The Daily Rage

Alright, I was having a pretty good day. But being me, something awkward usually happens that makes me feel like either a bumbling idiot or an royal asshole in front of people I most likely will never see again.

The result is, unsurprisingly, the day turning into a bad one. Even the most inconsequential of daily slip-ups that would interrupt otherwise routine public behaviour can eat at your conscience and keep you debating with yourself about whether or not the people involved think you’re a lesser human being.

Case in point: I was at McDonald’s today. The first peculiar thing was that it’s almost February and the wind-chill is politely decreasing average temperatures to below –10 degrees Celsius, and I decided to buy an Oreo McFlurry. I had a craving, okay?

So I enter the McDonald’s, and a grudgingly common setting greets me. A middle-aged Indian woman at the counter discussing the nature of the coupon deal she is trying to take full advantage of. Six other people are in line in front of me, and the cashier looks confused because of the language barrier that I presume is preventing this discussion from going smoothly. I’m being prejudiced. But still, what the fuck is up with Asians (East, and Southeast) and bargaining with already discounted items?

I digress. The line moves up and the two men in front of me are ready to order now. I’m going to bring in races, even though they’re unnecessary. But I’m going to bring them in, because—honestly—they have a good part to play in this awkward moment in my day. They’re Caucasian.

One of them stands about 6’2, dressed in a suit. The other stands 6’4, looks over 200 pounds and very burly. He is dressed in an orange sweater and track pants. They seem to be of the same party, which is odd to say the least. Naturally, I assume they’ll order together. I was wrong.

So the guy in the suit orders his food, and at this point I’m not really paying attention to what’s going on in front of me. Once he orders, the cashier calls for the next person in line. She makes eye contact with me. I step forward.

To my left, leaning against the wall, is the large man in the orange sweater, apparently beginning his order. I stop speaking and look at him. I ask him if he was ordering.

And this is where it gets awkward. The guy is wearing a cap, he’s white, and he’s taller and larger than me. And now, he’s staring at me. Eyes wide. With an expression of, “Excuse me, what the hell are you doing, you little punk?” I don’t know how good I am at reading people, but I am pretty sure by reading his face that he immediately did not like me. I think he thought I was disrespecting him by stepping up to order when I shouldn’t have.

I didn’t apologize when he answered, “Yeah.” I just stepped back and he ordered. And then he moved to the opposite side of the counter, beside the muffin display case, to read his paper as his friend in the suit left the bathroom.

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Here’s my qualm with this situation. I did something awkward; yes, I feel bad about that. Could it have been handled by me in a better way? Probably, but I was most likely at a loss for cohesive reasoning at the time of the large white man staring me down with judging eyes. And that was exactly it. What I hate about this situation is that I knew he assumed I was the person who did wrong.

I know it seems obvious I am, but I have a strong urge to displace blame onto this man’s actions. When I asked him if he was ordering, he delayed his response, while staring straight at me. Intimidating, to say the least. And I could bet you a lot of money that he wanted to intimidate me, because he was white, larger, and taller than me. He could have put on a friendly face, laughed a bit and said, “Yeah, I’m in line,” and help me feel more comfortable in an awkward situation. Instead. he put on an unfriendly face, and expected me to back off—back off into my rightful place, behind him.

What I hate about this is I didn’t know he was in line. The fact that he was leaning against the side wall while there was an empty space in front of me is reason enough to believe that I was next in line. I mean, it’s a line for a reason. You get in it to signify your place to get your food ordered. This man was beside the line. I was in direct sight of the cash register. If he was clearly in front of me, that cash register would not have been in sight, and consequentially, I would have known I wasn’t next in line.

That fucking asshole didn’t get in line. It pisses me off. It almost makes me believe that he alone caused me to be awkward in a public place. And then he stares me down, like I’m a culprit? Stand in fucking line next time, and maybe I won’t misinterpret things. He’s leaning against the wall, all non-chalantly, because—this is my most educated guess—he was white, taller, and bigger than me, and possibly every else in the McDonald’s at that time.

Then it turns into a race, class and social equality debate. I knew he thought lesser of me, because he stared at me that specific way, and responded in the specific tone of voice. And then I thought, “Okay, I’ll back off, since this guy is obviously offended.” He didn’t think about the line, or that he may not clearly be in front of it. Maybe it was my fault for not paying attention that his suited friend had ordered, and he didn’t. But really was that reaction necessary?

I can’t recreate the face on a blog, but I will tell you, it was a very, very judgemental face. I could read his thoughts just by looking at him. And the rest of the time I was in that line, I was thinking about what he thought of me. The funny thing is, I’m almost positive he forgot about me the moment finished ordering and waited for his food.

