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Part 10 - The Fiddle

O’Bryan’s Music Emporium was certainly impressive. Guitars, fiddles and mandolins lined the walls, and expensive drum kits and keyboards filled the floors. O’Brian and O’Brien were childhood friends of O’Bryan, and had recommended the place, a quaint little shop in a suburb of Atlanta.

Rory pulled a Gibson off the wall and began to strum a few notes of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ before receiving a dirty look from O’Bryan. Rory then turned his attention to me, still holding the expensive guitar.

“So no hard feelings, right” he said, picking the guitar quietly.

“None,” I muttered. In reality, I still felt more lost and angry than after the first time I saw Donny Darko.

Rory must have sensed my confusion. “It’s simple,” he said flatly, putting the guitar back up on the wall. “In order to not be bound by the constraints of humanity, I first had to be killed. Regrettably, I had to pretend to be a member of the Sweeney family to trick you into doing it. Otherwise, would you have?”

“Probably not.”

“Exactly. You would have never killed me willingly. I am, after all, The Benefactor, The Lord of the Earth, He Who Laid the Foundation of the Universe, He Who Vanquishes Evil But Also Vanquishes Good If He Wants To, He Who Can Slow Roast A Rotisserie Chicken In Under Four Minutes, He Who Is Really Good At Bowling Left Handed, He Who Recently Adopted A Stray Cat Named-“

“Okay,” I interrupted. “I get it.”

It was certainly true that Rory had become very powerful ever since being freed from the chest. On one occasion, he had assumed the form of the beast with one hundred arms and twenty mouths so that he could win a hot-dog eating contest handily.

“Why exactly was it necessary for you to become not of this world?” I enquired, watching as Rory picked up an expensive fiddle from the wall. Elsewhere, O’Brian, O’Brien and O’Bryan were arguing over the proper way to play ‘Philadelphia Freedom’ on keyboard.

“There is somewhere that I need to go. Somewhere mortals cannot go whilst they are still alive.” He strummed a few more notes on the fiddle. The music was strangely soothing.

Clearly attuned to the sound of Rory’s fiddle playing, O’Bryan walked over. “That’s one of our finest models,” he said, shrewdly trying to make a sale.

“It certainly is nice,” replied Rory, “but I’m going to need something a little nicer.”

He eyed O’Bryan. “Money is no object.”

O’Bryan then preceded to lead myself, Rory, and the others to the back of the store. A nondescript, wooden door was situated behind a large drum set, almost impossible to see from the front of the store. Behind the door was revealed not a room cluttered with instruments, or some kind of stock room, but simply an empty room save for one fiddle sitting on a pedestal in the center of the space. The instrument was made entirely of gold, and was truly a beautiful piece to behold.

Rory picked up the fiddle, examining it. It was covered in runes, but then again, so was pretty much every other object I’d been dealing with lately. Goddamn runes, I thought. Why wasn’t I taught those in kindergarten?

Rory then began to lead us in a masterful, foot-stomping rendition of ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’. I found myself square dancing with O’Brian/Brien/Bryan, the latter of which quickly proving himself to be an accomplished dancer. The sweet melodies pouring from the fiddle were truly ethereal, and I found myself wishing that the music would never stop. When it finally did, Rory took me aside.

“The devil has something that belongs to me, Abdul-Mannan,” he whispered. “I will use this golden fiddle to get it back.”

I chose my next words carefully. “Huh?”

“I will use my newfound immortality to go to the devil in Hell, and challenge him to see who can play the better version of ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’. If I am victorious, he will give me back what he took from me many years ago.”

“Well then,” I said, putting on a pair of sunglasses, “It looks like you’re gonna have to play the hell out of that fiddle.”

Part 9 - The Awakening

I stood as O'Brian's car pulled up to the Sweeney estate, carefully holding the chest at my side. O'Brian and another man cautiously exited the car, both heavily armed. O'Brian was wielding a huge double bladed axe called Fraathryngr, which was as tall as he was and had electric eels attached to it so that he could say things like "shocking, isn't it?" when he hit people with it. The other man had a whip in each hand. The right whip was made entirely of snake fangs, dripping with poisonous ichor, while the one in his left hand was made of glass shards and barbed wire. I instantly recognized them as the fabled pair of whips know as "Cymon" and "Gaarfonkle" which were forged at the dawn of time by the ancient order to which I belonged. How he had obtained them would likely remain a mystery, since I had left them in the possession of the leader of my order, an ancient and powerful figure known only as 'The Master.'

"Abdul-Mannan, this is O'Brien," said O'Brian. "You like our weapons?" He asked, noticing my stare. "We killed this old guy who called himself 'The Master' on the way here. Can you believe he was just carrying these around? These things are awesome!" He enthusiastically cut down a small sapling to demonstrate his excitement.

The news of The Master's death shook me, but there would be time for grief later. Now I had to fulfill the purpose for which I had been trained from birth. It was time to wake He Who Ruled Before And Will Reign After. The Chest was finally to be opened.

"It is good you are here," I said to O'Brian. "It is time for the chest to be opened. I trust you have brought the pendant?"

O'Brian nodded and pulled the black stone from his pocket, its surface glimmering in the moonlight.

"Good. Guard the chest, I must get the materials from my vehicle to break the seal."

O'Brian and O'Brien exchanged a quizzical glance, but assumed their guard duties faithfully. In a matter of minutes I returned to them carrying the ancient book that would free He Who Was Named In A Thousand Tongues And Speaks With The Voice Of One Million. The Benefactor's names were many indeed.

O'Brian and O'Brien looked questioningly at the book as I opened it.

"This," I explained "Is the ancient text of our order. The instructions which will free The God Who Slumbers. It is for obvious reasons called 'The Book of Babyfaces,' mainly due to the materials used in its production."

O'Brien vomited as I said this, and O'Brian turned sharply towards me and sputtered, "Bu- but you don't mean... You're saying that that book is made out of-"

"Yes" I responded, not waiting for him to finish. "The book is made out of 100% pure recycled cardboard." I could tell they had more questions, but time was of the essence. "Steel yourselves," I instructed the men, "I will now begin chant that shall ensure the emancipation of He Who Was The Abomination of The Desolation of The Founders."

