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CRW 3010 Portfolio

2009

Ge o f f D ec k e r

CRW 31 20

12/14/2009


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Table of Contents

Reading, Now With Preservatives .............. 3

Writing, Fun for the Whole Family .............. 5

Scenery Assignment: Reading, Now With Preservatives .............. 7

Happyman .............. .............. 9

Happyman: Lost and Found .............. 11

The Many Titles That Could .............. 13

Talking Too Little .............. ........... 14

Black Hole Revelations: A Sinkhole Story .............. 15

A Midnight Sonnet At Denny s ....... ....... ....... ....... ....... 17

Love Is Like Lead Paint .............. ..... 17

Love and Cynicism .................................... ........... 18

Reading List .............. .......... 19

Crimson .............. .............. 20


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Reading, Now With PreservativesThe first memorable interest I had in reading and writing would be in the third grade. In

class, we read the book The Phantom Tollbooth from beginning to end. The intricate storyline,

clever literary devices and fun characters caught my imagination. After reading the book, I

decided to start writing a sequel to it as I wanted more and more. From what I can remember of

the story, I maybe got three poorly written chapters with little to no character development (ha,

its a Hollywood sequel). One day, while in class, I told my friend Bryan about it who then

instructed me to stop writing the book. As his father was a lawyer, Bryan picked up on some of

the lingo and instructed me that if I were to continue writing the book without the previous

writers consent, I would go to jail for stealing the authors work.

From middle school through high school, we were given a required reading list. During

this time period, I envied illiterates. The books we were forced to read just ate away at me. This

entire period I did not read for enjoyment. Unfortunately, I cannot remember the titles of said

books to give an example, but between these books and textbooks I thought I was done with

reading for good.

My will to read was reignited by four different books, my milestones. In my junior year

of high school, I picked up The Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S. Thompson. This was the first

book I had strictly read for enjoyment since the Goosebumps series by R.L. Stine. This was the

first book that gave me an outside perspective on life. I continued to read other Thompson books

through high school and up to college. In college, I picked up 1984 by George Orwell, The

Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy series (count as a singular book but there are five) by Douglas

Adams, and Solipsist by Henry Rollins. Within Orwell, I found a kindred spirit, within Adams, I


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Writing, Fun for the Whole Family

It was Oscar Wild who said I put all my genius into life; I put only my talent into my

works. Writing is not just a skill, but it is reflection of ones mind, their essence, their being.

Writing is like solving an equation. We know what the end result should be, the answer, the

meaning behind the sentence or story. We pick words, use them as variables and combine them

in such a way that we are able to provide a path to the answer for others to follow. Every path is

unique; every path made belongs to the creator.

My environment, especially music and sounds, affects my writing. If I am writing an

essay, memo, or a report, I like to write with a cup of black tea, preferably Earl Grey, while

listening to the Royal or London Philharmonic covering classic rock songs, while sitting at a

desk. The lack of words allows me to strictly concentrate on the words on the paper while

providing enough background noise to not drive me insane. This method works well for minimal

to no edits required for the document. When I am writing something visual, I like to listen to

specific music for that situation. I keep a soundtrack list in accordance with my story. For

example, if I am writing an action scene, I usually listen to something heavy and fast paced. I

will also typically write in a location I am thinking of or at least a similar one. This way aids me

in keeping up a visual scene and pace for the desired section. Typically, this is used when I am

working on a graphic novel section.

I write the best when I have a deadline. I have written in many different locations,

including on a balcony, 12 stories up looking over the beach. This was one of my preferred

writing locations, especially when it dropped down to 40 degrees at night. My best work is an


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ongoing project called Obscurity . This is the graphic novel I am working on, and my main fault

of this is not having an artist which creates a lack of drive for me to write. One of my downfalls

is a lack of persistence and schedule to write. I have a blog called The Questionable Decisions of

Everyday Life that I made to write on at least one a week and I have neglected it far too much.

