Archive for Mesa Arizona

One-Shot Week Part 7: Re-Deanimator! Meg and Greg

Posted in Cars, Disabilities, films, one-shot, zombies with tags , , , , , , on March 15, 2013 by David N. Brown

As a bonus for today, here’s another chapter from my “Re-Deanimator” project.  This was my real starting point for the project, and the raw elements were an “alternate history” homage to classic zombie movies, an atmosphere of domestic dysfunction and a single tableau.  I used subtle details to establish a “nineteen-eighty-something” frame of reference, and build up a backstory as I went along.  The part that definitely got a response out of people was actually the least-planned aspect of the scene.  As I commented privately after receiving feedback, I put it in where I did because, by the time I got there, it was what clearly fit these people.  It was also my intent even then to leave  a little ambiguity, which I think is an important aspect of the real issue.  I put up this scene in quite a few places, including a blog that is one of several  created (as was a consideration with this one) expressly to be seen in place of very bad stuff being circulated by a very bad person whom I regard as very much a real life counterpart to the kudlaks.


Meghan lived in the suburbs of a modest city in the desert. Her friends called her Meg, and she lived with Greg. She rose from the couch in the morning, as she had for the last five mornings, and confirmed that the light switch still did not work. She emerged from the den into the living room and went to the kitchen, where she discovered that the faucet did not work either. That was new. She went upstairs, past the photo of Greg, Greg at the office party, Greg at the wheel of his new Audi Quatro, Greg shooting his .454 magnum, and Greg with his big muscular arm thrown lazily around her neck, almost eclipsing her almost-new Chevette behind them.
Meg rapped on Greg’s bedroom door. “Greg,” she called out, “the water’s out.” She opened it. Greg was gone. She glanced at the dresser, and confirmed that the keys to the Audi were there. She stepped back into the hall, and saw that the door to the bathroom was closed. “Greg, I said, the water’s out.” She turned the knob; the door was latched. That was when she heard the thumping.
It was strikingly regular, one thump, a pause, and another thump, repeated, over and over. Meg pressed her ear to the door, and listened. Now, she could hear an unmistakeable swishing between thumps, and a hint of momentary scuffling: “Thump- swish- scuff- swish- thump…” She thought of a pendulum, and at that very moment, she heard the creaking, a sound just like some metal fixture, bending under considerable weight. “Greg,” she said flatly, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against the door.
Meg’s eyes opened at a change in the rhythm of the sounds: “Thump- swiishh– thump- swishthump– swish- rrriiiiippp…” She lurched back at the crash and jingle of the shower curtains being torn down. The creaking grew louder, and then there was a tearing screech exactly like the shower head being wrenched right out of the wall and a crash exactly like a body falling into the tub. For a moment, she stood completely still. Then she backed up to the bedroom.
She found the magnum and two boxes of ammunition, exactly where she knew they would be. She scooped them all into her old overnight bag, shoved out of sight in the closet. On a whim, she grabbed the key to the Audi. She was gathering things in the den when she heard another crash. She scurried back into the living room and looked up the stairs.
The bathroom door had been knocked open with single blow, forceful enough to splinter the wood and lodge the knob in the plaster. At the top of the stairs stood Greg, in his business suit, with the shower head hanging from Meg’s nylons around his neck. His face was almost black, and his head lolled like a badly stuffed scarecrow’s. Yet, his gaze seemed to turn directly toward Meg, and with strides as stiff and even as a windup tow, he began to descend the stairs. She drew the magnum as she backed up to the door, and took aim, no doubt badly, at Greg’s face as she reached the bottom. She held her aim, as best she could with a gun whose weight alone was enough to strain her wrist, while Greg turned ponderously toward her. He stood there, seeming to stare, with his head lifted just a little higher and straighter. Finally, Meg put the gun back in the bag. “Okay,” she said, “you can keep the Audi.” She cast the keys at his feet, and as she made her exit, she saw him bend over to pick them up.
Meg had to cover some distance to reach the carport where the Chevette was parked, past two cul de sacs of identical two-story, two-unit townhomes and through a little park. On the way, she saw three wrecked cars and a dozen shuffling figures, one of which definitely turned in her direction before she went around a corner and out of sight. She used a shortcut that required vaulting over a low wall and dropping another foot to the asphalt. The only car in sight besides her little reddish-orange hatchback was a station wagon with a crumpled, blood-stained hood and the driver’s-side door torn halfway off its hinges. No bodies were in sight.
Meg dropped her keys trying to unlock her car, at the unset of sudden shakes. Her hands steadied as she put the key in the ignition, but began to tremble worse as she turned the key again, and again, and again. The first time, nothing happened. The second produced an abortive rattle. At the third try, the engine gave an apologetic cough before falling silent. Meg’s hands were shaking hard enough to make the key rattle in the ignition as she turned it yet again. The engine rumbled to life but then died with a protracted wheezing. She looked out the window, at the station wagon, The window frame of the door was bent. Her hand went still. She turned the key, and kept her hand on the ignition as the engine started, began to cough, and then worked back up to a steady rumble.
Meg made a tight U-turn in reverse, scraping the station wagon in the process and bumping into a support beam. Then she accelerated, approaching top (though still modest) speed as she peeled out of the parking lot and around a corner onto the street. She swerved to avoid a shuffling figure, only a child, but there was no taking chances with such a small car. As the car rounded another corner, the child turned belatedly and reached out for where the car had been. Its head lifted, as if staring, but any observer who met its eyes would have seen clouded lenses in no shape to see much of anything.
The Chevette was closing on 80 miles per hour as it roared toward the gates of the townhome complex. It braked and finally swerved for Greg, who stood in the middle. The showerhead was gone, but the torn nylons were still around his neck. His darkened face had lightened to a reddish purple, enough to make his features readily discernible. As Meg gazed out, her hands began to shake. It seemed to her that what she saw was indeed the Greg she knew. It occurred to her that his expression, especially, was the same he had worn on the night she made a discrete trip to the emergency room. As Greg reached for the door handle, the window went down, and a perfectly level gun barrel slid out. “Selfish ass,” Meg said. She had no awareness of firing the gun. She only felt the wrenching ache of recoil, and saw Greg drop with a half-inch red spot on his forehead and a substantial hole in the back of his scalp. As he struck the asphalt, the keys to the Audi tumbled from his hand.
After a moment’s pause, Meg opened the door and scooped up the keys.
David N. Brown