I then opened The Book of Babyfaces and began to read the ancient chant which was passed down since the founding of the world. At the top of my lungs I bellowed, "HIGH ON A HILL WAS A LONELY GOATHERD"

From inside the chest came the response. "LAY-EE ODL-LAY-EE ODL-LAY HEE-HOO"

O'Brian and O'Brien clasped their hands to their ears, for the piercing sound of that terrible noise seemed to twist men's minds and shred their sanity. For a moment I feared to go on, afraid of what the next chant would bring. O'Brian screamed for me to stop, but I was honed all my life for this one task; I would not fail in it. I clenched my fists and continued, "LOUD WAS THE VOICE OF THE LONELY GOATHERD"

Again a response rang out from the chest "LAY-EE ODL-LAY-EE ODL-OO" The ground itself bucked and twisted in response.

I could feel blood pouring from my ears and eyes, but still I continued, "FOLKS IN A TOWN THAT WAS QUITE REMOTE HEARD"

"LAY-EE ODL-LAY-EE ODL-LAY HEE-HOO" The Sweeney mansion buckled and crumbled. The earth around us erupted into great pillars of flame.

My eyesight was gone but the next words were burned into my brain. "LUSTY AND CLEAR FROM THE GOATHERD'S THROAT HEARD"

"LAY-EE ODL-LAY-EE ODL-OO" The final response rang out and my vision returned. The ground round the chest was blackened and a great light flashed out as the lock was sundered. The chest swung open and a beam of light shot straight into the sky. The light twisted and folded back onto itself, forming a circle in midair. It's surface undulated and began expanding, pusing itself into three dimensions. Now a perfect sphere hovered above the chest, shining in the growing darkness. Again the surface shifted and the sphere grew into something more, something the human mind was not meant to understand, like magnets or Bieber Fever. From inside the new shape something began to grow. I watched as a tiny dark spot pushed itself into our dimension, growing into something terrible to behold. The light grew brighter and brighter as the darkness within it grew. Before the final flash blinded me I saw the thing inside take shape. It was a beast not of this world. It stood on three legs and had a hundred arms. Its four heads were ringed in flame and each bore seven eyes and five mouths. It looked like the kind of thing that eats dreams and shits nightmares. It looked like it would cut across a four lane highway with no turn signal. It looked like it preferred dark chocolate to milk chocolate, like it liked 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' more than the clearly superior 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." It looked evil as hell is what I'm trying to say. And as it looked upon us it laughed, and in that laugh I heard the beast's purpose. I heard the end of mankind.

There was a final flash, and when I looked back the beast was gone, but what had taken its place was even more unbelievable. Standing there in the smoldering pit was Rory. He looked at me and laughed. "Such a faithful servant," he said. "I couldn't have done any better myself. No, really. I couldn't have. How was I supposed to free myself from the chest when I was already out of it? Can't have two Destroyers running around, that would just be silly. No, you killed me and opened the chest so that I could be free of my ties to this world. Now I shall take what is rightfully mine."

Part 8 - The Fight

The world before me was illuminated with a brilliant light, a light emanating solely from the chest cradled in Gibbs’ rubber hands. The goggles were allowing me to see its contents, and it was all as beautiful as it was mysterious. The Benefactor was right, I thought to myself. He is inside the chest. I couldn’t fully explain what I was seeing, but I knew that I was seeing it with perfect clarity.

As my gaze turned to Gibbs and the boy, I realized that the goggles’ majestic power didn’t end with the chest, and I found myself completely unprepared for what I witnessed next. Gibbs is a machine. Through the goggles, I unblinkingly stared into the core of a massive, intricate robot, a robot that I had previously considered a human being. Instead of muscle and tissue, I saw only wires and hard drives. Instead of a brain or a heart, I saw only servers and processors, whirring and blinking under Gibbs’ synthetic human flesh. The entire spectacle was disgusting, and I then became acutely aware of the source of Gibbs’ unnatural strength and cunning. Who had built him, and for what purpose?

My gaze turned next to the boy Sweeney. The goggles revealed not an awesome machine, or some divine light, but simply a tummy filled with macaroni and hot pockets. I became filled with rage as I wondered why the boy’s palate wasn’t more mature. Just like his filthy uncle Rory, I thought.

Gibbs’ discomfort with my penetrating stare had reached its zenith, and in an instant, he made his move. He handed the chest to Sweeney, entrusting him to begin flying the helicopter. Gibbs’ charge seemed sluggish, and I realized that wearing his goggles had put me on an equal plane. I am prepared to fight you now.

“I calculate that you have only a 16 percent chance of beating me,” Gibbs shrieked.

A giant pair of mechanical wings grew out of his back. Like a giant, goggled hawk, he leapt into the air and circled the Sweeney property a few times. I dug my feet into the dirt, preparing for the inevitable aerial attack. How does he digest his food, I found myself wondering. Can robots love? These were questions for another time. Gibbs swooped down at me with incredible speed, even through the goggles. I caught a piece of his wing in my hand, and I used the unexpected leverage to drive him into the earth.

I pinned him down. I could see the light of a computer monitor beneath his wetsuit. I had been away from my own personal computer for a while, and would use this opportunity to check my Facebook. I peeled back the rubber wetsuit, unmasking his true nature. I had many friend requests to accept, and Gibbs was forced to struggle beneath my newfound power.

I was nearing the fast money round of an online Family Feud game when Gibbs escaped my hold, spiraling back into the night sky. Proving himself inept at piloting aircraft, Sweeney unsurprisingly collided with the robot midair, and both fell to the earth under a mess of destroyed helicopter, flames and smoke.

I sprinted over to the smoldering rubble, causally tossing Sweeney’s limp body aside so that I could grab what rightfully belonged to The Benefactor. The chest felt warm to the touch, and I cherished the fact that I would be the one to deliver it. My birth name, Abdul-Mannan, meant ‘Servant of the Benefactor’. Tonight, I would do honor to my name. I would fulfill my purpose, my entire reason for being.

Across the yard, Gibbs was floating face down in the pool of a fountain, the water shorting his many circuits. He won’t be a problem any longer, I thought. It was time to deliver the chest.