I am a technical writing major who used to be in engineering and has fiddled with

technology since I was three. I am pretty good at writing philosophy, short stories, alright at

poetry. Confidence eludes me in creative writing. I get a lot of compliments from my friends on

my work, but I have a problem believing them as I think it can always be better. I also lack good

revision skills. My technical writing can usually be written the night before, no editing, and I get

a perfect or close to perfect score on my paper. However, I am bad at revising my own work. My

revision process involves me writing, leaving it alone for a month to a year, and going back to it

once I have forgotten enough of it enabling me to properly revise it.


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Scenery Assignment: Reading, Now WithPreservatives

Artificial clouds pumped out of the nine lifeless smoke stacks belonging to the city power

plant. A shallow sky of artificial clouds acted as a blanket covering the backwoods of buildings

known as Brisco City. The buildings were in constant competition with one another, often

content with the building built before it, but jealous of the one built after.

Of the buildings, Reneri Records was one of the oldest in town, which happened to be

jealous of the Vanduyn Toy Companys structure who was two stories taller with a fresh wash

and three blocks down on the right. Of course, the VanDuyn Toys building envied the Kulish

Productions building, despite the fact that they were the same height and in an equally good

location, facing one another, the Kulish Productions building had just built a brand new parking

garage, which happened to be the envy of all other buildings in the city. Even having all of the

luxuries a building could ever want, the Kulish Productions building often wondered what it

would be like to have the freedom of the Mercado Traveling Circus, which neither traveled nor

was a circus. In fact, if one was to take Main Street from Kulish Productions going straight for

three miles, turning right at VanDuyn Toys onto Metric Drive, one would find a beaten up, Red

Volkswagen Mini-Bus with a short, hairy man and a black labradoodle who would often be

arrested for performing lewd acts in public.

Now, the city was not merely rivers and forest of asphalt and cement, and did in fact have

color and greenery. 1000 feet away from the Mercado Traveling Circus, as court ordered, was

the famous Noctorium Park, which much like famous Noctorium Carousel, had been in Brisco

City ever since the city was founded. The park was a peaceful area of the city, mostly because no


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HappymanLook at her false grin, smiling at me as if she enjoys being here. Imagine that, if she truly

enjoys what she does, holding that microphone, tightly encased in that blood red vest, spewing

garbage, telling the public that it is a gourmet meal, and watches them eat it up.

Good evening America, My name is Shelly Sanders and this is Sanders Across America.

Tonight on the program, we bring you an exclusive

Will her mouth ever stop moving? Here I am, a once in a life time interview, and all she

does is run her mouth about how lucky she is to have me, how wonderful it is to have the true

American Super Anti-hero on her set. Alright, I have had enough.

Sanders, either we start the interview or I can just as easily fly out of here.

Umm, yes indeed. I would like to remind you we are live

Ask your fucking questions already.

Well, we all know about your charming personality, but how did you become who you

are? What were your parents like? Did you always want to be a superhero?...

Her questions are dull, not creative at all. What are my parents like? Should I tell her that

I was a genetic experiment, a child of the Cold War? Or that I was created as an experiment, a

new soldier, waiting to be used by the army, only to be dumped in the hellhole known as Miss

Kittys Orphans and Lost Soul Emporium. That on numerous occasions I almost punched my

hand through the skulls of bullies, only to be restrained by what willpower I had? That the only

father I remotely had was a mad scientist who I spent most of my teen years fighting?

I was raised on a farm by my parents. And no, who would ever expect to become a superhero?


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Hmm, interesting. Do you have any religious values? Do you believe in God?

Well, I see you hugging your cross there. Honestly, if you did any research on me, you

should know I loathe religion. In fact, if I even see a person wearing a WWJD anything, I will

follow them, find their iPod and crush it. I might not be able to destroy their beliefs, but it is

always fun to watch a grown human grovel and beg God for their playlists back.

How about relationships? Have you ever been in love?

I hate this question. I can feel my fingers ball into my palm, as if they are trying to dig

through the bone. I hate remembering. I hate that day, and most of all, I hate what he did.

No, never. My career does not afford me the luxary.

Really, because we have pictures

The ground starts rumbling. Saved by disaster, finally. And I can smell him. The mixture

of his soulless creation and rocket fuel. The titanium alloy he created. His toupee.