Mesa Arizona


Hercules in a Yugo! Part 2: Hercules and the Crabs

Posted in Balkans pop, Cars, Mythology, one-shot with tags , , , , , on December 28, 2012 by David N. Brown

After posting the opening chapter here, I decided that the best place for “Hercules in a Yugo!” was at a fan fiction site.  The adventure so far can be read here.  However, I think I will probably continue to post about the project here, including more self-contained “episodes”.  Here’s something I consider especially fitting for the purpose:

it came to pass that the Mighty Hercules drove his Jugo 45 past a cave by the sea. As they passed the cave, a large crab darted out of the cave and halted in their path. Before the hero could think to swerve, a rear wheel went over the crab, and the the tire burst. Hercules hit the brakes, and without turning off his engine he jumped out to change the tire. The spare was under the hood behind the grill, and the heat and fumes from the engine scalded the hero’s hands and reddened his eyes. Cursing, he set down the spare and started to lift the car, but lost his grip and dropped the car on his own toes. Theseus stepped in and used the jack. Hercules popped off the hubcap with his storied Crowbar, and when several lugs were stubborn against his wrench and tire iron, he generously applied his own teeth.

Hercules looked back at the cave. The sound of the tide could be heard from somewhere in the depths. But over it, and growing nearer and louder, could be heard a strange clicking. Seeing the king’s unease, armorbearer Iolaus climbed out of the back seat and picked up the Crowbar. Then Theseus pointed. From out of the cave came another great crab, or else the same one somehow survived, advancing with the sound of like metal castanets. Its carapace was as wide as a man’s breast and covered with sharp spines as big as nails, and its whole shell was made of gleaming steel. While Hercules fumbled with the tire with ever-mounting curses, the armor bearer strode forward to meet the crab. But the creature dodged a blow and darted past, and then Hercules gave a fouler curse than usual. Iolaus whirled to see the crab gripping the hero’s already-injured toes.

Iolaus ran to help his uncle with the crowbar raised, but Theseus halted him with a raised hand. “For now, the creature only grips,” he warned. “If you attack it, it may rend and crush, even in death.”

“Give me the crowbar,” Hercules said, glaring into the crab’s glowing eyes, “and I will kill it if it takes my whole foot off.”