So now I’m left thinking about this, while he’s going about his day like nothing happened because he knew he used his advantages to make me feel awkward, and he knew that he had set me in my place. I know that, because he is white, bigger, and taller than me, and he stared at me that specific way.

And now, I think he’s an asshole. I have overanalyzed this; that’s a given. But I really do hate awkward situations, and I hate the people who create them—sometimes even me. But I hate people who spur them on, and imply through subtle psychological and behavioural indicators that they’ve gained the upper hand and left the situation dominant. Basically, that it isn’t an awkward situation for them.

So fuck you, big guy in the orange sweater and track pants. I hope your food has semen in it.

And that Oreo McFlurry was crunchy and creamy at the same time. So I felt a bit better about it all after I finished it.

Portfolio Pieces.

I don’t draw or paint, nor did I keep track of my artwork, because I didn’t know I was going into arts. So this was really hard to pull off properly.

Photograph I took in Grade 11, but I decided to lie about it and said I took it in September of 2009. Used macro function on the camera, obviously. I like the noise and texture.

First ever design I did, back in September. Didn’t lie. Didn’t know I could draw designs either. Still can’t. Made through Adobe Illustrator, applied using Photoshop to examples. And I think it does only take 13. Maybe it’s 12. I don’t know.

Photo shoot with Kevin and a pot. Used Photoshop for some Infrared effects.

Yes, those are little balls of paper, and those strips are supposed to look like badly rolled joints. Pothead was the original title. Get it? Took five weeks. Projected graphic of the photo against a white board, traced, then painted over, then recycled material applied.

Photos of glowsticks moving around a person’s body. I shot the glowsticks moving over specific body parts with a DSLR at low shutter speed, then photo montage’d them together in Photoshop to create the outline of the body. Which is why it looks fragmented. I offset the master image and tilted it. Then I called it Dutch Angle, to look clever for Ryerson Film Studies. I hope it works. Digitally put together in 2 hours, yesterday.

Graphic design using Photoshop and InDesign. Used photography from newspapers, put a threshold on them, and compiled them together to reflect each other, which I hope made an interesting visual graphic. The typography on either side of the design is taken from Canadian and some American newspapers about the earthquake. It was meant to be an awareness poster, though I have yet to decide whether or not to modify it into an informational design. Probably won’t. You decide, or something.

I’m applying to Film Studies at Ryerson School of Image Arts, and I didn’t submit a film. Will these get me in? Tell me why or why not in the comments. And if you’re an artist, feel free to critique any work you see. If you’re not an artist, and still want to critique, then you can as well. However, you will sound like an asshole. But go ahead.

Introducing the next era of iConformity

Today, Apple released its biggest iPhone yet!

Wait, never mind. It’s a pad. Not a phone.

When I first found out about this, I thought it was a hoax, because most of the time they are. But when it was on the Apple website, I still thought it was a hoax. Like, come on. An iPhone for your lap? In 3 years, maybe even 2 years, maybe even in the next few months after it comes out, are people going to be taking public transit and wiping their dirty, oily hands over something that looks like a detached computer monitor?

Yeah, we will. But from the looks of the demo video (which stops buffering a quarter way through), its basically a bigger iPhone, without the phone part. Is that a bad thing? Not at all. Imagine gaming on this thing, without the use for a real keyboard and a mouse. Imagine racing games! Have you ever driven a car with a quadrilateral steering wheel? Well, now you can—or at least I think you will be able to. I don’t think Apple would pass up that opportunity.

And imagine first-person shooters. Maybe if you slap the screen with your palm, you throw a grenade or something. I don’t really know how that would work, but it seems more awesome the more I think about it.

But apart from that, the guy with the slightly lazy eye in the demo video on the Apple homepage says its fun. I’m going to take his word for it, cause it does look like fun. If you like high resolutions, I bet you’ll like this. Just a giant iPhone (without the phone).

Still, it’s a bit surreal that Apple came out with this weird piece of tech. There was actually a Samsung or Sony information-viewer thingy of similar function at the recent CES convention, but I doubt it’d fly as much as the iPad. Not as fruity.

Do expect a massive, overwhelming influx of richer-than-you-should-be yuppies and privileged teenagers gnawing for a taste of this new tech. Will we look like the stupidest people ever, poking our fingers endlessly against a screen? Or will this yet again be another media technology revolution?

I give it a month; by that time it should be in everyone’s lives, like everything else Apple. It’s almost scary how much we rely on this company. Silicon-plated, staintless-steel statue of Steve Jobs erected in 2020? I can see it now. With some iHovercraft, or some iFood.

Ah, the gag’s not even funny anymore. Just enjoy your screen-poking, once it becomes available. Until then, play your leeeetle racing games on your leeetle tiny iPhone screen.