Hes here.

Whos here?

My dear old dad. Hate to break it to you Sandy, but I used you to weed him out. Been

looking for him for years. And most of those answers, they were lies. My father hates lies. He

always said, if you are going to lie, make sure it is six feet in the ground.


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Happyman: Lost and FoundI am flying at a speed where I can feel the air break and the pollution scrapes. Another

one is about to be killed trying to be me like me, trying to do my job. Shades of crimson fade in

and out of the smog, moving like a ghost through buildings. More and more of these vigilantes

propagate every day, try to act as a vaccine for the virus this town has. But the virus always

fights back, leaving nothing but puddles of blood in their wake.

I wonder why this one fights. Is it a tale of vengeance, getting back at her daddy for

leaving her, alcoholism, abuse? Or maybe she witnessed loved ones, friends, family, turn into

shells of themselves, blood on the floor. But too often, these kids come out, inexperienced, raw.

They leave the same way.

Shit, I lost her too deep in my own thoughts. Must focus. Where is she, where could she

have gone? Who is she trying to protect? Save? Kill? Bullets crackle through sound, wondering

if each shot was a hit or miss. I feel like I am playing a game of Battleship, except I cannot see

the board.

There she is, dark alley, in the distance, leaking, followed by someone with a gun bigger

than his stature. Time to take a shortcut, pummeling through buildings, turning bricks to dust,

bending beams to my image, making my mark. Car alarms sound, children cry, sirens blaze.

Amidst all of it, I hear the cannon fire, a shrill, a laugh, and before long, his neck cracking.

Her blood leaks all over my suit, mixing with that of the villains on my palm. Barely

conscious, she simply says Its you. I try to keep her awake, trying to get her to a medic of


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some sort. Pummeling through the hospital doors, no time to wait for them to open, I force her

upon a doctor.

Shes too far gone.

Fix her.

I cannot.

Shes too young to die, fix her.

Im sorry, the girl in crimson said. I failed. This is my price. I was not strong enough.

Why did you do it?

You always seemed so sad, so alone, I thought. I could

In this town, the innocent shall always suffer, and I will always be alone.


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The Many Titles That CouldFound Titles:

1. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs , Chuck Klosterman

2. 1984, George Orwell

3. Solipsist , Henry Rollins

4. A Scanner Darkly , Phillip K. Dick

5. The Bitch Went Nuts, Ben Folds

6. The Hollow Men, T.S. Elliot

7. Black Coffee Blues, Henry Rollins

8. Generation of Swine, Hunter S. Thompson

9. So Long and Thanks for All the Fish, Douglas Adams

10. A Momentary Lapse of Reason, Pink Floyd

Titles I Created:

1. Questionable Decisions of Everyday Lives

2. Obscurity

3. Love is Like Lead Paint

4. The Cynic5. The Complication of Involving Life

6. The Free Appetizer

7. The Santa of Sarcasm

8. Pornographic Priestess

9. No Change

10. Salvation Six Feet Under


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Talking Too LittleFridays nights are often the most welcomed time of the week. In fact, they are the only

time that enables the general population to tolerate the dreaded Sunday evenings which are often

followed by malevolent Mondays. There are few ways to avoid said Mondays and many

philosophers argue over the best way to avoid a Monday, including concussions, time travel, and

bringing upon a global apocalypse. Thus the importance of Friday evenings almost becomes a

ritual to most, a celebration if you will. Planned out weeks ahead of time, those who truly

appreciate this event that takes place only one-seventh of their life time, often has a plan ahead of

time knowing how to spend this day.

**

Look, no matter what you say, however you twist it, you will not become a zombie upon

death just because you declared zombie Ed, said Milo.

For one, Milo, if Jesus did it, so can I. Second, there is no proof that I will not turn into a

zombie when I die, in fact, I bet your brain is the first I will go after, said Ed.

We could test that theory now. Knives are in the kitchen.

Well, go get then.

Anyhow, what do you feel like doing tonight? Movie? There is a new Michael Moore

film I would love to mock, asked Milo.