“Go ahead, smash me to pieces if you can,” said the crab. “Your doom is sealed.”

“It speaks!” Theseus exclaimed.

The lamps of the crab’s eyes shifted toward him, their beams narrowing and brightening. “I am Cancer, Lord of the Crabs. I grip the wounded foot, and my people follow me. That cave is our home, whose walls no creature may climb, but we use it as shelter from our enemies, and when the rising tides threaten to drown us, we ascend together, every crab helping his brothers. Then we lay ourselves under foot, and when one of us wounds the heel of a passerby, he takes hold, to slow the prey till others arrive and add their weight, more and more until the prey is overcome and dragged to the cave, and then we all of us feed. Do you hear the sound from the cave? Do you see the lights in the deep? It is my people coming to the feast!” Indeed, as he spoke, another crab skittered from the mouth of the cave, and another, and another, while scores and hundred of pairs of glowing eyes rose like a great swarm of fireflies from the darkness behind them.

“So,” Hercules said, “you hunt the weak and the crippled? Then I shall give you sport!” He snatched the crowbar from Iolaus and struck, not at the carapace of Cancer but the legs, and three feet were crushed by the mighty blow.

Cancer, unfazed, turned his eyes to the first two of his fellows. “Come my brothers,” he declared with a wave of one of his claws, “and take hold of this man who thinks he can turn crabs against their king! Wait! Halt! I am your king!” The nearest crab snapped a pincer at King Cancer, who had to parry with his free claw. Then a second crab seized him from behind and started to drag him back, and the King of Crabs let go of the hero to fight off his subjects. A stab of his claw severed a leg from the crab that held him, but a slash of the other could not stop the other crab from taking hold of him. Then two more crabs grabbed hold of the one the king had maimed, only adding to the strength that pulled upon the King.

Then with a sweep of the crowbar, the mighty Hercules sent the lot of them tumbling into the cave, to crash into their fellows with more crunching of shells, and the rest withdrew back into the cave as the mass of wounded and entrapped tumbled down and down. Whether the crabs killed Cancer their king, or held him in the depths until they drowned together, no tales tell. But it was said that ever after, a curse of the gods was placed upon the kin of the treacherous crabs, so that whenever two or more crabs fell into a trap, they would never again join their strength to gain their freedom, but only grip each other in enmity until they perished together.

Christmas with EXOTROOPERS!

Posted in Balkans pop, films, Mythology, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on December 24, 2012 by David N. Brown


Hello everyone!  Welcome to the Christmas edition of Exotroopers!  I’ll be covering some odds and ends from my Exotroopers Christmas story.  The first exhibit, above, is what happens when a ridiculously high-resolution scanner meets a low-resolution concept sketch.  Still, I think it turned out okay.  If it’s not clear (and believe me you do NOT want to try viewing this thing at “original” size), that’s an angel, based on a description from Isaiah 6:1-3 and a marine creature called a sea butterfly.  I first thought of and sketched this concept way back in high school, worked it into “Christmas With Exotroopers” as part of Zed’s visionary experience, and finally did a new sketch this morning.  I scanned it at maximum resolution (after all the things I have seen go wrong scanning pencil drawings, I’m inclined not to take chances), cropped it and did a black-white reverse which is “standard” for me.

Here’s some of the other things that found their way into my very surreal Christmas story:

Ded Moroz, the evil Slavic Santa.

A news story on protests over the cancellation of Bosnian Christmas celebrations, which I used as a basis for a more dramatic scenario.

The “Christmas tank” photo used for the ebook cover image.  I located several images of decorated tanks.  This was the only one featuring a modern-looking tank (a modified M60 is my best guess), and the decidedly somber background settled it for me.  Here’s another image of a tank that looks even better for the presumed late-Cold War junkyard environment of the exotroopers.

An upload of the Czeckoslavakian film “Alice”, a very strong contender for creepiest film ever supposedly based on a supposed children’s book.   The stop-motion White Rabbit was used as a model for the rats in Zed’s ultra-twisted envisioning of “Nutcracker”.  I saw bits of the film, including the permanently traumatizing opening, ten years ago on a college “channel”, and tracked it down later.  I seriously considered covering this film in an installment of “Revenant Review”.  After all, how is a taxidermied rabbit that climbs out of its display case NOT “undead”?