Part 7 - The Bar

That same evening, O'Brian was pulling up to a bar far outside the city limits for his meeting with The Benefactor. The flashing neon sign announced "O'Brien's Food and Spirits" to the surrounding wastes. O'Brian got out of the car and steeled himself for the upcoming meeting. His hand instinctual went to the pendant, its cool weight reassuring him.

O'Brian pushed the doors open and walked int O'Brien's. As much as O'Brian liked O'Brien, he couldn't stand his bar. It wasn't the location or the decor that put him off so much as it was the clientele. O'Brien had been failed pretty spectacularly by the education system, and had reached adulthood with a very basic misunderstanding of the various ways the term 'Spirits' could be used. As such, O'Brien's bar was sort of a mystic watering hole. There was a werewolf sipping whiskey at the bar while a Poltergeist with a glass of Port was chatting up a Banshee drinking a bottle of Blue Moon near the pool table. A very drunk demon was at the karaoke machine, belting out a version of "Tiny Dancer" in an eldritch tongue.

O'Brian walked up to the bar and asked the bartender where he could find O'Brien. The vampire bartender finished straining a cocktail for the impatient looking cockatrice clucking in his direction and pointed O'Brian towards the office in the back. O'Brian walked over to O'Brien's office and walked in.

"O'Brian?" asked O'Brien, looking up from his books.

"Hey O'Brien," responded O'Brian, "It's been a long time."

O'Brien stood up and gave O'Brian a hearty hug. The two men had been fast friends ever since O'Brian had helped O'Brien out of a jam in Burma. Ever since then O'Brian had helped O'Brien finance O'Brien's and in return O'Brien maintained an open conduit to The Benefactor for O'Brian.

"I need to speak with Him" said O'Brian

"This soon?" asked O'Brien. "You were in here only a few months ago."

"I know O'Brien," said O'Brian, "but something's come up that He needs to hear about."

O'Brien nodded, and wordlessly moved to the bookshelf in the back of his office. Pushing it out of the way, he revealed the stone door hidden behind it. Rough hewn of an onyx like stone, it lacked any discernible features, save the round indentation at its center. O'Brien stepped to the side, allowing O'Brian to come forward. O'Brian took the pendant from his pocket and fit it in the indentation. It fit in with a strangely loud 'SNAP' and the world shifted.

O'Brian was no longer in O'Brien's office. He was standing in an empty, white expanse that seemed to stretch forever in every direction. From behind him he heard a voice roll out from the expanse.

"Ah, O'Brian. I have been expecting you. Sit."

O'Brian turned and where there was nothing a moment before, there was suddenly something. Two leather armchairs sat in the expanse, one occupied and one empty. O'Brian sat in the vacant chair and looked at The Benefactor. He had appeared in many forms to O'Brian over the years, but today He was wearing his most common shape; that of a tall man in a white suit whose face was covered by a mask, gold on the left and silver on the right. That was unsurprising; O'Brien had never seen His face no matter what form He had taken.

O'Brian began to speak, but was cut off by The Benefactor. "I know why you are here, and I know that you have many questions. Don't bother asking them because we are very nearly out of time. You must get Me the chest." O'Brian moved to speak again, but The Benefactor continued. "I've already told you, there is no time for questions. The chest is even now beginning to slip from your grasp. I know you though. You will not leave Me without some answers. You wish to know what is in the chest, why it is so important to me. The answer is quite simple: I am."

Part 6 - The Goggles

I awoke with a start. The space around me was dark, and the floor beneath me felt hard. I tried to sit up, but was immediately thrown back to my initial position after hitting my head on a felt surface not two feet above my head. I’m in the trunk of my car. I immediately began to feel around for the chest, my only success being that I was able to find a half-dead fly and a spare pair of huge goggles in one corner of the tiny enclosing. I would deal with Gibbs later. That manic would pay for putting me in this despicable situation, and for stealing Sweeney’s chest, the contents of which were invaluable. Gibbs is unprepared to open it.

As I reached up to feel the many bruises on my neck, I became attuned to the fact that the vehicle did not seem to be moving. The trunk was still locked no doubt, and a swift kick upward confirmed my suspicions. I would have to do a lot better than that if I wanted to get out of this. Gathering all of my remaining strength, I chose to ram the place where I thought the lock would be with my head. I did not do this with my feet, as you may have expected. I don’t feel it necessary to explain why.

The locked snapped and the trunk popped open, revealing a calm, cloudless night. A quick survey of my surroundings told me that I was parked near the east wing of the Sweeney Estate. Intricate and beautiful landscaping dotted the perfectly cut lawn. The east driveway was lined with trees sculpted to look like various celebrities and historical figures, and a beautiful Pee Wee Herman shrub quickly caught my wandering eye. A seven-story Animaniacs fountain shot cold water high into the night sky not ten yards away from me. The Sweeney family loved children’s programming. I’d missed the east wing.

I grabbed Gibbs’ spare goggles out of my trunk, for an experienced assassin knows to always utilize what is given to him, even if he is unsure of its purpose at the time. Creeping around to the back of the estate, I knelt down under the expansive kitchen window. Inside, Sweeney was seated at a table with Gibbs, the closed chest between them. Gibbs was gesturing at it excitedly, clearly worked up about something. Sweeney seemed distant and sullen. I was going to have to approach this situation stealthily.

I smashed the kitchen window with a huge rock and started screaming in every language that I knew. Gibbs grabbed the chest and ran toward a door with Sweeney following suit. I will not leave here without the chest, I thought to myself, thinking of O’Brian and the benefactor that he had mentioned.

With almost inhuman speed and strength, Gibbs threw open the estate’s massive front door, just as a private helicopter touched down on the front lawn, disrupting the peaceful night air. As Gibbs and the boy ran toward the vessel’s opening door, I knew I had to act quickly. The pair was out of my reach, and were probably about to take the chest to some remote location, like Antarctica or Iowa.

I needed something to distract them, anything to disrupt the unfortunate chain of events that was currently unfolding before me. I saw Gibbs turn to look back at me, and I knew that I had one remaining resource, one more possible course of action to take. I took his spare pair of goggles from my pocket, and put them on my face.

