[fiction] When Angels Deserve to Die - Act 4

Act IV:  On the Grey

The mall.  Surprisingly safe.

At least, it felt safe.  Whether the...the authorities has positively identified anyone in the most recent car chase was uknown.  That Craig Capulet was doing everything he could to pin the heat on Eric was Biff was known.  Still, the large airy cooridors, white walls and glass ceilings that allowed light to flood in did make one feel safe.  And the people.  No member of the capulet family could act here.  Not with these people, and not with the camera.

Saudade walked with her arm linked to Eric.  She had specifically manoeuvred them paste the Bath and Body stall three times.  She loved the smell.  She loved the way Eric wrinkled his nose even more.  Biff was in front of them, with a girl in each arm.  "He's really milking it, isn't he?" said Sauda.

"Don't let him fool you," said Eric.  "The guy is crushed.  He tries not to show it but I think its pretty obvious.  Hey lets duck in here."  The photo booth.

When they were inside Eric didn't put money in.  "I'm moving against the Capulets this afternoon."

Sauda looked at him.  His eyes.  Eyebrows.  Hair.  Face.  She shook her head.  "I never wanted you to get involved in this.  It's my fight."

"We're not having this discussion."

"Yes we are."

Eric studied the photo booth's simple payment mechanism with great intensity.

"I'm going to go away.  I need you to not follow," said Sauda.

"I want to be with you."

"You of all people should know that this is a bad time."


"True," admitted Eric.

Sauda squeezed his hand.  "Let's take a picture."

Biff walked by the photo later and saw a picture of them lying on the ground.  He scooped it up.  When he saw it more closely he stopped walking.  It was Eric and Sauda, smiling.  Biff didn't realize anyone was calling his name until one of the girls poked him.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

"Eric why are you taking me candy shopping.  Fuck."  Biff hated the word candy.

"Biff you can't flip out every time you hear the word candy.  I know you--wait how long had you been dating her?"

"A week.  And a half."

"A week and a half," said Eric.

"You know that's a long time for me.  Here chocolate covered cherries."

"No they must be grapes.  Keep looking.  Is this the first time you've lost someone?"

"Yeah I guess.  Its like that sinking feeling after sex, but worse, and it won't go away," said Biff.

Eric stopped walking.  "You're not supposed to get a sinking feeling after sex."

"You're not?"  Biff changed the subject.  "They're not here bro lets just get whatever.  Why the fuck are we buying candy--aw dammnit."  Biff saw the woman at the register glaring at them.  "Sorry."

Eric said "Yeah they don't have them.  We'll get the chocolate here and some grapes from a supermarket.  Let's roll."


~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Biff was hungry.  He made the poor, poor decision to dump all of the chocolate and grapes in the damn dog bowl.  Stupid mutt didn't need all of it.  And now his stomach was growling.

There was a handheld citizen's band radio on the dashboard.  It had a minor obfuscation on it, but that was only to clear the channel between you and any of your friends who also wanted some $20 radios.  It wasn't real encryption.  So they were using code names.

Biff heard the a click from his radio.  Might have been static.  Might have been someone pressing the talk button for a split second.

Biff picked up his radio.  "Captain Crunch to Batman.  Come in Batmam."  No response.  "Captain Crush to Batman.  The frosting is on the flakes.  If you know what I mean Batman the frosting is on the flakes.  Nudge nudge wink wink."  No reply.  "Sky captain to princess.  Sky captains callking Pink Peach Princess.  Come in Princess."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP ...captain...fuckhead."  Eric's voice was unmistakeable.

"The eagle has landed," replied Biff.

"I don't know what that means," said Eric.  "Did the thing happen that I wanted you to tell me about?  Is the target on his way?"

"Well...no."

"Then shut the fuck up."

Biff held the radio with his thumb and forefinger and dropped in in the front seat.  Cranky ass.

Sometime later Biff saw Brighton Capulet hobbling out of his apartment.  He had like a cast on one leg, a sort of crutch, and he was somehow hobbling with his dog in his arms.  And his face!  Biff laughed out loud until he remembered Eric's description of Candy's appearance.  Then Biff just felt sick to his stomach.  Maybe he was better off hungry.

Brighton secured his dog in his car.  Fucker had a Lotus Elise.  What the hell did he do to get that kind of money?  Biff waited until the guy was pulling out to start his Boss 429.  Biff grabbed the radio.  "Fucker's on his way."

"Understood."  Eric's voice sounded scary.  Made Biff never want to cross him.  Brighton drove fast.  Biff kept up.  Darkness fell.


~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Elmira Johnson was not on call for the vetinary clinic.  At least, she wasn't supposed to be, but one of her customers and call her hysterically.  It was the only reason she dragged herself out on a saturday night.  She was waiting in her car in the parking lot.  Even so, she was only giving this guy ten more minutes before she drove away and turned her phone off.

Brighton showed up.  He drove his car straight up to the front door, ignoring the parking lines entirely.  And there was a dog in the car.  Elmira sighed and got out of her car.  Actually, she only got as far as putting her hand on the door handle when she heard screeching tires.

A large cadillac veered off the road and drove straight into Brighton's car at more than twenty miles an hour, crushing the smaller car into the entrance of the building.  Elmira fished into her purse for her phone.  As she did so she glanced back up and saw a tall white male get out of the second car.  He was walking casually, like he meant to crash his car.  And he was carrying something.  Elmira froze.  That something looked like a gas can.  The man was pouring it on--into the first car.  Elmira slid down her seat as far as she could go before her knees ran into the firewall.  Then she folded her knees and slid down further, until most of her body  was curled up between the pedals and the driver's seat.

Biff parked on the side of the road, out of sight.  When he arrived at the vet clinic, Eric had apparently just finished pouring gasoline all over Brighton's car.  That was...that seemed like a little much.  Then Biff thought of Candy.

"Let me do it," he said.

"Suite yourself."  Eric handed Biff the lighter.

Biff opened the lighter.  Then he closed it again.  Then he flicked it open.  He forced himself to think of Candy, using his mental picture of her bloodied and broken body.  He lit the lighter and held it out in front of him,  grimacing and keeping his head turned with every step toward the gas-soaked vehicle.

Brighton was making a lot of noise.  Talking, or begging or something.  Maybe it was crying.  Biff closed his ears to it.

"Oh fuck no," said Eric.  Eric snatched the lighter from Biff's hand and tossed it towards the open window.  The gas vapors lit before the lighter even passed through the window.  The explosion was deafening and bathed them in a flash of scorching heat.  Eric and Biff stumbled back.

The howls of pain--both man and beast--were unmistakable, and loud.  Biff knelt on the ground with his hands over his ears.

"Time to go," said Eric.  He looked down at Biff.  Eric grabbed Biff's wrist and yanked the kid to his feet.  Biff had fifty pounds on Eric but somehow Eric didn't appear to have the disadvantage.  Eric hauled Biff to the Boss 429 and put Biff in the passenger seat.  They didn't talk until the clinic was miles behind them.

"Pull over,"  said Biff.

"Why?"

"I said pull over, man.  Pull the fuck over.  Its my fucking car, pull the fucking over."

"Alright," said Eric.

Biff spilled out of the door.  He got to his feet and stumbled away from the car.  "I can still hear him.  Oh fuck me sideways I can still hear him screaming."

Eric got out of the car.  Glanced up and down the road in both directions.

"FUUUUUCK" screamed Biff.  "How could you do that?  And the dog.  The fucking dog!"  Biff fell to his knees.

Eric looked up at the stars.  It was a pretty rural area.  Wasn't much light polution.  The sky was beautiful.  He sighed.  "Do you know what that dog did to Candy?  Brighton wasn't--"

Biff vomited.  Pizza and soft pretzel remants spilled onto the ground.  Then he vomited again.  More pizza.  More soft pretzel.  Little bits of carrots.  Biff looked at Eric.

"Don't look at me like that," said Eric.  "You knew what you were getting into.  This is why Ed never let you ride with us."

"Ed never pulled shit like that!"

"Yes he did," said Eric.  "He did worse."

Biff screamed and launched himself at Eric.  There was a punch.  Eric dodged out of the way and let Biff's momentum take him into the car.  Biff grunted and came back swinging again.  Eric blocked.  Eric danced.  Biff tripped.  He was on the ground again.

"You never knew what we were like.  Ed never wanted you to know.  Do you get it now?  Charlie's Angels?  The Angels part was a joke.  It was a double joke;  we weren't hot girls, and we sure as hell weren't Angels.

"No," said Biff.

"Yeah buddy.  And I'm sorry you had to hear it from me.  I wish you'd heard it sooner though.  A lot sooner.  You can't really love someone when you idolize them."

"Ed was a fucking hero."  Biff felt how tears cloud up his vision.  He bent his will towards not throwing up again.


"No.  He wasn't.  In real life when you start doing this you're not a hero.  You're never a hero.  You're just a vigilante.  And in real life, vigilantes die young."

Biff didn't answer.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~


John Capulet was in a conference room when he was told what his soon-to-be-dead wife's new fling had done to Brighton.  Not that there was any proof.  That was small consolation--that the police were unlikely to get in his way.  He threw his phone against a large glass window mid call.  He turned to his personal assistant, a wiry man who was the white collar equivalent of a henchman.

