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.

“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.

I sat in a local medcenter after the magtrain incident. I took a good shot to the jaw, which was now clicking whenever I shifted it. I also managed to bust the skin of my knuckles open, probably from repeatedly punching my fist into the side of the head of one of those two Brutor teens. I was like a battering ram to the temple, which sounds a lot more mystical than it was.

Anyway; the magtrain was delayed for twenty five minutes. At first, the people were pleased with my actions, some even clapping as the train security came and removed the two hoodlums; then the conductor announced the delay, which soured their mood. I’ve said it before, and I will say it again; people are fickle. When we arrived at the central station stop, the last stop for that particular train, the same security team that had removed the punks from the train, was waiting for me on the platform. I figured local authorities would’ve been called if it was something serious, so didn’t even break stride as I egressed from the train.

“Sir, would you mind if we asked you a few questions?” one of the two private security officers asked. “Not at all.” I replied. “We just wanted to hear your account of what happened on the train, as the two offenders are both saying that you attacked them. Is this true?”

I could tell from his tone, and the way his eyes shifted and fidgeted around in their sockets that he really didn’t want to pursue this matter further. “Look at me.” I began flatly. “I’m smaller, older, and a helluva lot more tired than either of them is I wager. I’m already thinking of going to the medcenter to make sure they didn’t bust up my insides. Do I really look like the kind of guy that would start a fight?” I almost couldn’t get through that sentence with a straight face. They looked at each other for a few moments, quietly talked amongst themselves, then delivered their verdict. “We figured as much. It’s pretty obvious how it went down. Trash like them lying to try to get out of their situation is typical. And if you need a ride, sir, I’d be happy to take you to the medcenter.” Ah crap. I actually had no intentions of going to the medcenter. It was just a few scrapes and bruises; it would heal quickly. “That would be very kind of you, son.” I said, trying to sound older and more frail than I really was.

And that was how I got here. There were worse things than waiting for medical treatment. Besides, the attending nurse was rather attractive. She had batted her eyelashes at me more than once already; and from her physical manner it was easy to tell she was interested in me. As she finished applying disinfectant nanites to my knuckle wound, I eased into my pickup line. “Am I gonna live?” I asked with mock sincerity. She laughed a beautiful laugh, her eyes alight with fire and passion. I was already aroused. She held my hand in hers, lifting it closer to her face. She squinted her eyes, crinkling her nose, as she examined my knuckles. “Well, I’m not a doctor,” she intoned with an inflection as silky smooth as honey, “But I think you’re perfectly fine.” She smiled a coy devil’s smile at this, and “accidentally” let my hand fall against her chest before acting surprised and blushing. I decided to go in for the kill. “I have read that physical affection can often aid in the healing process. Do you know if that’s true?” I stood up, looking her directly in the eyes, my smoldering gaze penetrating her. She moved towards me, to give me a hug, and I began to reciprocate. I reached to hold her close, to enjoy the feel of her against me; to heighten the sexual tension and excitement between us both; to take this little flirtatious game to the next level; to … be patted on the back and burped like an infant? WTF?

Ladies, please; when you hug a man, do it right. Let him get a good squeeze of you. Why else do you think he’s hugging you? The “burp me” hug is near the top of the list for affection faux pas; right up there with limp wristed handshakes. If you’re going to do something, do it with all your passion, or why do it at all? Especially if you like the guy.

So now things were awkward. In the space of one bad hug, I went from aroused and interested to uninterested and second belly button. If this was how she hugged, she probably made love like a Gallente; you know, dead and motionless.

I politely thanked her and scurried away, not giving a second glance behind me to see her standing there, bewildered. I hightailed it out of there quicker than an Amarr cruiser fleet encountering two Minmatar frigates.

I don’t really care if I was politically correct. I don’t really care if I upset or hurt her. Why? Because.

You will know if I am affectionate towards you. There will be no room for doubt in your mind. I demand the same in return.

I give my all; you give yours.

Despite my constant sarcasm and cynical view on things, I am actually a content and happy man in most respects. I like the person I am. I like the life I’ve built for myself. I enjoy my work. Even still, there are times when all the negatives in life simply weigh down on me. I’ve had some people tell me “Well don’t let things bother you.” or “Just let it slide off of your shoulders.” But that is simply not me. I work through issues. Setting things aside doesn’t resolve them, in my opinion. It only sets them aside, often allowing them to choose when to come back and bite you in the ass, usually at the most unexpected times. So no, when something is pressing down on my heart and mind, I work through it until it no longer has any power over me.

