Of beer, cocks and friendship

PyjamaSam just didn’t enjoy cigars.

I had been trying for years to get him to indulge in the overpriced luxury with me, but he gently refused once again, standing his ground. Even though a capsuleer himself, with considerable wealth, he was too pragmatic to ever overpay for anything that wasn’t a necessity. Of course, his definition of what was deemed necessary differed from most. If it was technical gadgetry, or something he could use for many crazy ideas and pursuits, it was a must to have and would therefore be acquired regardless of cost.

I could respect that.

It was seldom that Sam and I got to enjoy any downtime together, but such was life. The fact we were able to enjoy each other’s company for a few fleeting moments was something I treasured, and as I sat with Sam in the comfort of my ship’s quarters, reading ‘fanmail’ and enjoying a few beers, our conversation turned to friendship and its inherent value.

I shared with Sam that I recently had this conversation with another longtime acquaintence, which led to asking one another why we were actually friends. In response, the other friend had this to say:

“Roc, you’re my friend because you make me laugh, shake my head. You’re a touchstone of reality that I need to base what’s right and wrong in the universe.”

I took that as high praise.

I put the same question to Sam. It seemed appropriate given the candor of our conversation, our longtime friendship, and the fact we didn’t get to catch up with each other as often as we used to.

Sam’s response?

“Well, you like huge cocks, and I have one.”

I shook my head, and we both laughed. Neither of us was well suited for touchy feely conversations, and that was his way of telling me to shut it up and have another beer, which I gladly did.

They wouldn’t let me sleep. I overheard them talking about sleep deprivation as a way of reducing my mental barriers, making me more susceptible to therapy and treatment.

They were so out of their league with me. I’d been through hell and back several times. I had frequent flyer miles.

They wanted to wear me down? They wanted to break me?

I just laughed some more, thinking of Sam, thinking of the good times, thinking of thick, veinous, totally inappropriate penii. I cackled until I wept.

Banana Blueberry Soup

I was tired of being in a straight-jacket, but despite what the holovid illusionists would have us believe, they were near impossible to escape from when secured correctly. Combine that with the fact that three sets of thick leather straps covered my body, wrapped tightly around the bed, and I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

As a desperate act of rebellion, I had clamped down on the last attending nurse’s finger with my teeth as she fed me. I wouldn’t let go, digging as deep as I could, ignoring the blood splattering on both of us, and her screams, until I could feel my jaw lock around bone.

I had been designated a “trouble patient” as a result.

One consequence of that action was that I was forced to wear a lower face mask that prevented me from opening my jaw, and was fed my fresh, new liquid meals through a straw, for the safety of the facility staff.

As stupid and out of place as it sounds, one of those meals in particular stood out in my mind, and as I savoured each different flavour, concentrating on the blend and balance of each within the whole of the recipe, I mentally created this, and hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Banana Blueberry Soup

INGREDIENTS:

  • 4 bananas
  • 3 tablespoons lemon juice
  • 6 cups apple juice
  • 1/4 cup sugar or sugar-free substitute
  • 1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
  • 1/2 teaspoon cinammon
  • 2 1/2 cups heavy cream or whipping cream
  • 2 cups blueberries

METHOD:

  1. In a food processor, puree bananas with lemon juice.
  2. Place in a pot and bring to a boil with 3 1/2 cups apple juice.
  3. Add sugar. Set aside.
  4. Blend the cornstarch into the remaining apple juice.
  5. Add to the soup; simmer for 2 minutes.
  6. Remove and chill.
  7. Add the cinammon to the cream.
  8. Whip into the soup.
  9. Chill.
  10. As the soup chills, drop blueberries into the soup for decoration.

Because I can

You are delusional, Roc Wieler.
What gives you the right to affect the lives of others?
You are not a god, Roc Wieler.
Why do you feel it’s your responsibility to interfere?
You’re just like the rest of us.
You’re just one man.

I was restrained on a gurney, stripped to my underwear. I can see how that would immediately induce a sense of relaxation in someone. Numerous electrodes were attached to my body from head to toe, with wires running into various machines; completely soothing. Please, let me share with you everything there is to know about the inner recesses of my psyche. Right.

The rain continued to pour outside the only window to this room.

Rain. Pouring rain, freeing me from my sins, cleansing me of all unrighteousness. It didn’t matter now what they did to me during this interrogation, my mind was free from my body. They could call it a therapeutic session. They could say the drugs were to help monitor my heart rate as well as to help me relax. They could go to hell. I knew who they were. I knew who they were working for.