"Give me your phone," said John.  The assistant did so with out hesistation.  John threw that one into the wall also.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Biff was chopping wood.  He had been chopping wood all night.  It was all he could do.  Couldn't eat.  Couldn't sleep.  Couldn't fuck.  Couldn't even think about fucking.  So he just chopped wood.  He had a whole tree to go through, and he started burning it as he cut it.  The wood fire was completely different from the hellfire they'd started at the clinic.  He got a third of the tree chopped before he even needed his first break at 4 am.

Sauda was sitting on the floor, inside, watching Biff through the glass paneled door.  Eric joined her with two mugs of hot chocolate.

"He's a sweet kid," said Sauda.  "Childish and chauvanistic, but sweet, somehow.  I don't like him getting involved."

"It was his girlfriend.  Besides:  too late."

"No."  Sauda took a sip of her hot chocolate.  "Its not too late.  I'm going to end this," she said.

"Saudade...."

"His family--my family, I guess--they won't leave a single stone unturned."

"They still won't find you."

"Yes, well.  They'll burn down every house in this neighboorhood.  In every neighboorhood.  I won't have that on my conscience."

Eric rolled his eyes.  "So lets go on the run.  They'll know you left.  You can divorce him from the road if you need to."

"Eric I can't."

"Why not?"

"I already made a deal with John's brother.  They call him the dragon.  I'm going to meet him in the white forest tomorrow evening and sign my way out of this.  He said I can give up my half of the--"

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," said Eric.  "You know they are just going to kill you."

"So be it."

"What the fuck, Sauda?  Seriously.  What the fuck?"

"This is my fight.  I'm going to end it."

"No.  You're not."

"Says who?  It's my fight.  You shouldn't even be involved.  What do you care?  They probably won't kill me."

"I love you," said Eric.  "That's why I care."

Sauda sipped her hot chocolate and looked away.  "Ugh, this is too sweet."  She set the mug down beside her.

"Yeah, I said it.  I love you," said Eric.  "You probably wish you didn't hear that."

"Eric..." Sauda looked like she wanted to say something but instead she just held her head.

"Yeah, I know.  Not a good time.  Thing is, I don't think it'll ever be a good time.  I think this is going to drag on.  I think there's always been some reason you thought we shouldn't get together.  Different schools, different colleges, then I lived too far away, and then I lived too close.  I don't think you want to ever be with me--I think you just like having someone you were into once.  You want to hang out and think bittersweet thoughts about what could have been.  Well I call bullshit."

"Stop," said Sauda, "just stop.  If you care about me as a friend, you'll let me end this."

"I don't care about you as a friend."

"What?" said Sauda.  Her pupils were dialating.


"Sauda we can be strangers on Earth, or enemies in Hell, but I will never, ever be your friend.  Your self-righteous suicide isn't going to change that.  Isn't going to make me finally have you.  So whats the point?  If one of us is going to get killed by the dragon, well then I volunteer.  You might as well stay on and make somebody happy."


Sauda clamped her hand on his forearm.  "What the fuck did you put in my drink?"


Eric smiled.  "Sweet dreams, sunshine.  I'll call you."  In answer to her question, that time it was a sedative.

Sauda collapsed in his arms.  Eric looked up to see Biff standing in the open doorway.

/* note: the other one gets left somewhere interesting.  also possibly shift this scene to a lighthouse. */

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

The white forest was so named for a relatively flat place south of the river, full of flowerless trees that were perpetually dying a slow death.  At one point they had been a beautiful orchard, but a blight had scarred the land, and now there were little more than white husks.  It was an eerie place; felt like a graveyard.  Eric loved it.  He and Sauda had played there as kids.

Now his grey Hayabusa screamed through the hills.  There was no time to waste;  the dragon was on his way to kill Sauda.  Eric needed enough time to set up on him.  Eric arrived at the white trees and stashed his bike.

He was running.  Past half a dozen trees before even thinking about taking his helmet off.  He never got a chance.

Pain exploded in the back of his head.  Pieces of his helmet fell away.  The gunshot echoed.  Eric dropped to the ground and crawled to the nearest tree.  He had a rough idea where the shooter was.  Fucking dragon dipshit.  Eric wasn't sure if whichever of the Capulets was up there on the high ground getting his gun off, but he did know one thing.

Eric was fucked.

[fiction] When Angels Deserve to Die - Act 3

Act III:  Gasoline

Biff heard plastic ruffling.  He looked up from his center-stage sprawl on the floor to see Saudade holding a tux in a dry cleaning bag.

"It seems James Bond Jr. needs a little help escaping," she said.

"Lets go dude.  I bailed you out."  Eric was standing behind her.  "High Society Night waits for no one!"

Biff looked at the reigning baliff:  Craig Capulet.  Craig was too busy shooting eye-daggers at Eric.

Eric was the last to leave the tiny station.  Craig intercepted him and shoved him against the wall.

"What fuck are you doing with my cousin's wife?" demanded Craig.

"Way I hear it she won't be his wife for long," said Eric.

"My family will end you.  You'll end up just like your two friends."

Eric shoved Craig so hard the man fell backwards onto a desk.

"The last time one of you boneheads tried to touch us 30 people died," said Eric.  "I promise you, you're gonna run out of family members."  Eric left.

"You're making a mistake!"

"You are a mistake!"

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

High Society Night was a night of low stakes poker game between people that sucked at poker and could barely afford the tuxes and dresses they wore.  It was, by far, the favorite, beating out Toga Night and even School Girl Night.

Eric and Sauda made quite the entrance.  Eric knew how to wear a tux, and Sauda, in her sparkly dress and high heels, looked like a Bond girl had just walked out of a movie.

Biff's good friend Jason jumped out of his seat.  "Is that?  For serious?"

Biff touched Jason's shoulder.  "Yeah, calm down.  Don't pee on his leg, alright?  And don't mention Ed."

Jason looked a Biff.  "Its been like 5 years bro."

Biff shrugged.  "Still too soon."

Jason looked back at Eric and sat back down.

Biff said, "Ladies and Gentleman, meet Eric and his date, Soda..."

"Sauda," corrected Eric.

"Yeah.  Eric and Soda, meet the ladies," Biff gestured at the girls,  "the gentleman," Biff pointed at some dudes, "and also Jason."

Jason gave Biff the finger.  Eric pulled Sauda's chair out from under her.  Biff slapped Candy's ass when she came by with a platter of drinks.  Sauda glared at Biff.

A few sips of whisky, and that's where the blur starts.  There isn't much after that, except for one tiny bit:

"You shouldn't treat girls like that," said Sauda.

"Like what?   Huh?"  said Biff.

Sauda stared at him with her arms crossed, and decided to give up.  "Tell me about this Ed guy."

Biff nearly choked.  "'This Ed guy?'  Are you serious?"

Sauda shrugged.

"You ever hear of Charlie's Angels?"  Biff asked.

"Yes."

"No you haven't.  Not like this.  Ed, Eric, and Charlie were the most badass, awesomest, fucking righteous bros ever.  They called themselves Charlie's Angel's, but Ed was in charge.  Ed was my brother."

"Something happened."

"Did you fuck Eric yet?  I mean like, you know he's dying for it," said Biff.

Sauda slapped him.  "Stay on topic!  What the hell happened to them?"

Biff appeared to sober up for just a moment.  "He got gunned down.  Fucking...gunned down by a bunch of pigs.  The double fist, man, that's what they mean when they talk about pulling an Ed."  Biff looked around for another drink.

"Capulets?"

"Cops.  There weren't all Capulets.  Only the worst ones."  Biff eyes made it clear what he meant.  Suddenly he felt a hand grip his arm.  He knew that grip.  It was the only grip in the world that could inspire fear in him.

"You've said enough," said Eric.  "Go fuck a 22-year-old."

"Gladly," muttered Biff.  Then walked off calling:  "Candeeeeee!"

~ . ~ . ~ . ~


Sometime after that Biff woke with a hangover.  Hangovers were like the sinking feeling he always felt after sex, but everywhere, and a million times worse.  He was busy moaning to himself in the diner when Eric set a Mountain Dew in front of him.

"Drink that," said Eric, "ancient hangover remedy."

"They didn't have mountain dews in ancient," mumbled Biff.

"How much vodka did you drink?" asked Sauda.

"Enough," said Eric.

"Hey!"  Biff looked up at the waitress that just appeared.  "Where is Candy?"

"I'm Monica I'll be your server tod-"

"This is Candy's booth," interrupted Biff,  "where the fuck is Candy?  She said she had to work."

Monica rolled her eyes.  "She was supposed to, and since that tramp didn't show up I have to cover both her tables and mine so you just want to order some fucking pancakes and let me on with it?"

Eric got a bit of a strange expression on his face.  "I need to check on something."  Biff and Sauda watched him ride his Hayabusa out of the parking lot.

Less than an hour later, they saw the sportbike on the tv waltzing with five cop cars on the highway.

"Let's go," said Biff.

"Eric doesn't want you involved in this," said Sauda.  But she looked at Biff when she said it and in his face she saw something other than reason.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Eric was smart enough to park the bike out of sight but the danger signs had him too stoked to be anymore careful than listening for a second before he busted the door down.

