December, 1919 – Chapter 10

Welcome to chapter ten of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week, unless the author is hit by a car. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 10

“Rumor has it you gave the IRS inspector a hard time.” McGuire didn’t look up from the newspaper he was reading.

“I suppose.” I said, standing in the doorway to his cramped office. He’d just brewed coffee and the silky smell of roast swam across the room and up my nose. “I thought it was all pretty simple, really. He asked questions. I answered them.” I wanted to sit down, but McGuire made no offer.

“Rumor also has it that you’re not going to take this lying down.” He said, lifting his head and looking at me, one eyebrow raised.

I swallowed the lump of anxiety in my throat. Only Virginia knew about the malt; William had suspicions, but was far too meek to speak to anyone.

“They’re my rumors, of course,” McGuire said, after I remained silent. “Rumors that you’re going to finally put that writing talent of yours to good use. Rumors that you have some insider information into the way this “prohibition” is being handled.” He leaned back in his leather chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Rumors that a certain paper might be happy to run that story, if it’s well written.”

I stumbled to respond. “Oh. Yea. That. I probably should write something, huh?” The fear decrescendoed, but I still had to beat the fires of panic down to keep them from spreading to my face.

McGuire smiled. “Beats transcribing notes. Here.” Across the desk he slid a worn leather notebook, brow and cheeks scratched and marred by years of journalistic abuse. I opened it to find perfectly crisp white sheets beneath the covers. “The outside’s not much to look at, but I had Jason downstairs bind a whole new pad inside. That leather’s got history; it’s what I used when I first started writing.” He said, looking equal parts proud and expectant. “Time to starting taking the notes yourself, Cooper.”

I wanted to reach over the desk and hug him, but quickly returned to the doorway. McGuire wasn’t the hugging type, but this was the first time he’d done anything even bordering on paternal.

I flicked through the pages, letting the sharp edges of the brand new paper pass across the callous of my thumb. The sheets fanned a dry mustiness into my face. The smell of fresh potential. “Thank you,” I said, quieter than I intended, “I’ll put it to good use. I know just the man to talk to first.”

“Good.” He said, pushing himself and his chair away from the desk, standing, and stretching. “I’ve been doing some outside reading. Is this something you could do?” He passed a section of newspaper to me, folded over, like he was trying to shield the contents from prying eyes. The national headlines had all been centered on the coming legal changes, but this one, clearly from a small-town paper was different:

“Pottsville Brewery to Weather Coming Drought with “Near-Beer”

A low-alcohol brew had been part of Virginia’s original idea, but I had shot her down, thinking it impossible. Continued brewing, even of something barely alcoholic, would certainly keep us in malt and hops. Maybe even give us an avenue to launder some of our other, less public projects. “Near-beer.” I said, pretending to ponder.

“Yep. Looks like beer, smells like beer. There’s so little alcohol it narrowly dips under the government’s mandate. I tried some last week in the District; doesn’t taste amazing, but it’s better than nothing if you’ve got that particular thirst for suds.” McGuire said, pantomiming a swig from a very large and very imaginary mug of beer. “From what I understand it’s just watered down regular beer.”

“Potentially a small beer made with second or third wort runnings. Watering down a regular beer would create something cidery and nigh undrinkable.” I looked up at the ceiling, imagine the tiny grist you’d use to brew a beer less than one percent by volume.

“Now you sound like your father.” McGuire said, breaking my concentration with a slap on the shoulder. “Uptown is yours now; I say you keep it running through all this. I’d put a hefty bet on that being what your father wanted.”

I hung my head, picturing dad. McGuire was probably right, but the mention of him, his plans, the rest of his life, stung. “We already signed everything over to the IRS. This would have been a little more helpful a week ago. There’s no way we can go back on that now.” I said. I hoped I wasn’t being too short.

“I’ve already thought of that,” he said, as he picked up the phone. “Jess, can you please send in Mr. Schweinsteiger?” A voice on the other end complied and then hung up.

A minute later, a hulking frame, nearly 6 and a half feet, ducked to step into McGuire’s office. He was lean but muscular, square-jawed, but handsome in an imposing sort of way. “Ah, Mr. Cooper, my pleasure. Should I call you Jack?” He spoke very quickly, words painted in a fresh coat of German accent. “Oh but how rude! Let me introduce myself. Tobias Schweinsteiger, esquire.” He bowed at the waist, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling fan.

I bowed back, and took the man’s hand in an overly firm handshake. The power in his hands bordered on supernatural. I thought for a second he was going to shake my entire body in one accidentally violent greeting. “Schweinsteiger?” I asked, butchering the attempt to pronounce his name with my American inflection.

“Ya. My family has come along way from raising pigs. Now I put them in prison.” He laughed. I could have sworn the whole room shook. “Gregory says you may be in need of my services?”

Gregory. McGuire’s first name, finally. I looked over at him, and he shrugged. “Services? What is it exactly that you do?” I asked.

“I help those who have been wronged. Especially wronged by bad people. I have a reputation, you see.”

“A reputation?” I said, looking up into his grey eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “I have been practicing law in the US for sometime now, but I wasn’t always a barrister. In Germany, zey call me Der Ritter.”

McGuire chimed in. “The Knight.”

Schweinsteiger reached into his coat and pulled out a card. With a flick, he tucked it into my shirt pocket. He then lifted his right fist to his chest – as if he was holding a sword – and grinned at me.

“I protect the innocent,” he said, pride now blended into his accent. “From what I have been told, you may need some protection.”

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 7

Welcome to chapter seven of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 7

The wind whipped, fierce and angry, in random blusters that felt like ice-cold fists to my face. I’d known some cold winters in the city, but the weather now seemed crueler, more foreboding than a typical New Year’s eve in Philadelphia. I shrugged the wool of my coat up higher, to cover some of the exposed skin of my neck. I hadn’t had time to grab my scarf.

Mayor Moore plodded beside me. Behind, Berman lurked, collar up and hands in pockets, hat pulled down to the point where his eyes looked like a snake’s. Moore’s mustached lip curled ever so slightly up every time another gust cut across our path; the only sign he felt the cold at all. Nate would be furious I was gone, but who was I to deny two such lofty and prominent branches of the Philly tree of law?