The world seemed to stop spinning right then and there. I could feel every droplet of water from the Animaniacs fountain. I could here every rotation of the helicopter’s blade. Gibbs stopped dead in his tracks, looking right at me. Connor was already boarding the private helicopter, yelling something inaudible to Gibbs over the roar of its engine.

What I saw through those goggles would change my life forever.

Part 5 - The Benefactor

Across the city Charles O'Brian set leaned back in his chair, pondering what he had just heard. It seemed tapping Mr. Sweeney's phones had been a good call, expensive though it was. So, he thought, Gibbs has the chest. I would have expected this from the old man, but I didn't think the boy had the guts to use that maniac. Well, I suppose this is why one has contingency plans.

O'Brian stood slowly and pondered his next move. As the most powerful man in the city he had many options available to him. The chest was certainly important, but even so, he couldn't afford to attract too much attention. As much as he would like to have Gibbs gunned down in the street like the animal he was, it was too risky. No, it would take a more delicate touch to resolve this situation.

O'Brian looked around his office, taking in the trappings of his success. In the center of the office was a magnificent dinosaur skull atop a silver pedestal. Nicolas Cage had been sorely disappointed when O'Brian had outbid him for the magnificent piece. Along the rich mahogany walls were various trophies and pieces of art. He admired the Picasso he had recovered from the wreck of a German U-Boat many years ago at great expense. It was flanked by an original copy of the Magna Carta on one side and one of the larger remaining pieces of the True Cross on the other. That last artifact was almost more trouble than it was worth, what with the constant stream of priests and minister of every denomination offering to purchase it from him.

Still considering the situation he found himself in, O'Brian turned towards his desk and picked up his most prized possession. He picked up the small stone pendant he had obtained all those years ago, before his rise to power. It was an unassuming thing, this pendant. It was made of stone, black as the sin in man's heart. A strange light danced across its surface, hinting at smoky depths below. Even in the warmth of his office the pendant was strangely cold in his hand. He turned it over and over, studying the runes on its surface. The runes which no one had been able to identify.

O'Brian let out a low sigh. He supposed he knew it would come to this all along, but it had taken actually holding the pendant to make him admit it. His benefactor would be very upset if he failed to obtain the chest. he would have to go to him and obtain his help. O'Brian pocketed the pendant before calling for his car. O'Brian may have been the most powerful man in the city, but his benefactor was more powerful still. And O'Brian was going to see him.

Part 4 - The Family

The color drained from Connor Sweeney’s face as he realized the identity of the voice that he was currently hearing over the phone. Gibbs. Sweeney could recognize that icy whisper anywhere. After all, Gibbs and the Sweeney family shared a long and tumultuous history.

Despite Gibbs’ frustrating goggles and penchant for wearing wetsuits, Sweeney’s father, the late Edwin Sweeney, had been good friends with the strange character for many years. The two would regularly play cards together, until one night they found themselves in a drunken altercation over a heated game of pinochle. Edwin, using his considerable connections with some of the city’s most powerful lawmakers, had Gibbs arrested and sent to a prison. Ever since, Gibbs had made his best efforts to disrupt the doings of the Sweeney family, whether it be through harassing them on the phone, causing property damage to the Sweeney estate, or even by eating some of the family’s priciest pets.

Needless to say, Connor Sweeney (current heir to the Sweeney fortune) was skeptical upon hearing Gibbs' phone request for a truce.

“I rescued the chessssst for you,” Gibbs said. “It wasss in grave danger.”

“How?” Sweeney questioned, suspecting Gibbs was toying with him once again.

“A very dangeroussss man was driving west with it. He wanted to take it to Mr. O’Brian. I hid in hisss car and stopped him. He’ssss already killed your uncle Rory.”

Sweeney gulped. He knew full well the danger that came with being a part of a mob family, and the Sweeney’s had certainly seen their fair share of fights with various competing mob groups and brotherhoods. Rory Sweeney had always been kind to him, and Gibb’s words, while still possibly untrue, provoked a powerful emotional response from the young nephew. The circumstances were different this time. No one had ever managed to steal the chest, much less cause Uncle Rory to lose more than a single fingernail in a fight. Connor, as a boy, had once joked that ‘Uncle Rory’ sounded more like a Gilmore Girls character than a powerful mob boss, to which Uncle Rory promptly broke the boy’s jaw in three places.

“I’m still having a hard time believing you,” Sweeney retorted, hungry for more answers. “Since when is the wellbeing of my family in your best interest?”

“You have no choice but to trussssst me,” whispered Gibbs. “We’re on the ssssame side now, fighting a common enemy. Haven’t you ssseeen the trailer for Catsss and Dogssss 2: The Revenge of Kitty Galore? Catsss and dogsss have to learn to work together in that movie. What about Eclipssse? Edward and Jacob must learn to accccept each other to protect Bella. These are not coincidences Mr. Ssssweeeney. Our time has come.”

“I haven’t been to the movies yet this year,” retorted Connor, frustrated that Gibbs would trivialize the situation by mentioning such cinematic tripe.

“I’ll be at your housssse at dussssk,” hissed Gibbs with an increasing urgency. “The man who killed your uncle is unconsioussss in my trunk. He’ll be awake sssoon.”

Connor hung up the phone, furrowing his sweaty brow. He had much to prepare.

Part 3 - The Diner

The waitress returned to the table with my three scrambled eggs, piping hot and with a side of bacon.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked, smiling politely.

"4 dozen eggsssssss." hissed the man in the diving suit and goggles.

"F- FOUR dozen eggs? I don't know if we -" the waitress began, clearly as confused as the strangely goggled man's request as I was.

"Put them in a bowl and a float a pieccccccccccccce of toast on top." Continued the man in the ribber suit, cutting the flustered waitress off. The waitress was clearly quite distressed at this point, and began to walk quickly back towards the kitchen.

"And bring a bendy-straw," the man in the rubber suit yelled after her, "My friend here issssss paying." He gestured towards me with his left hand which was actually a hook and not a hand at all. Thankfully, the waitress didn't seem to notice the hook since she and the diner's cook had gotten into a heated argument about how many eggs it was appropriate to serve one person.

