Inigo Attempts Poetry: Part One

It doesn't much matter what I say about her, does it?

She reads it, she moves on.
She doesn't, maybe someone else does.
Maybe someone else tells her.
Maybe she moves on.

Everything about her puts up a red flag to me.
Volatile.
Ecclectic.
Haven't I said that this is what I'm looking for?

I can laugh, I can joke.
When does that stop?
When do I just say something?
I can't laugh and joke forever.

But three months from now it won't matter, will it?

High School

To say "I can't believe it's already over" would be understating it.

High school ends in a matter of weeks. The reason I'm writing this now is because the time between now and graduation will be filled with work, more work, hockey, more work after that, a trip out of the country involving hockey, and miscellaneous occurances of work thereafter. I also have to make sure I pass Economics so I can, oh you know, graduate.

Of course this, outside of the whole "going to Canada" part, has become commonplace over the last few months. I wake up semi-late, get showered, get dressed, go to school, mosy on into either English or MIS a few minutes late, go through my day, go home, maybe take a nap, go to work, rinse, and repeat. The few exceptions being trips to Washington D.C. and Portland along with hockey games and practices.

If nothing else, it's given me more incentive to start writing and finish the best story ever written so that I can retire at around 30 and parade around the world generally not giving a fuck (I.E. getting myself in a position that will eventually get me a really awesome career).

Of course, there have been complications with that, things making the daily grind slightly more... grindy? English papers and Newspaper stories that keep me up until 3 AM, money problems, general laziness, and, history's old favorite, the opposite sex.

Yeah, that record's still playing, despite the fact that there's already an MP3 copy. It annoys me as much as it likely annoys all of you. I have girl troubles and it seems like I will for the forseeable future as well. It's a good bet that this has been mentioned at least once in the previous 34 posts on here. The difference this year was that I actually had the nerve to try fixing that situation instead of saying "It won't happen even if I try". I'm not going to reveal the specifics, but let's just say that what actually happened was the completely exact opposite of what I was going for.

There was really only one other interest after that, but my own self confidence and a pretty complicated social structure got in the way of me going further into that.

But back to high school.

The most memorable part of Senior year was most definitely the stretch of time between April 6th and 17th of April.

It started with the night I got a tour of the American Airlines Center as a prize for winning the Dallas Stars High School Media Day article contest, followed by watching Mike Modano's potentially last game in Dallas from a Suite two days later. Then a week after that was the Portland trip.

But the 17th, stretching a few hours into the 18th, was the best day of my life so far.

It started at 5 AM, Pacific time. I woke up and got dressed and packed and watched the news for a little bit before going down to the lobby of the hotel we were staying in. After some confusion about what the purpose of alarm clocks are, we took a "fairly expensive" cab ride to the Portland International Airport.

I thought that I would be up out and away by 8 AM, but after about an hour on the plane our Captain told us that something was wrong with the defroster and we had to get off. This turned into a two hour long struggle to get on a plane before 3 PM because, oh yeah, my senior Prom was in less than 12 hours a few hundred miles away.

So then we tried switching tickets with people that were on the pre-designated "late" flight, which ended up leaving three hours before the "early" flight. There were five people in the group on the early flight, each of us planned on going to Prom when we bought our plane tickets, but only four people on the "late" flight were willing/able (but in reality, it was just really just "willing") to sacrifice their tickets.

This sad old tale doesn't really need to describe who the odd man out was, though I did have an opportunity to go on the now earlier. I didn't really have a special somebody to disappoint by not being at Prom, being confident that the rest of my group would still have fun in each other's company, so I gave it up.

This sounds like a pretty shitty day though, right? Wake up at 5 for a flight at 8 that ends up leaving at 3? Yeah, at that point it was. Curses were strewn recklessly around at certain people who were on a jet to Dallas, fatigue started setting in, and Pokemon Heart Gold started getting a lot less fun than it was when I bought it.

But ohshitwaitforthisone.

The flight got in to DFW at 9PM. At 9:30, I showed up at the Macaroni Grill on Park and Preston where my Prom group was eating in a Mizzou t-shirt and jeans.

Basically, I ran in and said hi, got mugged by one of my friends, said hi again.

"Where's your suit?" someone asked. I looked down at my current ensemble.

"Oh shit!" I said, running out of the room they were in.

At around 10:15 I showed up at Southfork in a suit and tie just after my group had arrived. We partied it up until 5 AM. Best day ever? I think so.


This was once again a raw outburst of my mind at 3 in the morning. I thought it had some pretty cool parts, myself.

Why Can't We Just Rewind?

I think tomorrow (Wednesday, for those of you who don't read these things as soon as I write them) will be a microcosm of my summer.

It will start off at midnight.

I woke up at 5:30 earlier today to help unload yearbooks from the Jostens truck and I've been going almost non-stop ever since. I did heavy lifting in the morning, and in the afternoon I made meatloaf-stuffed bell peppers for an hour and a half before doing my normal work routine. Right now, I am absolutely exhausted.

It really doesn't help that a potentially life-shattering series of events is unfolding around me either.

But back to my point.

Right now, my muscles are aching, my eyelids heavy, and the fucking paper cut on my left ring finger is stinging whenever I type with it. What I need is a day off. Maybe like, tomorrow. Luckily enough, the other guy I work with was nice enough to switch days with me so I could play hockey and go to the Daffron Senior reunion.

The next 24 hours is going to give me a great opportunity to recharge, settle everything down, and generally enjoy myself as much as I can before I ship off to Canada next Friday and then that whole summer thing the week after that.

Oh, I just adore these days.