We walked in silence for some time, Berman herding us at cross streets, leading us to destination unknown. We crossed the Schuylkill on 3rd, made a left on North 20th, and then sauntered past a ghostly, snow-dusted Logan’s Square. No one in their right mind would be in the park on a day like this. No one except the mayor, a detective, and some poor confused kid, that is. Just as I’d had enough, and was about to demand some information, we stopped at the bleach-white steps of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.

“Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” Moore said, lithely bounding up the steps. Berman lingered behind, the ever loyal sheep dog. I couldn’t refuse, and my bones wouldn’t mind the warmth.

The towering stone of the cathedral swallowed us up like spiritual down, wrapping me in soft, yellow, candle-borne glow and subtle waft of incense. I’d never been much for religion but always loved the churches themselves; such grandeur and sophistication, equal parts welcoming and isolating. A priest shuffled near the altar, arranging a piece of purple cloth, while another disappeared into the under croft through a tiny side door. The church hummed with latent energy, drowning out the whispers of the two docents near the entrance.

“I always come here when I need to think.” Moore said, leaning closer to me. He moved down the aisle towards the front of the room, gently waving, coaxing me to follow. Berman leaned against a pillar, but didn’t remove his hat or coat. I felt nervous but safe, somehow protected by the sanctity of the building, if nothing else.

“Father Donovan knows me well. My family has been coming here for decades.” Moore said, kneeling and quickly crossing himself before leaning back against the pew. “Do you go to church, Jack?”

“No…well not for a long time.” I said. “My mother was raised Anglican, but my father always said he was too busy to waste a Sunday morning away from the brewery.”

“A shame,” Moore whispered, “no man should ever be too busy for his spirit.”

I took a bite of the irony in his words. “My father was never too busy for his spirit. I’d say it was his spirit that drove him. He was just never one for genuflecting at someone else’s altar.”

“Hmm, having met him, I can believe that.” Moore turned around and looked at Berman. He hadn’t even shifted his stance. “I’m sorry about him,” Moore said, “He’s harsh, but effective. I needed to talk to you, and in private.”

The oddness of the situation made my head swim. Why would a man who directly worked for President Roosevelt need to talk to a seventeen year old nobody from Philadelphia? The dimness and heavy warmth of the church made the situation feel surreal, a dream Nate would snap me awake from any minute when he found me asleep on my desk. But Moore refused to dissipates into nothingness, and Berman refused to go with him.

“I know you’ve been following McGuire, and I know McGuire’s been looking into my office and associates.” He tilted his head backwards, starting straight up at the bas-relief dotted dome. “I know you’re looking for some closure, Jack. Your father was a good man, and the way he died was…regrettable.”

My mind dropped its clutch, shifting from confusion to anger. “Regrettable?” I nearly yelled, rippling an echo all the way down the nave and back. The priest at the altar turned, demanding silence with a steely look. I nestled back into the cushion of the pew, heart pounding, rage rising. “He was murdered.” I whispered, though gritted teeth.

“No, he wasn’t,” Moore said confidently. “It was an accident. The sooner you and McGuire accept that and stop hounding my colleagues, the sooner we can all move past this mess.” He turned his head, settling his square-framed eyes on mine. “You have to drop this and focus on taking care of your mother. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, or your family, or even your livelihood, Jack.”

My brain fumbled, and I dropped my words.  Moore raised his arm, beckoning Berman over. The sullen trenchcoat obliged, slowly.

“Berman will take you back to the Gazette,” he said, crossing his hands on his lap. “This is the last I want to hear about any of this. You do not want to see me again, understand?”

I forced a nod, as Berman grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me out of the pew. He jerked me back down the aisle and out the door, into a gentle flurry of the year’s final snow.

“Get lost, Cooper.” Berman all but threw me down the church stairs. “You know where you stand now, and it’s on the wrong side,” he said, knocking my shoulder as he walked past. “I’ll be watching you.”

I spit on the street behind him, but he didn’t turn back. The wind threw itself at my face yet again, nearly freezing the tears welling in the corners of my eyes. The church bells tolled, on and on and on, out into the coming storm.

To be continued…

Brew Fiction: Black Friday Rules

Unsure of the why but well practiced in the how, Liam pulled the straps on his father’s kevlar vest tight, jostling the back plate to make sure it didn’t move and expose any vulnerable vertebrae near his neck. Reminders of past years nicked and slashed the thick canvas, letting the ballistic plastic below smile through as a dozen plaque-stained grins.

His father shrugged forward to test his gear, twisting and bouncing like a sprinter preparing for the one hundred meter. He pointed to the machete lazing on a stool next to the fire. Liam lifted the blade, watching the flipped images of the flames dance on its polished face, careful not to cut himself on the edge so recently honed to skin slitting sharpness.

It was too much ferocity for a ten-year old, too top heavy, too awkward and inelegant to be an effective weapon. But in his father’s hands, rough steelworker’s hands, it snapped through the air, a cobra striking with steel fangs. After three quick flicks he slid it into the scabbard already mounted on his hip with a satisfying shlink, like a key settling into a lock. “Dad, why do you have to go out?” Liam studied the flames, trying to scry the answer before his father responded.

“We won the tickets this year. I have to go. We’ve been waiting for this chance since your little sister was born.” He sank into the ochre couch as he bent to tie his boots, the tension in the room tightening with each pull of the black laces.  Liam swallowed the mix of fear and tears that filled his little body to emotional maximum. “But…last year…”

His father didn’t look up from his boots. “Last year was different. I was just part of the mob. I thought maybe I could…but we don’t have to worry about that this year. I got tickets. I’ll be right up front. I probably won’t even have to use this.” He pet the machete like it was his loyal pet, man’s best metallic friend. The boots tied, he stood up. Where his lanky, underfed father had stood twenty minutes ago, a soldier stood now, a man made for war, ready to face or deal death, whichever came first.

