If you can’t ask the question, the answer is no.
Monthly Archives: November 2008
Baby Powder Blues
I had nothing left to give. There is always more to give, my mind told me. I grunted and exhaled, straining beyond my limits, pushing for that last rep. The clanging of the bar against its holder was a sound of triumph to me, as I finished what proved to be a fantastic workout.
I was drenched with sweat, my arms shaking, my chest quivering. I had some stress to work out and felt all the better for it. I headed for the treadmill to start my ten minute cooldown. I noticed a Krusual corp mate had finished his workout, and was heading to the change room. I didn’t know his name, as he was a rookie to Freeform Industries. There was only one shower in our corporate gym, so I figured by the time I was done my cooldown, he would be finished up. Perfect; just enough time for me to shower and report for duty. I enjoyed being punctual. It was something I demanded of my pilots. It was something I demanded of myself.
Ten minutes later I discovered I was very wrong about my timing estimate.
I entered the change room, still dripping sweat, to hear the only shower still going. No worries; he was probably just finishing up. I stripped down, wrapped my towel around my waist, and waited. I could hear the soap dispenser. I waited. I could hear it again. I could see through the translucent shower panel that he was rewashing himself, twice, three times. Sweet Lord.
I harumphed as best I could, trying to be polite. I heard the shampoo dispenser going. For the little bit of hair that Krusual had, you would think he wouldn’t need to wash it five times. I cleared my throat; loudly. Still no response. I sighed outwardly. Nothing.
I looked at the chrono on the wall. I was running out of time, and couldn’t very well report for duty soaked through with sweat. Again, what I demand from my pilots I demand from myself. It had been 18 minutes. Including the ten I was on the treadmill, that’s 28 minutes in the shower. Sure, he was a little chubby, but seriously?
Another five minutes passed, with me huffing and hawing to no avail. Then the showerhead stopped. He was finished. A wash of relief flowed through me; prematurely as it turned out.
He towelled himself off; once, twice, three times. Another four minutes had passed. That was all I could take.
I walked to the shower door, threw my towel over it, opened it up, and walked in. The look of shock and modesty on his face was very satisfying, as he shrank beneath my impressive form. “Sorry, I don’t have all day to wait for you to dry the crack of your ass.” I said. He frowned at me, but said nothing, quickly scurrying from the shower.
Ah, a nice hot shower. Exactly what I needed after a good workout. I turned the showerhead on, and felt the searing heat… for about twenty seconds. Then the water went ice cold. You chubby little shit, I thought to myself.
Just the same, I enjoyed a five minute shower, quickly towelled myself off, and opened the door. Much to my surprise and mirth, the Krusual was still in the changeroom. He had a complete line of toiletries lined up on the counter, and was currently applying baby powder to himself. I couldn’t help but smile. There was deodorant, cologne, a comb, hair product, a tooth brush, toothpaste, mouthwash, tweezers, a freshly rolled pair of underwear, socks, dog tags, and the baby powder in hand. The way they were methodically laid out made it easy to see where he was in his slightly obsessive routine.
I ignored him, as he ignored me, and quickly dressed, stuffing my soiled workout clothing into my duffle bag. I had to take one more look. I simply couldn’t help myself.
He was currently holding his towel under the hair dryer, making sure it was good and dry. Unfrickinbelievable. I watched for another moment as he folded each of his clothing items, ensuring they were in their allocated spot within this gym bag. Then he went back to applying more baby powder.
I understand we all have our own quirks. I get that we all have our own perceptions of ourselves. What I also know is that I do my very best to not allow my personal habits to interfere with the lives of others. Case in point, I took a five minute shower because I know it’s the only shower there. It drives me mad when people are just woefully ignorant. How hard is it to be conscious of those around you? Why do so many simply go about their lives robotically, completely engrossed in their routines, incapable of responding to unexpected stimuli into their ritural? It’s a pet peeve. One of many.
I snorted condescendingly to myself, and made a parting comment. “You look pretty; hope he appreciates it.” Then I left the gym to report for duty.
I vowed if I ever had to fly with that Krusual, I would shoot whomever made the duty roster.
Roc’s Rule #64
Believe in yourself and you will succeed, unless you’re my enemy.
Semi Finals Pt2
Four miles through the most treacherous terrain you could imagine. The first mile was through a narrow rocky path, surrounded on all sides by thorny underbrush, and the rain was pouring down hard, slicking the route, making the mounts a little more hesitant to follow commands, and a little more likely to turn on their rider.