This is a pretty big event, because I just had to create a new label just to compensate for this news! Get poking (April 2010)!

Shaken – A Story for Haiti

Give what you can, because you can.

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The first loud, enormous rumble was startling, to say the least. I was sitting in my home and listening to my music when I felt the walls and floor shift and move with so much force that I thought that the ground itself was going to collapse on me.

When it did, I did not know what to think. There was no thinking at that time. Just fear. Fear and confusion. A flash, and it was over. I only saw debris and metal and several people collapse through the building with me. I did not talk to these people who lived with me; I probably have never seen them before. But at the time I knew what they were feeling. I knew how scared they were and how they didn't know if they were going to live through this. I knew it all, because I felt the exact same thing.

I was scared. Everyone was. Everywhere. Fear.

As I hit the ground and dust and debris hit the ground around me, I covered myself with my arms and tucked my legs in. I did not scream or shout or yell. There was no time. There was everything around me falling apart, and me falling with it. I curled up and could do nothing but hope that I would not be crushed or impaled. I hoped I would survive. I hoped the people around me were okay.

They were not.

As the dust settled around me, all I could see was the brownish-gray concrete of the floors and walls of the building piled around me. I slowly stood up and could see above the endless ocean of debris. As I looked into the horizon, I did not know what to think.

I couldn't. I could only see and hear. Touch and smell. I saw destruction and devastation. Horror and chaos. I saw fear. I heard cries. Shouts and yelling. People calling for others. People calling for God. I smelled death. Blood and concrete. I felt the air against my skin. It made my spine crawl and my hair stand up. I felt the wet tears roll down my eyes. I blinked them and tried to wipe them from my face. But I couldn't. I was frozen. Unable to think.

The noise of the unthinkable chaos around me came back into my ears. The crying and shouting got louder, the smell got stronger, and I saw more devastation. Not in the distance, or on the street. I looked down around me and saw limbs and people buried under debris around me. I listened closer and heard muffled or faint cries; struggling voices. I could hear people dying. I did two or three full circles to figure out where any of the sounds were coming from. I tried to trace a voice to a face, or an arm, or a leg. The tears still came out of my eyes. I was struggling to see through them and I constantly wiped my face with my dusty arm. My eyes began stinging but I still tried to see through them, and hear them, and reach for them.

I made my way across the jagged surface of the fallen building. My sandals could not get a good grip on the slabs of concrete that lie below me. But as I walked further across the fallen building, I stepped on something soft. I looked down, through my stinging eyes and saw a small hand. I bent down and tried to look closer at it and I saw it twitch. There was no voice coming from this body buried under the rubble. There were only small pieces of debris that covered this person.

I grabbed this person's hand as hard as I could. This person grabbed back. The grip was weak, and beginning to get weaker. I needed to save this person. I released this person's hand and went around the arm and tried to remove the first slab. I hoped I was not crushing this person as I moved around to get the debris off. My grip on the concrete was not as good as I wanted it to be. My eyes were still stinging and I could feel something drip down my nose. I was feeling light-headed. Still, I bent down and tried to create any leverage I could to lift the slab concrete off of this person.

It was at least eighty kilograms and I kept trying to bend my legs and twist my back to get it off. I repositioned myself and tried to push it. My feet would slip as I pushed it harder, but I could feel it begin to fall off onto another slab of concrete, and a large cloud of dust filled the air around me as I heard a loud deafening boom as the slab hit the ground. I turned around and the slab was off of this person's arm. But the arm was not moving.

The hole was big enough for me to see through, and for someone to get out of. I looked inside of it.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

I grabbed this person's hand and shook it. It was small, and there was a tiny bracelet that I hadn't noticed before made out of string. Tiny beads on it read out the name 'Miyole'. I felt for a pulse. It was faint. But it was there. I kept my two fingers on it.

Her soft, gentle pulse matched my pulsing, bumping heart as I sweat and panted.
I reached my other hand into the hole and searched for another part of this girl's body. I touched hair. Searched further. Reached downwards more. A shoulder. More. Another arm. I took my other hand under her arm and lifted her out of the debris.

She was not older than seven. I stared into her face; her eyes were closed and her mouth half open. Her hair was tied in braids and she tilted her head as I made my way off of the broken concrete and onto the ground. I carried her onto the street, or what was left of it.

Buildings, if I could call them that, were collapsed and compressed. Cars were crushed under larger slabs of concrete, some bigger than the ones from my building. More bodies. Some of them were whole. Some were not. I was frozen again. But I was broken away from it, as I could feel the warmth of this girl's body against my fast, beating heart.

I wanted to bring her somewhere safe. I knew that this was impossible.