I really cannot wait for summer to start. Waking up at noon will become commonplace again, Jerry Springer being the first thing I see when I wake up every day. Nostalgia is fantastic.


You see? This is me after an 18 1/2 hour day. I'm so tired that I can't think straight enough to string two sentences together or thread a theme through a piece. Fuck, the title doesn't even make sense. At what point did I even mention rewinding or otherwise going back through time?


And with that, my explosion of random sentences ends.

Marilik: Chapter Two- The Dawn

You'll have probably noticed that this is Chapter Two of Marilik again, but I assure you it is completely different than its first incarnation. After receiving some criticism about the last Chapter Two I had, especially relating to Llewellyn's character and the general silliness of it, I decided to give it a "gritty reboot", so I have.

Please enjoy. Once again, comments and criticisms are GREATLY appreciated. I think I can say that this chapter was only possible because of it.



The room was quiet. There weren’t many people inside of it, given its fairly immense size. The dull roar of the ship’s engines reverberated through the metal walls. There was something caught next to the bottom of the starboard wall. It rattled incessantly along with the engine’s rumble.


Llewellyn Graves looked up after studying the cracks in the chair he was sitting in for a few minutes. He tried finding the source of the rattle, but it was hidden behind another group of chairs. He went back to studying his own chair. He heard footsteps coming from behind him. An average sized male, walking in expensive shoes as if he owned the place by the sound of it. His brother Owen came into view to prove him right.

“Coffee’s shit,” Owen said. He took a sip out of a Styrofoam cup in his hand.

“They spend their budget on more important things,” Llewellyn replied. He traced a crevice in the seat part of the chair slowly with his finger. Owen shrugged, taking another sip. The room’s other inhabitants weren’t doing anything any more exciting. The Canadian girl was asleep on her brother’s shoulder. The French-sounding boy was staring out of the Observation window, somehow still bewildered by the sight of space. The American boy with jet black hair was focusing intently on the palm of his hand. Llewellyn took a slight interest in what the American was doing.

The boy stared at the object in his palm. His thumb was slowly rising. His eyes were focused on its tip. Suddenly, a coin dropped out of his hand, clinking on the metal floor beneath them. The boy cursed under his breath, scrambling to pick the coin up. Llewellyn became disinterested. He’d never understood the attraction of seeing other people fail. Owen had always enjoyed laughing at other people’s misfortune, however. This time he hadn’t seen the boy miscue his trick, only the scramble for the coin afterwards. It was still enough to make Owen chuckle slightly, somehow.

There was a bell sound from above the door all of the room’s inhabitants had walked through. A yellow light flashed above it a few times before shutting off completely. A green light next to it turned on with a loud buzz. The door slid open. After a few seconds, a girl, dressed only in lingerie, walked through the doorway. The American boy dropped his coin again. The French-sounding boy looked away from the window and towards her almost out of instinct. The Canadian boy shifted his body position awkwardly, waking up the girl on his shoulder. She looked at the new entrant for a few seconds with groggy eyes before sitting up abruptly.

“Excuse me a moment,” Owen said, handing Llewellyn the Styrofoam cup. He walked towards the girl. Llewellyn hadn’t bothered to fully examine her as quickly as the others had, taking the room-stopping reaction she drew as evidence of her above-average beauty. Having nothing better to do, he looked over the girl. She was dripping wet, sweat trickling down her bronzed, toned body. Her wavy blonde hair was tied back in a pony tail. She looked absolutely exhausted.

Llewellyn turned his attention to the Styrofoam cup. It was lukewarm, what the GeoConfederate army called “coffee” was halfway filling it. The liquid would have better been described as “dirty hot water”, given the taste and slightly offensive aroma. He was tempted to pour it into Owen’s bag, but decided to just lay it on the floor instead. As he did, he heard Owen deliver a pickup line to the new entrant. Llewellyn had heard him use it before. Somewhere on a Spanish beach. It had worked then, but, much to Owen’s surprise, the scantily clad girl didn’t even give him a response much less recognition, walking straight past him and towards where Llewellyn was sitting instead.

She collapsed into the chair next to Llewellyn. Llewellyn acknowledged her, then returned to running his finger over the crevice in the chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the girl staring at him.

“So this is an everyday thing for you?”

“No,” Llewellyn replied. He’d gotten a piece of something stuck in his fingernail. He tried shaking it out, but to no avail.

“You just seem very…” the girl started. Llewellyn successfully picked the piece of something out of his fingernail. “Unfazed.”

“Would you rather I gape at you like them?” Llewellyn asked, subtly motioning towards the other people in the room before wiping a bit of dust away from the chair. The girl looked around at the others.

“I suppose not,” the girl said. Llewellyn didn’t acknowledge the response. Instead he ran his fingers down the arm rest of the chair. The girl, seemingly dumbfounded, watched him intently. “Do you always ignore people like this?”

“I speak when spoken to,” Llewellyn replied. He traced his figure-eights on the armrest with his pointer finger.

“Not one for conversation then?” the girl asked.

“I don’t see the point of conversation,” Llewellyn said. “To me it’s just a way of avoiding dealing with life’s problems by trying not to talk about them.” He stopped the figure-eights, looking up thoughtfully. “But, I suppose I will converse if I see value in conversing.” He continued with the figure-eights.

“So if it interests you?”

“Interesting helps.”

“Well what does it take to interest you?” Llewellyn’s finger stopped. He tapped the spot it rested on.