A British visual history of nutcrackers, some of which get more than moderately weird.  Then there’s a positively disturbing specimen featured here from an American collection, which just might tie into the mythos of the “Nutcracker”.  Also, here’s a painting I used as a model for Zed’s nutcrackers.  In learning about the background of the original story of the Nutcracker, I concluded that an “authentic” Nutcracker would look like a German soldier from the mid- to late 1700s.  On researching uniforms from the period, I found documentation of a variety of uniforms, including types which would be reasonably familiar to Americans from Revolutionary War counterparts.  The soldiers in “pope hats”, however, were too good to pass up!

David N. Brown

Mesa, Arizona

Responding to ANYtown

Posted in Disabilities with tags , , , , on December 17, 2012 by David N. Brown

So, I’ve let this go again for a while, and just when I’m ready to come back, I find a major intrusion from reality, and this time I do believe I have something to say about it that will fit here.


I am sure it would be redundant to do more than briefly recap recent events, and I would prefer to keep it briefer than usual: Once again, someone has committed what is known as a “spree shooting”. As is usually the case, it is reasonably clear that the offender is mentally ill. This time, not for the first time, the possibility has been raised that had an Autism Spectrum Disorder. For the last few days, autism activists have been pushing back against these reports by emphasizing that autistic disorders are not associated with violence, up to and including repeating the long-standing axiom that people who are mentally ill are more likely to be victims of crimes than to commit them. I must say, I disagree with this response. For one thing, I think if the goal is simply to downplay speculations about crime and disability, then the activists might be better off not commenting. Historical precedent would suggest that such comments are most likely to appear early and then quickly fade, especially under low-key communication by concerned parties with the media. For another, I believe that there are real and very fundamental problems here that are overdue for discussion.


While I see no cause to doubt the above-mentioned statistical talisman about mentally ill victims vs offenders, I have always had a feeling that this is missing the obvious, and probably more besides. The most “obvious” problem is that making a talking point out of this comes close to pummeling a man of straw. Given the dissimilar nature of mental disorders, nobody is ever going to claim that all the mentally ill are equally likely to commit a crime: Obviously, individuals as different as an agoraphobic and a clinical pedophile are not going to pose the same (if any) level of threat to others. Nor is anyone likely to make any serious claim that those with any particular disorder are more likely to be violent than not: Even in the prison population, the large majority are considered “non-violent”! The point we are really making the closest approach to is simply that the mentally ill population, and any subset thereof, can and should be approached like any other people group. All of which takes us precisely nowhere in applying what we know or can reasonably deduce about the demographics of crime.


One of the less obvious issues in the equation is what could be termed disproportionate threat. This can be seen at play on two levels. First, even “violent” offenders are not equally prone to violence: Of the subset of “violent” crime, a large majority the offenses are attributed to a minority of offenders (I distinctly recall seeing the very persistent 80%-20% ratio come up). Then there is another consideration, entirely “obvious” but difficult to quantify: Quite simply, some people, even if they are no more likely to offend, are capable of far more damage if/when they do. Spree shooters themselves are among the most obvious examples, and historically they overlap massively with the even more quintessential case and point, ex-military offenders. One of the earliest documented spree shooters and my personal pick for the single most dangerous individual to come to my attention was a decorated World War 2 veteran who committed a rare building-to-building rampage in 1949. (I don’t care to repeat any names in discussing this sort of thing if I can avoid it, but here’s “his” website.)


The same kind of issues can be seen at play for mental illness. Many conditions offer nothing but obvious “outgroups”, as in the already-mentioned example of agoraphobia: People who by definition avoid going out in public are by definition unlikely to harm members of the general public! Other conditions may be said to put the individual “at risk” to offend, but make for a liability in actually carrying out the deed. Schizophrenia is the quintessential case and point: Schizophrenics are characteristically delusional, not only seeing and hearing what isn’t there, but believing it. However, the “classic” schizophrenic is also characteristically disorganized. He might rob a bank because his cat told him to, but even if the cat also dictated one hell of a plan, there’s not much chance he would carry it out successfully. The presumable principle is that this kind of “crazy” is predictably self-limiting, and there’s no shortage of real-life cases to support the point. My favorite is a famous would-be assassin who was still pulling the trigger when his empty revolver was taken from him. The ability to keep track one’s bullets is a key test of the organized criminal, and entirely failing to notice when one is out is a strong indicator that one is not suited for the “job”.