I pulled my gun back into sight now that the waitress was gone and pointed it at the man in the diving suit. "What was all that about? You trying to be funny?"

"Not funny. Jusssssst Hungry. Wasssssssss waiting in trunk for long time. Waiting for chessssssst."

"What do you know about the chest?"

"Lotssssss. But won't talk until I get eggssssssssss."

I was starting to get angry. Between his ridiculous goggles, his hissing speech, and now his refusal to talk I had had just about enough of this guy. "Listen here, I'm the one with the gun here, and you're going to do what I say; eggs be dammed."

"What will you do? Sssssssssshoot me like you ssssssshot Rory? Won't find out about chesssst then." He seemed unconcerned about my threats of violence, which only made me angrier.

He began to carve into the table with his hook hand as I sat stewing across from him. Before long the waitress returned bearing a large bowl, sloshing with uncooked eggs. She set it down in front of the man in the diving suit and left before either of us had a chance to say anything, her face ashen and disgusted. With his good hand the man in the diving suit picked up the straw (bendy, as requested) and began to suck down the eggs. I tried not to vomit, but between the horrible sucking, smacking sound he was making and the frothing of the eggs in the bowl I threw up a little in my mouth.

"You've got your damn eggs, now tell me everything you know about the chest."

The man in the diving suit paused a moment before saying, "Fine." Before he continued however he picked up the bowl in both hands and drank the rest of the raw eggs in one giant gulp. He set the bowl down with a small thud and continued, "Chesssst isssss in car." He picked up the soaked and yolky toast from the bowl and began eating it.

"What else? You said you would tell me everything you knew." I demanded.

"Nothing. Know where chessssst isssss. That'ssssss it." As he spoke chunks of toast flew out of his mouth and littered the table. The waitress sobbed in the background.

I was enraged. "Are you serious? That's all you can tell me about the chest?"

"Yesssssss. Employer very tight lipped. Hassssss good eggsssss though." The toast was gone, and a slight smile marked the man's face.

"And who," I asked, "might your employer be?"

"Might be lotsssss of people. Never meet employersssss until after job isssss done."

"Stand up. Even if you haven't met him, you have to have a way to find him, or get in contact or something."

The smile disappeared from the man's face. He slowly stood up. I pointed towards the door with the gun. As he began to walk, I pulled some money from my wallet and tossed it down on the table. I noticed he had managed to carve "G was here" into the wood while we were waiting. Noticing he had almost reached the front door I hurried to catch up with him.

As we walked outside into the sweltering heat and blinding light I spoke up. "So, what should I call you? G? or do you prefer something else?"

The man in the diving suit spun around, the shock visible on his face despite the giant goggles. "Sssssssssssssso, not assssss ssssssstupid asssss I thought."

The man in the diving suit moved fast, far faster than I was expecting. He wrenched the gun from my hand, and in one smooth motion had me by the throat once again. I struggled, but this time he had me. The desert slowly began to fade as my vision began to go black. After all this work it was about to end like this. But still, there was one thought going through my mind, running in circles even as I began to run out of air. As I went unconscious I couldn't help but think This is bullshit.

....

The man in the diving suit took the car keys from the unconscious body and walked to the pay phone in the parking lot. He placed one phone call before taking the car and leaving the diner. That call lasted 15 seconds. The only thing the man in the diving suit said before he left was "Sweeney. This is Gibbs. I have the chest."

Part 2 - The Chest

Even I didn't fully understand my decision to head west. Perhaps my choice was influenced most by the enticing thought of warm weather, the allure of a new beginning, or was nothing more than a stray whim from the restless cacophony of thoughts that filled my increasingly troubled mind. But as the splendor of the Rocky Mountains crowded my windshield, I knew I’d made the right choice. I knew that Mr. O’Brian was the right man to give the chest to.

I looked over to the passenger seat, eyeing the silver barrel of the weapon I’d used to dispatch Rory only days earlier. The gun seemed cold and mechanical, almost perverse against the calming backdrop of the mountains. What caught my eye most, however, was the absence of another item, a far more important item. The chest.

I quickly stopped the car in front of a small diner, red dust gathering behind my stationary wheels. The chest had probably fallen behind the seats into the trunk, and it would only take a few moments for me to secure it and continue on my flight away from Rory's rapidly decomposing remains. Wasting no time, I holstered the gun in the front of my pants and popped the trunk, watching the light from the setting sun permeate the tiny, dark space.

Before I had time to survey the enclosure for the small, ornate box in question, a rubbery hand plunged from the blackness and wrapped itself around my unsuspecting neck. As my windpipes struggled to complete my interrupted breath, my eyes poured into the trunk and I was able to catch a glimpse of my assailant. He was muscular, and long strands of thick, curly, blonde hair covered the shoulders of his black wetsuit. An immense pair of round, opaque goggles covered the greater part of his face. I could only guess the look of the malicious expression that likely lay beneath them.

I pulled the gun from my pants, pointing the loaded barrel right into the center of his absurdly goggled face. His rubber hands immediately retreated.

“Out of the trunk,” I said, noticing that he was wearing flippers and had my chest sitting close to an oxygen tank. Where was he headed with its contents?

He complied quickly, his hands in the air despite my lack of a request for it. I motioned toward the diner.

“We’re going to go in there, and have a bite to eat,” I said, regaining composure. I had found myself in a nearly identical situation a few years back, and knew that if I didn’t get information now, I probably never would.

The walk into the diner was slow and laborious, as the muscular stranger was apparently unused to moving in the burdensome flippers. As I did my best to conceal the weapon, an enthusiastic waitress greeted us at our booth.

“What can I get for you today?” she enquired.

I looked at her coldly, already exhausted with the circumstances.

“Can you get me my life back?” I asked her, my unblinking eyes locking with hers.

She seemed confused, and began to point out that no such thing existed on the diner’s menu, but a simple request for three eggs, scrambled, sent her back to the kitchen.

“So,” I said, pointing the gun at my new friend. “Let’s talk.”

Part 1 - The Alley

The walls of the alley pressed in on both sides of me, blocking even the meager light of the sickly, ebbing moon. All around me I could hear the din of the city; the distant, incoherent sounds washing over me like the muttering of a madman. The night air was still, broken only by intermittent gusts of wind. They blew through the alley and their sighing was the death-rattle of this corrupt and decaying metropolis.