“I have been to the shipyards of Odin, I have driven a dune buggy in the middle of Olympus Mons’ crater, I have dated a movie starlet for seven years before being dumped for being too distant, and I have seen more images of bloodshed and horrendous acts of violence than even the most experienced soldier,” Llewellyn said. “I’ve survived seven assassination attempts, had dinner with a convicted serial killer, been in the caldera of a volcano during an eruption, and I’ve seen some of the most powerful men in the galaxy crumble to their knees for a woman in a red and black dress. Anything more intriguing than all of those things might interest me.” The girl stared blankly at Llewellyn.

“I saw my farther die, heard that everything I’d spent my life working on was soon to be worth nothing, punched a GeoConfederate Marine in the stomach, dove off of an open air skiff half a mile in the air, climbed a two mile high mountain in lingerie, and inherited almost half a trillion credits in the last five hours,” the girl said. “Is that impressive enough?”

“Impressive, yes. Interesting?” Llewellyn said. “Debatable.”

“Debatable?”

“Yes, debatable,” Llewellyn said. “I would be able to form my own opinion on whether or not I am interested in your impressive five hours based on an argument between two people.”

“I am aware of what debatable means.”

“Then I have to wonder what the purpose of repeating what I had said in an inquisitive tone was.”

“To see if you were serious.”

“I assure you that I am quite serious.”

“I can see that.”

“So you are not blind or deaf,” Llewellyn said. “That conversation would have been more interesting if you had been both.”

“It was interesting enough for you to call it a conversation,” the girl said. Llewellyn thought about it for a few moments, then turned his head to look at the girl. She was smirking, quite satisfied with herself.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. She nodded appreciatively. There was another bell sound, followed by the flashing yellow light and the subsequent buzzed-in green light. A marine walked through the doorway, a set of clothes and a towel in his hands. He turned towards the girl.

“Ms. Pankiridous, here is a set of clothes for you,” the marine said.

“Thank you, but I’m more than comfortable with my current ensemble,” the girl said.

“Ms. Pankiridous, GeoConfederate naval regulations state that any civilian aboard a naval vessel must be clothed in at least minimum-required clothing which includes a shirt that covers the chest and midsection and pants that cover at least three inches below the buttocks and genitalia. If the civilian does not have the means to provide themselves with the minimum-required clothing, then the ship’s crew must provide them with standard uniform,” the marine said. He shifted uncomfortably, “The regulations also explicitly restrict clothing that includes… lace, ma’am.” Llewellyn looked at the girl’s bra, which was indeed lace.

The girl took the clothes with a sigh.

“Is there a bathroom I can change clothes in?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. You’ve been instructed to remain in this room until told otherwise,” the marine replied.

“I have to strip naked in here?” she exclaimed. “You cannot be serious.”

“Quite serious, ma’am,” the marine replied.

“Soldier, could you please provide Ms. Pankiridous with a more private setting?” Llewellyn asked. The marine looked strangely at him.

“My orders are to have her remain in this room,” the marine said.

“And mine are to have you give her a more private setting,” Llewellyn countered. “As the First of a GeoConfederate state, my orders supersede yours until I’m enlisted.” Both the marine and the girl looked at Llewellyn, rather shocked.

“First…” the marine started.

“First Llewellyn Graves of Unio. The very same. Please find this girl a bathroom.”

“Ye…yessir,” the marine stuttered. “Ms. Pankiridous, would you follow me please?” The girl got up out of the chair, following the marine back out of the door. She stopped before she left and looked back at Llewellyn.

“Thanks,” she said. Llewellyn nodded, going back to the figure-eights on the armrest. Owen watched the girl as she walked out of the door. After she’d gone out of sight, he sat down in the chair next to Llewellyn.

“You realize that if she would have had to change here, she would have been naked in front of all of us, right?” he asked Llewellyn. Llewellyn nodded. “You also realize that every person in this room thinks you’re gay now, right?” Llewellyn stopped the figure-eights and stared at Owen. “Look, I know you’re not, but everyone else doesn’t.” He went back to the figure-eights. Owen desperately wanted to push his point across, but Llewellyn was having none of it.

The American boy had failed his coin trick again. The clink on the metal floor was followed by a string of random curses and a few racial slurs. The outburst drew the ire of the high and mighty Australian boy, who walked away from his two sisters to confront the room’s magician.

“I don’t think it’s gonna’ work for you, mate,” the Australian said as the American picked up his coin again.

“You know what they say,” the American started. “If at first you don’t succeed..”

“Stop before you get a foot up the arse,” the Australian finished.

“That’s a very pessimistic way to look at things,” the American said. “You must not get anything done. Wait, hold on. Is it true your toilets flush backwards? That shit would screw me up.” The American was clearly not taking the Australian seriously. The Australian looked at him for a few moments before walking away in frustration.

“Fucking Yank…” he said under his breath.

“Fucking Roofucker,” the American replied rather loudly. The Australian turned on his heel, coming straight for the American. The American had expected to draw some kind of violent, physical retribution effort and stood to face the Australian in anticipation. The Australian let fly a right jab, grazing the American’s cheek. The American landed a shot to the Australian’s jaw with his right. It didn’t seem to faze the Australian much, as he came across the American’s face with his left fist as well. The weight of the punch put the American off-balance, allowing the Australian to deliver an uppercut to the American’s chin with his right.

The blow threw the American to the ground just as the door slid back open.

“Either of you make another move and I’ll tear your eyes out of their fucking sockets,” a man dressed in a dark green uniform shouted from the doorway. The two combatants remained motionless. The man walked into the room, his arms folded behind his back. Every time he took a step, his boots boomed against the metal floor like large rocks. He looked at the two boys. “You! Get up off the ground! I’m from Wyoming too, cadet. You’re putting us to god damned shame sitting on the ground waiting to take it up the ass.” The American scrambled to his feet, standing as straight as he could. “And you!” I like Wyoming’s little name for you. Roofucker. It fits. You look like you’d enjoy a nice evening out with a marsupial!” The Australian cringed.