“C’mon girl, you can do it!” I yelled at my mount. There were only six of the eight riders left; one having been taken out just after the race’s start, the second being dislodged from his mount less than a minute ago due to a misstep near the underbrush. I was currently in third position, most of the remaining pack behind me. The downpour was treacherous to both my mount and I. Her fur was matted flat, difficult to hold onto, and her footing unsure. My clothing was soaked through, easily adding twenty pounds to its weight, my shield and flail that much more difficult to lift. The shield had an obvious purpose. I chose the flail for it’s reach. This one was a four foot pole with a six inch chain attached. At the other end of that length of chain sat a one foot iron rod, covered in four inch reverse hook spikes. It was efficient for tearing riders off of their mounts, or were I a dirtier player, slowing down the mount itself.
Taking out the mount was frowned upon between most riders. There was an inherent respect for the mount; the care and training it took to rear such a beast, the respect given to its role in this sacred race. Pounding the snot out of each other was one thing, but respect the mount. There were, occasionally, those who would play dirty, but they quickly found themselves facing “early retirement” as most honourable racers would sacrifice positioning in a race to maim or kill a known dirty rider. Still, it happened.
“C’mon girl, we’re almost through the first mile. Stay strong.” She didn’t really need my coaxing. We had slowed pace to her comfort level. I learned long ago that your mount is very aware of its own limitations; it doesn’t need you telling it to give more. Fatiguing your animal, or pushing past its ability to perform, inevitably leads to disaster. My mount was still moving quickly, only having slowed slightly to allow herself better traction in these slippery conditions.
Thankfully, aside from the torrentous rain, the race itself had been uneventful for me thus far. I was riding alone, but the race was still early. The camera drones hadn’t spent much time on me, so I knew I wasn’t in any immediate danger. Generally, the bloodier the show, the more the audience enjoyed it, and the more the drones hovered around you.
I looked ahead to the next mile of the race in the distance, the steep and narrow mountain climb to a snow covered summit. Between the rain, soon to be sleet, snow and hail, and the subzero temperatures, I couldn’t even see the mountain top. Lovely.
Roc’s Rule #63
A bird in the hand is worth about three tissue.
Semi-Finals
It had been a brutal season. It was expected to lose racers each season, that’s part of the glory of this sport; part of the reason the fans still came in droves even though practicing this time honoured tradition was made illegal fifty years ago.
But there were too many losses that season.
The rules to bear racing were simple. There was a marked course, and you followed a path from point A to point B. You were not allowed to leave your mount at anytime, or you were disqualified, and you were not allowed to bring any weapon with moveable parts, or you were disqualified. Pretty much anything else was acceptable.
My new trainer was working out nicely that season. He had taken to the bear immediately with grand affection, and more importantly, the bear reciprocated in kind. They had achieved a lot for me, and I was well pleased with the progress.
My bear snorted in anticipation, snapping me back to the task at hand. It was the semi-final race. I leaned down and patted her behind the ear, letting her know how fond of her I was. She was a good bear, fast, fierce, and full of stamina. I looked down the line to my left and right, taking in the other competitors, looking for signs of fear or weakness, looking for ways to exploit them in this race.
I could feel a small bead of sweat forming at the base of my neck; my own heart racing with excitement. There was something to be said for riding a bear; no matter how many times you did it, it was always a rush. The entire experience of being a racer was an adrenaline packed fun fest. It reminded me of piloting.
The tribal drums started up, the indication to both racers and fans alike that the race was about to start. The crowd went wild with cheering and applause; the racers tended to their mounts last minute needs and screwed on their own courage.
The announcer’s voice blasted over a megaphone, going through the ritual in the old language, as was our tradition. I dug my hands firmly into my bear’s fur, fistfuls ready to steer her towards a hopeful victory.
The countdown began.
3
2
1
The horn blasted, and the race began.
Roc’s Rule #62
If practice makes perfect, why do we keep making the same mistakes?
Crumbling Dreams
“What do you mean it’s the wrong one?” I growled. “Imma telling ya Colonel, she’s not the extra large.” my Chief Mechanic barked back at me. “Yer contact pulled the ol wool oer yer eyes.” I was fuming angry. I had been sold a LARGE Gist-X Shield Booster, not the X-LARGE as advertised in the contract. How was that even possible? A billion ISK out of pocket. I paced back and forth angrily, barely able to maintain focus enough to devise a solution to this dilemma. No wonder my team had no problem fitting it to my ship. I just wanted to scream.