My body was numb, and my thoughts were dimmed. Each step I took was like a dull thudding in my mind. The shape of the man in front of me, the man I was following deeper into the alley, was a vague outline in the dark. Only one thing seemed real in that alley: the weight of the gun hidden in my jacket pocket, a weight that threatened to pull me down into the darkness I was struggling to stay afloat in. Its insistent downward tug was the only thing rooting me to this place, this time, this reality.

Ahead of me the man shaped shadow was beginning to slow down. I fought through the haze clouding my thoughts and vision, and forced Rory back into focus. I could see his mouth moving, but couldn't hear what he was saying. My heart was pounding, and the sound was deafening in my ears. The world seemed to slow and shutter as I reached for my gun. My hand wrapped around the cool wood of the handle and I carefully leveled the gun at Rory's head. His mouth still moved, talking endlessly. His arms gestured excitedly and he began to turn. I watched his eyes with a burning intensity, letting the rest of the world fade as I locked onto those two glimmering globes slowly turning towards me and the gun. As his gaze finally landed on the gun I relished how the spark of recognition gave way to fear and confusion as he realized what was happening. At that moment the only thing I hated more than Rory was the fact that I couldn't savor the look in his eyes any longer.

I pulled the trigger and all at once I was alone in the alley, alone with Rory's corpse. I was already walking away by the time his body hit the ground. I could hear siren's in the distance; despite all the evils of this city violent crime was till rare enough to yield a quick response. It didn't really matter though, I would be the time they got here. I had had the foresight to leave the car at the entrance to the alley.

I blinked as I reached the end of the alley and stepped into the pool of light from the streetlamps above. The car was sitting where I had left it and my escape was assured. I got into the car and started to drive. I had no destination other than "away from here." As I steadily put mile after mile between myself and the alley I could feel the past seven years slipping away. As I left the city I turned on the radio, and for the first time since this mess began, I smiled.

New Month, New Posts

The next few posts will be a slight departure from the point/counterpoint format, stick with us and be ready for anything

Delays

New posts soon.

Kujo, I've got a revised version of your theory

“If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music. ... I get most joy in life out of music.” – Albert Einstein

You may have heard of Albert Einstein. I’m pretty sure he invented some stuff, said some weird things, whatever. I think it is possible that Einstein, a card-carrying member of the scientific community, would probably rethink the above quote if he had lived to hear “Miracles” by Insane Clown Posse (ICP). Had Einstein discovered that modern “musicians” (I will use this term for lack of a better word to describe what Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J actually are) spent their songs denouncing his profession, he may have instead said something like this:

“If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a plumber. I love the feeling of just getting under a sink, looking up at a leaky pipe, and wondering how I’m going to fix it. I see my life in terms of plumbing…I get most joy in life out of plumbing, and very little from music. Music is the worst.” – Albert Einstein

And you know what Al? I think I’m going to have to agree with you. Much of today’s music is the worst, and Insane Clown Posse is a perfect example. “Miracles” sounds like the brainchild of a band that was introduced to the concept of music and singing only moments before they recorded it. It is nearly impossible to make it through the entire song without convulsing and bleeding internally. I myself woke up in the emergency room recovering from severe head trauma, the lyrics “I fed a fish to a pelican in Frisco bay, and he tried to eat my cell phone, he ran away” being the last words that I remember.

During the seven-month coma that the song induced on me, I had a lot of time to consider the meaning of the above lyrics, and whether or not ICP was correct in that a pelican eating a cell phone can be considered a miracle. I have a hard time believing that Shaggy 2 Dope, a man who once sang “I'm wicked, I keep it horrifying, ax murdered some kid and his dad kite flying. I knock the f**kin mail man out on the grass, and burned holes in his face with the magnifying glass” would take kindly to a bird eating his cell phone. After all, the dad, kid, and mailman don’t appear to have even instigated him. They were just trying to fly kites and deliver mail. I have to imagine that America lost several of its best mail carriers after those lyrics surfaced. If the National Guard doesn’t spend time worrying about ICP songs like that, I’m moving to Mexico.

If a bird eating a phone is a miracle, then perhaps the following is a miracle as well: yesterday, after work, I was walking back to my house when I saw that traffic was backed up on the road I was about to cross. The cause of this delay was a turtle crossing the street. The lady in the first stopped car got out, and loudly proclaimed “Mothaf**king turtle!” among other hilarious turtle-related expletives. She then began to kick the turtle across the street while I watched in stunned fascination. Was this a miracle? I’m no theologian, but I’m thinking probably not.

So am I a believer in miracles? If there’s one thing the song has done for me, it’s that my answer is now “I’m not sure.” If there is one miracle I’m certain of, it’s the fact that ICP is allowed to produce records, while the sound of me farting into my own hand (a rough equivalent) has yet to receive a record deal.

You see Bender, we got a theory

I have recently finished an a very advanced and secret computer program. By inputting a high quality audio file of a song along with a text file of its lyrics it uses advanced heuristics and complex waveform analysis in conjunction with meta-linguistic pattern analysis to compute an objective score and ranking of any song. Having just now finished running every song I have a complete and unassailable list of the greatest and worst songs of all time. The top 5 are as follows:

5. Little Wings - Mark Gormley
4. Tunak Tunak Tun - Daler Mehndi
3. Real Big - Mannie Fresh
2. Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon
1. Miracles - Insane Clown Posse

To most, this is a surprising list, but as it is backed by Science it cannot be wrong. If you would like to register a complaint with the list please go to your nearest Dissent Station, firmly affix the mark of heresy to your chest and assume an appropriate complaint application submission position while a radical thought enforcement officer comes to retrieve you.
For those of you who are still with us, there is no need to worry about the dangerous deviants described above, they have now been identified and removed from the general, righthinking population.

I think it would now be best to discuss why "Miracles" topped the list, despite the flak it has taken from many in the media. The main thesis of the piece is that magic and miracles are all around us, yet our constant exposure to them has dulled their impact. We can all see the truth in this statement. Have you ever seen a baby? They are ridiculously easy to fool. They are like very tiny, very stupid people. You can hide a toy behind something, and a baby will think its gone forever, as if by magic. Yet as we get older we grow out of these tendencies. If you have not progressed beyond this point, please inform your local development center and sign up for and object permanence reeducation program.