Nah, I spent all my money on hookers and blow, said Ed.

You mean fast food and porn?

I still dont get why you wont live in the 80s with me.

Everybody has to grow up sometime. We all cant dance safely forever, mused Milo.

So I suppose this will be another night of my clever quips and annoyances and you

wallowing in self pity then? asked Ed.


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into his head. Stepping into what looked like a black egg, he sat down in the seat, set year,

month, day, and time, and strapped himself in with his safety belt.

In a flash of light, the egg was no longer in the Wadsden building but now being

bombarded with pieces of the Classroom 1 building. The gravity well burst under the stress,

causing a massive implosion. The computer ejected Trogden into the side of a light post where

the seat spiraled around the pole much like a tetherball, restraining his neck as he saw the black

hole start to form.

Corpses and blood mud started to gravitate towards the newly formed void, and Trogden

began fighting his safety belt for air. As his skin slowly started to peel from the rest of his body,

Trogden finally got why UCF stands for You Cant Finish as Proper Quantum Shielding was

taught next semester.


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A Midnight Sonnet At DennysIn my most masochist sense here I dineAlone, forgotten like my dining ware,Here I sit stacking creams to pass the time.The couple next to me complain that theirFood came out cold, while impatience formsAt the door. I borrow creams from a boothClose to mine as more should cure my boredom.A server with drawn on eyebrows named RuthAsked for my order and said it would beOut shortly, though my breath I did not hold.Across the room a drunk screamed for coffeeJust as child pukes from toasted mold.

Here I sit with food and coffee unseenWhat will be next for my kingdom of cream?

Love Is Like Lead Paint Love is like lead paint,With infinite colors and shapes.

Sometimes love can be foundIn a neighbors driveway,Or under the overpassOf your local highway.

Other times you must travelTo illegally purchase love.But with this approach there is a risk,So be sure to bring your own gloves.

After prolonged exposure,Love will leave you mentally handicapped.So when looking for the right love,Wallpaper is always an option, that is to say a cat.


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Love and CynicismRomantic,Will you woo me like days of old.Your voice is unheard.Am I not entitled toYour spoken word?

Oh Love,I do not speak asContemporary life does not suit me.Shall I recite*Of how your eyesSparkle like broken glass littering the streets?

Maybe you inquire About how I admire That your radiant beauty bleaches the skyAs there are no stars to be seen?

Dearest Love, you live an artificial existenceWithin this fabricated forestOf superficial structuresRivers of asphalt,Trails of cement,And canopies of smog.Love, sweet Love,You are as hollowAs this concrete jungleFor under the pale streetlight,Does your platinum hair truly glowEven though, for a fact I knowThat the carpet does not match the drapes.

Love, pseudo Love,I do not speak For there is no substance.For until you awakenFrom your Materialistic tranceWe no longer work togetherThe couple known asLove and Romance.


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CrimsonIf his blood was paint, the glass was the canvas, and cracks within the windshield were

brushstrokes, then the remains of Mr. Dunbroths corpse and car would easily pass off as apostmodernist masterpiece. Coincidently, I did not care for postmodern art nor did I care for Mr.

Dunbroth however it was a job to chronicle his death. I line up the image, adjust the zoom, twist

the focus ring, and click. His remaining essence, the colors and composure of his death, is

captured in one-tenth of a second, carried through a dark tunnel by light, only at the end of this

tunnel, a series of mirrors, prisms, and sensors await it to be digitally converted into nothing

more than data only to be used with tomorrows news it will be the cover story for those truly

deserving.

After all, the news is as much of an afterlife as any of us will physically know. Those of

us who have no allegiance get a short seven lines condensing our lives in the obituaries section

whereas those who have changed the world for the better may get an honorable mention lost

inside the sectional depths of the paper. But those who we consider evil, who really make a

mark in our lives often make the front page, feeding our own personal demons, keeping them at

bay. And if the paper is an afterlife, then surely I, the photojournalist, am the ferryman, taking

their souls to their final destination. No longer was this camera something beautiful, for all that

was is gone. Every day, it grows colder, everyday my hope for a return grows dimmer.