Our vehicle pulled up to the train station, angling for the passenger drop-off area. This area of the train station was currently under construction. The dropoff stretch was about 200m long, three lanes wide, but its entry was reduced to only a single lane. The idea, of course, was to drive the length of the dropoff, allowing other vehicles to file in behind you, maximizing the efficiency of the dropoff area.

Of course, in the rain, nobody wanted to get wet, and as such, the vehicle I was in was now stuck in the middle of an intersection two cars behind the entry of the dropoff because some idiot decided to park their car at the narrow opening while dropping off their passenger. The car directly behind them honked their horn, understandably frustrated. We were two cars back of that, watching the entire scene.

“People are idiots.” the driver of the car said.
“No argument from me.” I replied to her, already feeling my annoyance levels starting to rise.

Finally the idiot waved goodbye to his ride, then decided to flip his middle finger to the driver of the honking car, because, you know, THAT car is at fault here. Moron.

Something that staggers me is the bravado people have when relying on the laziness and/or fear of others. For example, what if the driver of the honking car pulled out a pistol, got out, then shot the finger flipping idiot? I wager he wouldn’t be feeling so brave then, laying in a pool of his own blood on the pavement.

Conversely, what if the finger flipper walked over to the honking car, pulled the driver out, and pommeled him to a bloody mess? The equation worked both ways.

People rely too much on their misreading of other people. It results in arrogance and ignorance.

My teeth were grinding apparently as my female companion commented, “Let it go, tiger. He’s not worth your time.”

I kissed her gently goodbye, deciding to exit the car where we were, already annoyed at the minor delay and inconvenience.

As soon as she had driven out of sight, I tracked down finger flipper, whom was now standing with a very tall Brutor, broad of shoulder, but not in good physical shape, though he might once have been.

I quickly approached the two, who were laughing and chatting, obviously friends and regulars on the train together.

“Excuse me.” I said, getting finger flipper’s attention. “Next time you go around giving people the finger, you really should make sure you’re not the one being an idiot.” I thought it was an open and honest, non-threatening opening statement. Apparently I was wrong.

“Oh, were you the asshole honking his horn?” finger flipper said.

“No, I was the one stuck a few cars behind in the intersection because you think you’re special.”

“Hey, everyone stops there.” he said. I was stunned for a moment. Everyone stops there. That’s really what he said. That self-same logic used by children when they want what some other kid has: ‘Well, everyone else is going.’

The immediate answer to enter my mind was universal: ‘And if everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you do that too?’

It revealed to me that I was dealing with an idiot child trapped in the body of a full-grown man.

Of course, while all of this happened in my mind, the two had turned to walk away. Instinctively, I grabbed man-child at the elbow, firmly. I wasn’t done talking yet. And yes, I realize now that was a mistake considering how many witnesses there were, one of them already going to get security, though I was unaware of that fact.

“Excuse me. Why are you touching my friend?” the tall Brutor asked/threatened politely, while man-child yelled ‘get your hands off me’ or some such.

“I’m not done talking with him yet.” I explained to tall Brutor as man-child struggled to free himself from my grip, resorting to foul name calling while trying to shirk me off.

“You can’t just go around grabbing people.” tall Brutor said, trying to remove my arm from man-child without success.

“Just like he can’t go around being ignorant to people?” I asked, feeling quite smug in my little victory of logic.

I turned my attention back to man-child, who was cursing up a storm of frustration at me.

“Listen, I’m just saying think about what you’re doing when you do it.” I said to him.

“Fuck you, man. Quit yelling at me.”

Again, I was stunned momentarily at the juvenile mentality of the words being thrown my way. Quit yelling? Again, the immediate mental response that formed in my mind was ‘You think I’m yelling? I’ll show you yelling.’ Hmmm…

“You think I’m yelling?” I said with a smile. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” Shit. That didn’t come out right.

“Is there a problem here?” a new voice asked.

I turned my head to see two special constables standing beside us. The more overweight of the two was the one whom had asked the question.

I released man-child, smiling slightly as he lost his balance, but recovered with self-satisfied victory on his face. I really wanted to wipe that expression away.

“No problem at all. I’d like to report this gentleman please.” I stated bluntly.

Lesser overweight constable raised his eyebrows. “For what?” Man-child had a similar expression of incredulity.