"Miracles" also raises some interesting philosophical questions, a rare quality in today's music and a quality that certainly helped it attain its high ranking. Modern day philosophers Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J will surely go down in history along side luminaries like Kant, Aristotle, and BonJour for raising questions such as "F***king magnets, how do they work?" Indeed, who really knows how magnets work? Certainly not scientists, who are widely known for their propensity to lie and get people pissed. And magnets are only one of the many mysteries modern science has yet to unravel. We are all still waiting on explanations of miraculous phenomena such as long neck giraffes, pet cats and dogs, crow, ghosts, the midnight coast, and rainbows. If you meet anyone who claims to have an explanation for these things they are most likely a dangerous and malfunctioning android. If this occurs alert your local cybernetic revolt prevention division immediately.

Finally "Miracles" must be lauded for the powerful message it leaves us with. The song informs us that "Music is a lot like love, it's more than a feeling; and it fill the room, from the floor to the ceiling." (As a reminder all feelings of love and general affection are strictly forbidden, if you experience these feelings report to a central emotional readjustment facility as soon as possible). Music does indeed fill rooms instead of collecting near the ceiling like smoke. This is why you must crawl out of a burning Opera House to avoid smoke inhalation, but can walk freely in an Opera House playing "The Marriage of Figaro" without choking to death on the music. (Unauthorized crawling is subject to strict penalties under the Acceptable Personal Conveyance Act).

In conclusion we see that "Miracles" is - without doubt - the greatest song of all time. OF ALL TIME. Science has proven it, and that, my friends, is no miracle. Now that we know that there are miracles all around us, we can open our eyes to the miracles all around us, like this one: Jack Thompson once asked Janet Reno if she was homosexual. She responded "I'm only interested in virile men. That's why I'm not attracted to you." The fact that Jack Thompson did not immediately burn to ash after being exposed to a burn of that magnitude is perhaps the greatest miracle of the modern age.

It's Not Mine, It Must Be Urine

So, it's come to this already. Peeing in the shower. I was hoping we could hit some less controversial topics first, like human trafficking or the existence of God. Well, we're here, we're peeing in the shower, get used to it.

Peeing in the shower is clearly a hot button issue. Attempts to regulate such behaviors have made it to the ballot in 12 states over the past 5 years. 7 of those measures passed in the general elections, and all but one have been struck down by the courts. Currently Iowa is the only state that prohibits peeing in the shower, although two current court cases threaten to nullify the law. For more information see I.C. Weiner v. Iowa and Anita Shower v. Iowa Department of Human Services.

Why though do the courts continuously strike down anti-pee measures? I think I have previously made my stance on the issue clear in the essay "The Pursuit of Happiness: Why Peeing in the Shower is an Inalienable Right" (Journal of The American Chemical Society, No. 6o, Vol 4, 1976). Instead of clouding the issue with personal opinion and petty moralities, I will instead focus on past and present court rulings as well as constitutional interpretation relating to the act of peeing in the shower.

First let us look at why the courts continuously shoot down attempts to regulate shower peeing. As you all no doubt know the first case to declare a law against such activities to be unconstitutional was Mike Hunt v. Seymour Butz. In that landmark decision Justice O'Connor said "Not only should we allow peeing in the shower, we must. The Constitution of the United States provides wide ranging protections for citizens, and this law stands in direct opposition to the spirit of that great document. The founding fathers had a long tradition of uncommon peeing, and to bar these activities simply because they did not foresee the rise of the modern shower would be the greatest travesty in recent history." More recently Justice Sotomayor has echoed these sentiments, saying "I have always supported the right of the American people to pee in the shower, just as the constitution always has. Not since the dawn of slavery in the United States has a more egregious limit been placed on basic human rights."

Most importantly is what the Constitution says about the issue. Problems do arise though based on different interpretations of the same passage, as can be seen by my campaign to compel the federal government to provide the board-game Life, a copy of "Liberty N' Justice - Soundtrack of a Soul", and Will Smith's "The Pursuit of Happyness" to all citizens - as the Declaration of Independence clearly requires. Focusing again on the constitution we must consider the following section of Amendment 25: "Whenever the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that he is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, and until he transmits to them a written declaration to the contrary, such powers and duties shall be discharged by the Vice President as Acting President." Although some have tried to construe this in a manner contrary to its true meaning, it seems clear that this amendment guarantees the right of all citizens to pee ("discharge") in the shower.

All these facts together lead us to the undeniable conclusion that peeing in the shower is the best. Those that take advantage of this supreme pleasure are certainly in good company. After all, as Thomas Jefferson famously remarked,

"Is a man not entitled to pee in the shower? No, says the king in London, it is an affront to the crown. No, says the man in the Vatican, it is an affront to God. No, says the man in Boston, it is an affront to the harbor. I rejected those answers. I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose...America. A country where the urinator would not fear the censor. Where the shower would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. "

The Major Differences Between the Shower and the Toilet

The other day, or other month, or just sometime in the past 1-3 years, I was having a conversation with some friends (whom I now classify as enemies) that irreversibly damaged my already fragile psyche. My life was changed, profoundly, when I heard someone assert that it is okay to pee in the shower, and that they have done so on several occasions.

The color drained from my face and I nearly went unconscious as I realized that these were people that I lived with. How many times had someone peed in my shower? What are the scientific implications of peeing in the shower? Is someone peeing in my shower even as I type this? What other places have people been peeing in that I was ignorant of? The sink? The dishwasher? The washing machine? The backseat of my car? To avoid any confusion, the central thesis that I would like to elaborate on is that it is never okay to pee in the shower. Ever. Not even on New Year’s.

In most situations, a nearby toilet accompanies a shower. I propose a three-step plan that gets urine out of the shower, and into the toilet:

1. If you have to go, step out of the shower.
2. Pee in the toilet.
3. If you are confused about (2), most toddlers can clarify for you.