Llewellyn didn’t like to laugh at other people’s misfortune, this much was true, but this guy had some wit. Llewellyn couldn’t help but smile. The loud man took notice.

“Something funny, cadet?” he shouted. Llewellyn couldn’t stop smiling.

“Yessir,” he replied. The man wasn’t expecting the answer he got.

“Do I amuse you, cadet?” he pressed on.

“Yessir,” Llewellyn replied.

“How ‘bout I call you Joker, cadet?”

“That would be cliché, sir,”

“Cliché? Okay how about cadet Froggy for being so god damned French then?”

“We already have a real Frenchman, sir.”

“Then cadet Smartass it is.”

“That works, sir.”

“Then we’re agreed, cadet Smartass. You’re in for some hell, First Graves.”

“I thought I was already there, sir.” The man grinned widely. His arms unfolded from behind his back, instead resting on his hips.

“Sonny” he said. “You ain’t seen shit.”As he’d finished, the door behind him opened again. Ms. Pankiridous walked through wearing grey sweatshorts and a matching skin-tight athletic shirt. The loud man turned to her.

“Cadet Pankiridous,” he said. “It’s a good thing that they have sports bras as standard uniform. Tell me, how many times have those things popped up and knocked you the fuck out?” Llewellyn almost burst out laughing. Pankiridous didn’t know how to answer the question, or if she even should have. The loud man smirked slightly. While Pankiridous was still wondering whether or not to answer the question, two marines walked through the door, one carrying a holoboard, the other dragging a hovercart with packaged clothing stacked on top of it.

“When I call your name, fall into line in front of me, confirm your name and origin, and receive your cadet uniform,” the loud man said, rather loudly considering the relative unimportance of what he was saying. “Luc Chevalier.” The French-sounding boy walked before the loud man.

“Luc Chevalier. Montreal, Quebec,” he said.

“That’s in Canada, ain’t it?” the loud man asked. Chevalier almost grimaced.

“Yessir,” he replied. The loud man smirked again.

“Carlson, GC1,” the man said to the marine with the uniforms. The marine threw Chevalier his uniform. “Jake Comeau.” The Canadian boy got out of his chair and stood next to Chevalier.

“Jake Comeau. Oshawa, Canada.”

“The new first, eh?” Jake cringed slightly like Chevalier had.

“Yessir.”

“GC2.” The marine tossed Jake a uniform. “Lindsay Comeau.” The Canadian girl stood next to her brother. She said her name and repeated Jake’s answer to the origin.

“Mandrella Cortana,” the man said. The shorter of the two Australian girls fell into line next to Lindsay, followed by her brother Starr, the aggressive Aussie from before. Both received their uniforms, GC4 and GC5 respectively. Next came their sister, the tall and statuesque Zelphia. After she received her uniform, she observed the dull gray outfit with a look of slight disgust.

“Reno Falconer,” the man said. No one in the room moved. “Wyoming! Get your ass in line.” The black-haired American was too busy gawping at the curvature of Zelphia’s legs. He snapped out of it after the man had shouted his newly acquired nickname.

“Reno Falconer. Simmonds, Wyoming,” he said after falling into line.

“I hate Simmonds, cadet. I ain’t never seen a worthy scratch of life out of that shithole.”

“Me neither, sir.”

“Hah! See that’s the problem with you fuckers, among other things of course. No spirit! Gravel’s a proud town. Women are fine, kids ain’t no gangsters or whatever you little shits call it these days, and our grav team actually wins game. You know what that word means, Wyoming? ‘Win’?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Well learn it, god dammit. There’s a war on. GC7.” A uniform flew at Falconer. He was barely able to catch it. “Steven Fennell.” There was a stirring from behind Llewellyn and Owen. Apparently there had been a boy sitting behind them the entire time they were in the room. He walked by Owen and Llewellyn. His long black hair covered most of his forehead and his right eye, but over his left there was a blood red slash, which looked like a tattoo, from his hairline to the top of his cheek. He fell into line, saying something inaudibly.

“Speak up, Dopey,” the man said.

“Steven Fennell. Aldrin, Luna,” the boy said, slightly louder.

“No wonder you can’t talk. I wouldn’t either if I wasn’t a Geec. GC8.” The marine tossed him his uniform. “Llewellyn Graves.” Llewellyn stood next to Fennell, who was about his height and was built almost identically.

“Llewellyn Graves. Cardiff, Unio.”

“Jesus Christ, cadet. Is it really necessary to have that many L’s in your name?”

“You can just call me Lou, sir,” Llewellyn offered.

“I ain’t no fruit, cadet. Don’t flatter yourself. GC9.” Another uniform came flying from the marine. “Owen Graves.” Owen stood next to Llewellyn and repeated his brother’s origin. The loud man looked at Llewellyn and Owen intently. “How am I supposed to tell you two apart?”

“He never shuts up, sir,” Owen said, motioning to Llewellyn, who in turn gave him a disapproving look.

“Not what I hear,” the man said. “GC10.” Owen’s uniform cam flying at him. “John Moreau.” A boy that had been observing the ordinance screen in the corner of the room stood next to Owen. Llewellyn had assumed that he was a crew member based on how handily he navigated through the ship’s weaponry database.

“John Moreau. Kanata, Ontario, Canada.”

