the most unspeakable acts to be justified or quantified – and quantifying something is just the first step to legitimizing it.

It's a dangerous path we are going down and I have to ask myself on a daily basis: where does it end? Where do we put our foot down, no matter our race, religion, or creed, and say enough is enough? When will ignorance not be coined as a virtue but as a viral disease? When will the right for someone to say something derogative, debasing, and wrong on a national platform be revoked?

But then again, Racism is dead.

Voyeurism Hath Become the Norm

I hate reality television. The whole point of the invention of television was to create a platform where people could turn on and tune out from the world as a whole. Short of news and sports, why would one retreat to the couch for reality? Isn't that retreat what books and movies were created for? Isn't that retreat what video games and card games are good for? They are all things to do that take our minds off of the current situations we find ourselves in. What could possibly drive someone to live life, work eight hours, and then come home to watch someone else's life?

Reality television hath become the modern day equivalent to Voyeurism. I'm sorry but I'm right. There is no argument valid against that simple proclamation. A lot of the shit I write always has another side of the argument that is just as good and valid, as I intend it to, but this is an untenable declaration. Just as life is being alive and death is being dead, reality television is voyeurism.

Take a breath, pause, exhale, and think of the first show that comes to mind. I guarantee that watching the show makes you a peeping tom. If I took a video of you living your everyday life, shitting, showering, making love, eating, complaining, sleeping, driving, working, arguing, getting drunk, doing drugs, doing your laundry, brushing your teeth – than edited it and put it on you tube – that's a reality television show... and I was being a voyeur.

Of course, technically you didn't know about the camera I had trained on you or consented to my filming, so you acted candid, normal, and unabashed. That's the type of "reality television" you find on 4chan.org or whatever other nefarious websites that are out there – and that's illegal voyeurism.

The shows that I'm talking about, the ones that are considered "reality" by legal standards are nothing short of amateurs acting in front of a camera with no set script, dialogue, or resolution of conflict – akin to the form of comedy known as ad-libing. The people on "Hoarders" may act a little differently when the A&E camera crews are around, but you, the viewer, nonetheless, are in fact made privy to a part of someone's life that should be private and anonymous.

You are being a voyeur.

It's the same reason why so many men found the Paris Hilton sex tapes so exciting and "hot" – we were viewing a million-dollar-did-nothing-to-get-famous whore getting banged by some douche bag - and it was "accidentally" leaked, for our viewing pleasure. No one I know thinks she's good looking – at least porn star good looking – and yet those clips we could find on the internet became viral and the subsequent DVD's sold like hotcakes.

But I guess any exposure is good exposure, or so they say. Most of us want our fifteen minutes of fame, and if that means going on Big Brother and talking shit about everyone you live with or trying to sing your heart out on American Idol, so be it. I guess I can't get mad at people who sign the contract and willingly put themselves on the altar of primetime television to be judged by the masses. It saddens and embarrasses me just the same though – that millions of people have no lives and must live vicariously through others.

Those reality television "stars" make the bed they sleep in and we watch them do it.

Why "Tea Baggers" Need Dirty Sanchez's

Whatever political stripe you may come from - we can all agree that stupidity, idiocy, and ignorant rhetoric are detrimental to the process of healing our country's various wounds – and should be resisted at every opportunity. It is one thing to argue an issue when you are directly affected by it or are in fact part of the mechanics of its inception, but it's an entirely different thing to loudly stamp your feet and drag them as long as possible just because it's "the other guys" who suggested it first. Resistance for the sake of itself is wrong and self-fulfilling. Just because you don't agree with someone doesn't give you the right to make an idiot of yourself and of our country.

Indeed, differences of opinion are the mortar of our democracy. If we were all in agreement and in accordance with one another - mutual harmony may very well ensue – but is that façade of peace worth the cost of unquestioning complacency? I think not. It's our individuality and the many paths of life that make healthy debate worthwhile. We are all shaped by our environments and the experiences we have shared – and each is as unique as a snowflake falling on a cold winter's morning. Hence why our political process, though flawed, is in theory a successful and vibrant entity.