From the window, Brooklyn looked split in two: slowly dying fires twinkled down the shadowy streets of the burrough, while those few who could still afford electricity blared prosperity from the top of the skyline like a decadent halo. Liam thought he could see into those impossibly high windows sometimes, catch a glimpse of the people in colorful clothes watching little men dance across digital screens, look into, however briefly, the life his father promised to bring home for them every November.

“Why can’t you just stay home? Me and Jess don’t need a TV. We’re OK, Dad.” His father stopped adjusting the filter on his gas mask and met the boy’s unblinking stare. “It’s not that easy, Liam. I want to give you the chance you deserve, and to do that, we have to fit in. One scan shows that we have no TV, no computer, and that keeps me from even interviewing for a better job.” He dashed a pile of high gloss ads off the kitchen table, casting a rainbow of sales across the sparsity of the ground-floor apartment.”We need this stuff, and today is the only day I can get it.”

A scream shattered the glass serenity of the night, the last cry of some unlucky soul falling early to the violence in the streets. His father knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. “It won’t be like last year, Liam. I promise. This time I’ll be there right when the meal ends. Right next to all the stuff. I’ve got a plan to get there, my whole route home. We’ve got the gear and I’m more prepared than ever. This year might mean we can move to the tenth floor next year.” He slung the empty sack over his shoulder, trusting the strength of his own bag more than the thin white plastic with the blue and yellow logo.

He moved towards the door, heavy boots marching out a funeral dirge on the wooden floors. “By why, Dad? Why does it have to be this way?”

His father turned around to take one last look at his son before he put his life, and his money, in the hands of the corporate machine. “Because it’s always been this way, son. There isn’t any other way to make it in this life. Those are the Black Friday rules.”

“Thousands they grieve as the Black Friday rule” – Flogging Molly

Time Travel Thursday: Experience PRS 2011

This is a post I should have written almost exactly one year ago, but I got kind of distracted and wandered off into the land of Lego mini-figures and beer for a while.

But I’m back, and I’ve got photos for everyone! Since Experience PRS 2012 is happening this weekend, I thought it appropriate to look back on one of coolest events in my little life as of yet.

Last year, I was invited to an event that was basically tailor-made for someone like me; an Olivevent, if you will. My good friend and fellow musical enthusiast, Aldwyn, took me to Experience PRS; a guitar extravaganza hosted by Paul Reed Smith himself, at his factory in Stevensville, MD, that has music, beer, food, luthiers, and people with an odd fascination with types of wood all in one place.

Sound advice.

A little background: Paul Reed Smith (and by extension his company) builds amazing guitars. They are gorgeous and intricate, and if I knew how to play the guitar much better than I do, and had the disposable income, I would buy one with very little reservation (I’m eagerly waiting  for them to have some commercially available mandolins). He’s also just a nice guy who has employed a lot of local people in his factory, and is so passionate about his work that it puts other manufacturers to shame. He’s like the Steve Jobs of the Guitar world, but much less pretentious and much more animated.

I met Aldwyn at his house and he offered to us across the Chesapeake to the bay-facing guitar birthplace. The weather wasn’t being very friendly, so we stopped and got an umbrella for me, who, being the kind of person I am, had forgotten his at home.

The drive wasn’t bad, and the rain held off as we stood in line to get our badges. Aldwyn is a long time fan of PRS guitars and owns quite a few of them, so he managed to get us in as “signature” guests. We got an extra bag of loot which I use as a gym bag to this day.

The event itself was setup just outside the factory; several large white tents covered food carts, beer carts, and guitar-related carts. The biggest tent in the center covered a huge stage, with about 300 seats in front of it. When we arrived, a group of musicians were on stage testing out the new acoustic PRS SE Angelus.

Yea, that’s Ricky Skaggs with the microphone, no big deal.

Note: Paul Reed Smith likes to give away guitars. By my count, he gave away 13 guitars at Experience PRS 2011. Four in a raffle, one to a long-time supporter, and a bunch others to people who answered company history questions correctly or won other events. I kept praying that my number would be called in the raffle. The guitars are so beautiful that I didn’t even care that I couldn’t play one to save my life.

For a PRS, I would learn.

It was a good thing those tents were there, because Monsoon season had set itself against the East coast, starting that day. It started raining, hard, and didn’t stop the entire time we were there. I grimaced for the poor technicians who were manning the sound booth and running cords (editor’s note: typed “chords” the firs time around) to the stage; it looks like a watery-electrical mess waiting to happen.

But despite the rain, the whole thing went quite smoothly. Announcers had to yell over the deafening roar of rain pounding the tent’s roof, but other than that, the weather was hardly noticeable. We sat and listened to some excellent guitarists for a while, waiting for the factory to open up so the day could really begin.

Walking into that factory was like passing into the fields of Elysium. The entire place was packed wall-to-wall with guitars; more than I could count, in myriad designs, colors, specifications, and sizes.

Please excuse the photo quality; my camera died RIGHT as I started taking pictures, so I used my old camera phone to take all the rest.

I really wanted this one to follow me home.

The entire workshop area was open to guests. I got to see every device and tool that goes into creating a perfect guitar, but also how much work and attention goes into each. PRS hold themselves to a very high standard, so each piece of tone wood is carefully selected and sanded/shaped by hand.

A luthier’s work is never done.

I wandered around with eyes glued to wood, admiring the quality of the cuts and the organization of the factory itself. Each station flowed naturally to the next, with order and logic that would satisfy even the most OCD addled brain. We moved from wood selection to sanding to carving to staining to clear coating to electrical to packing and shipping. To say it was glorious would be a unfair understatement.

One day, all of these will be guitar necks. I know, awesome.

Matched tiger maple. Want.

As awesome as the factory is/was, that wasn’t even the highlight of my trip. I knew Ricky Skaggs was there, and I was hell bent on meeting a man whose music I had listened to and admired for years. We wandered the huge area looking for him, asking Aldwyn’s friend if they’d “seen Ricky”, hoping to cross his path, shake his hand, and maybe have him sign the mandolin pick guard that I may or may not have intentionally brought just to have him sign.