I had two minutes before the arriving train departed. It was an express train to obviously what was both of our destinations. The next one wouldn’t come for at least an hour.

It was exactly 8:10 AM.

I took a deep breath and explained the events of the passenger drop-off, fully expecting nothing more than for man-child, tall Brutor and myself to miss our train.

To my surprise, more overweight constable expressed his need to talk with man-child more about the incident. Tall Brutor asked if he could go, as he had nothing to do with it (how quickly bravado wilts in the face of authority), which I confirmed, and he was off to catch his train.

I assumed that I would need to remain, file a statement with the fat constables, and be delayed as well.

“Did you need my statement, sir?” I inquired.

“You’re good to go. We have enough to check the cam feeds. Here’s my card. Call me at your convenience if you think we require any additional information. Be safe and thank you for travelling with Pator transit.”

Pator.

You’re not a hero.
Do you really think you can make a difference?
Tell us, Roc Wieler, what drives you?
Why do you do the things you do?

My eyes snapped back to the reality of where I was. I could feel the drugs rushing through my system, leaving me with a feeling of disconnectedness. As a capsuleer, I was used to that sensation. I guess these “doctors” weren’t used to dealing with capsuleers.

I was aware of every ping of the machinery around me. I could hear the subtle strain of the leather against my wrists, as I flexed and relaxed my fists.

My throat was dry, but my voice held steady.

There was only one answer to all their questions that rang of truth. Only one answer that explained everything I did, and still do, in my life.

“Because I can.”

State of Mind

It’s interesting, in retrospect, to look back at the gaps between the entries in this journal and postulate as to what my audience must think of those absences. Were they intentional? Did nothing interesting occur? Does he not remember? My mind wanders down many pathways of thought on the topic.

In this instance, the answer was simply one of embarrassment, shame and mental anguish. To this day, they are still difficult memories to consciously bring to the surface and discuss, let alone write about.

The medications kept me sedated, docile, lifeless. My jaw hung open involuntarily, a steady fall of drool running down the side of my cheek, streaming over my shoulder to finally pool on the bed sheet beneath. I was in a straight jacket, thick leather straps tied down tightly over it, equally strong straps clasped around my ankles. My head was kept immobile as well by a final leather strap.

I had always liked leather and bondage until then.

I suppose I’ve jumped the gun a bit, leaving you wondering how I came to be in that condition. My apologies for that.

Since being admitted into that forsaken place, and realizing my mind was slowly slipping away from me, I had made it my primary objective to escape. I knew it was playing into the game the Amarr had setup for me, and that it would only further reinforce the smear campaign they had somehow engineered against me, but I had weighed every alternative and came to the same conclusion: there was no good way out of this one for me. If I stayed, awaiting evaluation, possible therapy, then verdict, I would surely go mad, possibly killing myself, possibly left to be a vegetable. That would mean the Amarr won. If I did manage to maintain my sanity and was dismissed to civilian life, I would be shot on site by Concord for any illegal actions against the Amarr, capsuleer status or not. Again, the Amarr won. The only remaining option then was to extricate myself from that unholy situation, forfeit my military career, and continue on as a fully licensed capsuleer, waging a one man war against the atrocities of the Amarr.

Two days prior to my new jacket I had made my attempt at freedom. The security here was quite lax, and the orderlies that opened my cell that day had not expected my sudden and aggressive assault. I had been a model “patient” since my admission.

It took little effort to crouch, punch the attaching joint of the knee from the side, watch the man collapse, stand to open palm the nose of the second orderly, then drive a hammerfist downwards across his chest, dropping him on top of his colleague, all before they knew what had happened.

I grabbed a handful of old mechanical lock keys, as well as the passcard of both orderlies.

By the time I had bolted for the nearest secured door, the alarm had been sounded. Other patients cheered, barked, screamed, spat phlegm, defecated, as well as many other responses to the abundance of stimuli, but I ignored it all, single minded in my desire for freedom.

My heart raced in my ears, my blood pumping fiercely in my veins. I would utilize all my power to be away from this place.

I was stopped at the first door. None of the keys worked, and the IDs I had swiped required a passcode to be used in conjunction with them.

It only took a few minutes before eight security personnel, dressed in full riot gear, came at me from both ends of the hallway, and regardless of how well I fought, I was subdued easily.

When next I awoke, I was in the state I described at the beginning of this entry.