“Good aviation town. I assume that’s why you’re here Mr. Moreau.”

“I’m here because you told me to be here, sir.”

“Hah! That’s what I like to hear! You’ll be a good military man, Moreau,” the man laughed. “GC11.” Moreau caught his uniform handily. Llewellyn imagined that the other ten cadets wouldn’t appreciate the man’s already preferential treatment of Moreau. Llewellyn himself couldn’t care less. He wasn’t here for brownie points. “Alexa Pankiridous.” The girl from before stood next to Moreau.

“Alexa Pankiridous. Athens, Greece.”

“How’s that new uniform treating you, cadet?”

“It’s… restrictive, sir.”

“Good riddance. Wouldn’t want those things to get caught on trip wire or something. GC12.” Another uniform came flying at Pankiridous. She hadn’t expected one after receiving hers early, so the package followed through and hit her in the chin. An annoyed look on her face, she threw the uniform back at the marine.

“That’s everyone, sir,” the marine with the holoboard said. The man nodded. He turned to the twelve cadets standing in front of him.

“Cadets, my name is Sergeant Peter Renner and for the next month, you are all, every one of you, my bitches,” the man shouted. “You have been selected by a group of men with more power than me to be ground until the dirt until it hurts to think. You will follow an eighteen hour-a-day physical training regimen until this ship has arrived at its final destination. You will be completely depleted, and once we land you’ll be expected to make a comeback that’d make Lazarus look like a pussy.”

Renner looked at all of their faces, now slightly paler than before, and smiled.

Acts of Kindness

Today at work, we got hit with a rush at 9:45, something that rarely ever happens after 8.

A Mexican family wanted about 10 pounds of beef tenderloin cut up into cubes, another dude wanted four pieces of Buffalo tenderloin (something we had to get a new cut of and trim right then and there, which took a good 5-6 minutes), and then there was one guy who just wanted italian sausage for a pizza.

I was the one helping that last guy. He asked me if our pork Italian sausage had any Fennel or Anise in it. Having no idea what either of those two things are, I went to go check the box they came in. It said that it had neither Fennel or Anise in the pork, but the chicken Italian sausage had both. I'm not going to say he was downtrodden and dejected by not being able to get pork sausage, but I felt he was kind of disappointed. I gave him two chicken sausages and he left.

But before he did, I noticed in the bottom left hand corner of the touch screen we use on our scales there was an ingredient panel. I thought it might have been just something for the chicken Italian sausage, but as he was walking away, I went ahead and checked the pork sausage ingredients as well. Sure enough, the first thing was fennel.

Thinking he was already too far away, I went into the back and started sweeping the floors.

Here's the thing. Yesterday, working on 3 1/2 hours of sleep, I was walking to my car after school and I saw some random guy drop something out of his back pocket. I wanted to say something to him, but for some reason I didn't. As the guy went off to his car, I spent the remainder of the walk regretting not telling him he dropped it.

I felt really guilty, actually. What if it was something this guy had spent hours writing for his girlfriend? What if it was a paper he aced and was bringing home to show his parents? It wouldn't be a suicide-worthy thing if he'd lost something like that, but he could have that little tinge of disappointment that we've all felt when we're proud of something and then we lose it before we can share it. What if it was some transcript for college that would decide whether or not he made it into the college of his choice? He could spend the rest of his life in Plano working crappy jobs because he dropped that piece of paper and I didn't tell him.

So back to the meat market. I sat there, remembering yesterday, and thought about it for a few seconds. Then I dropped the squeegee, ran out and wrapped up two pork Italian sausages, and ran to the front of the store where the guy was about to check out.

When I gave it to him and explained the mistake, he said "Thank you. Really, thank you. This is why we shop here".

That's not just Market Street propoganda either. I did something I really didn't have to, and he was really, really appreciative of it. It felt good, really good. Minutes earlier I'd been in a situation where I was reminded why it's a bad idea to talk about politics with friends which frustrated me beyond belief, but when he told me thank you like that, I felt like I'd made his night a little bit better and in doing so, did the same to mine.

Just two minutes out of my life for someone else randomly, and it was one of the more rewarding experiences in my past few weeks.

Marilik- Chapter Two: Llewellyn

Wordpress apparently doesn't like it when Inigo copies and pastes, so let's just imagine that his name is at the bottom of this.



Tick. Tick. Tick.

All the amazing leaps forward in timekeeping technology, and this prick of a shrink decided to stick with the fucking analog. A cuckoo was bound to pop out and just make everyone’s day, Llewellyn could just see that.

“Good evening, Llewellyn,” the shrink said.

“Is it?” Llewellyn replied. The shrink was already used to this response.

“It’s been alright,” the shrink said.

“Not great though.”

“What constitutes ‘great’?” the shrink asked. Llewellyn scoffed.

“What a lazy question,” he shook his head. “They teach you that one in med school?” The shrink didn’t say anything. He just looked at Llewellyn, an irritatingly pleasant smile on his face. Llewellyn sighed and thought for a moment. When he decided on his response, he smirked.

“Sex with a movie star,” he answered.

“I thought that was just the one time.”

“It was, and it was great.”

“Fair enough.”

“Fair? It isn’t fair that you didn’t get in on that while I was.” Llewellyn’s left leg was tapping furiously. The shrink looked down at it. Llewellyn stopped.

“Are you going to take this seriously now?” the shrink said. Llewellyn nodded subtly. “Good. How are you feeling today, Llewellyn?” Llewellyn was still calming himself down from his outburst of sarcasm and faux self confidence. He looked intently at the shrink, then at the floor, sighing.