We didn’t find him immediately, so we opted to use our “signature” privileges to meet Paul instead. The event staff had setup a time where we could meet him and get a picture, so we dutifully stood in line, umbrellas overhead, waiting for our chance to meet the brains and innovation behind the luster of the perfectly finished guitars.

I also had Paul sign my pick guard because it was all I had to be signed.

Despite being rushed and having to dodge the rain, Paul was an amazingly nice guy. He took the time to talk to me, and told me he’d love to make mandolins, but needs to get his acoustic guitar line launched first. He marveled over the pick guard I had him sign, noticing the tiny flecks of pearl in it as he held it up to the light. You could see his love for instrument aesthetics as he scrutinized this random piece of fiberglass and wood. I dared not tell him it was from a lowly Epiphone MM-50. He didn’t need to know that.

Aldywn and I wandered around the venue for a while, drinking Fordham Copperhead, continuing our Skaggs search. We always seemed to just miss him whenever we got to an area. The day was winding on, and I was losing hope. We walked away from the mechanical side of the factory, making our way into the “Private Stock” area, where wood and parts were kept for all of the made-to-order guitars.

Just as we passed Paul’s office (which has 7 or 8 guitars hanging on the wall above his desk) we turned a corner, and saw Ricky sitting on a couch by himself, jamming on a rosewood version of the new Angelus Acoustic. Apparently he was about to eat lunch, and was waiting for Paul and the rest of the crew to appear with some food.

I’ve never been called shy. I walked straight in and said hi, and expressed my admiration for his music and talents. When he shook my hand, I couldn’t believe how absolutely massive his hands were. How those things dance around the tiny fret board of a mandolin like they do, I’ll never know.

Starstruck. Skaggstruck. Shady Grove.

Ricky was awesome. He said he was glad to see another mandolin player in this “mess of guitarists” and signed my pick guard with a flourish. We sat with him for a good twenty minutes talking about acoustic anything and everything, until Paul’s entourage showed up and kicked us out, very politely. They were eating some super sloppy pulled-pork sandwiches, for anyone who cares.

The rest of the day was rainy, but awesome. We chatted with several vendors who were all subtly trying to sell guitars, and I’m amazed that Aldwyn didn’t buy one, based on how wide his eyes got every time he put one over his knee.

I’d love to go back again. Maybe after I’ve figured out how to play more than 6-7 chords and feel less like journalist and more like a guitarist.

A special thanks to Aldwyn, without who, I could never have gone, never taken these photos, never met Skaggs, never written this post, and never had these awesome memories.

Aldwyn, being cool.

Bonus picture! How sexy is this?

Macassar ebony, if I’m not mistaken.

Review: Magic Hat #9

(To any new readers: my beer “reviews” often aren’t reviews at all. Most of the time I just feature the beer in some story or other context. Maybe I’ll call them “Beertures” from now on.)

Magic Hat #9 was growing up fast. He was starting to fill out his can, his orange color was developing nicely, and his hop flavor was starting to mature. He thought himself a man, even though he was still in high school, and was far from being an adult bottle.

He was confident and bold. His flavors were different than those of his friends, which made him special and popular. All of the girl beers wanted to be with him; all of the guy beers wanted to be him.

This popularity came at a price. He grew arrogant and selfish. Some less savory beers took a liking to 9, and started inviting him to questionable parties. 9’s father, having experienced a hard childhood on the streets of South Burlington, Vermont, knew that this would only lead to trouble. One night, after pale ale school, dad 9 sat down with son 9 to have a father-son style lay-it-all-out-there talk.

Look, son…

Dad 9: “I know you’re enjoying your freedom being a high school student and learning about the world, but I’m worried about you…”
Son 9: “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m 18 years old, dad. I think I can handle myself.”
Dad 9: “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. I heard that you were hanging out with those Natty Boh Boys. They’re bad news. I know from experience.”

Dad 9 rolled back his label. Underneath was a large scar, roughly the size and shape of a bottle opener.

Son 9: “I’m not you! Those guys are my friends. When I’m with them, I’m finally cool. You’d never understand that.”
Dad 9: “I pay a lot of money to send you to pale ale school so that you can get a real brewing experience. Learn from the other ales there, spend time with a smarter, higher caliber kind of beer.”

Son 9 rolled his eyes, dismissing his father’s warning as casually as one might crack open a beer on a hot day.

Dad 9: “I know I can’t forbid you from seeing them, but I’m warning you; hanging with that Baltimore crowd will only bring you trouble. You’re from a long line of strong, tasty ales. Don’t throw that away just to be ‘cool’.”

Son 9 stormed out, leaving his father in the fading twilight of the summer evening. Dad 9 could do little else but watch his son descend into the emotional mires of maturity, halfway between a man and a boy, but lacking the wisdom or innocence of either.

The Natty Boh Boys have notoriously bad taste.

9 was soon skipping school three or four times a week. He’d made fast friends with the leader of the Natty Boh Boys; a witty and mean brew who fancied himself a pilsner, because he had a long lost elder cousin who came from Munich.

He lured 9 in with promises of glory. With chances to break the rules, and live life at the figurative edge of societal acceptance. 9 wasn’t sure why he craved the danger and exhilaration of a life outside of the confines of law, but the more he spent time with the Natty Boh’s the bolder and colder he grew.

They were ready to accept 9 into their gang officially, but he needed to prove his worth. The Natty Boh’s wouldn’t just take any one, especially not some snotty ale from the suburbs. They needed to test his loyalty, and his conviction.

When they picked him up for his last day as an unaffiliated beer, they handed him a gun and a head scarf, as if he was magically supposed to know what to do with them.

In the psuedo-charismatic way that only a gang leader can, the lead Natty Boh explained that The Beasts (a rival gang that called Wisconsin its home) had recently moved into the area and were putting the squeeze on the Boh Boy’s black market malt trade. It was 9’s job to confront The Beasts about it and get them to give up their stash of malts and hop.

By any means necessary.