But then, there are offenders who defy these “rules”. The WW2 veteran I mentioned was declared schizophrenic and institutionalized for the remainder of his life. (Reading between the lines, it seems likely that there were people in the right places who wanted to spare him, and/or simply avoid embarrassing questions, on account of his war record.) It’s very unlikely that such a diagnosis would be accepted today, and any appeal for clemency would be denied. While he was by all indications delusional in some sense, his actions showed far too much planning and self-control for the schizophrenia diagnosis (which, significantly, was “tightened” in the early 1970s) to fit at all comfortably. Even more importantly, there was no question that he deliberately targeted at least some of his victims, which under the modern requirements for an insanity plea would be entirely sufficient to establish that he knew what he was doing and therefore could be held legally accountable for it. What is ultimately most significant about this individual is that similar “profiles” can be seen to pop up again with other exceptionally destructive offenders, including the subject in the present incident. Even subtle details, particularly a reported lack of vocalization, can be seen to match up closely.


So, exactly what are we dealing with? It’s my long-standing pet theory (developed with a little help from a couple fictional characters) that there is a significant subset of autistic people who have a combination of “high-functioning” traits and schizophrenia-like symptoms, which I have termed “delusional aspie”. (See “Autism and Overlapping Disorders” and “Conversations with O’Cleary”.) At least some “spree” offenders do seem to fit this description. This could be considered nothing more or less than an example of a “comorbid” disorder, which for schizophrenia in particular has been documented for about as long as both conditions have been known. (In fact, historic controversies occurred over telling them apart!) But then there is another way of looking at it. A psychiatric diagnosis is, first and foremost, a description of a pattern of thought and behavior. If an “overlap” of characteristics from two or more “established” diagnoses is sufficient to produce an entirely novel “pattern”, then at some point one has to consider whether it is, for all practical purposes, a completely different animal. Unfortunately, in the time it takes for the “pros” to sort out this sort of thing, it’s quite easy for whole generations to slip through the proverbial cracks, particularly by a) being “shoehorned” into a clearly imperfect diagnosis and treatment simply because nobody has anything better to do with them or b) simply receiving no diagnosis or treatment at all because nobody will venture to put a “name” to what is wrong with them.


Then there is another, very fundamental issue of criminal demographics. One of the most pervasive problems demonstrated by application of proper statistical analysis to crime is that popular anxieties tend to direct community attention away from serious “inward” problems. 1980’s-era “stranger danger” and its stranger cousin the “satanic panic” flew directly in the face of hard data on parental abductions and homicides (read Coulrophobia– it’s about time someone did). White Americans perenially anxious about blacks have long since been shown that about 80% of murdered whites are murdered by other whites, and even more strikingly, about 90% of people actually murdered by blacks are other black people. Such results of hard data can also be extended to murkier areas of folklore. For example, there can be no serious doubt that any factual nucleus of Medieval and Renaissance “blood libel” legends of Christian children supposedly murdered in Jewish rituals were simply prosaic homicides, and most likely perpetrated by family members of the victims. (Ironically, that very opinion is expressed frequently and vocally in contemporary sources, obviously to no avail against the prejudices of their peers.) It even seems possible that evidently high numbers of Jewish victims in “routine” homicides (ie beyond overtly anti-Semitic mass violence in the “pogroms”), which could be an indication of religiously-motivated or simply opportunistic attacks by (self-described!) Christian offenders, were in fact mainly killed by other Jews.


I believe it shall be “obvious” where this is going. If one accepts the proposition that one can at least attempt to treat crime among the mentally ill like that of any other people group, then the most intuitive conclusion one can make is that the greatest threat to someone with a mental illness should be another mentally ill person! Such a dramatic proposition should by all means be tested. But so far, I have yet to see it even mentioned, and I felt that it was long past time long ago.


Now I invite further consideration for just how this would affect someone’s mental condition, and indeed their entire perception of the wider world. If someone with obviously limited ability to function in society is approached by someone with ill intentions and a condition that is far less obvious, then the former party is the least likely of all people to recognize the latter as anything but a “normal” member of the public. If the more “functional” party then abuses the other, the less functional party has no way to recognize what is truly wrong with the abuser. Instead, the abused party might very well develop the notion that the abusive behavior is nothing more or less than what any “normal” person can and will do given the opportunity. Then the only “reasonable” defense is to withdraw further from “normal” human contact, which will carry with it predictable deterioration in condition and “functioning” and may all too easily make the subject an even more convenient target for the truly predatory abnormal. Sooner of later, the victim might even start to develop a plan for revenge, retaliation or merely self-defense… and we all know where that road goes to.