"I've been expecting you," said a man on the couch.  He sounded like the kind of person who usually gave orders and rarely got his hands dirty.

"Which one are you again?  There are so many I get confused," said Eric.

"Brighton.  Brighton Capulet.  I forgive you.  We've never met before."

"Sounds like a good first-and-last."

"Not for me.  This will be your last, yet.  You'll be dead by the end of the week.  If that."

"All this over a divorce?" asked Eric.

"That bitch has no right-"

"Your family has no right.  Not to take lives."

"Your one to talk," said Brighton.

"You have a shitty family."

"My family--you are completely ignorant regarding my family, regarding the the destruction my family with reign down upon you.  You and your friends."

"I don't have any friends."

"You have that little kid that follows you around.  Biff?  And his girlfriend?  Oh his girlfriend was nice."

Eric didn't say anything.  He just felt a shiver run down his back, and coldness in every muscle.  This was not the road he wanted to go down.

Brighton smiled.  "The closet."

Eric didn't move.  Didn't want to move.  He want to be any other place than in front of that closet, sliding the door open, seeing the precious girl fall out to the floor.  But he did.  There was little clothing left on her, just a bra handing by the straps from one shoulder and some shreds of her jeans around one ankle.  There were bloodly circles around her wrists, and bruises all up and down her limbs.  More blood and bruises on the rest of her body, by Eric couldn't look.  The smell of sex, piss and vomit was turning his empty stomach.

"Don't bother, I made sure she's dead.  I also called it in just as you arrived."  Brighton was trying to torture him.  Went on saying something about even letting the dog have a turn before the end.  He probably said, or would have eventually said, something about Eric bringing Saudade to a certain place and time.  But all Eric could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears.  He felt something hot in his limbs.  It was like the warmth of lust, only searing and painful.  Truth be told, he didn't really hear a word Brighton said after that.

Brighton was expecting physical confrontation.  He was no fool.  He was wearing brass knuckles inside his clasped hands.  But he never got to use them.  In fast the last thing he saw clearly was Eric's outstretched hand, and the white power in his face, blinding him.  No fair.  No fair indeed.

Eric slammed his helmet into Brighton's head.  Brighton landed on the floor.  Eric swung hard and slung his helmet into one knee, and then the other.  On the second knee the helmet smashed.  Brighton cried out.  Eric was only getting started, but then caught a glimps of the cop cars collecting outside.

For a brief instant Eric remembered the last time he was at the mercy of law enforcement, down on his knees on the hot asphalt one summer day, irons holding his wrists behind his back while he watched his best friend, his platonic soulmate, Ed.  Ed was out of the car, surrounded by a dozen cops all pointing sidearms and shotguns and rifles at him, all screaming their lungs out to tell him to get on the ground with his hands on his head.  Ed's last action as a human being was to raise both hands and give them the finger with each.

Eric shook his head.  He would made no stand.  Through the bedroom, breaking glass, on the bike.  No helmet.  Aviators in his shirt.

He had the advantage on the twistys, but suburbia has a lot of natural hazards like minivans and traffic lights with cars actively crossing.  Eric filtered but he was still nearly tackled, twice.  Finally he busted up to the highway.

If he stayed on the highway in any one direction, the cops would radio ahead and gain a huge advantage.  Standard Charlie's Angel protocol prescribed staying in the area by switching highways.  Unfortunately, any prolonged chase would end in his capture;  it was broad daylight and his gas tank was no match for theirs.

Eric knew how this would end.  They would run him down, until he ran out of gas or simply made a mistake like everyone else.  If he didn't high side and die, he would be running on foot, and they'd sick a dog on him.

Eric weaved through the traffic, but the traffic was parting behind him like the red sea.  He stepped up the pace as much as he dared, weaving harder, taking the shoulder.  There was too much fucking traffic!  He switched highways twice.  They'd have a chopper on him soon, if there wasn't one already.  Time was running out.

He saw a cop car spin out behind him.  Strange thing for a trained police officer to lose control of a vehicle while driving down a highway in a straight line, but Eric didn't look miracle horses in the mouth.  Than a second cop car.  Double miracle!

Then his gas light went on.

Eric was fortunate enough to have a bike with a gas light and a reserve tap that activated automatically, saving him from the need to reach down somewhere and twist a knob to keep riding.  That kind of detail can really save you when you're running from the law.  Unfortunately it didn't save Eric.

Eric spotted a break in the median.  Driving against traffic was absolutely insane, but it seemed like his only break.  He needed to stay alive and out of jail.  Someone had to respond for Candy.  Someone had to kill the Capulets.  All of them.  Someone had to save Saudade.

The shift to the grass median was more than Eric was prepared for.  His entry speed was way off.  There was a moment when thought he might save it, but the next moment he was eating dirt with his bike sliding away from him.

He looked up, expecting to see guns pointed in his direction, brown uniforms running, the snarling snout of a canine.  But instead all he saw was Sauda, arms out.

Sauda yanked Eric into Biff's car.  First by the arms, then pulling on his shirt, then his ass, and by the time she was busy folding his legs in to get the door shut, Biff was already crossing 80.  Against traffic.

"Holy shit," said Sauda.

"Don't worry. I'm awesome at this," said Biff.  He sounded like a little kid bragging about a video game.  So innocent.  Eric smiled.

"Did you take your plate off?" Eric asked.

"Yes sir," said Biff.  "And I have a hand grenade in the glove box."

"Toss it," said Eric.  Eric steadied himself against the effects of a particularly hard swerve.  "Those were a terrible idea.  Never make a stand.  Just disappear.  Just disappear like a ninja."

Biff, when he could spared a quarter second, glanced in the rearview mirror.  Eric looked tired.

"Where's Candy?" Biff asked.

[fiction] When Angels Deserve to Die - Act 2

Act II:  Holy Water

Saudade Capulet felt the sunlight on her naked body and rose to take a shower.  A complex and asymmetrical celtic knot stretched from her right shoulder down to the sheet she absentmindedly held near her waist.  She was not one for modesty, but lately even the bedrooms had felt unsafe.  Outside, it was midmorning on the beach.  The sun was bright and the gray clouds were in full retreat, giving way to puffy white ones.  To most it was a serene landscape with a bit of ocean wind.  Only the trained eye would notice the speed with which the cumulous clouds grew.

/* Note:  Biff calls her soda */


A short time later the butler opened the front door and welcomed inside a man named Eric.  Eric seemed, to the butler, tall and muscular enough but a bit too thin.  A poor contestant against his employer.

The butler showed him to the indoor pool.  The butler watched Eric watching Saudade get out of the pool.  The effect of her athletic body on the young man was obvious.  The butler clenched his jaw and forcefully held his facial expression calm, and devoid of any sign of disgust.  He noticed that Sauda was still wearing her wedding ring.  He didn't know if that made her more or less of a coward, and decided that he didn't want to decide which.   He excused himself on the premise of fetching tea.  Sauda called after him that tea was not necessary and he ignored her.

As soon as he was in the kitchen and out of Sauda's hearing, he dialed her husband.

"Is the visitor a man or woman?"  said a voice on the other line.

"The caller is a young gentleman named..."

"Blue."

"...Eric."  The butler looked down on the stove, at two teapots side by side.  One was green and one was blue.

"The blue teapot," said Sauda's husband.

The butler touched the handle of the indicated vessel with his hand, but did not reply immediately.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes I did."

"I have the utmost faith in you, but you mustn't delay.  Take the blue teapot and serve it now."

"Sir-"

"Now."

The butler swallowed.  "Consider it done."

"My good man.  There is a check and a bottle of scotch waiting for you at the office."  The call ended.

The butler placed the blue teapot on a tray and added the rest of the items:  cups, spoons, sugar, tiny little crackers.  His hands were shaking but they steadied as he walked.  Righteous anger flooded his heart.

Sauda and Eric were sitting at a table by the pool.  It was his fortune that the table should be so close.  He set the tea down and watched them sip it.  Then Sauda did something strange:  a moment after taking her first sip she got up and leapt into the pool.  The butler stole a glance at her cup.  It was empty enough.  All the better if she wanted to leap to her death and save him the trouble of throwing her in.  Her adulterous guest was not as easy.

"Ugh!"  Eric set the cup down.  "That is awful.  Just awful.  Oh.  Sorry mate.  No, its great tea and all that.  Its just too..." he paused for a second, eyelids fluttering. "...Rich."  Then he slumped over and out of his chair.

The butler frowned and rolled his sleeves up.  He also put on a pair of latex gloves.  The final snap of the glove slipping on his hand echoed in the tiled room.  He was just bending down to attend to his second victim when he was impaled by a crossbow bolt.  The impact was enough to knock him back on his heels and one palm.  He looked at the water.  At first he didn't see anything.

Sauda rose out of the water in the shallow end and brought a large crossbow up to her chest, one that the butler had never seen before.

"I forgot that water refracts light.  That bolt would've been in your heart.  Like this one."  She fired another bolt.  It landed on target and put the butler onto his back.  Sauda tossed the crossbow back in the water.