“Cold.”

“Cold?” said the shrink. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“That’s because it’s not, fuckface.”

“There’s no need for namecalling, Llewellyn.”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” Llewellyn said immediately after. The shrink stared quietly at him again. Llewellyn stared back. Coldly.

“Why do you feel cold?”

“Fucking Socrates over here…” Llewellyn mumbled. He shook his head, then thought for a few moments. “It’s kind of like Space. Nothing in it. Empty. No matter to conduct heat. Just… nothingness. I’m empty. By being empty, I’m cold.

“Oh, Llewellyn,” the shrink said, “we’ve had a few sessions now. I can tell you that you’re not empty.” Llewellyn cocked his eyebrow.



“Demon child!” the shrink shouted, running down the hall. “That child is a demon!”
The shrink brushed past Owen Graves, just on his way to sit in that same shrink’s office to wait for his brother. Llewellyn strolled calmly down the hallway a few seconds later. Owen looked at him with a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“Another one?” Owen said. “Christ, that was quick. What’d you say?”

“I was sitting there, he asked me a question, and I thought ‘What would Owen say?’” Llewellyn replied.

“You asked him if he had a daughter that’s into feet?” Owen asked. Llewellyn looked at Owen strangely. “What? Fair question.” Llewellyn shook his head and continued down the hallway.

“Jesus, you’re cold,” Owen said, following him.

“That’s what I told him,” Llewellyn said.

“What? That you were cold?” Owen asked.

“And empty.”

“Cold and empty? What did you get that from? An emo band?” Owen said. Llewellyn ignored the comment. “Could’ve asked him to turn down the air conditioning.” Llewellyn ignored him again. They kept walking down the hall, no clear destination in mind, in silence. After a few minutes, they heard rapid, heavy footsteps behind them.

“First Graves!” someone shouted. They turned to see a GeoConfederate marine running towards them. “First Graves. Your father would like to speak with you.”
Owen looked at Llewellyn. Llewellyn shrugged.

“I suppose he would,” Llewellyn said. He walked past the marine. Both Owen and the marine followed him down the hallway with their eyes.

“What’d he say?” Owen asked.

“Still trying to figure that one out.



Governor Derek Graves stared at his son, his expensive chair rotating slightly. Llewellyn sat laid back in his own chair, twiddling his thumbs.
“He called you a demon child,” the Governor said. Llewellyn nodded apathetically slow.

“So I heard,” he replied.

“Now why would he say that?” his father asked.

“Oh, you know,” Llewellyn said. “Just kind of showed him my horns.”

“What horns have you got?”

“The same ones that made Mom hate me for coming out feet first.”

“My son the comedian…” the Governor said. “What’d you say?”

Llewellyn sighed heavily.



“You’re right doc. I’m not empty. There is something. Something deep inside of me. Whenever I see a crowd of black people, it makes me put my hands in my pockets because I’m convinced they’ll try to steal something if I don’t. When I see a woman, it makes me not care about what’s going on inside of her head so long as I can have a say of what goes into it. Through her mouth. When I see a group of small children, it makes me wonder how long it would take to make all of their little heads explode with a handgun. I’m a monster, doc. More than you can handle.”

The shrink looked at him with a face that almost dripped with horror. He shout out of his chair, bolting out of the room and down the hallway. Llewellyn sighed. Time was up, he supposed.



The Governor’s mouth was slightly open, his eyebrows arranged in an awkward fashion.

“That’s the gist of it,” Llewellyn said, unfazed by his father’s expression.

“You cannot be serious.”

“And if I am?”

“This is going to get out, Llewellyn!” his father shouted. “Half of Unio is going to hear about this by tomorrow!”

“And then what?” Llewellyn asked. “What happens when everyone hears that the First of Unio, the heir to the Governorship of the GeoConfederacy’s most powerful state, is a homicidal, racist, misogynist? Hm? Nothing. The Supervaccine is supposed to stop those kinds of compulsions. Everyone knows that.”

“But your deficiency, Llewellyn.”

“What, you think they know about it?” Llewellyn said. “Christ, I didn’t even know about it until Uncle Daniel let it slip. You really think that people will believe that someone with as much genetic engineering as I’ve had would be imperfect in any way?”

The Governor stared at him. It was a common theme for the evening.

“Good luck with that one,” Llewellyn said.

“You don’t actually believe any of that, do you?” his father asked. “That bit about women shocked me a little bit. I couldn’t read the report past that.”

“Shame, I thought it had a strong finish.”

“Well if you keep saying things like that for the shock value, you’ve got a bright future in politics ahead of you.”

“You trained me well.”

“I certainly hope not,” his father said. “If that’s what you took out of my lessons, then you might as well be a child murderer.”

Llewellyn chuckled. His father shook his head with a smile.

“Governor Graves,” someone said from the doorway. Both Llewellyn and his father looked to see Sean Davies, the Governor’s Advisory Board assistant manager, or GABAM, with a holoboard in his hand. Llewellyn had always called him “Boom Boom” due to GABAM’s proximity to the onomatopoeia of an explosion. He lamented the day Davies would get a promotion.

“Yes, Sean?” the Governor asked.

“The Chancellor has given us a ready signal,” Davies replied.

“Thank you, Sean,” the Governor replied. “Has my good son arrived yet?”

“Yessir,” Davies chuckled. Llewellyn smirked as well.

“Alright,” Llewellyn’s father said as he got up out of his chair. “Llewellyn, let’s go.” The Governor followed Davies out into the hallway, Llewellyn in tow.

“So explain to me what this is again?” Llewellyn said.