I had fought the effect of drugs before. Part of me wondered if Vitoc had been mixed into the sedatives to slowly recreate the dependence that had nearly cost me my life many times in the distant past.

I needed to stay focused. I needed to draw on memories of strength and hope. It was the only way to overcome the demons that threatened to knock down the door of my mind.

I randomly sifted through my recollections, finally seizing on one that ironically left me in a far better mental place than I had hoped to be in.

It was a letter from a Caldari patriot, written when I was still a Capsuleer, as an expression of appreciation for the “Brutor Way of Life”, a fitness program & cookbook I had published during the height of my celebrity.

Hi Roc,

I just wanted to drop you a quick line to say thanks. Don’t know if this will actually get to you.

First off, I’m a big fan (and I actually grabbed a copy of Bio when you released it), and plan to pickup your second album, One Night of Roc, soon. I’ve always enjoyed following your exploits and adventures, whether through GalNet, or via local holonews. New Eden– it’s a richer place to hang out in because of your contributions and others like you.

My other ‘thanks’ is a bit less conventional. Two months ago, I read a piece about how you had progressed on your fitness goals in only a few short months. That really gave me some inspiration to start on an pretty intense fitness plan. Needless to say, it’s funny how big a change an hour and a half in the gym every morning and cutting out all the crap and junk food from a diet can make. I started on at 265lbs, and as of today, sixty days later, I’m 212lbs. I’m not quite back the shape I was in before trade school when I ran triathlons, but I’m more fit than I’ve been in a very long time, and it’s given me the push I needed to start back into martial arts as well. It’s even inspired some of the guys I work with to get back into shape. I owe you one dude.

So I was thinking, if you’re ever in Caldari space (har har), and find yourself in the mood for a steak dinner, my treat, look me up. It’s the least I can do to say thanks – just forgive me if I order a salad instead of a baked potato…

Feel free to have Aura ping the hell out of me to make sure I’m not a stalker. I’m just another guy saying thanks to one of the few living legends we have in this universe.

All the best, and thanks again,
Garlon Das

Funny the things the mind latches onto for strength. Thanks Garlon.

The End

I’ve heard that insanity and depression are happy playmates, more than happy to hold hands while tearing apart your mind, driving you beyond the depths of despair.

I exhaled. I couldn’t recall a time in my life I had ever been happy.

Through therapy, I’d recollected several random childhood memories, though without context or continuity their meaning and import has always remained a mystery eluding my grasp. It didn’t’ matter anymore.

Conversely, each moment of my enslavement, whether drug-ridden or free-minded, was permanently etched into my neurons; the core fuel source for my never-ending rage and hatred of all things Amarr. I exhaled again.

But I was a one trick pony. I unleashed pent up rage, lashing out as an immature child, attempting to destroy everything that caused me anger and pain. That is all I was to others. I had always been a pathetic fool. I could never defeat the Amarr. It was a pipe dream. Honest self-realization was truly humbling.

Every day of my service in the Tribal Liberation Force had been a complete and utter waste. Public denouncement, dishonourable discharge, accusations of slavery and treason; had I never bothered to care in the first place, my existence would’ve been far less complicated, far less overwhelming. I had only ever fooled myself into thinking I was important, or had influence on the galaxy. I should have just been a civilian garbage hauler.

I exhaled more weakly. I was starting to feel dizzy.

Love. Romance. What illusions were they? Did it ever work out with Mynxee? Of course not. She never had any intention of loving me, merely using me as another resource to her advantage when and how it suited her needs best. And when I was no longer of use to her? I was discarded like the trash all men are to her; consumed and put out as garbage. But had I been any better to her? I was always up on my soapbox, preaching my own morality at her, cramming it down her throat. No wonder she was repulsed by me. I was a hypocrite.

Was there hate inside of me? Yes. Was there hope? No.

The corners of my vision began to darken and I could feel a tingling begin in my limbs. It would be over soon.

I had thought about writing a suicide note, cliched as that was. I had thought about leaving behind some type of epic prose detailing the angst of my fate, the tragic irony of the life I had been dealt. I had considered sharing my dreams, my visions, my hopes for a brighter future.

Then I realized it didn’t matter. Who would care? And even if a few took on the pretense of caring at the news of my death, would it really have any importance hundreds of years from now? Or even a few decades? I was nothing but dust, and the universe would give me as much attention as we would to dust. I wouldn’t even be a name.