I don’t think I want to write any more about this now, if ever. I would like to think I have said enough. Call it what life, and my idea of a good story, is like: No answers, jut trying to ask the right questions.


David N. Brown

Mesa, Arizona

Hercules In a Yugo: Part 1

Posted in Cars, Mythology with tags , , , , , , on November 21, 2012 by David N. Brown

For this week, something completely different: An opening chapter of a long-neglected but very funny project of mine.  After “Walking Dead”, the most (relatively) popular thing I have written is “Anio, Son of Poseidon”, my one venture into straight fantasy which started out as a salvage job of my 8th-grade English project.  I took it rather more personally than necessary when the few reviews the book received on Amazon compared it unfavorably to the works of Rick Riordan, to the point of assuming that it was an imitation based on similarity in titles which I had no responsibility for.  (I suppose the fact that much of my work IS in borderline-infringement territory makes me more sensitive when people jump to that conclusion without cause.)  After a little while, I decided to be a bit more constructive and look at the first “Percy Jackson” book.  I quickly and respectfully concluded that Mr. Riordan’s approach to mythology, particularly the adaptation of the myths to modern settings was not one I cared for.  Still, it got me thinking about the possibilities of free historical adaptation, and it was probably inevitable that I thought of the massively over-researched Balkans background already in use for “Exotroopers”.  The result was this…


The Trial of Hercules

Throngs of thousands lined the streets of Athens to greet Hercules, the greatest hero of Greece. But there were no cheers at the approach of his chariot, a Zastava Jugo 45, but only sad or curious or simply morbid mutterings. The hero had returned victoriously from a year in war, to face a tribunal for his deeds.

Another car preceded Hercules, a Zastava 750 “Fica”. This was the humble people’s car for a generation not quite past, and vehicle of choice for the wise, cunning and compassionate Theseus, King of Athens (a title no one talked of taking from him when he insisted that the city adopt a democratic government), the slayer of the Minotaur, and Hercules’ attorney. His car was first to halt before the great courthouse of Athens, and when the Jugo of Hercules halted behind him, he emerged. He was short and stout, his body subtly muscular, his head squarish and going to bald. He strode to the Jugo, and murmured as he opened the door: “Stay the course, friend.”

Then out, like rabbit from a too-small hat, came Hercules. He was reckoned as huge, and as strong, and as brave, and as graceful, and as wise, and as well-tempered, and as hirsute as a bear. It seemed impossible that he could have fit inside the car, still more impossible that he could come out again. But his poise was such that he seemed to pour through the door. There was an innately jovial quality to his face, but this day his expression was sad, so profoundly so that it almost doubled back into silliness.

When Hercules and his counsel took their seats, the trial began promptly. It opened with an address by the mad king of Eleutherae, who was reckoned madder than most kings, who stood and declared, “War is Hades, but this simply will not do!”

“Does the accused wish to address the court?” said the chief of the judges.

Hercules rose immediately, and said: “Honorable gentlemen… I know I have done a terrible thing. I will accept any punishment you impose.” He dropped back into his seat, which visibly sagged under his weight, buried his head in his hands and began to sob.

The prosecutor rose. “Does the prisoner then plead guilty, to all charges?”

After several nudges failed to draw a response from Hercules, Theseus rose and spoke: “My client neither confesses, nor denies, anything he may be accused of. If the honorable prosecutors say Hercules did this thing or that, we will accept his word.” The prosecutor’s brows furrowed in surprise, but his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “But Hercules cannot confess to any deed. For he has sworn to me, by the most solemn oaths, that before the things for which he is now being tries happened, something like a red cloud fell upon his mind, and he cannot remember anything that happened until it lifted.”

Hercules sobbed louder. An old woman jumped to her feet and shrieked half-intelligible curses until the guards removed her. The judge inquired with a raised eyebrow, “And Hercules will swear to this?”

Hercules lifted his head, and it seemed his eyes dried remarkably quickly as he rose to his feet. “I swear,” he said, raising his hand, “on Zeus, and Olympus, and the Styx, and my father’s tomb, and my own manhood… I remember nothing.” He sat down again and resumed sobbing, even more heavily than before, so that his heaving chest shook the table behind him.