Eric was out cold.  Sauda glanced around.  The butler, Andrew, had been the only member of the staff that she thought she could trust.  Though she was wrong, he was dead or dying and everyone else had the day off.  She bent down, smiling to herself, and kissed Eric on the lips.  She could taste more of the ultra sweet poison.  He mumbled something.  It was probably just a sedative, but better safe than sorry.  She pried with mouth open and stuck a finger down his throat until he vomited.

Eric woke up with his head cradled in Sauda's scantily-clad lap, with a horrible taste in his mouth and a trail of vomit running down her leg.

"Uggghhhhhh.  ghhhhhhhhhhhhh!   hhhhghhh...."

"Shh.  You're ok."  Sauda was rubbing his back.  Eric closed his eyes.  Totally worth it.  In front of him, a man he barely knew was floating face down in the pool.

"Whaaat happen?"

"My husband..."  Sauda paused to take the ring from her left hand.  "...I caught my husband with some trailer trash tramp bent over the couch in the living room.  If I divorce him, I get half.  If he kills me first, I get nothing."

"Sounds like the short end of the stick.  Or...end of the short stick, or something."

"The important thing is I should have signed a prenup.  Don't ever think you don't need a prenup just because you're in love with the guy."  As if to add to her point, Sauda flipped the ring into the air like it was a coin.  It ploped into the water with a tiny splash and sank immediately.

Eric closed his eyes.  Her lap was warm.  He was happy.


~ . ~ . ~

Biff found a decent spot on the side of the road to pull over.  The cop behind him rode his ass all the way, like he was eager or something.


Biff watched the door of the police cruiser open in the driver's side mirror of his Boss 429.  Shit.  It was Craig.  Craig Capulet.  Son of a bitch.  Craig was wearing aviators and chewing gum with his mouth open.  He was also swaggering like a ten-year-old's impression of a cowboy.


"You know why I pulled you over sir?"  Craig grinned at him.


"No I do not."  Biff kept his voice even, but firm.


"You think I didn't see you at that bonfire last night?"


A trick question.  Biff frowned in Craig's face and turned away, looking straight ahead.


"Huh?  I didn't hear you."


Biff trained his eyes on the distant landscape.  It was awkward, but there are some questions you just can't respond to.

"Step out of the car sir."

Biff obeyed.

"Hands on the hood.  Yeah uh huh.  Now do you have any needles in your pockets?"  Craig was patting him down.

"No."

"Alrighty then.  Keep your hands on that hood until I tell you to move them."

Biff waited.  Nothing seemed to be happening.  Then pain surged from his neck to his toes and his legs failed him.  Taser.  From behind.

"I didn't say move yer hands," said Craig.  He bend down and tased Biff again.  And then three more times.

Biff would never forget the feeling of the hot gravel against his cheek.  It was the small, weird hard stuff, the kind that seemed sort of glued down to the shoulder of the road to keep it rough in case cars needed to stop in a hurry.  Biff decided on that day, as steel was clamping down on his wrists behind him, that he would never again get pulled over by a cop.

/* note:  Eric gets Biff's car back and doesn't tell him how */

[fiction] When Angels Deserve to Die - Act 1

Act I:  The Holy Hayabusa

/* I am afraid I must begin with an apology.  I lack the words to properly describe the opening scene.  Its not tricky.  I just...lack the literary skills to tell the story the way it deserves to be told.  Oh the imagery!  The sharp gothic points arch through this story like literary flying buttresses, ...and then something about a gargoyle wearing a corset.  Oh dear me I can't even salvage the introduction.  Well, on with it then.  I suppose I'll just tell you what I know.

We start off with a Boss 429 parked outside a cathedral.  Not actually a cathedral--really just a small church with fake gothic trimmings--but everyone called it "the cathedral" so that's how I'll tell it.  Anyway the lights were on--both the car and the cathedral.  The engine was running.  Both Biff and his date, a girl who insisted very strongly that her name really was candy, were in the front seat impatiently waiting -- this sucks -- TODO: remove this block */

"Does this guy seriously live in a church?"

"Is your name really Candy?  And its a Cathedral."

"Yes Biff!  Come one how many times do I have to tell y--"

"Lets roll."

Biff opened his door and stood up.  Light was spilling out of large, arched doors and over the hood of his Boss 429.  The glossy black finish reflected the amber glow in such a way as to give the impression that the air scoop was slurping up the light.

Candy got out of the car as well and pressed her legs together while using both hands to straighten her gold miniskirt.  Biff loved it when girls did that.

Biff opened the door and held it open for Candy.

"We're not seriously going in there, are we?  Churches creep me out."

"Cathedral."

"What-ever.  I'm not going in.  I thought you said we were going to a bonfi-irrrre."  Candry drew out the last syllable like a 5 year old.

"We are.  Wait for me in the car."  Biff slapped her ass.  She gave him a look full of daggers but Biff know she liked it.  "He's probably just stoned."  Candy stuck her tongue out at him and slammed the door shut.

The cathedral doors were large and heavy and smelled like wood.  There were more smells waiting for him inside:  old, dusty velvet.  Old wood.  Old everything.  It was the kind of place with old-ass carpet everywhere and kneelers in the pews, and everything was made of wood, but not tastefully.  The kind of place where people met based on their common belief that things like the electric guitar were evil.  People who liked to dress up and get told what to do and slowly sing old organ songs with 4 or 5 interchangeable verse/chorus lines.

Biff saw his quarry up front.  Actually, first he saw a Hayabusa sportbike next to the altar.  Then he saw Eric.  He yelled his customary greeting:  "Eric!  Lets roll!"  No response.  Biff started walking up to the front.  He was no fan of churches, but felt nothing but complete indiference towards the buildings.  The gargoyles kinda looked cool.  He thought about the feasibility of attaching a bottle opener inside their mouths and wondered if Eric would sell him one.

Pages crinkled under his feet.  Thin pages, tiny text, some kind of ugly red paste on the edges.  They were everywhere.

"What the fuck are you doing?" asked Biff.

"Hey.  Oh.  Hey!" said Eric, "just getting ready to move in.  You know.  Gotta get the place ready--oh those.  Yeah,  I thought I should sit down and read one of these, you know?"

"Read what?"

"The bibles.  I don't know why they didn't take them.  Anyway I thought I should read one just to give a proper send off.  You know.  Sort of close this chapter on the place.  And I was going to keep one somewhere, like with a knife stuck in it.  Or a Katana."

/* that paragraph completes the requirement of having both a sportbike and a katana in the story */

"You're ripping them apart!  And thats not good for a Katana."  Biff had reached the front, where Eric was laying on his back with his legs up along the podium.  There was an unlit joint in his mouth.

As if for an answer, Eric ripped a handful. "Yeah, well, these guys here they added all this extra shit.  Except--damnit!--these books keep breaking when I rip all the pages out."

Biff looked around him.  The guy must have ruined fifty or more books that way.  "Can't you just get the kind you need from 7-11?"

Eric looked at him.  "I don't think 7-11 sells bibles."

"Walmart?"

"No, they'd probably censor the good parts," said Ed, "like the part with Solomon's girlfriend and the deer."

Biff's sudden interest in the ancient text was obvious.

"Anyway.  I got a call from Saud."

"Oh no."

"Its strange...." droned Eric.

"Fuck me sideways," thought Biff.

"After all the times I've texted or emailed her and she never responds, all of a sudden she called me."

"I wouldn't count on it bro," said Biff

"But why would she do that?  I mean, seriously, right?  What was the line from Swingers?  They never call until...they...its only when you stop calling...."

"You hungry bro?" interrupted Biff.

"Fuck yes.  I'm fucking starved, man."

"I have Candy in the car."

Eric shot up.  "I could totally eat some candy right now."  Eric looked around him, studying the floor covered in loose sheets of cheaply-printed religious text.  Biff wondered if the ink would rub onto Candy's back.  He also thought about Candy getting eaten and had to adjust his jeans slightly.  He also noticed Eric had avoided eye contact since standing up.  That was another one of his...traits.  Traits that included ripping up bibles and walking on only black tiles.

Had Eric been any other man, Biff wouldn't bother hanging out with him.  But Eric was Eric.  The last of the Titans.  And Eric was always invited.

/* Notes: Act II could possibly be called "Flames of Desire" and Act V ...idk. 

 * Eric is known as "one of the three"
 *
 * scratch that:  Act II is "holy water" 
 *  -- swimming pool, poison tea, crossbow. Saudade.  */

My long winded opinions on the subtle differences between indenting computer code with spaces verses tabs.

In the beginning, Eru Illuvatar created middle earth, and the vala, and programming, and all of the vala (basically angels) used tabs to indent their code, and the world was whole and perfect.  Then Melkor, being a complete fuckhead, switched to using 4 or 8 spaces, and he sought to wholly corrupt the world with his stupid ass programming style.  And then came Sauron, who tried to force the world to break lines unecessarily, and the rest is history.