9’s throat tightened as they got out of the car and moved towards the blue cans wearing red scarves. His experience so far had been indirect and safe; smoking cigarettes, petty shoplifting, and minor bar brawls. This was the first time he’d actually felt legitimate fear. The cold steel of the gun beneath his label only made it worse.

The cans looked tough, but they were no older than he was. He could see tainted childhoods reflecting in their eyes; the pain of missing fathers and drug addicted siblings. The pain that forces a child to walk a path of death and uncertainly, as life has given him no other options.

9 and two fellow Boh Boys moved cautiously towards their rivals, constantly checking for weapons or backup, hiding just behind a nearby wall.

Hands to the sky, motha effers!

As they got close enough to see the details of The Beast’s faces, the adolescent stubble, the careworn brows, 9 started to feel his fear manifest. It boiled to the surface of his throat like an angry pot of soup left too long on the stove. If it wouldn’t have completely ruined his reputation, he would have run behind some trashcans and puked until he fell asleep.

With all the confidence he could muster, 9 yelled out to The Beasts:

9: “You’re in our spot!”

The lead Beast stepped forward from the center of his crowd. His eyes were piercing and he wore a cruel smile.

Beast: “Who said this was your spot? We been here all day.”
9: “This area belongs to the Boh Boys. We know you’ve been trying to sell your shitty malt here. Find somewhere else before we make you.”
Beast: “You sound pretty smart for some ‘Balmer Boh. What you say we teach this misfit how we do it in Milwaukee?”

Several of The Beasts moved behind their leader, producing bats and knives from seemingly nowhere. The tension mounted like a cowboy prepping for his first rodeo. Knuckles turned to white as they gripped dirty pipes and splintered two by fours.

That’s when 9 saw the gun.

The three or four seconds that passed as he aimed and pulled the trigger felt like birth of a universe. His finger on the trigger was the hand of god, the bullets burning out of the barrel the proverbial big bang. The muzzle flash exploded into a thousand dying suns, and the kick back of the pistol in his hand felt like Chicxulub reenacted.

One shot was all it took.

One bullet, one empty can.

Before the echo of the gunshot stopped ringing through the alley, everyone but 9 and his victim was gone.

He dropped the pistol and leaned down to check his foe’s breathing. It was too late. The bullet had been well placed; the Beast’s life-beer was all but spent, spilled onto and soaking into the dirty concrete.

Guns don’t kill people, beers kill beers.

9 began to cry tears of hops and malted barley. His desire for acceptance and belonging had brought him to this point. He’d taken another beer’s life in a split second, without thinking, without knowing. One tiny choice. A whole lifetime of regret.

He wiped the handle of the pistol, like he’d seen in so many police dramas. He knelt next to the mangled can and said a prayer to the Old Trappist gods, and sent an apology to the beer and his mother into the humid night air.

Then he ran. As his aluminium legs beat the sidewalk, he thought of his father. All he’d ever wanted was for 9 to live up to his potential. Now he was a fugitive, his future all but forfeit. He’d learned his lessons the hardest way possible.

Guilty by association. Never hang out with bad beers.

As sirens shattered the stillness of the Maryland evening, two lives ended. One in the dirty innards of some bar back alley, the other with a rough tackle from a police officer and a set of shining handcuffs.

Review: Yards Brawler Pugilist Style Ale

The first one was easy. The second, hardly a challenge. By the third, I needed a breather, but I wasn’t finished. I was just getting limber.

I had counted eight shadows milling about the tavern door. Three had remained while five moved to places unseen. I assumed at least two would make for the creaking back door, and at least one would remain ahorse, waiting to run down any person foolish enough to run.

I didn’t know if Mortimer was upstairs or down, or hidden in some alcove beneath the ancient wooden floors. I decided it best to not let these men find out. I mouthed two silent prayers to the Old Gods; one for me, and one for the men I was about to kill.

Crouched near the front door, I slid a long dirk from its leather sheathe and held it backwards against my right forearm. With the other, I grasped a tiny sliver of metal; a needle-like blade that I used to kill without much mess. As the first man stuck his head in the door, just behind his make-shift torch, I thrust the needle upwards into his neck, severing the tiny bundles of nerves near the back of his spine.

He hit the ground hard, his muscles dead and only the wooden floor to catch him.

The door flung open under his weight and a second man darted in to catch the first. He was greeted by a flash of folded steel, and a gaping wound across his face. A second quick strike to his lower back sent him into the long sleep.

With two down, I rolled behind a support beam near where the locals had been drinking. Strong wind blew through the open door, extinguishing the two lanterns near the bar and on the hearth. The fireplace whipped and danced, feeding on the gust of oxygen. The entire tavern was bathed in a low light.

An assassin’s playground.

A third man moved near the doorway, but kept safely behind the frame of the door, trying to peer into the darkness beyond. As I eyed him, I heard movement near the back door. Seconds later, it burst open, rotten wood splintering across the room. A quarrel from a well aimed crossbow grazed my shoulder, ripping my leather chest piece and tearing the soft skin around my collar bone.

I flung a dagger in response. Blade over hilt it rolled, until it found a new home lodged permanently in the eye socket of one of the men storming the back entrance. I drew my short sword. The element of surprise was gone and my off-hand was injured and bleeding. This would come down to steel on steel, that is, unless one of these cowards brought a gun.

The man at the front entrance had stepped into the tavern, his long cavalry sabre glowing with a surreal power in the torchlight. I knew he’d have a hard time swinging that big a blade indoors, so I let him tip-toe forward, looking for me with long swings of his flame. The second man near the back had retreated at the sight of my dagger sticking from his friend’s skull.

As I decided who was the next victim of my knives, I heard glass shatter on the upper floor. The two I had not accounted for must have scaled the side of the building and broken their way in through a second story window. As the man with the sabre turned to look at the stairs, I made my move. My first stroke met a timely riposte. As he swung to counter, his long blade caught a piece of wood in the rafters. Unable to dislodge it, my sword easily pierced his stomach and chest; an upward thrust that hit more organs than it missed.

His body slumped and died, the sabre shaking where it stuck in the crossbeam.