“Imma fraid there’s more bad tidings fer ya as well lad.” What else could there possibly be? I was already out most of my earnings from the last six months, stuck with a part I didn’t even want. I would have to see if I could unload it on the market at some point. “What is it?” I fumed.
“Well I did some research on Luther Veron fer ya. And I don’t be thinkin’ hela be givin’ you any parts soon.”
“And why is that?” I snapped.
“He was beheaded nearly two years ago.”
I deflated completely.
How could I have been so grossly incompetent in my planning? My Claymore sat there, a hunk of worthless metal to me right now, taunting me with failed visions of grandeur. She was going to be my flagship. Now I was going to have to start my fittings schematics all over from scratch.
This time, I would verify everything was obtainable before letting my mind go crazy with pipe dreams.
“Iva already started modifying the fittins.” It was like he could read my mind sometimes. “And?” I retorted.
“We’re lookin’ close to twenty billion fer the best o what’s out thar.” TWENTY BILLION??? How in the hell was I going to come up with twenty billion isk? I felt my knees weaken. My dream was being repeatedly shattered, until comprimise after comprimise left me with just an average Claymore.
My heart was distraught.
I was just a naive fool, trying to live beyond his means. No ship is worth twenty billion isk. I would have to come up with another idea for the Claymore.
What a noob.
Roc’s Rule #61
Yearn for peace, but only after all your enemies are dead.
Valley of Decision – Pt3
I am ageless. THUMP THUMP
—
“Heart rate dropping. We’re losing him.”, one of my two attendants hectically states. I don’t know what to do. This Matari pod pilot is the key to everything. “Remove his torso restraints, and save his life. Keep him sedated.”, the divine commodore booms into the loudspeaker. What? Doesn’t he realize how dangerous that could be? “I don’t think…” “Then stop talking.” He cuts me off abruptly. “I’ve tolerated you’re incompetence long enough. This mission will not fail because you lack the courage or ability to make decisions, doctor. Do I make myself clear?”, he says to me. “Perfectly clear.” You aging pathetic sack of skin. Him or me I question my subconscious. Both probably.
—
I am immortal. thump… thump…
—
The two security officers bring their weapons to bear on the immobilized subject. My attendant closest to the subject is careful to not remove the arm and leg restraints. Good. At least someone else understands how volatile this insane situation has become. He undoes the metal buckle, slowly unbelting the leather strap from the subject’s thick chest. My other attendant stands by the security officers, a little more hesitant than his coworker. “He’s going into cardiac arrest.”
—
thump… … … thump … … ………………………………………….
—
Shit. I watch impotently as my attendant summons his counterpart, and together they quickly begin trying to save the life of this cur. I don’t care anymore. It’s all over. His brain is bleeding internally. Even if we save his life, the damage could be irreversible. The location to the terran relic could already be lost.
—
I am … ROC!!! THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
—
The stretcher buckles; and a deafening roar fills the audio feeds from the room. The closest attendant jumps back in shock, tripping over himself, falling backwards, smashing his head onto a cabinet. His limp form isn’t moving from the floor he collapses to. The second attendant quickly moves for the killswitch, the electric nodes hooked into the subject’s body. He stops suddenly. It is only then I see his arm has been clamped onto by the subject, whose eyes are bulging from his skull, his arms straining against his restraints. The security officers have him in their sights, but are hesitant to fire for fear of killing the remaining attendant. It’s a stalemate.
—
You made me think my parents were dead. I have an arm in my hand. It’s not mine so it must be an enemy. I will kill you all. I squeeze for all I am worth. I will not let go. I will never let go.
—
The attendant tries in vain to free his arm from the vise like grip of the pod pilot. He grabs a scalpel from a nearby table, and stabs it into the arm of his attacker. I watch in stunned horror. The divine commodore hits our killswitch, sending electricity into the pod pilot, but also through my attendent! I watch as they both convulse and stiffen from the electric charge, their jaws gnashing and breaking teeth, foam and blood starting to come from both of their mouths. “Stop it!”, I yell. “You’re killing my man!” I knock the commodore’s arm away from the killswitch. He turns a venomous look on me. Before we can start arguing with each other, our attention is turned back into the lab.