This past week I was investigating a nasty bug that 4 teams were unwilling to fix.  I attempted to "fix the glitch" in our system and make it someone elses problem.  I then discovered that wasn't possible.  Then my boss explained that it was unacceptable for me to take an entire day to review our undocummented, backwards ass codebase and find out the fix wouldn't work.  We have thousands of lines of undocummented java code that is wired together at runtime with a poorly-designed framework that was not used as intended, and he told me he expects me to understand every use case.  I was about to sarcastically ask if he thought I should go stay up all night for a week figuring out what this shit does, and held my tongue because I was fairly certain he'd say yes.  I actually have to hold my tongue every time he criticizes me, because the thing I desperately want to say would dig the hole deeper.  My new favorite word is "ok."  Our 1on1 meetings have become exactly like traffic stops with a police officer.

He told me directly that the reason we try to hire the brightest engineers is so that we can force them to work on shitty, uncodumented code. (I'm not even kidding.  He basically said that, and thats not the first time I've heard it.).  The buzzword we use to refer to the fact that documentation sucks and no one knows how the system works is "Tribal Knowledge."  The message I am getting is that there are no teams around here that get to write good code that doesn't give you a headache to read.  And they say there's no one with an on call responsibility that doesn't suck ass.  Are you really confused why your company is no longer in the top 50 by employee satisfaction?

Yeah, uh...forget all of that.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Just filler.  From a post that uh...never made it.  I have a few of those lying around.  And I'm trying to talk like my new favorite character from portal 2, so, feel free to leave now.  I mean, its just an option.  You can stay.  Or go.  There's really no reason to keep reading.  I just wanted to share some lyrics that I mangled, and I didn't want any of the girls I know reading this, so I thought a bit of computer shit would turn them off.  Not that girls can't program, no...its just that none of the girls that have ever read this blog can, except Iris, and I don't think she reads this any more.  Its just...hard, you know?  I don't know which girls read this, and I can't guess which ones do and/or might think these lyrics are about them**, and they really aren't about anyone in particular.  So I just thought I'd kind of avoid that whole potential situation there.  Also the indented stuff is filler, so you should assume it was never true and that I would never seriously write something like that.  Again, you don't have to read this--ok I see you are still reading this.  Ummmm....  Fine.  That's fine then.  Do what you like.

the real title of this post:

[lyrics]  A Fabulous Lie

Now and then I think of when we were together
but it was only ever in my head
told myself you were right for me
a fabulous lie cause it was just a dream

but you don't ever have to know
if I act the part you think its true cause in the end we are nothing
I'll find someone else to love
so when you treat me like a stranger it won't feel so rough

Now and then I see you and let my guard down for a second
but you never notice cause its never what you want to see
and I don't wanna live that way
remembering every word you say

but you don't ever have to know
if I act the part you think its true cause in the end we are nothing
I'll find someone else to love
so when you treat me like a stranger it won't feel so rough

Now and then I think of the last time that we'll have coffee
its a bit hard to believe but i know its just a matter of time
we'll sit and stare and share our tales
I'll be bored by every word you say


but you don't ever have to know
if I act the part you think its true cause in the end we are nothing
I'll find someone else to love
so when you treat me like a stranger it won't feel so rough



Still can't write my own music.  This is from Somebody That I Used to Know by a band I've never heard of.  I only know about it because Allison posted it on facebook or something.  At first I hated the song because the music video is largely of this guys face, which I don't like to look at, especially when he opens his mouth.  But I heard the song in my head later.  And now I wrote all that shit up there.  Also I just watched "From Prada to Nada" with my family which is a movie I did not choose but did consent to and which is based on this oldass chick novel called "Sense and Sensibility" that I only ever read because my strategy for meeting girls in philly included book clubs.  Only sounds weird when you write it down...anyway, get this:  the movie is way better than the book.  Wayyyyyy better.  The book was so awful I didn't realize it was supposed to be a sort of comedy until years later when someone told me it was supposed to be funny.  I thought everyone in the Victorian era just had a stick up their ass.

Its kind of sad that I appear to be, literally, capable of only telling one kind of romance story, and it is not any of the kinds that make money.  This is sad because I think there is a lot of money in romance...something about the volume of material that the readers go through compared to other genres...but I am incapable of writing a story where two people actually love each other, and one of them isn't dead.  Well lets give it a go.  Bob and Alice...wait, no, those names are from security engineering trope that was expanded by xkcd to imply that Bob was having an affair with...not Alice.  Or something.  Anyway.  Jack and Jill...wait weren't they siblings?  Not into that.  Ok.  Name generator time.  Doreen and Dorothy.  Ok....hot, but I'm not qualified to write that story, and if I did write it, I would have to censor every sentence before posting it.  Trying a different generator...Hazposba, and Opilan.  I'm not using that name generator again.  Evan sent me a name generator script once, but unfortunately my version of "backing up" is to spend more than $50 on an external enclosure for the system drive of my broken computer and leave it sitting on my desk, still disconnected.  So Opilan is the girl, obviously.

Opilan grew up in a great metropolis called Bucktown that was exactly like Gotham city but cooler, and sadly without batman.  Then, there is a sportbike and a katana* blade in the plot for some plausible reason, because most stories I write have a sportbike and/or a katana...preferably both.  Then she met...fucking...Hazposba, whose parents must have hated him.  Good ole' Haz became a sellsword and disappeared for a while.  Then he discovered that no one wanted his sword and ended up drunk and disorderly in a back alley of bucktown.  He saves Opilan from some feral velociraptors but doesn't remember it when he wakes up in her bathtub without his pants because he blacked out.  Then Haz and Opilan get chased through Europe by the CIA and make out just after dying her hair.  And then they, uh, love each other or something, and Opilan doesn't die.

Ok I wrote a romance story without a tragic ending or sex scenes.  You can tell that one to your kids.



*depending on who is in the bar with you, or who edited wikipedia last, the katana is either a specific type of ceremonial Japanese sword that may or may not have ever been used in battle, OR an entire category of Japanese backswords and therefore just a generic word, in the same way that a sedan is a kind of car.  I don't really know for sure...I just know that katanas are awesome, they have something do to with Japan, and if you had a sharp one, the police would likely arrest you regardless of whether or not you were actually breaking the law.

**upon a proofread (not a thorough proofread, mind you...dont get your hopes up) I realized how sad this sounds.  You probably wouldn't have realized this if i hadn't pointed this out.

[lyrics] I Remember You

Hello, Hello

Hello Mellow Fellow

My favorite flavor, the kind I savor

Microwaved leftovers from back when the world made sense

Here to stand guard over withering loyalty

I remember, I remember, oh I remember you

September embers enflame, the wicked ways

never held true.




I can't deny, what we said

I just really, hate how it tastes

Some kind of lie, underneath

Sometimes I wake up and wonder



Hello, Hello

Hello Jello Can You

Tell me why I can't see anything

The lamp still burns but the Spirit hides and Justice cries

Ashes in one cup and poison in the right

I remember, I remember, oh I remember you

Chicken chiseled grins, and fake wins, hear the wind

snap your wings.



I can't deny, what we said

I just really, hate how it tastes

Some kind of lie, underneath

Sometimes I wake up and wonder

The Quest for Cheap, Quicky, Easy, Healthy Lunches made of Food that Lasts for Weeks

I just realized my problem with making my own food:  I dislike anything that takes longer to make than it does to eat, and when I'm hungry, I eat fast.

Its not a laziness thing.  Its just some kind of sensation that a longer preparation time is wrong.  Incorrect.  Kind of like when you start your motorcycle and wait ten minutes for it to warm up in order to drive to a 7-11 that is only five minutes away by foot.  That kind of incorrect.

I've also noticed that nearly every recipe I find involves chicken.  I'm not sure why.  Chicken, being a meat, is inconvenient because it can't sit around in your fridge for long.  It should be reserved for special occasions when I am willing to spend more than 5 minutes in my kitchen!  Not only that, but its a more porous meat than steak, meaning more effort must be made in order to cook it safetly.  Why is everyone putting chicken in their recipes?  I don't want to walk all the way to a store, stand in line to buy some chicken, walk all the way back, and then cook it, and then start preparing my "quick lunch" recipe from the internet.  This is not sustainable.  Maybe if I grew chickens in my apartment, and I could just kind of fling a butchers knife into the living room from my computer chair...idk.  I don't know anything about butcherology.

Here's my new plan:  vegetarian meals.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I am, and will always be, vehemently opposed to the idea that eating meat is bad because of something about "oh the poor animals."  In fact, even treating animals ethically and not torturing them makes me uneasy, because it seems like only a slippery slope and short fall until I can't eat bacon anymore.  However.  Some people are vegetarians because of some of the awful things done* in commercial farming, or because they realize that a growing population that eats cows, which themselves must eat plants, requires exponentially more energy than a population that skips the middleman and goes right to the plants.  I firmly support this idea, so long as I can still eat bacon whenever I want.

So it is with trepidation that I consider behavior that might possibly support the vegetarian's cause.  Unfortunately, vegetarians eat some pretty weird shit.  Like who ever made a plant out of eggs?  That sounds like some kind of evil Batman henchman.

Here's a list of things that sound weird, which I never want to try:

Hummus
Eggplant
hummus
chick peas?
gross ass goo--looks like poop from a cancerous pidgeon that caught the plauge--sometimes called hummus
the reason hummus appears in this list so many times is because I actually did try it once.

Ok I don't actually have a long list...I actually just wrote this entire post in order to amuse myself while searching for vegetarian lunches.  I think I found one:

Unstuffed Peppers.  Basically you use the black arts of necromancy to bring a stuffed pepper back to life and then eat it.