As of recent though we have been bombarded by the idea of accepting what we're told unquestioningly because it's been coined as patriotic. And this is not 'Republican' or 'Democrat', 'Liberal' or 'Conservative' ideology – this is a movement by those in power to retain their power. They prey on the mass ignorance of our society (or our mass apathy) and rely on catchy words and bright images to steal our attention, our reasoning, and our willpower. Of course it is much easier to allow others to think for you. Of course it is much easier to bend over and take it willingly than resisting. Of course it is easier to be apathetic than to constructively think and problem solve. The path of least resistance will always be the easier path, but will never be the right path.

* * *

I see these idiots - who call themselves "Tea-Baggers" - day in and day out ranting and raving about issues that are imagined or are so completely overblown that they skirt the edge of reality and begin the decent into the realm of fantasy. I see them and hear them daily because the media bases their reports on the loudest assholes in our country. People like Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, and Bill O'Reilly become champions to those who feel destitute, angry, and left behind in our society because rational thought, debate, compassion, and empathy require patience, foresight, and some semblance of intuition. They use hate as a commodity because one of the many downfalls of the human condition is the ease at which hate can enter and then harden a heart. Hating someone is easier than trying to understand them. Hating someone is easier than trying to help someone.

I won't say that this newfound hatred in our country is racially-based. People need to decide for themselves if that is the true cause or not. I do believe racism is totally incumbent on ignorance. There are dickheads and douche bags in every race, color, creed, and religion – and a person who judges by the group is a peewit. Just look at human History and decide for yourself.

These fuckers who call themselves "Tea-Baggers" base their ideology on the words and actions of old, crusty white bigots and are far too stupid to realize that the main issue they claim to be protesting isn't even an issue at all. Taxes have dropped for most of us - and we can all see that this civil disobedience and protesting - is a group of morons clinging to a fleeting cause. Their desperation reeks of old-man-ball-sweat.

That is why I feel they all deserve a nice ripe Dirty Sanchez. Like smelling salts, maybe that will wake them up.

Women's Size Zero Is Absolute Bullshit

Nothing speaks more about the problems of perception our society ingrains into women more than the mythical dress size of "Zero". In short – it's bullshit – and it's not only nonsensical, it's cruel. I'll never claim to have a full, appreciative understanding of Mathematics, but I still remember the reality of what the number zero represents – non-existent, no measurable value, no physical representation – the absolute value of zero is zero and one cannot encounter zero in reality because it doesn't exist in reality. It's a concept that helps us sleep better at night, knowing there is a beginning and an end to things.

That leads me to believe that the clothing industry, especially whoever controls sizing for products, are sadists.

What else can you call someone who seizes on the insecurities of others and then further propagates those insecurities, all in the name of making a buck? Now the woman who fits into an eight feels that much worse because she is "+8" to some women who are "0". What they are primarily being told is a "2" or a "4" is no longer petite. Nope – those numbers are now valued as the median of sizing – and even being that size means you're bigger than a 0.

Of course, I always believe that people should just be happy with the cards they were dealt and to roll with the punches life throws at us. I'll never claim to fully understand women or how they feel or how they think (it's what makes them so interesting). To do so would only insult them and trivialize their perceptions of the world. I'm just using empathy and my somewhat limited understanding to rationalize how women would feel about this. Too many women I know are force-fed this idea that sickly-emaciated-thin is a turn-on to men and that's what we always want.

Honestly, I never found this social psychosis to be correct. Indeed, to men, visualizations and ocular perceptions rule our worlds, but just like many things in life – it's not the end all – and shouldn't be espoused as such. One of the biggest problems in our culture is that beautiful people can become successful without having any substance, any grit or wit or morals or common sense or P-E-R-S-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y. They ride the coattails of biological symmetry and we push them along for the ride. So when we see them and listen to what we're told beautiful is, we endeavor and strive to become just like them. So now that dude with a lisp or those women with a little junk in the trunk devalue themselves because no one on "Grey's Anatomy" or the myriad of other pathetic shows has those traits.

I may be rambling and going off into extreme tangents but it just pisses me off to no fucking end. Too many people allow others to alter their perceptions of themselves and a little part of me dies every time it happens. We aren't all meant to be classy, suave, sophisticated, sexy, beautiful, intriguing, mysterious, powerful, witty, athletic, funny, smart, or wise. We were meant to be ourselves, and to leave this place better than when we entered it.