“The quarterly GeoConfederate senate meeting, you should know that,” Llewellyn’s father said.

“So the same thing we’ve come to Luna to do for 17 years?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then, different question,” Llewellyn started. “Why am I going?”

“To see history, Llewellyn,” the Governor said. “Africa is receiving statehood today.” Llewellyn was unimpressed.

“I could just have watched it from the enclave,” Llewellyn replied. “History’s just as good on a Holoscreen.”

“It would be for you, wouldn’t it?” the Governor scoffed. “Since Unio was active in helping Africa meet statehood requirements, the Governor Elect asked that we pass the rights to them.”

“We as in all of Unio, right?”

“No, ‘we’ as in ‘you’ and ‘me’,” The Governor said. “You’re passing the Number rights to the Governor Elect’s son.”

“Fantastic,” Llewellyn said snidely.

“It’s not that hard, Llewellyn,” Davies said.

“It’s easy to say that, Boom Boom,” Llewellyn replied. “It’s difficult to say it in front of billions of people, however.”

“Nervous are we?” Owen, who had just caught up with them, jabbed.

“Nervous?” Llewellyn asked. “I was nervous when I took Juliet out to that one restaurant in Paris. I’m not nervous right now.”

“You know, considering the amount you talk about that night, it really looks like you’re trying to compensate for something.

“Owen, if you’d boned a movie starlet, you’d probably be able to talk about every individual second in detail,” Llewellyn replied.

“I didn’t need to hear that,” the Governor said. Davies looked at Llewellyn, a look of what seemed like a mix between admiration and “shut the fuck up” on his face.

“So who got Governorship?” Llewellyn asked, changing the subject from pre-marital sex to politics as smoothly as he possibly could.

“Work on your segues,” the Governor said. “Arthur Karim. A true genius.”

“The Somalian?” Owen asked.

“The very same,” the Governor said. “No one knows how he did it, but somehow he united a good 9/10ths of the continent and turned Mogadishu from one huge slum into a metropolis that out does a few European cities.”

“Imagine what he could do for us and Canada,” Llewellyn quipped. Davies looked at him again, this time with a pure “shut the fuck up” look.

“Not much,” the Governor replied. His tone had shifted from playful to dead serious almost instantly. “Bruce Comeau isn’t here for the good of humanity. If he wanted to help us all out, he’d go live somewhere in Andromeda.”

“Actually, sir, he lives there over recess,” Davies replied. “The Canadians set up a vacation colony on one of Zaresta’s tropical moons just for him.”

“When do we get our own planet, Dad?” Owen asked, half jokingly.

“When you can afford it,” his father replied.

The hallway ended after a few minutes of walking, opening up into a large room.
There was a lot of commotion and activity all around it. Several flashing lights on a large holoscreen that hung down from the ceiling directed crowds of people in different directions.

“That’s you two on the left,” Davies said to Llewellyn and Owen.

“Your mother wants us all to meet in the dining hall after the ceremonies to eat a family meal,” the Governor said. “Please don’t go wandering off somewhere instead.”

“Oh, you know us Dad,” Owen said. “Just a couple of wild and crazy kids up to no good.”

“I just don’t want anyone running away from you two screaming ‘demon child’ at the top of their lungs,” the Governor said. Llewellyn rolled his eyes, though he was still grinning widely. “There was a day and age when I didn’t have to worry about that sort of thing. I miss those days.”

“Are any of the Numbers shrinks?” Llewellyn asked.

“Not to my knowledge, no,” the Governor replied.

“We’re good then,” Llewellyn said.

“Conversation for another time,” the Governor said. “We’re going to have Sean’s assistant go along with you today. He’ll tell you all you need to say.”

“No Boom Boom?” Llewellyy asked.

“No, No Boom Boom,” the Governor said.

“Wait, so, Sean’s assistant,” Owen said, “would be the Governor’s Advisory Board Assistant Manager Assistant?”

Sean and the Governor thought about it for a few moments.

“Sounds about right,” Sean answered.

“So he’d be GABAMA?” Llewellyn asked, picking up his brother’s train of thought. Sean sighed, realizing what they were trying to do.

“Yes. GABAMA,” he replied. Llewellyn and Owen looked at each other with huge smiles on their faces. All of a sudden, Llewellyn started gyrating his hips, moving his arms in a piston-like fashion.

“At the Copa, Copa GABAMA, the hottest spot north of Havana,” Owen sang, drawing the ire of a few stuffy, important-looking dignitaries. The Governor stared blankly at his sons, the paternal body language symbol for “stop it, you’re tarnishing our families’ name”. They did as they expected they’d be told. Shortly after, a skittish man with slicked back hair and glasses scuttled next to them.

“I guess you’re Copa,” Llewellyn joked. Owen laughed. The Governor slapped him on the shoulder.

“What? No I’m Stuart,” Copa replied.

“Don’t worry about these two, Stu,” Sean said. “They call me ‘Boom Boom’.”

“Why to they…” Copa started.

“GABAM!” Owen shouted. Copa flinched dramatically.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sean said again. Copa calmed himself down. “If you could please escort the two to the Numbers box and give Llewellyn his lines.”
Copa nodded and took off for the Number box, not checking to see if Owen and Llewellyn had followed him. They both looked at Sean.

“He’s a bit… nervous,” he said.

“Miss you already, Boom Boom,” Llewellyn said. He and his brother walked towards the Number box as they’d done without an assistant countless times before. Copa had turned around and noticed how far behind they were after about three-fourths of the walk. He was now trying to push his way past a crowd of people trying to reunite with the two brothers.