—
I feel heat. You made me think I had love; then took it away. You will all suffer by my hand. I try to scream my anger at them. I cannot form words.
—
The subject continues to fight against his restraints, despite his stab wounds and having being jolted with electricity. He’s started barking, a guttural and horrible sound that sends shivers up and down my spine. He has let go of the obviously dead attendent, who indignantly falls in a broken heap to the floor, his husk burned out from the inside from the same electricity that should’ve killed this damned pilot. “What are you idiots standing still for? SHOOT HIM!” the commodore booms. What about our objective? What about my equipment? What about? Shit! Shit shit shit! How is that even possible?!? He’s broken free!
—
You made me believe the Amarr were good. You made me believe I was one of your damned pets. Nothing will protect you from my rage.
—
The two security personnel open fire on him; their bullets shredding skin, muscle and bone. It’s over. The mission is a failure. Damn you Matari slave. Damn you. What the?
—
I work through pain. My life has been pain. Pain will not stop me. Pain will not slow me down. You feel powerful because you can inflict pain. Let me show you how a Brutor does it.
—
My mind cannot process the scene fast enough. What he is doing is not medically, not scientifically possible, and yet I am watching it with my own eyes, my brain refusing to process it as fact. Everything slows down until the entire scene is like a photo still. I know I am in shock. I know I am afraid. I know I am going to die.
He uses his body weight to throw over the gurney, and undoes his leg restraints, even while blood slicks the floor. He barks as he uses the gurney as a shield, pushing towards the two armed security officers, who stand their ground, panic and disbelief etched on their faces, firing their clips into the madman attacking them. He flips the makeshift shield into the air at the last moment, and they both adjust their aim to fire at the incoming debris. The madman reaches his hands for one of the guards; at first I think he’s going for the throat, but I gruesomely realize how wrong I am. One of his thumbs drives into the eye socket of the officer, and the microphone picks up the grotesque sound of the socket popping. The officer screams, firing wildly, as the pilot wraps the rest of his fingers around the back of his skull, twisting with such force that a loud snap brings vomit to my mouth. I want to turn away, but I can’t. I am horrified, but enraptured. The wildfire hits the other officer in the leg, dropping him heavily to the blood bathed floor. It also peppers the madman’s stomach, but he doesn’t stop. I hear a clicking beside me and nearly jump out of my skin. I turn and see the divine commodore checking his weapon. “What are you staring at? Don’t you see what’s going on? He’s a wild dog. It’s time to put him down.” And with that, he walks out of the door and into the hallway.
—
I don’t know where I am. I must be free. I crave freedom. I fight for freedom. My spirit is FREE! And you will never make me a slave again! Mom, dad, I love you.
—
The second guard unloads on the madman at point blank range. Chunks of flesh rip off of him. He should be dead, but he just keeps going. It’s sheer insanity! Some of the bullets blow a large portion of the pilot’s jaw clean away. His eyes roll into the back of his head. He keeps barking; an even more chortled, throaty sound now due to the injury. I urinate myself. I have never been so scared. He smashes his fist into the side of the guard’s head; again and again. The officer goes limp yet he still continues to pommel him, a contorted visage of primal rage on his face. He continues beating on the security personnel until brain matter is visible; even then he doesn’t stop. He roars. He screams. He barks. He is a man consumed by something that terrifies me; something I have never seen nor experienced and hope to never come across again. His hatred must run deep. His thirst for revenge unquenchable. He grabs the guard by the hair, pulling him violently to his feet. The guard drops his gun, delirious and soon dead from the beating he is taking. The madman pulls out the scalpel still buried in his arm, and slashes it across the guard’s throat. The guard gurgles, his life escaping him, and his body slowly sleeps. The madman takes the scalpel, and draws it across the guard’s forehead, circling the entire skull. He removes the dead guard’s scalp as the doorway bursts open, the commodore opening fire on this rabid monster.
His revolver takes the pilot in the kneecap, blowing sinew and bone across the floor. The monster falls to the floor. Regardless of his rage, he is hobbled, and the battle over. The commodore doesn’t take any chances and continues firing. He blows the dog’s shoulder into splinters, and continues squeezing the trigger.
—
You. You smell the worst. You smell of command. You hurt me. You did this. You messed with my head. You fire your hatred at me. You spit your ignorance in bullets. You will suffer the most of all.