I darted up the stairs, ignoring the man at the back door. Mortimer was no fighter. He may be able to kill a man, but against someone with any kind of training, he’dbe an easy target. The upstairs was pitch except for the glow of the waning moon. I heard two men whispering, one trying to give commands, the other arguing with him. Their talking gave away their location. Their pointless banter was as good as a death sentence.

The first fell before I had even stepped in the room, my needle finding a soft spot near his ear. The second lost a hand as he rose it to parry, and fell screaming before I silenced him permanently. Mortimer was not upstairs. This tavern had no obvious cellar, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hide secret places, left over from the Plague Era and Oliver Cromwell’s reign.

I sat for a second to catch my breath and wipe the blood from my blades. There were two left by my count, one downstairs with a crossbow, and a man atop a horse outside. I quickly peered through the broken window to see a man on a huge destrier. It was a powerful, gorgeous horse, with a black mane and a chocolate coat. I wanted to avoid hurting the horse if I could; my last horse had died to a volley of muskets and I longed to ride a powerful steed again.

I waited at the top of the stairs to see if the crossbowman dared to follow me up. My earlier attack had left him sheepish, and I’m sure he had by now seen the devastation I had left on the tavern’s floor. I couldn’t chance rushing him; as much skill as I put behind my short sword, a crossbow had range, and I knew this gent could fire it well, given the chance.

I pried the top off of a tobacco barrel near the pantry at the top of the stairs. Wrapping two lengths of shipping twine around it, I made a make shift shield and braced it against my weakened off hand. All I needed was one chance; once chance to catch his bolt, one chance to close the gap. A crossbow was lethal, but dangerously slow to reload.

It was over quickly. The bolt pierced the top of my shield and before the man had even drawn a second quarrel, he lay dead. I unstrung the shield and threw it down, admiring the quality of the bolt lodged in the wooden slats. It was a shame to kill a fletcher of such skill, but fletching was a dying art, giving way to gunsmithing and the black powder arts.

Before I bothered searching for Mortimer, I knew I had to do something about the horseman trotting lazily outside. He could not have known what had happened inside, short of the scream of the man I dismembered upstairs, so I had time to think. I watched him closely through a downstairs window. He moved back and forth on his huge beast, a two-shot pistol in one hand, the other on the reins.

I hated guns. Cowardly devices that required no skill but could kill with impunity. I wanted the man dead, but I also wanted his horse. A makeshift pike would not suffice; it would put me too close to his pistol, and might hurt the horse. He was too far away to rely on a thrown dagger, and my skill with a crossbow was admittedly lacking.

Instead, I filled an old clay growler with the lamp oil from the lantern near the bar. I ripped off a small patch of cloth from my already torn tunic and shoved it into the top of the bottle. The temporary fuse lit easily when held over the open fire of the hearth and I had only seconds before the bomb exploded in my hand.

At the sight of the fireball created from my cocktail, the horse reared in fear and sent its rider sprawling. As he fell, I sprinted until I couldn’t feel my lungs, short sword out, sharp, and ready. By the time I was on him, he had regained his feet, and saw me, blood in my eyes. He lowered his pistol, but was never able to fire.

I wiped my blade on the grass. A queer silence fell over the tavern, a silence that can only follow a bloody, angry battle. I broke it as soon as I knew no men were left alive.

“MORTIMER!”

I heard nothing for a few minutes expect the hooting of an owl and the crackling of dropped torches.

“MORTIMER!”

At the second shout, I heard a loud “thunk” and the sound of footsteps across a wooden floor. At the doorway appeared my fool brother wearing a tricorne hat and wielding a pathetically small dagger.

“Is it over?” he squeaked.

“Yes, brother. You’re lucky I arrived when I did.”

“I’m so glad you got my message; they’ve been hunting me since Dunwich.”

“Who has been hunting you?” I knew Mortimer was in trouble, as usual, but not what kind of trouble.

“Them.”

He said this as he moved towards the corpse of the horseman. He dug through his small clothes, searching for something. At last, he pulled a small leather fold free and threw it at my feet.

A Scotland Yard Badge. Special Investigator Albert Haynes, Directed at his King’s authority.

A lump formed in my thorat.

“Mortimer…what have you done?”

9 out of 10.

When blood meets beer, beer turns red. And bloody.

Review: Yards Thomas Jefferson’s Tavern Ale

Mortimer bought my dinner. A big plate of steaming fresh crow.

I received an anonymous telegram this morning. The cryptic messaging could only have come from him, in a futile attempt to be clever and evade authority.

Carlyle STOP I was truant to our rendezvous STOP Plan has changed STOP Staying at our place STOP Do not think me dead STOP

I had been certain he’d botched the job and gotten himself killed in the process. I’d pulled him out of close calls, away from deals gone bad, and out of the clutches of debt collectors a few too many times to ever assume anything he did had worked out as planned. I’m not sure why I thought this job would be any different. My brother is about as trustworthy as a street urchin when your back is turned, but he is still my brother.

I made my way to the Stonewall Tavern in Oxfordshire, hoping to finally catch up to him and get the full story. The dingy little cottage-turned-inn hadn’t changed much in the years I’d been in America. A bit more moss on the crumbling stone walls, a mess of ivy climbing the rotting wooden window sills, but the same old Stonewall I’d loved in my youth. Even the old sign was still intact, hanging lazily from two ornamented wrought iron hooks above the door.

The building was familiar, but the staff and patrons were not. My cos had told me of a feud gone bad several years after I boarded a ship to the new lands, in which the former owners had been murdered in their sleep over a few missing sheep worth less than a half crown. The new owners hadn’t done much with the decor; the inside of the tavern reeked of moldy ale and burnt lamb stew.

The barkeep eyed me suspiciously, keeping half his gaze on the short dagger I keep on my hip. I’d been a pariah in Mary-land for wearing the blade out in public, but I did not feel safe without it. Someone in my line of work is wise to keep his knife as sharp as his tongue. I often felt I was out of place in this newly emerging world. Long gone were the days of cloaks and blades, replaced by pea coats and gunpowder.