Startled out of my daydreaming, I turn to find Officer Ellis who, much like his natural

essence of day-old coffee and cheap deodorant, shows up at the worst of times and linger about

far too long after. Well, if it isnt the only ambulance-chasing photographer in town. Hows

business?

Booming as always, I say. As long as everybody keeps on getting themselves into

trouble, I keep getting a paycheck.

Ellis arches his back and pulls his pants up as if they had been slipping. Jennings, Your

lack of empathy never fails to surprise me, says Ellis.


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Ellis gut is three sizes too big for his pants, making his belt virtually invisible. Pointing

to his gut, I say Your lack of self control keeps this entire towns food supply in constant

disarray. Eat any good restaurants lately?

Taking a stern tone, Officer Ellis replies Hey, you know the gut is off limits. I have beenworking very hard to relieve myself of this extra Ellis.

Im sure your squad car would appreciate that, especially the drivers side tires. Tell me,

when is you baby due anyway? You have been carrying that thing around with you for about 168

months now.

For the last time, he snarled, lay off the gut besides, we both know if I were to give

birth now, I would just eat it whole right after.

Not before you genetically recode yourself so you can unhinge your jaw. I say, as we

both got a good chuckle in.

So, this is the fourth Genco employee this week, isnt it? I ask Ellis.

No, this is the fourth current Genco employee, seventh this week including Higgs,

Balterdale, and Linus, who all retired three years ago. Ellis stutters for a second, and then says

I did a little research, nothing too grueling mind you as he chuckles, But the those three that

had retired, they all moved to different parts of the country. Fighting with his pants pocket, Ellis

grabs something and pulls it out as it makes a slight ripping sound. It was a crumpled map of the

United States. As he unfolds it, there is a noticeable coffee ring right in the middle, and three red

circles with a line connecting them. You see, Ellis says as he points to the first red circle in the

upper left hand corner Balterdale was the first to go last Thursday in Oregon car ran right off

a cliff. He moves his finger right along the crudely drawn line and says The next one was

Higgs in Michigan who looked as if he were strangled to death his wallet, phone, and keys

were taken and the news reported Friday that he was robbed shortly after dinner. Finally, he

says, moving his hand to the final circle we have Linus, in Kansas who shot himself Sunday.

Right, and Monday is when work started picking up for me. I look at Ellis and ask So

big guy, what is the connection?


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The connection, Jennings, is twenty-three years ago, they all worked in the same

department. Twenty-three years ago, they all worked on bio-weapons for Genco.

Twenty-three years ago, streams of red filled the clear blue sky. It was twenty-three years

ago, when violence was at an all time high and yet not a single officer lost their life, wheninstead of bullet proof vests they had scarlet blurs deflecting any and all harm. Twenty-three

years since honorary parades or a flying Santa without a sleigh. Twenty-three years since

children had a true role model, since children ran around pretending to fly rather than pretending

to fight. Its been twenty-three years since the last time I captured what the scarlet light carried,

since the last time I was a real photojournalist. Its been roughly twenty-three years since

Crimson vanished. Nothing less than a demigod, Crimson was our hero. When you looked into

his eyes, it was as if you were hearing Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles, for the first time. Its

been roughly twenty-three years since the mention of Crimson, since a part of us all vanished

without a trace.

Catching me in daydream again, Ellis puts his hand on my shoulder and startles me. You

and I both know who it is. I know that I am not going to be able to stop you from going to

Genco, but I am also not going to help you get there.

Confused, I begin to say Yeah, but I have a before Im cut off.

This may not be the same Crimson we knew. Hell, who knows if we ever really knew

him. Ellis turns to me, shakes my hand and walks off toward his fellow officers.