By the way...cooking something in the fucking oven is, BY DEFINITION, NOT quick and easy.  Its the fucking oven.  There is no cooking appliance more heavyweight than the oven.  The only way a recipe could be more work, at least by appliance class, would be maybe some kind of fire roast pit, or if you included smoking your own meat.  Note that jello doesn't count because you don't preheat the fridge.


Also, why are vegetarians/vegans so obsessed with recreating the foods they left behind?  If you really want a burger that bad, just eat a fucking burger.  Every time you make a "vegan pizza" or a "vegetarian burger" or a "fake chicken salad" you are basically reminding yourself that other people have it better.  Other people are getting the real thing.  Kind of like when you try to play windows games on linux**.


Food for thought:

The second of two serious girlfriends that I've had in my life once told me that the reason motorcycles should not do the things she didn't like was because, as a driver of a car, she might accidentally hit them and feel bad.

That is exactly like saying that vegans shouldn't be vegans at lunch time, because I might not notice that the vegan pizza is missing until the delivery guy leaves, which would make me feel bad.






*fuck Monsanto

**fuck you Microsoft

High Gear

Fun fact:  I am absolutely horrible with names.  For serious.  I was on my way to meet this manager of another team for coffee.   I get halfway to the elevator and realize I don't know his name, because people's names are seriously not something I remember.  I walk back to my desk just to look at his name.  Got it.  Bingo.  Halfway to starbucks I realize I've forgotten his name again.  Its like there is some block in my head regarding names.  It would make sense if this only happened with guys...my tendendancy to not think about or notice men has been exhaustively documented (probably too much) by yours truly.  It even happens with girls.  I just forget their names!  Even after meeting them!  I don't know whats wrong with my brain.

Slightly less fun fact:  A female friend that (I don't want to make out with because her hair is cut like a boy's but I would never tell her that and whom) I go dancing with...whom I would call one of "my salsa girls" so long as she never hears me say that...told me she had signed up for okcupid, as if that is a big deal.  She's pretty bitchy; she'll fit right in there.  I mentioned that I've been trying to get some of my guy friends to go dancing (hoping for a pat on the back for talking to men because this is the same girl who yelled at me for...nevermind) but she cut me off and said she would never date a programmer.  She is still willing to be friends with me, as if that is some kind of consolation prize with nonzero value, but she would never go out with a programmer.  She's done.

Not so fun fact:  I probably mentioned this before...some friction at work.  It continued today.  After being told that my tedious and exhaustive investigation of some tiny blips in a graph was not good enough, I returned to my desk in a somewhat negative mood to find too many people gathered in our sad excuse for a team area.  I promptly left with our secret stash of whiteboard erase fluid*, found a conference room, and just sort of diagrammed my options.  Then I wrote words like "safe" or "unsafe" under them, and other labels for things I value like "mobile."  Everything that I want right now is "unsafe," meaning no guaranteed income, no health insurance, and I would likely have to sell my car that I love.  And learn how to not bleed money.  And move to a cheapass apartment with mice and roomates.  Then I circled "startup" and erased everything.  There are many reasons why a startup is actually a good move for me right now, but they are a bit complex so I will skip them.

In other words, starting or joining a startup is no longer something I just dream about while walking to work or sitting on the toilet, or out of frustration, or when I'm bored at home.  I am now actively looking.  I've read some interesting articles that challenged some assumptions I didn't even realize I was making.  I'm even thinking about making my own personal website to market myself, but I have a bit of a problem:  I don't want prospective employers reading drunk blog posts about how I think objectifying girls is an imaginary problem invented by ugly people, and also don't want girls finding out how good I am at what I do.  I don't care what anyone thinks about anything--some hot girl's prejudice against smart people better the hell not prevent me from making out with her.  You fucking nerds with your principles can go make your this-is-how-the-world-should-be stand with the fucktards that complain about the symbols on public bathroom doors.  I tried it your way.  Now I'm playing the game.

In summary, my search for startups, startup jobs, startup ideas...startup opportunities has been kicked into high gear.

You never know when you are going to get hit by a bus (drunk on their new power due to an unfair law that was passed in Seattle but not as bad as the law going through the Senate that nullifies our 4th amendment rights), or have a motorcycle accident, or waste the rest of your good years falling in love with a few more girls that just want to be friends or tell you that you missed your chance, or get kidnapped by the military and held indefinitely without a jury trial because you have more than 7 days of food in your kitchen.  When I am lying there on the road with blood gushing out of my broken neck, or listening to a cancer diagnosis, or burning some girls photo and camera charger, or drinking myself to death on my 31st birthday**, or being waterboarded at the hands of the united states military in some extra-continental prison, I don't want to think "well I followed what I was supposed to do and did ok at my job."  That is not acceptable.  When I feel my life drain away in the end I want to think "I coded with the best;  I kicked ass and took names;  I slept with/married the girl(s) on the planet; all the cool people love me and all the assholes hate me."  The only regret I should have at that point is my failure to live forever.  And maybe my failure to prove P=NP.  I mean, really...I think I might be wrong about that.




*when we first moved into the poorly named building where I work, they choose not to provide standard, efficient, alcohol-based whiteboard-cleaning fluid available in any office supply store, and instead provided some kind of green acid that I am fairly certain inspired the Batman character Two-Face.  This acid ruined the surface of the whiteboards, preventing standard whiteboard erasers from being effective ever again.  Unlike the standard alcohol-based dry erase cleaner available in any office supply store, the bottles of acid did not fit on the trays at the buttom of the white boards and required separate metal holders to be installed in every conference room.  Then the acid was replaced by some black cloths and some signs consisting of a command to stop using any liquid on the whiteboard, and a false claim that these special, magic microfiber clothes would be sufficient for our erasing needs.  Allegedly, the facilities people--the very same people who both failed to provide a whiteboard we requested and stole the whiteboard that we bought and paid for with our own money--have been confiscating the standard and effective alcohol-based whiteboard cleaner available in any office supply store  (which they should have provided).  For this reason, my team keeps a bottle of standard, efficient alcohol-based dry erase cleaner (available on amazon or any common office supply store, by the way) in a hidden location that I will not disclose, even here.  If they take that, we fall back to the bottle of Jack Daniels I keep in my drawer (I have verified that Jack Daniels is an effective whiteboard cleaner, and that unlike the acid provided by the facilities people, it will not burn your face off).

**under no circumstance may anyone infer anything from this completely awesome sentence fragment




[edit]
todo:  todo: http://meraki.com/company/jobs#bs_eng

[fiction] Guess What Book I Just Finished

When someone who is old enough to drink asks you for a bedtime story, tell her this story.


This story is about a castle made of sand.  It appeared on the beach one week in June.  There was nothing particularly special about this beach.  It faced southwest.  There were to volleyball courts some distance from the water.  There was a two-story motel nearby, the kind where all the rooms had tiled floors to make the sand wash away easily.  And there was a small bar with straw umbrellas and fake tiki torches.

The only notable thing about it was the sand castle.  A man showed up one day, standing on the side of the beach, hands in the pockets of his baggy white shorts, starring off into the ocean and letting the wind whip is clothes about like a character in a movie.  He did this for a good twenty minutes before his legs got tired and he plopped a seat in the sand.  Oh shit I really should have done my laundry today.  Like I'm out of shirts.  Anyway.

The man got bored and started playing with the sand idly.  He looked around the beach often, as if expecting to see someone.  After an hour he realized he'd made a small mound in the sand.  He put a couple walls on it, and in that moment created the simplest of castles:  a mott.  Just a tiny little affair on a hill.  Whoever he was looking for never showed up and he kept building.  Soon there was a baily stretching out from the mott:  a shorter wall that covered more space than the mott.  Then buildings were made for the bailey to keep safe.  Then the mott turned into a stone keep.  Then the baily was destroyed and remade into simple stone walls joined by square towers.

This entire time the sun had been sinking.  The sunset happened while the man attacked the square towers and rounded the corners, leaving no place for the attackers to hide from the defender's arrows.  Then the sun was gone but the man stayed, improving his castle by the moonlight.  The castle was given a proper gatehouse.  The keep was expanded.  The walls were moved, made higher, and then moved again, growing to give room to an ever increasing number of buildings.

The man slept some but it was cool and building kept him warm.  The keep and stable were previously the only buildings, but soon a barracks appeared, with its own ramparts.  Then vast grain storehouses so tall they could be seen above the battlements.  Watchtowers were added, and a dungeon, and then merchant stalls, and houses for people to live after the keep fulled up.  The original walls could be moved no farther, and another ring was added instead.  Then another, and another, until the concentric rings rivaled even Gondor of legend.  Then the trebuchets were added, two or three behind every wall, pointed outwards.  Catapults on the keep and mid levels, and ballistas on the outermost wall.  Each wall was given its own gatehouse, aye, and then a moat, which grew to a lake with the only means of entrace a long causeway that connected to the first gatehouse via a drawbridge.

By this time days had gone by.  Still the castle was not complete.  A secondary castle had to be added to protect the causeway.  Then more walls, more towers, more battlements, more storehouses, blacksmiths, and garrisons for thousands of soldiers.  Then the man left.