“Is it not wisdom,” Theseus said, “that no man should be punished for a deed he has no knowledge of committing?”

“Wise counsel indeed, Theseus,” the judge said with a nod, though his eyebrow had yet to drop. After long moments of pondering, he said, “Very well. It is my office to conduct the affairs of the court, in hearing whether a man did a deed. But the state of a man’s mind is another matter. Unless the prosecution can speak to that, I must defer to the jury to deliberate at once.” The prosecutor scowled, and his assistant rose to protest, but the assistant was waved down, and no protest was made. The men of the jury shuffled back to their chamber.

It was well past noon before the jury returned. The judge read the verdict: “The jury finds that, as there is no question of what the great Hercules has done, but only the state of his mind when the deeds were done, the men of the jury are unfit to decide his guilt. For mortal men may judge each others’ deeds, whether they be good or evil, but only the gods can judge a man’s mind. The jury therefore finds that the defendant should be set free.”

The prosecutor’s assistant rose to protest, but the prosecutor waved him down. Theseus rose confidently from his seat, subtly smiling. But Hercules shot to his feet, throwing back his chair and slamming his hands down upon the table with such force that it cracked thrice over. “How can this be justice done?” the great Hercules roared. “If an evil deed has been done, then a penalty must be borne! I call in the names of all gods, let justice be done! Punish me, that I may bear it!”

There was a long silence, in which every man barely moved, but only stared at Hercules and the ravaged docket. Finally, the judge spoke: “Since the verdict has been protested, and since the verdict as delivered is not a final finding, I ask the jury to reconsider.”

So, the jury filed out again, and the sun was low in the sky when they returned. Hercules was still standing, his very hands still upon the cracked table. This time, the foreman addressed the court aloud: “We men of the jury affirm, on our honor and the names of the gods, that we will not and cannot consign a man to punishment for a crime we cannot judge. However, we cannot deny the great Hercules the right to be judged, and if need be face punishment. Therefore, since it is settled that the great Hercules’ guilt or innocence is a matter of his mind, which only the gods may see, we will render a further ruling: That the great Hercules should go to an oracle of the gods, and if, by the words of the gods who see the minds of men, he is found to have done evil, then the same oracle shall prescribe his penalty.”

Theseus once again rose, his smile now a broad grin. “We have done it! The prosecutors cannot defy the jury by trying you again. Now, we must only speak to an oracle, any oracle, and if the oracle does not find you innocent, then at worst, you will be asked to render a sizable offering at one of the temples.”

“No,” Hercules said. “I know in my soul, that I have done a great evil, that only my freedom or my blood can pay for. None who truly speaks the words of the gods could find otherwise.” Suddenly, his face broke out in an entirely alarming grin. “I know! The Sybil of Delphi, the very Oracle of Apollo, is in town! She can deliver a judgment, and then I will be free to be punished!”

David N. Brown

Mesa, Arizona

HY From Hell! Part 5 (and a half?)

Posted in Cars with tags , , , , on November 15, 2012 by David N. Brown

Just a quick one for this week, with one of my favorites from my HY file.  I like to think that this is what would happen if one HY took a loan from another HY and couldn’t keep up with the payments…

David N. Brown

Mesa, Arizona

HY from Hell! Part 4

Posted in Cars with tags , , , , , on November 8, 2012 by David N. Brown

Back and bigger (not to mention uglier) than ever, it’s the HYs from Hell!  This time, I’m covering something I never felt I could avoid, the film High Tension, which I ran down on netflix not too long ago.  This 2002 French horror film prominently features an HY van.  Oh, right, and also gratuitous violence, gratuitous gore, gratuitous nudity, gratuitous lesbianism, gratuitous use of an improvised mace and a gratuitous multiple-personality subplot that’s not so much a surprise ending as it is having one’s intelligence bludgeoned with the above-mentioned mace.  Well, at least it has an HY.  By the post-apocalyptic-without-the-apocalypse standards of this feature, it’s a pretty mundane specimen:  The only deviations from specs are an extra set of headlights and an interesting replacement bumper, and the paint job is a little too pristine.  (At least they didn’t make it glossy… That would have been a more terrible mutilation than most of the film’s homicides!)  Still, it’s impressively bleak in appearance, and as massive as ever.  Let’s look at a few more pictures…

David N. Brown

Mesa, Arizona