Shakor could do what he wanted to with the Republic. I had no more delusions of grandeur. The veil had been lifted from my eyes, and for the first time, I knew the only release from all the pain of my life, all the misery I experienced with every moment of my continued living, was permanent death.

I could breath no longer. My body began to go limp, hanging from my leather belt, tied one end around my neck, the other looped around a pipe running the length of the cell ceiling. Convenient, if not poorly designed.

It would be nice to have a day off, I thought to myself, as my body succumbed to the warm embrace of the darkness, no longer feeling the pressure around my throat. My natural survival instincts surrendered. There was no more fight left in me.

No Aura to transfer my mind to a waiting body. No heroic and epic tale of my overcoming adversity. I had never been a hero, why start then?

This was the end of my story. And how else could it have ended? New Eden is a vast universe, with trillions of stories to be told. I was but a footnote in the grand scheme of themes. Maybe not even that.

Never start a fight you can win. I had lived my lives by it. Perhaps I would adhere to it in the afterlife, if there was such a thing. Part of me hoped there wasn’t, as it was clear God had always hated me.

Fly safe. And happy April Fool’s. Like I’d ever quit. Really.

Politics

“I have no disrespect towards Shakor, and you’re a fool if you think you can manipulate me on that path.” I said, remaining seated, my elbows propped on my thighs, staring at the bottom of my cell. This entire block smelled of urine, feces and blood, but my senses had already adjusted to accepting that as normal. It was the body and mind’s way of adapting for survival.

“That wasn’t my intentional at all, Wieler. I merely wanted to point out some simple and recent historical facts about the man we all call Sanmatar. The Republic is built on tribel democracy, on the strengths of our differences, by the unity of our core beliefs and culture. Every Matari has a voice within their tribe. Every tribal leader has a voice within the council of parliament.”

“Yes, yes, I know these things. I am not a child. Do not speak to me as such.” I said with muted hostility.

“My apologies; my intention was not to offend. It is just that when I heard of your current situation, and found you here, in this place,” he gestured with open arms at the cell, his robes of office flowing freely around him, “I didn’t know exactly what to think. I mean, it is a known fact you have been a hero in this war. It is known you are loved by the people, despite Shakor’s attempts to discredit your name. Ah, I see that has gotten your attention.”

Shakor and I were colleagues, friends, sharing very similar ideas for the future of the Republic. Both of us were military men, and had a straightforward, above board approach to how things should be run. He had my respect, and I thought I had his.

“It is also known that you would do anything to discredit the Sanmatar’s good name, Orvas Seriador.” I said in return. He withered slightly under the attack, but quickly regained his composure. Someone not as finely attuned to reading body language might not have noticed any reaction at all.

“I am sorry to have wasted your time, Matar Colonel; oh, my apologies, you no longer bear that rank or honour. Forgive my ill manners.”

He smiled with genuine inflection, but I knew it was just another manoeuver in his game. I would play along until I knew what his real agenda was.

As I was opening my mouth for a witty rebuttal, he continued on, cutting me short.

“Just think about the facts of Shakor’s rise to power. There were no opposing candidates during his election. There was no traditional policies upheld at all. And since he’s taken rule of the Republic, he’s pretty much dissolved parliament and has made military action his highest priority, sacrificing hundreds of thousands of lives to date in an unnecessary war we cannot hope to win. It’s madness.”

Madness. Interesting choice of words from the leader of the Sebeistor Tribe considering where our clandestine talks of usurping power were taking place.

“It’s a crazy universe.” I grumbled.

“Indeed it is.” Seriador agreed, thinking I was acknowledging his points about Shakor.

“What is you want, Seriador?” I said bluntly, ignoring his honorific, my own shot back at him for being petty with titles. Respect was measured by the actions of a man, not by the shiny medals on his uniform, or the fancy robes he wore.

“I simply have a need for real answers, Wieler.” he replied with measured timing. “This is a dangerous precipice for our people. With the Thukkers returning to the fold, we are a united people, but at what cost to maintain? Already there have been failures, the Salvation Crusade debacle being one of recent note, as well as your incarceration here.”

“Did you ever think things might be worse if we had a lesser man at the helm?” I asked with sincerity.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you do not know our ‘captain’ as well as you believe, to continue your analogy. Where is he now? Has he been to visit you, his dear friend and loyal servant of the Republic? Did he speak for you at your defence?”

He let his questions hang in the air and I had no immediate answer. My thoughts raced, suddenly following new paths of reasoning, new paranoid delusions of political backdealings and deceptions.