Pictures were taken.  Rumours spread and became stories, and stories became marketing, and the castle became famous.  But none of the marketing was right.

The castle was built above the high water line, and lasted for days until various children tore it about.

Children!  For that is where this tale begins.

Two children had once stood on that beach, hand in hand, each daring the other to jump in the cold water, and each only doing it because the other was there.

They played there, sometimes with other children.  Their favorite game was to built forts to protect them from the wolves.  The wolves are coming, they said.  Beaches don't offer much in the way of fortress construction, but a downed palm tree, two plankets and the imagination can take you pretty far.

When they were a tad bit older she kissed him, but he still thought girls were gross so he pushed her head in the sand.

But the wolves were coming, so they played together anyway.

When they were both a bit older, she told him the wolves were coming.  She wasn't talking about the game, though.  He never knew what she meant until he walked by her house one night and saw one fewer parent at her table.  She never talked about it.

When they were older still he kissed, her.  Right there between the two volleyball nets.  He was too nervous to think but he did it anyway.  Something was wrong, though.  The wolves are coming, was all she'd say.

He promised that he would protect her from the wolves.  She said she had some things to take care of.  They agreed to meet back at that very spot in exactly a year.  One year from that date is the day the castle appeared on the beach.

It was a real nice castle though.

[Cooking] Pasta Salad

Go to the store.  Buy some fucking bow tie pasta.  Don't think about it, just do it.  Produce.  Get like a red pepper, and a then a green cucumber.  No one around you will appreciate your jokes so don't say anything.  Then an onion, yes.  Also buy some chicken and some ham.  This time get the chicken without bones--we didn't like how things worked out last time.

Now, you need some MAYONAISE and some MUSTARD.  You've never bought either before, but they are in the same aisle.  Avoid the organic shit.  Buy the smallest bottles you can find, because what you don't use will probably spoil before you ever cook again.

You're done shopping.  I know, right?  This isn't hard as long as you don't mind walking like 8 blocks to the grocery store that actually has fresh produce.

And you need fresh produce.  All of the ingredients are going to sit in your fridge for four days because you are too lazy ("tired") to cook.  Instead you're going to use some of the ham to make ham sandwiches.  Don't sweat it.

Now, cook the fucking pasta.  Just dump the entire box in.  Get some salt in there.  Oh this ham is delicious.  Seriouly.  The only food that beats ham is like...bacon.  And sex.  But bacon never says it has a runny nose and blows off your date.  Anyway.

Dice up all the veggies.  Don't use the whole union...cut off what you think might be a third, and discard all pieces that look difficult to dice.  Dicing sucks.  Just do it...it only takes like fifteen minutes.  And the onion crying thing is no joke, either.  Fuck man I have a foodgasm every time I hit one of these ham cubes.  Anyway.  You don't end up cooking the chicken because you forgot to put it on when you put the pasta on, and the small frying pan is in the dishwasher anyway, because you just put it there to make room in the sink.  Dice up the ham too, buddy.

Now for the goo.  Find your tablespoon.  You can use a dry tablespoon cause no one is looking and you probably cooked more pasta than the recipe called for anyway.  Come to think of it, that cucumber was extremely long too.  Like if you took a normal sized cucumber and added four inches, that is what you chose to grab in the produce aisle.  Hey man, I'm not here to judge.  Just as long as it all fits.

So, yeah, still with the goo.  Three tablespoons of mayonaise, and one tablespoon of mustard.  You are supposed to use a teaspoon, but then you'd have to put twice as many measuring spoons in the dishwasher.  The goo looks gross by itself, but it will taste better once you spread it around.

Mix is all up.  The pot you used will probably end up being too small, so offload some of that to a bowl.  You're hungry anyway.

Then, take some plastic wrap and just put it over your pot and put it directly in the fridge.  No need to get tupperware dirty.  If you're out of plastic wrap, use tin foil.  Its not like you're going to cook anything else soon, and aliens only visit the southwest anyway.

One last thing:  with all that produce in the trash can, you are not going to be able to wait a month before taking the trash out.

Ok.  You're done.  Pop a coronita like you mean it and write in your blog.


[Edit]
Stand by...I feel a little sick.

Mr. Responsible Guy

I thought I was doing well and kicking ass, sorting through some chronic problems, and with two other work mates, I even had a pet project underway that, if successful, would be the key to getting to SDE II.  Today my manager scheduled a meeting with me to shoot all of that down.  Apparently the way we were developing our pet project was against a bunch of policies that I think are lame, and he has serious problems with my tone in emails and the way I handle problems and engage other teams.  Oh, and I'm scrum master.  He doesn't like how thats going either.  Come to think of it, neither do it.  Being scrum master sucks ass.  I only did it because I hated how the other guy was doing it.


Marketing

I learned a long time ago to stop telling girls exactly what I think.  For example, if you discover a misunderstanding between you and your girl as to the nature of your relationship, do not ever, ever, ever explain in crystal clear terms exactly what your understanding was.

I need to start doing the same thing at work.  I loved being candid and straight with people, but my current boss hates it.  My current boss is the person I need to impress in order to move to SDE II.  SDE II is the position I need to move to within a year or so if I don't want to get fired.  The company I work for has a sort of move-up-or-get-out policy, which is unfortunate because their idea of moving up sucks.

So...for the time being I will now become "Mr. Responsible Guy," and just like when I talk to girls, I'm going to start asking "what do these people want to hear?" at work.  Hello bullshit.  Hello politics.  Hello passive-aggressive behavior.  Hello kow-towing.  Hello murky, vague, guarded responses.  Hello simply holding my tongue. Goodbye snarky responses on tickets, funny emails, getting to the root cause of problems, trying to make an argument for solving what I believe are large, systemic problems that are wasting hundreds of hours of SDE time, or fixing our shitastic on-call situations.

From here on out, all I want to be saying are "its done" and "I fixed the glitch."  Except I'm not actually going to say "I fixed the glitch."  I'm going to say whatever politically correct thing they want to hear.


Moves

I looked into internal transfers.  The company I work has an unexpectedly dumb policy:  if the team you're on is not working out for you...if your manager is giving you bad reviews, etc...you are not allowed to move teams.  Fortunately my reviews are always good, although after all the shit my manager gives me about my "communication skills" I'm sensing a bad review coming, and if I transfer internally, I'll need to get that done before he fucks up my escape route.

I looked into the open positions my company has in New York City.  They are more boring than what I do now.

My next stock vestment is February 15th.  I reeeeeally want to get that stock.  I actually want all of it, but a bad review could start a downhill trend that outs me before I can get it all.

Looked at other internal transfers briefly.  Nothing jumped out.  Such a transfer would bear a high cost of adjusting to a new team, and I would still be in Seattle.  I would also get my hands on the rest of the stock.  Tough decision.

Startups

In my current job, we are expected to work super long and super hard and super smart.  We are expected to not have a life and do lots of work on our own time (until today I had been doing this).  Here's an example of something I work on.  My team, A, discovers a problem:  team B's service is timing out.  They claim its not their responsibility, though, so after a week or two, I now have four teams:  A,B,C and D, who all claim it is not their fault and they don't own fixing it, and I'm being asked why I'm trying to fix a problem.

I would prefer to work somewhere where I can pour some passion into coding.  And where no one in my personal life ever hears me say the words "I'm on call that night."  I think that I would prefer to work at a startup--lots of new code being written.

I don't have any great ideas, though, so I'm trying to find people that do.  I signed up for a mailing list that Rob pointed me to.  There have been no posts.  Started searching the web...not finding much yet.

Other Ideas

There are some more...creative lines of employment.  I've heard of this job where you get trained on how to drive Ferrari's and then go around teaching rich people how to drive their Ferrari's.  Tells girls in bars that I am a "Ferrari driving instructor" would be even better than saying "I work for [large online retailer]."

Something else I was--oh I just got paged.

Asking for Girls is the Crime

The Epilogue:

My car, who, by the way...lets keep the name on the DL for a while...anyway I'm having a bit of a situation with the lock on the trunk.  It still locks, yes, but its...it needs to be fixed.  I'm pretty forgetful.  I think its been this way since I moved into my apartment.  In fact I think the move is what damaged it.  The other detail is that my car is a Subaru Impreza WRX STI, which, according to an episode of Top Gear that sadly trashed the STI, was at one point one of only two street legal rally cars worth buying, with the other one being the Evo.

Second Epilogue:
 
I was comiserrating with this girl about how the ostensibly convinent hours you get in the tech industry can actually be a downside once you realize you never have time to run errands when anything is open.  For example, none of the post offices here are open at midnight.  We discussed personal assitants.

The Third Act:

Today I sent an email to a craigslist-like mailing list at work.  Random guess:  close to half of the company is subscribed.  I said I needed a personal assistant and that I would prefer someone who was attractive, female, and a champion rally car drive in the AWD division.  Incredulous?  1)  yes I did say that and 2) take a few minutes and rethink our friendship.  Like seriously rethink it.  What are you getting out of it?  Anyway.

I got a response immediately from one of the girls who helped me out with my whole wardrobe situation.  She recommended someone who is two out of three, which is all I was expecting to get.