So why even create "zero" as a dress size? What's next, -2, -4?

You're "Fucked" Insurance

We seem to have insurance for everything we fear these days. Car accidents that involve property damage – we'll insure against that. Having the most natural and unavoidable thing like death happen to us – we'll insure that. You built your home on a river bank that historically floods all the time – we'll insure you against your own stupidity. It's sad to think of this – because we're missing the whole point of life – nothing is sure and everything is possible. You can't insure the uninsurable, the unknown, the mysteries of life – and yet we try to.

I'm not here to say that insurance is one of the most cutthroat businesses known to man.... I'm pretty sure we can all agree on that. It's a complicated form of betting against yourself (and your own luck and stupidity). Whether you're a gambler or not, you still have to purchase into the game. Only problem is – the game is fixed – but we still eat their shit, hiccup on the taste, smile, and ask for seconds.

To me, the concept of insurance is akin to the act of plenanary indulgence that the Catholic Church created, fostered, and propagated throughout the Middle Ages in Europe. You remember what that is, right? The reason why Martin Luther decided to post his 95 theses on the Church door in Brandenburg and break from Catholicism? You know, where the supposed Vicars of God on earth charged the faithful exorbitant amounts of money in order to secure real estate in heaven?

So how are Insurance companies and Religion similar you ask? Well, for starters, both are established institutions that are legitimized by the temporal powers of this planet. They both are allowed to act in accordance to their own greed without any recourse available to the clients that they successively fuck over. They both use vast resources to run PR campaigns that unfortunately put them into a better light than they really deserve.

They both promise solace in the case of disaster. They both offer a security blanket for people that goes against all inclinations of nature. When humans believe their actions are justified or protected by these institutions they are inclined to take more sinister, cruel, or dangerous paths than they would without them. I'll kill that abortion doctor because it will earn me a bigger lawn in the sky. I'll put my four year old on an ATV without a helmet because I have insurance that will protect us.

So -

How about we call it "You're Fucked" Insurance? Because no matter what choices you make in life, you're bound to be fucked at some point in your life, either by the insurance company or by the individual insured by that company.

What it means to Be Irish American

In this day and age we all look for markers to separate us from the herd, for symbols and personal histories to gravitate towards and stake our pride in. Sadly, some people have no true culture to call their own, have no family to act as the storm breaker, the buoy, in the sea of confusion that is the modern era. I am one of those rare few – I have a definitive familial history, a pronounced culture – I am an Irish American through and through.

Having grown up in an Irish Catholic family I was constantly reminded (some would say bombarded) by my Poppy, my grandfather, as to what it meant to be Irish. It wasn't just a label used in social situations; it wasn't just an act of wearing green on St. Patrick's Day and waving Irish flags during the parades – rather, it was a mentality, a spirituality, and a mindset that guided you throughout your life.

It was a markedly different culture than just being American, or so he taught me to believe.

I grew up in the public school system learning what it meant to be American, was taught to have loyalty to my country, its values, and its beliefs. I pledged allegiance to our flag every weekday morning, learned about our history of pursuing freedom and the ideals of equality, of Democracy. I was groomed to be a model citizen.

But school society had instilled in me the understanding that we are a nation of immigrants, a nation of peoples from other places, and that recognizing other outside influences was divisive at best, and treasonous at worst. I was taught to look at myself as just "American" – nothing more, nothing less.

My Poppy taught me differently.

He taught me that family was the most important bond we as humans share – stronger than national ties, stronger than economic ties, stronger than ties of camaraderie – your family and its history are the most important things you possess in this world. Your sense of self, your identity, your pride, your heritage - all stem from the basic belief that family trumps all. For good or for ill, for shame or for pride, for pettiness of for magnamity, for rich or for poor – and till death do you part – your family will always be there waiting for you.

He made me see how lucky I was to have such a large and unique clan to call my own. Despite any and all the bullshit, tragedy, drama, and sorrow that can enter one's life, he made me realize how thankful I should be to have such a huge network of people to call my own – to have people that don't judge me or expect from me – who are just happy to accept me for who I am. Who would defend me and support me no matter the circumstances.