Damn you Shakor. Why hadn’t you been there for me? I hated even questioning his integrity, but Seriador had hit a nerve.

“As you said, it’s as though the universe has gone insane. What better place to find the next Sanmatar than here?”

Seriador smiled once again, with the hypnotic gaze of a viper luring its prey closer until the predator was ready to strike.

“And why not you? Why don’t you run for the position? You’ve never been one to give away power.” I said, knowing some of the political history of Orvas Seriador.

Seriador held his hands up in surrender, waving away my comment. ” I know I am not the man our people need in the immediate years to come. I am here to advise, of course, but I am aware of enough to concede I simply do not bear the strengths needed to out Shakor for the tyrant he is, at least not now. No, better to have the right man for the right job, and in my heart, I know that is you, Sanmatar Wieler.”

I scowled at him for using that title. It was all illusion. Look at my left hand while my right hand slaps you. I had learned my lessons in politics well from Shakor. Is this why he kept encouraging me to get involved? Was it to protect me from despicable men like Seriador?

Or was Shakor protecting his own interests? Did he see me as a threat early on, and thought to keep me under his thumb?

There were too many unanswered questions.

“Just say the word, Wieler, and I can have you out of here, with a snap of my fingers.” He held up his hand, ready to snap his fingers to illustrate his point.

I have to admit, it was very tempting. I needed to be out of that hellish place. There were Amarr that needed to die. Despite what Seriador believed, victory in the war was not impossible. The Amarr Empire could be toppled. Yet I wasn’t ready to owe Seriador for my freedom; the price was too high. He would expect me to do his bidding, being the real power behind the Sanmatar title, and that was something I would never let happen.

I had too much to think about.

“You’ve give me a lot to think about, Seriador. I need to work through it, in solitude. Can’t think of a better place to do that then here.” I lied. I hated this place. I hated what it was doing to me. I thought it was starting to break me. Is realizing you were slowly being broken part of not being broken? Or is it the opposite? Were you already broken if you started thinking about yourself in the third person, narrating your own life as it unfolded around you? Either way, I was slowly starting to lose my grasp on reality.

I had heard rumours of sane people succumbing to insanity simply by being in environments like this. It happened in war, why shouldn’t it happen there?

“As you wish, Wieler.” Seriador said, bowing slightly, as he backed out of my cell. “Just know I will come back to visit you often, and we will not speak of politics, but rather perhaps I can simply be here to listen to a friend in need, if you will consider me such.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I replied.

“Very good.” Seriador said, ignoring my blatant sarcasm. “And as your friend, let me ask, is there anything you’d like me to bring on my next visit?”

A frigate to blow the hell out of this place? A platoon of marines? Nah, too subtle.

“I’d really like a nice…” Did I want to owe this man for anything? Did I want to play this game?

“Yes” he asked, his eyebrow arching.

“I’d really like a nice cigar.” I said.

He laughed, throwing his head back as he did so.

“Very good. I shall bring you some wrapped from leaves nestled in the jungles of the southern continent. We can enjoy the experience together.”

He laughed again, unprompted as far as I could tell.

“What?” I asked.

He leaned close to me, whispering in my ear.

“Isn’t it a little crazy when you think about it? Here we are, in this place, the famed Roc Wieler and myself, Orvas Seriador, secretly plotting to overthrow the government and usher in a new era of prosperity for the people of the Republic from the depths of an insane asylum? Perhaps we should both be kept here for the good of all.”

He stood up, laughing again, and suddenly I realized I hated this man.

“Crazy is as crazy does.” I replied. “And you’re free to stay. I could use the company.” I leaned back in a welcoming gesture.

Again he waved me away with his hands. The man had very easy tells.

“No, no, I speak in jest, and it was insensitive of me I clearly see. My apologies, my new friend. I shall come back as soon as my duties allow, and we will enjoy a fine cigar together. Fly safe, Colonel Wieler.”

Interesting.

“May the gods guide you.” I said, speaking the traditional reply.

Politics was draining. I needed a nap.

Recipe – Minmatar Power Bars

Intravenous tubes sustaining us with protein. Catheters removing our bodily wastes. Amniotic like fluids maintaining homeostasis amidst all piloting conditions. Enhanced computerized filtering of all sights and sounds.

That is what life is like inside a pod, and life is good.