I ordered the tavern’s signature ale, and waited. Mortimer was not in the common area, but I expected as much. He wasn’t the brightest fellow, but he had a knack for hiding. Being craven gave him a certain longevity, all the result of his uncanny ability to disappear in plain sight. I quaffed the heavy golden liquid, letting the alcohol settle my thoughts and send my mind swimming languidly into a mildly drunken stupor.

Several men behind me were arguing about the state of affairs in the Americas, debating how things had changed in the wake of Thomas Jefferson’s death some twenty years prior. I could tell from their threadbare clothes and crude guttural speech these were an uneducated bunch, speaking of things they didn’t know and had never seen. I was certain that these men could not even read the most basic of writing, so their mindless argument was built of the worst kind of backwoods rumor mongering and poisoned truth.

As I finished my second pint, I noticed a commotion outside the tavern. The dim light inside made it impossible to make out many details through the ancient glass windows, but I could see a group of men and horses, some with lanterns, others with rifles. The tallest of them was barking orders.

I knew they were here for Mortimer. The peasants broke their conversation and made for the back door. As they scurried out of harm’s way, I could hear other men shouting as they surrounded the building. I slipped up next to the front door, pressing my back against the wall to hide my frame.

They may have known Mortimer was inside, but there were two things they wouldn’t be prepared for: me and my knife.

I’d made a living out of killing. There would be blood tonight. And it wouldn’t be mine, or Mortimer’s.

The influence of the colonies was felt strongly, even here in the heart of Britain.

Rush Hour

On Monday night, running through the streets of DC, headed for a building I’d never seen before, I had a moment of serenity.

I was late for my first day of class. I had been planning for this day for months; I left work early, had all my books and notes together, and was thoroughly prepared to be a kickass student once again. The cruel fates who control the DC Metro had made other plans. The train I was on lurched and heaved awkwardly, often unable (or perhaps unwilling) to open and close its door.  I was constantly checking my phone, watching my elaborate plan fall to pieces as large chunks of time were wasted at each stop. Just short of my destination, the train sighed and moved no more. They off-loaded all of the passengers and announced that “due to a mechanical failure, you’re all going to be late. Our bad.”

I, a paragon of punctuality, panicked. I considered my options. A cab would be costly, but I’d only be a few minutes late. I could wait for another train, but my hopes were dim. I did, in the end, what I often do: I ran. I booked it for the broken escalator (which seemed all too appropriate at the time), dodging packs of pissed off commuters. I came out of the Metro right onto the DC Mall; the ghostly image of the Capitol stood out in the foggy night air. I ran across the grass and mud, hoping to hail the first taxi I came across. I had no cash, but figured I’d sort it out later.

I couldn’t find a single cab. It was rush hour, but not a glimpse of yellow could be seen! I decided to just keep walking in the general direction of class, eventually reaching the next Metro station. I abandoned my cab idea, decided to get back on the train and continue on as originally planned. I made it to the building around 6:20 for a 6:00 class. I entered the classroom, apologetic and sweaty. Fortunately, the teacher of this class is awesome, and he was forgiving. My only punishment was to tell the class a story.

As I unpacked my things and regained my composure in the little classroom, I suddenly felt at peace. I realized that I was out of breath, leg aching, bounding up the giant escalators of the Dupont Circle station, because I legitimately cared about being late. I’m often blasé about getting to work on time, mainly because it’s not amazingly rewarding. But here I was, stressed and pushing myself to my limits to not be a few minutes late for a class. I didn’t appreciate the feeling of dedicated learning time during my undergraduate years. I was too concerned with 10,000 other things. Now, in a world where those 10,000 other things are 1,000,000 things, often not chosen by me, it is incredibly calming to have 5 hours a week where I can do nothing but learn.

Both of my classes seem excellent. The teachers are exuberant and friendly, my classmates eager to share their experiences. I didn’t think I could be more excited than I was when I was accepted to this program months ago. But here I sit, on the proverbial edge of my seat, practically drooling to see what’s next.

Hidden moral of this story? Never, ever, trust the DC Metro to get you anywhere on time. Doubly so if you have somewhere important to be.

One hundred and eighty-eight feet, ten inches.

Destination: Skyrim

I’d like to preface this post with a thank you and /bow to my 4-year old nVidia 9800GTX, without who, I could not be writing this post. Based on the posted system requirements, and the system requirements that I assumed would be required after seeing screen shots, I was expecting to have to rebuild my rig to play this game.  I even contemplated by the PS3 version, as blasphemous as that sounds. To my pleasant surprise,  I found that my humble gaming machine runs Skyrim on medium settings, providing still beautiful landscapes with almost no graphics lag.

I, like 800 billion other people, aquired the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim over the weekend. I’ve been a fan of Bethesda Softworks since the days of Morrowind. I was a big fan of Oblivion, too. They won me over with their open world RPGs when I was but a boy, and I’ve spent many, many hours exploring the wonders of Tamriel over the past few years. While I’m only a few hours into my Skyrim adventure, I can tell it will be that warm, comfortable Bethesda feeling I’ve come to know.

I fired up the game, and made a Khajit, as I normally do on my first play through of any Bethsoft game. I like cats. Don’t judge me.

The first thing I noticed, and loved, was that I didn’t have to pick a class right off the bat. Almost any game you pick up nowadays makes you decide your role and possible abilities before you start playing the game, a concept I’ve always thought was weird and backwards. The development of your character is completely organic. You’re running away from a dragon and you happen to kill some guards. Do you take the axe? The bigass sword? The bow and arrow? Do you put on the heaviest armor you can find, or are you cool running around in just a robe?

I opted for the bow, as  I am oft to do. I was pleased to find that any skill I leveled contributed to my overall character level, leaving to me do whatever the hell I wanted. I ran around for a bit, killed some bandits, chopped some wood, ate some bees, even outran a rabbit at one point. Pretty awesome. I climbed some mountains, mucked around in the bottom of a cave. Even accidentally shot a giant in the head with an arrow.