It was his death that solidified my sense of being Irish American. Only after he was no longer on this planet, in our lives, did I truly see the culture I was a part of. His life, his dispositions, his beliefs, his inclinations, his pride, and his actions – all were readily understandable once contrasted with his infinite absence. As with everything in life, once something isn't there anymore it becomes that much easier to see the good and the just, as opposed to only seeing the bad and the annoying.

He had always made it a point to take care of his family, to drive the twelve hours and nine hundred miles to deliver those cases of liquor for your wedding, to send boxes upon boxes of flake bars back from Ireland so you could greedily devour them, to pour tons of money into a college savings account so you could "live life instead of struggling like a fookin pauper".

He always stood by his four daughters through thick and thin – never truly taking sides – and always (despite appearances) ended up being their father when push came to shove... whilst making sure his grandchildren did not want for lack of money, clothing, food, opportunities, or fun.

He was the man that would make sure you had the means to pursue whatever end you chose, and the backing for whatever dreams you wished to pursue. He was the man that would show a fierce heart to the world, to espouse the adage of "never wear your heart on your sleeve', and yet chew with his mouth open and give you that charming wink from the head of the table.

He was the man that would send you to his condo in Florida for spring break, free of charge, and laughingly tell you that there was a forty-pound luggage bag full of salted pork you needed to pick up at the airport. He was the man that would send you to Ireland for three months in the summer, tell you to drop his name wherever you went, and then when you did – surprise, surprise – you got treated like royalty.

He was the man that showed me, despite never truly living in Ireland or Irish America, what our people, what our family went through to fulfill that inalienable human right – of freedom from other people. Coupled with my intense love of history I came to discover a picture of my family, a mindset and a mentality, that was all at once beautiful and yet heartbreaking (thus we learn of true beauty), and it changed me forever. Because he taught me to find the ways to get emotionally involved with the people and the events I studied, I was better able to empathize with the people in my life.

In the end, that is the true story of my familial history – of what my Poppy meant to me and what he instilled into me – it's the story of being Irish. We crossed the Atlantic in those fragile, rats and diseased infested ships. We got called all of those derogative names. We got stereotyped and discriminated against. Our women were raped, our men put to the sword, our children scarred for the rest of their lives. We lost the right to manage our own homes, to dictate our own sense of right and wrong, to live our lives as we saw fit.

But we were also the ones that put our heads down, and smiled while saying "Fook you sir, but I'm Irish and I'll find a way". We were the ones that used the desecration of the natural beauty of our island, of our souls, of our people, to fuel our rage and scare our "betters". We were the ones that made it alright to smile at a funeral. We were the ones to put a musical instrument on our national flag – to prove and to show the world that the simple joys of life are just as important to a people as any other symbol can be.

We are the ones that open our hearts and arms and homes to people whatever their stories or their demeanors are. We are the ones that keep friends and family much closer than our enemies, but are willing to forgive an enemy and hold them close as if they were a newfound friend. We are the ones that see the poor and the destitute struggling on the streets and invite them into our lives - not out of personal feelings of guilt - but because it is the right thing to do.

We are the ones that set up new lives in this country we now call home, and embraced it as whole-heartedly as we do strangers on the street. We fought (and still fight) in its wars, we contest in its politics, we defend its ideals, and we pursue its dreams as our own. We throw ourselves into the celebration of its holidays and reminders of independence as much as we throw ourselves into the struggles and hardships of our mother country.

But we are just as much American as we are Irish. We are just as much freedom fighters of the Constitution as we are freedom fighters of Eire. We readily identify with the struggles of disenfranchised modern Americans as much as we do the bloody pursuits of freedom Irishmen and women fought for in the days of old.

We are more American than most Americans – but Irish through and through.

* * * * *

One of the last emails my Poppy ever sent me summed up what it meant to him (and now to me) what it was to be Irish, and thus Irish American. More than my paltry words ever could – so I leave you with this:

"I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has no tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition as unique as far as my experience goes (and I have visited a few places abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of.

But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid – and I wish from my heart it may do so for many and many a long year to come – the tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us."

– James Joyce, The Dead