Outside the pod is a different story entirely for a capsuleer. Muscle atrophy, overpowering spices and tastes in foods, nauseating scents assaulting our olefactory; regular life can be brutal when you’re not accustomed to it. Never take normalcy for granted my friends.

Something I’ve always kept handy when leaving my ship; something I’ve always trusted not to make me gag when my senses are new and weak; something that is healthy but perceived as somewhat “normal” among the civilians is power bars. Power bars can pretty much sustain you when needed, though I don’t recommend it, but if you need an extra boost to your day, give these a try.

Minmatar Power Bars

INGREDIENTS:

  • 2 cups almonds (raw)
  • 1/2 cup flax seed
  • 1/2 cup shredded coconut (unsweetened)
  • 1/2 cup unsalted almond butter
  • 1/2 teaspoon sea salt
  • 1/2 cup coconut oil
  • 4 drops stevia liquid
  • 1 tablespoon agave nectar
  • 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
  • 1 cup dark chocolate 73% or higher (optional)

METHOD:

  1. Place almonds, flax seeds, shredded coconut, almond butter and salt in a food processor.
  2. Pulse briefly, about 10 seconds.
  3. In a small sauce pan, melt coconut oil over very low heat.
  4. Remove coconut oil from stove, stir stevia, agave and vanilla into oil.
  5. Add coconut oil mixture to food processor and pulse until ingredients form a coarse paste.
  6. Press mixture into an 8 x 8 glass baking dish.
  7. Chill in refrigerator in 1 hour, until mixture hardens.
  8. In a small saucepan, melt chocolate over very low heat, stirring continuously.
  9. Spread melted chocolate over bars; return to refrigerator for 30 minutes, until chocolate hardens.
  10. Remove from refrigerator, cut into bars and serve.

SERVING SIZE: Makes 20 bars

Recipe originally found at Elana’s Pantry.

My sympathies

From: Anarine
To: Roc Wieler,  c/o Majanuni Institute, Pator

Dear Roc,

This message will surely be a surprise to you. You do not know me, and I do not have the pleasure of knowing you personally, I only know you from the news and gossip that I hear from different channels.

I do not know if it is true, and I do not know if all the details I have are correct, but my sources are normally very trustworthy, therefore I must assume the worst.

Do not let my reputation of being a lab rat fool you. We all fight for a cause, and while I may not be on the front lines, my combat is to keep fellow Gallenteans armed and ready, and of course our trusted allies, the Minmatar. Lab rat or not, I’ve been on the front lines, and I’ve had Aura scream at me. Flying a CovOps might seem a sign of weakness for some, but it normally leaves you deep in enemy territory, and I’ve seen my fair share of battles in 0.0 space, fighting for TCF. I have seen hundreds of pilots on the field, and both friends and foe flash frozen naked in space, their ship having been torn apart by war, and their capsules little more than tritanium scraps. In the midst of explosions, laser beams and bullets, war can be a nerve-wrecking experience, and I’ve seen what no person should see; fellow pilots whom found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, torn apart by bombs thrown at the enemy fleets. I have even been a victim to such acts, a fellow pilot mistaking me, having been frightened by my decloaking close to a friendly fleet. It left me in a pod, far from home, and inevitably waking up in a clone facility after dozens of jumps deep in enemy space, but I have learned to forgive the pilot which did that to me. War is a terrible thing, and it does terrible things to the best of us. That pilot is now a close friend, and we talk regularly.

I have heard of your trial, and of the verdict. My sympathies go out to you, as more than anyone else, I can understand what you went through, and, I believe, what you are going through right now.

I don’t care what any tribunal says, you are a man of honour.

Forgive my bad English; Gallenteans are of French origin, and I’ve kept my origins more than others.

Kind regards,

Anarine

My therapist had been kind enough to secret this to me, as any personal items were strictly prohibited within the mental health and wellness facility.

A part of me was saddened and disturbed that word of my predicament was spreading so quickly, but I wasn’t really surprised. In general, people were vultures, picking at the carcass of any newsworthy gossip, in an attempt to make their own existences seem less pathetic by comparison.

A secondary, more human part of me was moved emotionally at the compassion in this letter from a stranger. It reminded me of why I had made every hard decision in my life without hesitation or regret.

Amidst the screams and howls, against other “guests” talking to themselves, crying or laughing hysterically, scratching themselves until their skin bled, or simply smashing their heads against the wall, I felt connection with another.

I wasn’t abandoned, forgotten, alone in the universe, and I sure as hell didn’t belong here.