While it’s the same feeling as most other open world games, Bethsoft, and Skyrim im particular, manages to capture something I have’t felt in a game in a long time. My character was free to go and do whatever I would do. If I were to wake up in this fantasy world, I would probably run around in the wilderness looking for stuff to eat. I would probably kill the guy who ran up to me swinging an axe and my head. I probably wouldn’t shoot a giant in the head, but hey, that was an accident. There was no up front “who are you?” check, no forcing me to decide what would be the most fun before I even knew what the game was like. It simply placed some tools in front of me and said, “be free, young bow-wielding cat man.”

But the lack of direction and guidance was not punishing, like Dark Souls. Nor was my hand held too tightly, like WoW or Dungeon Siege III. It was a perfect combination of freedom and constraint. I’ve seen a lot of people complaining that the combat is weak, or that this lack of direction is bad. For the type of game Skyrim is – as I call it, an Exploro-story RPG – this is perfect. I’m not forced to dodge every single blow lest my enemy kill me for the 900th time, and I’m not mowing down 20 enemies at once with superhuman prowess. It’s comfortable medium, like a microsuede couch.

I honestly wish a few other games would take this route. Giving players options without locking them in leads to completely unique play-throughs for different types of players. It gives players the freedom to play how they want to, not how the developer expects them to, set on a rigid, made-up system of classes and skills.

Maybe as I’m getting older, I appreciate freedom to a more specific degree, and it’s reflected in my gaming choices. Either way, I just found out you can cast two spells at once, so, yea. You know where I’ll be.

Those who are about to game salute you!

Word(s) Count(s)

It seems like my life has been overtaken by writing requirements of one kind or another. Shifting word counts, page limitations, and section weight have begun to shape how I spend my conscious hours. I obsess with the little counter at the bottom of the page, praying heathen prayers that my mind can regurgitate enough content to appease the language overlords.

So far, this post is 63 piffling words long.

And yet, I don’t mind. Every 10 words adds to my sense of accomplishment; every 100 to my sense of worth; every 1,000 my sense of satisfaction. As my fingers click and clack away on my transmogrified typewriter, I am filled with a sense that I am doing something. Writing means to me what eating means to others; it fulfills, satisfies, and gives me energy.

My job requires I sew and weave words into specific margins, man-handle paragraphs into certain tensing, and wrestle pronouns to the ground with appropriate aggression. I am asked daily to  paint a picture using words; my canvas already stained by dozens of other painters, but a masterpiece expected none-the-less. I do this job dutifully, but take little time to recognize how these endeavors have shaped how I view the world.

I am currently working on proposals, where the length, format, content, colors, spacing, margins, and graphics are all strictly mandated by an invisible person, via an errant unheralded email. This leads to frantic attempts to appease these mystery correspondents, squeezing, slicing, and smearing the language to meet the draconian guidelines. While I dislike the term “wordsmithing” it is actually quite appropriate when taken literally; we take raw, unprocessed words and turn them into a finely forged weapon of business.

As of this point, I have forged 301 words into the outline of a sword.

I spent a few hours helping my lovely fiancé edit her Graduate School essay. We, ultimately, had to chop her very well written 900 words down to 500 words. Syntax machete in hand, I went to doing what I do, hacking out adverbs, removing adjectival clauses. Getting that brief little monologue down to 500 words was criminal, vexing, and exhausting. Reduction is an art.

An art I embrace and find myself dwelling on, even when inappropriate or inopportune. Like an addict, my mind is constantly fixated on what I can write; snippets of ideas come to me in the shower, and I mull them about my mushy, pre-woken skull all morning until something solid springs forth, Athena style. Sometimes, a fleeting idea comes to me, and I roll and fumble to hold it, promising myself I won’t forget so awesome an idea. I usually forget, and become frustrated, picking through my brain thought by thought, trying to reconnect the chain that led me to the original idea.

Good ideas begin to form around the 478 word mark.

I love to write. I love all the things that most people hate about writing. I love editing, cropping, massaging, even at times, translating. If I am putting thoughts down into words, no matter how banal those thoughts, I am a happy word-wizard. I may not be the best, but perfection derides passion, in my experience.

To this end, I am going to undertake something this year: National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). It’s a month long odyssey to scrawl 50,000 words of fiction across increasingly blurry, blood stained pages. It’s a quantity over quality exercise; an attempt to prove to oneself that they are capable of doing it, if they just do it.

I have several larger projects already underway, all of which I have stalled on under the guise of “I’ll come back when it hits me”. But when you do come back, you’ve lost track, your mood has changed; the veritable essence of what you were writing is either gone, or no longer readily available. I’ve stalled at 10,000 words, 23,000 words, and even 31,000 words, always thinking I’ll come back. I’ve even stalled as small as 500 words; if you abandon something, it’s incredibly difficult to find your way back.

To complete 50,000 words in a month (30 days), you have to write 1667 words a day. This post so far is 705 words. It’s taken me roughly 20 minutes to write 715 words, meaning it would take me an hour a day to write 2145 words. That pace is unrealistic, as this topic is fresh and new, so the writing flows like Franzia from a slapped bag. But it proves what I am capable of.

This blog has 49 posts (some are hidden, in case you try to count) with an average word count of ~750 words. That’s 36,750 words in my blog. At ~550 12pt, single spaced words a page, my blog is ~67  proposal pages long. That’s 134 Academia pages long. If it were novelized, it would be ~142 pages long! It would be disjointed, confusing, and decidedly awful, but it would be ~142 pages long!

So come November, that is what I’ll be doing. I’m going to set aside writing time each day, in an attempt to formulate the first complete, novel length narrative of my life. It’s one of my major goals, and I think I’ve finally found the vehicle that will guilt, pressure, and force me enough to finally realize it.

Until then, I will practice. If I had to run 3 miles, I used to practice by running 5, so I’ll do the same with my writing. If I can write 2500 words a day, for 15 days, 1700 words a day for 30 days should come more easily. Out will flow words about topics, and hell, I might even write some dialogue, too.

As of this upcoming period, this post is 964 words long.