Then some of my work mates came over, incredulous that I would actually send something like that.  Even people on the list thought my email was a case of someone forgetting to lock their keyboard.  Apparently what I wrote was sexist.  My buddy got me worried enough to try and shutdown the thread--I sent a reply saying I found someone, being pretty sure that such a message would sort of close off the issue in their minds.

The other important detail here is that I took that lame ass sexual harassment training shit last week.  Seriously, if you know which company I work for?  The company we contract out for our lets-prevent-lawsuits training bullshit is the worst.

Also, some girl who is a solo autocross driver replied, and it seems she was a tiny bit either incredulous or perturbed at my email, even though I'm pretty sure she had no intentions of offer personal assistant services, although she did give me some ideas for getting track time without being forced to volunteer for cone duty...something about open track days.  What is cone duty?  Cone duty is the reason I have not yet gotten involved in autocross.


The End:

I was feeling concerned, and like, halfway towards guilty about my email.  I like having people think I'm a hothead fool.  I'm ok with other men thinking I'm an idiot.  I don't really want anyone to think I'm sexist.  Then, tonight, as I was searching for a way to procrastinate an impending and meticulous task of sorting Lego bricks that is part of a nearly failed scheme that was supposed to double my money, I realized the truth:

If I had asked for an ugly, male, gay, vegan, hipster dude that only rides a fixed gear he assembled himself from parts bought from local companies (and who doesn't filter and actually stops at red lights because he is an asshole) then no one would have minded.

The reason I separated that quote like that is so I can cut & paste easily if I find an email from HR in my inbox tomorrow morning.  So I don't feel bad at all now.



[Edit - poetic justice?]

So I wrote about I had two boxes of this Lego Fire Brigade set that were defective and were missing an entire bag of pieces.  I asked a buddy of mine to sell me a third set, because I thought it would be easier to compare them than to count every single piece and see what I am missing.  The third set he gave me was also from the defective 39R1 batch.  I realized this after over an hour of counting pieces.  I have three of these fucking sets in my posession and I can't build any of them because they are all missing these stupid little gray pieces.  Each of these sets cost $150, and are worth less than a third of that if I sell them for just the parts.  AAAAHHHHHH.

[fiction] Inside Job, part 1

(FYI:  this is nothing like how it is in my real job)

Small office on the fourth floor.  Too small for all the computer screens I've got in there.  Its cramped, like somebody moved too much furniture in.  That's not the kind of problem I solve.

I know its a girl before she even knocks on the door, before the curves of her silhouette even fall on the frosted glass.  I can smell a customer service girl a mile away.  She knocks.

"It's open."

A tasteful business suit walked in.  If she had been a programmer it would have been baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, and with my luck a boy's haircut and a lack of interest in men.  But she wasn't a programmer.  My lucky day.  I lean forward and put out my cigarette.  Not supposed to smoke in the office.  I get worried when people see me do it, but not worried enough to clean up the ash tray.

"Hi.  I'm having some trouble with some orders.  Someone said you used to be on the COW team?"

COW.  Customer Order Workflow.  The guys that took care of every single order at Large Online Retailer.  Sleepless nights.  Severity 1 emergencies.  The big red button.  Writing untested ruby code directly to production while you're explaining up from down to your manager's manager's manager on the conference call.  Losing hosts left and right during prime, watching healthy databases tank...the coding marathons...the ticket wars...the multicast storms.  Yeah.  I was on COW.

I nod.  "What do you need?"

She takes a small piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolds with a sort of deliberate grace.  "Its these shipments.  They're getting stuck."

I take the paper from her.  Our fingers touch for an instant and I feel a spark.  Damn carpet.  She has four shipments written down.  I look one up.  "This order is from 2005."

Black stare.  She doesn't understand.  An order from 2005 is six years old.  In internet time that is an epoch.  You might as well dig up a dinosour bone and tell me it had a cold this one time.

"I don't understand how we are even shipping stuff for it."  I look at the order.  It's massive.  I groan.   "Whatever.  I'll just clean the garbage out of the system."

"No, please!"  She touches my hand.  "That's what the On Calls did.  But these keep coming back."

I glance down at the fine curves of her hips.  There is a red I.D. badge hanging there.  You're run of the mill customer service girl does not get a red badge.  This girl is for real.

"Alright," I said to her.

; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ;

Twenty minutes later we're on the freeway in my T-top.  The fulfillment center is an hour away in normal traffic.  I pull into the HOV lane and punch it.  We'll get there in 30.

"My name is Alice, by the way."

"Alice.  Dex."  I swing my right hand over without looking.

She shakes it gingerly.  "Yes I know.  Dex the dragon."

I snort.  "Been a while since I heard that."

"How did you get that name?"

"You know that phrase about burning bridges?  I used to do that a lot.  And people.  They messed with me, they got burned."

"That's horrible."

I just smile and press on the accelerator.

; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ;

Waldo meets us at the shipping dock.  Waldo is an old buddy of mine.  I help the lady step up and we sneak inside. The shipments we're interested in are in the corner.  I flash my switchblade.

"Hey!  Take it easy will ya?  You're not even supposed to be here."

"Relax."  I slice one of the boxes open and pocket the knife.  "You know what happens to these."

We look inside.  Its a videogame.  The box shows an unrealistically-muscled marine wielding an M4.  It was made for the console--fodder for the lowest common denominator.  I check the packing slip.  One video game.  Nothing else.

"That game comes out tomorrow," says Alice.  I glance at her for a second.

"That means its a preorder," I say.

"Why did it get stuck?" asked Waldo.  But we are interrupted.

"Excuse me."  Unfriendly voice.  "Who are you?"

I boost the packing slip as I turn around.  I pretend like I'm tucking my shirt in, but I'm really stuffing the slip into my pants.  Its the shift leader for the fulfillment center.  I don't even need to say anything.  She recognized me.


Her eyes narrow.  "What are you doing here?"


"Fixing problems," I say.

"You're not a problem solver any more.  You are the problem.  Waldo, show him out.  Now."

"Geez, what was up her ass?" Waldo asks us when we are out of ear shot.  "I'm sorry I couldn't help you--I dont know where she came from."

"There was a $25 million outage once.  I'm the one who proved it was her fault."

"Million?" asks Alice.

"Shit, Dex.  Shit," says Waldo.

"Hey Waldo."  We reach my car.  "Do me a favor?"

"I just did you-"

"Send me your version of the shipments."

Waldo frowns.  "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks a million."  I wink.

"Yeah."  Waldo disappears.

"What did you mean his version?" asks Alice.


"The business and the fulfillment center both have a different version of every order,"  I explain.

"Why is that?"

"Its complicated." We're on our way back to the city when my phone gets an email.  I check it.  It's Waldo.  I hand Alice my phone.  "Read that to me."

"I'm not sure I understand it."

"Read me something."

"Well...one thing it says order condition change from 3 to 9."

"You mean 9 to 3?"

"No...I can read.  It definitely starts at 3 and changes to 9."

"That's impossible."

"Well, that's what it says."

I grab my phone back.  She's right.  "Fuck me," I say, and then I don't say anything for a while.  I get quiet when I'm working things out.

"So what does it mean?"

"It means some shady shit is going down, that's what it means.  An order starts in condition 9.  That's a new order.  When its getting processed it goes through a bunch of other conditions until finally it arrives at condition 3.  Condition 3 is a closed order.  There's nothing left to process.  No wonder all the oncalls didn't look into this.  They thought their system was fine.  But its not.  Somehow, someone is re-opening old orders and adding shit to them."

"How is that possible?" asks Alice.

"I don't know," I say, "but I think it's an inside job."

Missing Parts

I'm not going to go into why I thought buying two Lego "Fire Brigade" sets was a good investment.  Actually, the one was an investment.  Unfortunately, reaping the benefits of that investment precludes opening the box and playing with it before I sell it again, which means that I had to buy a second set to play with.  Somewhere in this I am supposed to at least break even.  Then comes the missing parts.

I didn't think this would happen...kind of assume all this stuff is packed by robots and/or an assembly line with little human intervention.  TURNS OUT that batch "39R1" is missing an entire box of pieces.  I realized this after spending an hour looking for pieces that aren't there.  What can I say?  They are small pieces.  And there's a lot of them.  And I was watching Ghostbusters II.  I had watched Ghostbusters earlier in the evening while assembling a different Lego-related investment.  That one went much smoother.  All the pieces were there.

I had been psyching myself up to design my own fire hall-like elaborate Lego set that would bear uncanny resemblence to a certain movie franchise, but now that enthusiasm is starting to deflate because I have to figure how to deal with this situation.

This all started when I was minding my own business at work...busily not spending huge amounts of money on toys, when Luke called to tell me of wonderful savings opportunities at the Lego store.  Ten percent of $700 is higher than 10% of $0.  I have to do my budget tomorrow.  I have Legos that I can't assemble spread all over my table.  That will make a great impression if any of the girls I meet at salsa want to come back to my place for coffee that I don't actually have.  Oh who am I kidding?  That never happens in Seattle.

[Edit]
The Lego company appears to be unaware of the problem.  I have to go home and match over 1000 small plastic pieces against the list of what I'm supposed to have.  Fuck, dude.