Walking back to my car, I am graced with Ellis throwing out orders, condescending his

mens capabilities with the utmost respect. I cant even begin to imagine what is going to

transpire in the next few hours. My friend had returned, finally. I anxiously reach inside my

pocket and yank out my keys. I turn the lock, open the door, and get a whiff of weak old pot

smell. I drop my keys accidently, and sift through the fast food floor of my car. Passing overloose change and old movie stubs, I find my keys on top of a Monty Python Spam-a-Lot theater

stub. I put the key in the ignition, turn it past the accessory notch, and start the engine. At least, I

try and start the engine. Every time I turn the key, all the engine does is rev. The car never fully

starts. I try one last time, and let go of my keys, as the ignition springs into the accessory notch.

Dazing out the windshield, my cars sense of humor brings me back to the present as I hear the


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Just then, we were jostled forward and forced to swerve. A black pickup with what

appeared to be a black case with several yellow stickers on the back. Sitting on top of the case,

however was your stereotypical thug dressed all in black with a black ski mask on. However, that

was not our problem. Our problem was that he was the targeting system for their mounted

Gatling gun. They began firing. Ellis began swerving and cursing. Two things he does incredibly

well. The hood began to look like Swiss cheese, the windshield was ready to give way. Our tires

were punctured. We spin out. We were lucky we did not flip over.

We thought that the pickup would surely get away, however it did not make it 500 feet

until what had almost looked like a flash of red lightning, aimed directly at pickup crumpled the

front end. The gun operator went flying from the back. His blood trail resembled that of snail

residue. The driver did not make out much better as he was spattered across the windshield.

I got out of the car, dizzy. Thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But there he was,

standing tall and looking oddly satisfied with himself. He looked odd, no hair of any sort, red

eyes, seven feet tall, with what appeared to be a white lab coat. He looked at me, with those red

eyes, glowing red all over, smiled, and said Yo.

Ellis brought him in for interrogations curious as to what he was. By the end of the

questioning, it turned out he knew as much about himself as we did. He could not even tell us

what his favorite food happened to be. Within the next few weeks, the local papers dubbed this

new hero Crimson. Ellis and I became more and more accustomed to him, as when he was not

saving someone, he would come bother one of us. In fact, Ellis told me that for three weeks

straight, Crimson would wake him up at five oclock in the morning until he let Crimson ride

shotgun with him and activate the sirens. When he would come visit me, he would often try and

play with my camera. I quickly deterred this action by introducing him to my collection of

Monty Python DVDs. He would come over every night and watch them consecutively for nine

years straight. It almost became an escape for him. Especially when there were some roughencounters, when innocents died. Of those times, when asked if he was okay, he would just recite

quotes from Monty Python, trying to get me to laugh, trying to distract me.

My bag had grown heavier and heavier with each step, however I finally reached the

white steps of Genco. This was the same sterile building where it all began, the same columns


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that reached up twenty stories to hold the giant GENCO sign in place. However, it seemed off, as

if there was a lack of life in the building. I slowly draw my Nikon D5X out of my camera bag

and arm it with a telephoto lens. Walking in, I hug the corners in the fashion that I had seen Ellis

do many times before. Instead of Gencos hospital feel, with bright fluorescent lights and staff in

white uniform, there was nothing. The lights were flickering and nobody was home. I stumble

deeper into the belly of the beast, trembling into the darkness.

I look around, but there is nothing but the flickering of the white emergency lights. The

elevators look intact, which is a good as I was dreading the thirty-story climb up the stairs. The

elevator dings, the doors wobble open, and I walk in. The Rolling Stones song that had played

only a few hours earlier echoed through my head This may be the last time. The doors slowly

open and I walk out quietly humming the song. I could hear yelling down the hall. Moving closer

to hear what is being said, I creep towards the end of the hall.

You have grown quite a bit, my boy, said an elderly voice.

Are you kidding me? You know, I can kill you, right? I already killed the other seven,

what makes you think I wont kill you right now?

I peer around the corner of the door to see who is speaking. It was a fairly big office, and

behind a polished, mahogany desk was an elderly man, navy blue suit, grey hair, thin. It was

Simon Naxon, current head of Genco. And sitting across from him, in a tan, blood ridden trench

coat, was it

Crimson my boy, Naxon stated with a grin on his face you have yet to get the answers you are

looking for. Of course you wont kill me. He cleared his voice, and looked out the door. You

know, it is impolite to ease drop, sonny. Why dont you come, have a seat. We were waiting for

you anyhow.