—
I have given up trying to understand anymore. He simply will not stop. What could possibly drive a man so? He is dragging his bloodied, broken form across the floor, inch by inch, towards the divine commodore, who has put his gun away, and is walking towards the dog. I open the microphone. “What are you doing? Just kill him!” I am terrified. I know the mission’s over. I know we’ve failed and there will be dire consequences. I still have my life. I made it through. The commodore ignores me, continuing to walk towards the dying pilot. He removes his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. There is no honour in this. It is like he said; he’s putting a crazed animal out of its misery.
—
My rage fuels me. My body isn’t responding, but my mind is sharp. My mind flies starships. My mind orders hundreds of men with but a thought. My mind will still command this shell to do what I require.
—
The commodore kicks the dog in the face, knocking him flat on his back, his head snapping back at a sickening angle. He then stomps on the madman’s chest, driving his full body weight down with each additional thrust of his heavy boot. The pilot coughs up blood, the barking turning to wheezing as the air is repeatedly forced from his lungs. How much punishment can one man take? Why will he not just give up and die? The dog reaches for the commodore’s boot. I can hear the divine commodore laugh, and he brushes the hand aside with his boot, then drives his heel down onto the top of the pilot’s hand, shattering his fingers. Still the madman doesn’t quit.
—
I’ve seen your face. You will never escape me.
—
The commodore drops his knee across the dog’s throat, and leaves his full body weight on it. I hear him lecturing the pilot, gloating in his victory, but I have to turn away finally, and puke. I can’t take it anymore. I vomit until my throat is dry and my eyes water. I’ve seen things no man should ever have to see. Just thinking of it makes me wants to vomit again. Then I hear the screaming.
—
Got you, you sunuvabitch. And now you’re mine.
—
The commodore screams. The madman screams. I scream. I see the commodore’s pants turning red. I can’t rationalize it until he finally falls off the pilot, grabbing at his crotch. That is when I see the scalpel. The dog drove it straight up into him from underneath. I cringe. The madman rolls over, and cuts the achilles tendon of the fallen commodore. The divine commodore screams even louder and kicks at the dog, breaking his nose. The pilot doesn’t stop. He stabs down everywhere and anywhere he can with the scalpel, opening the commodore up with deep perforations. The commodore tries to back away, pulling out his gun, but he’s panicked. I know I have to act. If I don’t, we will both die. But I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot. I am stricken with sheer terror.
—
I stab him; again and again; as much as I can. The joy it gives brings me strength. I feel my life leaving me. I know I am going to die, but he’s going to die first. I climb on top of him, cutting and digging all the way. He is shooting me again with a gun. I don’t care anymore. I am beyond his ability to hurt me. I finally silence him by stabbing him in the eyes. He is quiet. Everything is quiet. Only one more to kill, then I will be at peace. I talk to Aura, but only silence answers me. No regrets. It’s been a good run. For the glory of the Republic!
—
I lock the door. I sit in the corner of the observation room. I am too terrified to move. My entire body shakes violently with fear. I smell my own urine and feces. I don’t care. I wasn’t trained for this. Nobody is. This is crazy! My heart is beating out of my chest.
Minutes pass, and I am slowly starting to think it might be ok. Maybe he finally died. Maybe his body finally gave out. Then I hear a smash against the glass that separates this room from the lab and nearly jump out of my skin. I see a bloody smear on the glass. I hear the thudding smash again. It has a rythmn to it. I slowly rise to a kneeling position, and see him there. He just doesn’t give up. I begin crying unabashedly. He is smashing his forehead against the glass. He is barking again. He is coming for me.
—
Must keep going. Must keep… Must.
—
I watch as he finally disappears from sight. I think I may have lost my mind. It’s finally over. It’s over. It’s… I hear gunfire. How is he? Wait, no. It’s not him. It’s down the hallway. I quickly check a nearby security monitor. In all of the chaos, I never thought to even check the security monitors. The location of this asteroid facility is so secret and secure how could anyone possibly have found it? But there they are; a full strike team. And I’m the only one left.
I suddenly have clarity. I finally have no more fear. I know what I must do.
I stand up straight. I walk into the lab. I take the commodore’s gun from his limp and lifeless hand and point it to my head. I look at the motionless pod pilot. Nothing matters now. I pull the trigger.
Everything goes quiet.
—
Continued in:
JITA, THE PRIEST, AND THE SHUTTLE
Concluded next week!
ROC'S RAMBLINGS 