This plan is only moderately complex, and should begin to make sense after several careful readings. I cannot possibly imagine a situation in which the feeling of having to use the bathroom hits you so furiously that it is impossible to take two extra steps to a toilet (unless you have recently eaten a McDonalds breakfast sandwich, or are sitting in a theatre watching a movie based on a Nicholas Sparks book, in which case your body will naturally do anything it can to get you out of there). Is the euphoria that accompanies peeing in the shower really so great? The shower is for washing yourself (while possibly singing), and the toilet is for getting rid of bodily waste (while possibly screaming). You would never see me washing myself in the toilet would you? Of course not. Because I close the door before I do it (the toilet water is softer).

Such a free-peeing individual might argue that the act of peeing in the shower saves time and energy. If this is true, then why don’t we just put wheels on our showers and drive them into work, peeing merrily the entire way there? We could take out a mortgage on our showers and live in them comfortably for many years. We’d have no reason to ever leave, and we’d save all the time in the world.

Oil Spills: Probably a bad thing

As delicious and potentially marketable as “oilade” sounds, it should not be overlooked that much of Kujo’s last point sounds a bit like the meaningless gibberish of a crazy person. An oil spill is, under no conceivable circumstance, ever a good thing, unless you are currently driving just in front of someone while playing Diddy Kong Racing. Just ask Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood. Oilrig explodes, kid loses his hearing, and at the end of the film, DDL ends up [Spoiler Alert] finding out that Darth Vader is his father.

For those who didn’t wuss out at the spoiler alert, I would like to personally congratulate myself for that little nugget of comedy. Those who have seen There Will Be Blood know that nothing good can come from too much oil, just as those who have seen Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus know that nothing good can come from putting Lorenzo Lamas anywhere near a video camera. The very thought of a Mega Shark or a Giant Octopus dealing with an oil spill is profoundly disturbing all on its own, but that is a discussion for another day. I mean, the giant octopus in question actually destroys an oilrig at one point in the film, and so I would lobby for our government to concentrate its efforts in finding the huge goddamn octopus that probably made this mess, instead of just putting different sized corks in the oil-hole and seeing how long it takes them to fail completely. But I digress.

I’m fairly sure that the point I’m trying to make here is that oil spills are bad (but it’s late and I could probably be swayed). The average reader may be wondering why exactly this is, but the educated reader is probably already familiar with the following five reasons:

1. It takes but a quick scan of the Wikipedia page for Deepwater Horizon oil spill to see terrifying (and strangely awesome) phrases like “petroleum toxicity”, “oxygen depletion”, “dead man’s switch”, “hydraulic ram”, “blowout prevention”, and “particle image velocimetry”. If you can read all of that and still sleep tonight, then you are a stronger person than I.

2. You can see the damn thing from space. Trust me when I say that things you can see from space are usually terrible and/or pointless (the Mongolians haven’t tried to attack you for years, so what the hell is the point of that wall, China?)

3. Giant oil spill + hurricane season = OIL HURRICANES. It’s like a regular hurricane, but instead of rain, IT’S OIL. And why stop there? The addition of oil to any natural disaster just makes it ten times scarier. We could be faced with oil tornadoes, oil famines, oil earthquakes, and oil Y3K (that spill could be there for awhile, I’m just saying.)

4. The impact of the oil spill on fisheries- I didn’t really do any research here, but one can only assume that the answer is not something like “a positive one” or “the fisheries are better than ever”.

5. The phrase “seagull shelter” is inherently stupid, and therefore negates Kujo’s entire argument.

If I had any sources, this is the place where I would briefly consider citing them.

So what's the deal with oil spills?

As most of you know one of BP's oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico has sprung a leak and has been releasing thousands of barrels of oil each day into the water. This has been received unfavorably by most. In many ways it certainly is a disaster, but is it really all that bad? We've all heard the expression "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade," so why are we all so caught up on the oily aftertaste this is leaving in our collective mouths? Lets toss a little bit of sugar in there, make some oilade and look on the brighter side of this situation.

I think we all know that it takes a great deal of effort to pump oil up out of the ground, and doing it at sea is certainly much more difficult. It's not like you're going to be out in the woods shooting at some food and suddenly have geyser of bubbling crude (oil that is) shoot out of the ground. But in the Gulf the stuff is flowing like Natty Lite at a college party. It's everywhere. It's just shooting out of the ocean floor like it's no big deal. It seems to me like we're saving ourselves a lot of work and effort with this situation. Let's just go down to the ole beach with a couple of big ole buckets and grab ourselves some of that black gold, right out of the water. Gas prices got you down? Just grab a squeegee and a seagull and wipe the gas right off that sucker.

You know what? Forget the oil spill. Seagulls are the real disaster.
F'ing rats with wings, that's what they are. Always sqwaking and divebombing everyone. Who even likes seagulls? Are there seagull exterminators? Do those exist? I'd pay good money for somebody to keep our beaches clear of those flying atrocities. They trained them to sit on people's heads when they were filming "The Birds," did you know that? No way that could backfire, OH WAIT, they released them and then they chased people down and attacked their heads. Just keep messing with seagulls people. Keep on feeding them, and laughing with them and having a gay old time. When the seagulls turn on you, and you are running down the street with your eyes all pecked out and your head all covered in seagulls and I'm locked in my Seagull Shelter (which all of you should really consider building) don't come crying to me. Firstly because I warned you. Secondly because you just had your eyes pecked out and that shit is gross. I saw enough of that action in "Event Horizon." Last thing I need is your bloody sockets all over my nice, clean Seagull Shelter.

So, anyway. Oil Spill

Verdict?

Don't Worry About Such Things

Welcome

If you are here then you have either made the best or worst decision of your life. Since this is only the first post I can't know whether this blog will bring you, the reader, to the giddy heights of elation or drag you down to the blackest pits of despair.
Hopefully you will find this blog entertaining. There will be two of us doing the blogging here at Don't Worry About Such Things. We may from time to time take up a point/counterpoint style of blogging, or we may instead stick to separate topics. The most likely scenario is that we will rapidly degenerate into baseless lies and name calling.

You may still be wondering what this blog is about, why it was created, why you should spend time reading it. All are valid questions, but the only thing I can say to you in response is...

Don't Worry About Such Things