Startled, I walk in. Naxon waves me closer, suggests that I sit in the empty chair next to

Crimson, who does not even acknowledge I am there.

Naxon, what is going on here?! Who am I? Crimson yelled.


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You are who you became, and it has taken me twenty-three years to realize this. You

see, you were an experiment, a soldier, a weapon. We were engineering you, making a new kind

of weapon, a smart weapon. Naxon stood up from his chair, walked behind it, and pushed it in.

You see, he said, turning to the window, you were a remarkable creation, the first real

superman. Unstoppable in every conceivable way, and you would have been mine to control

I am not a weapon, I am a hero. I save lives.

You were a hero, boy, Naxon says in a stern voice. Heroes do not abandon their cities,

heroes do not sleigh seven innocent lives, the same seven who gave you life

Innocent? Innocent?! You eight have been ruthlessly hunting me, threatening my friends

wherever I disappear. None of you are innocent.

Well, maybe not all of us, but at least seven of us were innocent. You see, the four that

work, well worked here were transferred out of that department. The other three moved away

some years later as they were no longer comfortable making weapons for profit. Whereas I

orchestrated your arrival. You see, that inside leak, telling you who was hunting you, well it

appears that leak was far more important to the company than what he lead on

Naxon turned to the two of us, and then looked directly at me with those cold, grey eyes.

You see, twenty-three years ago, a bio-weapon was not stolen, it escaped. One of the good

doctors, Higgs, decided to animate you prematurely, before I was able to finish your

programming. After you escaped, I paid some hired help that I tend to keep around to distract the

cops while we were to track you down. It had never occurred to me that you were going to stop

them, or make friends. Your existence was known, there was no way to recover you.

I look at Crimson, then back at Naxon. Thats not possible, there is no way you could

have made an artificial person.

Do not doubt my intelligence sonny. Remember how I said I did not get to finish his

programming? Ever question why Crimson was able to kill without remorse? Its because that is

how I wanted him. That is how a bomb, gun, or any weapon would act.


27/28

Page27

Crimson, dont listen to him. Hes an idiot, an old feeble idiot. He probably has no idea

what he is even talking about.

Crimson turned to me and says Jon, do you know why I left? I left because I felt that

there was too much blood on my hands. I could see the look in the peoples eyes, where theyloved to be saved, but would never let me touch them. If the Frankenstein monster was real, then

I would be his brother.

My heart grew heavy. The hope I wanted, the light I was waiting for, the revival, and it

was gone. It had been taken away by the same person who created it. It was lifeless, an empty

shell of what its younger form was. I saw myself in Crimson all too much.

Yes, well now that thats settled, how about we get down to business. Time for

forgiveness and acceptance, right? So Crimson, when will you be coming back as my full time

weapon? Fulfill your destiny

It happened all too fast.

A red glow.

A desk broken in half.

Naxon grabbed by the neck.

Hurled out the window.

Punched into the hard cement.

Crimson had blood on his hands for the eight time this week. He turns to me and says I

feel no remorse.

Where will you be going?

He looked at me for a second. Grinned his toothy grin and put his hands behind his head.

The only words to come out of his mouth were those from Monty Pythons Life of Brian, and he

sang:

For life is quite absurd


28/28

And deaths the final word.

You must always face the curtain with a bow.

Forget about your sin.

Give your audience a grin.

Enjoy it. Its your last chance anyhow.

So

Always look on the bright side of death,

Just before you draw your terminal breath

After that, he turned and flew away. Never saw him again.

I walked to the window, looked down. I felt cold, nothing myself. At least it was street

art, anything is better than postmodern art . I snapped the picture. His remaining essence, the

colors and composure of his death, was captured in one-tenth of a second, carried through a dark

tunnel by light, only at the end of this tunnel, a series of mirrors, prisms, and sensors await it to

be digitally converted into nothing more than data only to be used inside the next days headline.

After all, it is the ferrymans job to escort those, the Grim Reaper sleighs.

Date post:	30-May-2018
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