Llewellyn could have told him to turn back around and meet them at the box, but it was strangely entertaining to see a man of Copa’s stature try to work his way through a crowd of galaxy-shiftingly powerful men surrounded by highly trained body guards. He and Owen had a laugh when Copa tripped over the Asian Conglomerate’s governor, landing on the Czechoslovakian foreign secretary. Neither was very happy with Copa. He eventually got to the two brothers, only after going past them at one point without even realizing. They were standing on one side of the Number boxes’ door.

“Mr Xiqhuo is very touchy about his shoes, Copa,” Llewellyn said of the Asian Governor Copa had just tripped over. “And I’m pretty sure Mr. Hradecky only likes to see his wife on top of him.”

Owen chuckled. Copa didn’t respond to the comment. It seemed he was a quick learner. The doors to the box opened. The three of them went in. There was a concierge in front of another door. He looked up as they entered.

“Welcome back First Graves, Second Graves,” the concierge said. “Is Mr. Davies not with you today?”

“No, it’s Copa today,” Llewellyn replied. The concierge moved his fingers over the top of a Holoboard, a confused look on his face.

“I’m not seeing a ‘Copa’ in our system,” the concierge replied.

“Townsend,” Copa said. “Stuart Townsend.” The concierge looked back through the holoboard.

“Ah, there we go,” the concierge said. “Stuart Townsend, Governor’s Advisory Board Assistant Manager’s Assistant. GABAMA?”

“Copa GABAMA,” Owen continued.

“Hottest assistant south of Havana, I suppose, though I’m not one to judge,” the concierge continued, much to the chagrin of Copa and the amusement of Llewellyn and Owen. “Well I think we were waiting on you. Head right in and mingle.” Llewellyn nodded and lead his broth and Copa through the door. The box was already occupied by several other people that looked Llewellyn’s age. There was very little chatter between all of them.

In a corner nearest the beverage area were the Russian Numbers. The two brothers Nikolai and Mikhail, First and Second respectively, towered over their sister Mishka, the third. They looked to the door when Owen and Llewellyn entered, giving them a brief, welcoming nod before continuing to talk amongst themselves. Across the room from them was the Belarusian first Aleksei Cherumayev. He, being his father’s only child, stood talking to a very leggy female companion, occasionally looking up at the Russians across the room with a spiteful glare. Their father’s hate for each other extended down to their own generation. They never spoke directly to each other.

Strangely enough, arguably the most bitter hatred between two States was shared by Unio and Canada. Despite that, Llewellyn and Owen were actually quite good friends with Canada’s First, Hailey Comeau. Hailey waved excitedly to get their attention. They noticed and walked over to the observation wall of the box where Hailey was standing.

“Oh my god I thought you two would never get here,” Hailey said. “I’m pretty sure Russia and Belarus are going to have a bit of a donnybrook before the ceremony starts.”

“Oh good. Dinner and a show,” Owen quipped. Hailey giggled, somewhat excessively. Llewellyn had always thought Hailey’s sole purpose in life was to get herself on top of Owen. Given how obvious she made everything and how raging Owen’s libido was, it was a wonder she hadn’t yet. Of course, Llewellyn always had the option to tell Owen how much she longed for him, but he much preferred to see her make awkward advances instead.

“Here is your speech, First Graves,” Copa, who had stealthily scuttled over to them, said, handing Llewellyn a holopad.

“Thanks, Copa,” he said, “and it’s Llewellyn, by the way.”

“With all due respect, First Graves, it’s Stuart, by the way,” Copa replied. Llewellyn chuckled. “We’ll leave for the floor level halfway through your father’s speech.”

“Thanks, Copa,” Llewellyn said. Copa stood in his place, noticeably furious. He sighed and turned around to walk to the corner where all of the other Number assistants were standing, all scrolling through Holoboards.

“Do you think we’re too hard on him?” Owen asked.

“He’ll get over it,” Llewellyn replied, looking through the speech. “Apparently both Zaki and Arthur Karim are very good friends of mine. We spent a summer together in Morocco.”

“How was that?” Hailey asked.

“So great I forgot I even went,” Llewellyn said with a laugh. As he finished the speech, the windows on the observation wall opened, revealing the enormity that was the Luna Megarena. It was setup as it always was for a GeoConfederate meeting. The floor was packed with seats, arranged in a circle around a large, intricate podium with a small area of what amounted to a stage in front of it. The arena seats around the floor were packed with journalists, dignitaries, and people from every state in the GeoConfederacy.

The huge lights on the ceilings above the arena seats dimmed, putting a focus on the floor. All of the state representatives of the states filled into their seats. There was a fifteenth section that was not present at the previous sessions set aside for the African delegation. The Number box started to slowly ascend to its place at the front of the middle arena seating ring as the Chancellor, a young Swedish man named Bjorn Samuelsson, took his place at the center podium.

“We call to order this quarterly meeting of the GeoConfederate senate,” his voice boom from speakers all around the arena. There was a loud round of applause from everyone in attendance. “Today, we will accept the fifteenth state of our Confederacy into our ranks. Without any further delay, we will open the floor to any objections.” There was a silence. After five seconds, the crowd erupted into cheer.

“With no objections, I, Bjorn Samuelsson, Chancellor of the GeoConfederate senate, accept the State of Africa as the fifteenth GeoConfederate state.” There was another roar from the crowd. The African delegation all stood, a few of them waving a newly-stitched flag bearing the newly decided seal of Africa.

Then came the boom.





AGAIN. COMMENTS/CRITICISMS NOT JUST WELCOMED, BUT ENCOURAGED.