Three days ago was the annual remembrance gathering for my people to pay tribute to the many Matari that fell to gain our people freedom in the great war. I was there of course, as I am every year. This year was different for me, and particularly emotional, though you wouldn’t have known had you seen me. This year we’d gone to war ourselves, against the very same enemy. For generations there was a fragile peace. Now there was only pain and suffering. This year I achieved the rank of Colonel, something I had dreamed of for a very long time, something my own father told me to never wish for. “Pray you never even need serve in the military” he would say. My father served a minimum tour of duty when he was younger. I figured his words were those of a coward. He was right though. The things I’ve seen in this war, the deeds I’ve done. I never imagined such atrocities existed, or that I would engage in such despicable acts myself without hesitation. I felt closer to my great great great grandfather this year, the first Colonel Wieler in our family line. I felt like I had a better understanding as to what type of man he was, to what type of man I had become. Like I said, I am a happy person, but life was weighing me down.

I heard from Sam yesterday. His voice wavered and crackled. You could hear him crying. My bitter views got the best of me again. My immediate assumption was that he had been kidnapped; that the Amarr were torturing him, and I already had at least fifty different rescue scenarios worked out in my mind based on whatever was going to be said next. Instead, Sam shared with me a family tragedy he was going through. It hit me hard. Not just because Sam was my friend. Not just because deep down I am actually a caring person. It hit me hard because it pulled up all kinds of unresolved memories from when my best friend died on April 24th of this year. I know, I know, I said I don’t push things aside; work through them. Well, add hypocritical to the list of things weighing heavy on my shoulders. I simply couldn’t resolve those feelings at the time, so forced them deep down, in order that I could function. We need to function as people. If we don’t, it alienates those closest who would help us in the darkness. At the time that might seem like a good idea, I know it has to me in the past, but it doesn’t serve us well in the long run. So as those unresolved emotions flooded me while I listened to Sam, I found myself crying, a true rarity, and as he ended the conversation, I just sat on my sofa sobbing, remembering vividly the pain I felt when my best friend passed away; the pain I still feel each and every day. It’s a feeling of uselessness; of being completely powerless. It’s not a sensation I enjoy. I bought a ring when my best friend died. On the inside, it has his name, birthday and death date. My fleet knows that if I get podded, they are to recover my corpse. Morbid as that may sound, I haven’t lost that ring. So yes, I understood what Sam was going through.

Then there’s work. Our CEO had apparently been fighting a serious illness for months, off and on, and I didn’t even know. Just goes to show how self absorbed I could be. Some of the junior roles in the corp whispered that it’s Jovian sickness, but to me that’s a load of bunk.

And yet I am fortunate in so many ways. There are so many supportive people out there believing in me, in my potential, in everything I do. And I am appreciative. And yet it’s just something more for my broad shoulders to bear. Expectations.

All these thoughts and more filled my mind as I swayed back and forth, part of the rythmic motion that came from travelling on the magtrain. I just needed to get out of pod for a bit. I needed some open space to clear my thoughts, to find happiness in the midst of life’s storms. The irony isn’t lost on me that a crowded train isn’t exactly open space, but it is what it is, and there I was.

I overheard a commotion and turned around. When a magtrain stops at a station, each car of the train has a set of sliding doors that open to the adjoining platform. A small warning chime sounds to let would be passengers know the doors are about to close, and they will have to take the next train. Seated between one of the doors happened to be two teenaged Brutors, with multiple body piercings, trendy and meaningless tattoos, and a fistful of attitude. Their legs were stretched across the entryway, forcing passengers to physically step over the two brutors’ legs to get on or off the train. One of the teens had a Guristas logo across his ripped TShirt, while the other spouted obscenities at nearby people. Laying where their feet met was a backpack, a further hindrance to those wishing to enter or leave the train.

I politely and slowly made my way towards that doorway; it took a few stops. I took another evaluative glance of the two thugs. “What the fuck are you looking at old man? You want to suck my fucking cock or something?” His associate laughed as if this was the funniest thing ever said. I turned away slightly, much to their satisfaction. “That’s right.” the more vocal and articulate of the two said. They were easily younger than me by fifteen years; and each of them looked more solid, and taller than me, though it was hard to be sure with them seated. But you know the rule:

“Never start a fight you can win.”

As the chime sounded, and the doors to this car of the magtrain began to close, I took action.

I quickly punted their backpack out of the doorway, just before the doors sealed shut. I ignored the string of obscenities that followed, and the forthcoming threats as they stood to face me. They were indeed both much bigger than me. The one on the left stood with his feet facing slightly outward; means he has weak knees from improper walking posture. One on the right wore about six pounds of facial jewellery; need I say more?

I could feel the rage starting to consume me as I cracked my knuckles and walked towards them. This was exactly what I needed right then to distract myself from my worries. This was going to be fun. 

Life is not a fairy tale. There are no magical happy endings. Life can be an adventure however; it is what we make it, like so very many things. A part of me was saddened that it had come to this; one Matari teaching two others a lesson; that we were reduced to fighting amongst ourselves. It’s this ignorance and lack of basic respect for one another that starts wars in the first place.

Yet there we were. And for me, right then, right there, it was a simple happiness.