But across the battered street where people ran back and forth, trying to find someone or something, I saw an intact car. I ran over to it and her limp arms hit against my body. I didn't want to touch them because I feared that they would be cold. But her body was warm against mine. I hoped it would stay that way.

The door was locked when I tried to open it with one arm, so I protected her with my body and kicked the window out. As I lay her down in the backseat and shut the door, I could hear the building in front of me creak and moan. I saw it sway.

And a second later I saw it fall.

I ducked under the car I had put the girl in and covered my eyes. They didn't sting anymore. I took my hands off my face and noticed blood on them. I rubbed the bottom of my nose. More blood. My light-headedness got stronger. As the dust settled once again around me, I stood up but couldn't regain my balance.

I stumbled for a bit, and I got dizzy for a moment. My vision returned, and I stared at another collapsed building. I stared down the street. It was all collapsed buildings. People continued to run up and down; around me, past me, through me. Somebody was carrying a child as they ran past. The child had no left leg. I did not think. There was no place for thinking.

More groans came from the the fallen building. People came from behind and gathered around me, trying to remove people from the debris. I was frozen again, but I felt my heart beating and went to assist them. As I helped a man throw a hundred pound piece of concrete off, another shock hit us.

The ground swayed and the people trying to help get the debris off fell or tripped. People on the streets hit the ground, either because they were running or they were scared. I looked back and the car with the girl inside it, and the wheels of it shifted back and forth.

Then someone yelled beside me, and another building beside us began to tilt towards where we were standing. More people yelled. More people ran. I scrambled to get on my feet and run for the street. I could feel a rushing wind from the building beginning to topple over behind me. I sensed it would hit soon so I jumped for the car the girl was in. The force of the other building falling on top of the this building's remains sent me flying over the car. I rolled onto the other side of it and felt a sharp pain in both my head and my arm.

I looked at it but I didn't see anything wrong. I ignored the pain and got up again. More dust. Through it, I saw a pile of rubble at least seven feet tall. I could still see limbs. I jumped over the car and ran towards the pile of debris. I lifted off everything I could and tried to grab any hands I could see. Someone was trying to pull me from the people. I shook his hand off my arm and continued to dig through the slabs to get to them.

"Hey! They're dead! We need help over there! Hey! Hey!"

I didn't listen to him. I wanted to see the rest of the people buried under here. I didn't want to see arms. I didn't want to see legs. I wanted to see faces. People. I wanted to see life.

The man grabbed me by the waist and pulled me back. I tried to grab those arms again but we both hit the ground and I struggled with him. He got a hold of me and pushed me against the door of the car.

"Let me save one more! Please! He's still alive! I can save him!"

I tried to squirm out of the man's grip against my neck but he didn't budge. I stared him right in the eyes as I yelled at the top of my lungs. He looked at me with stern eyes. I saw the badge on his breast pocket.

"You can't do anything more here. Please, go and help those you can."

I panted as I stared back at him. I could see his eyes are wet; even wetter than mine. He let go of his hold on me and I relaxed. He got up and ran further down the street and disappeared amongst the frantic crowd of people running every which way.

I used the car handle to pull myself up and went back around to the unlocked door. The girl was there and awake, but she was on the car's floor and she had curled herself up. Her face was as wet as mine, too. Her arms were shivering. My throat welled up and I attempted to say something, but I couldn't. I just extended my hand towards hers. She slowly came forwards and took it. I pulled her out of the car and took her hand as we stood in the street. It was still chaotic; there were more people carrying children and adults, husbands carrying wives, children looking for their parents. I could see and hear and smell and feel everything now. I stared down at the girl holding my hand. She looked around too. She was feeling the same thing I was feeling. She wiped her wet face with her arm; the same one I had grabbed and held on to and hoped would still be warm by the time I had gotten her out.

I bent down to her eye level and she looked at me.

"Where's my mom?" She aksed with wide, brown eyes.

"I don't know, but we'll find her."

"I'm scared."

Her lower jaw began to quiver. I smiled lightly and hugged her has hard as I could.

"Don't be," I said. "Don't be scared."

"What do we do now?"

I looked at her face once more. It was so bright. So full of life. I put my palm on her cheek. It was warm.

I smiled again.

"We hope."

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In B Flat.

Wow.

Sweet, fruity love-making.

With some vegetables stuck in between.

Hilariously delivered ironic satire? Subliminal healthy eating message? Sugary goodness?

Whatever this video is, it’s awesome. And it makes me hungry.

It’s almost a year old, and the creator of it, Kirsten Lepore, is a very talented animator and artist, from the looks of her website. She won the SXSW 2009 Special Jury Award for this video. Go check her out, cause her art’s pretty funny too.

Also, cupcakes.

Aurally Audacious Endeavours – Sour

I found out about this band literally today, thanks to procrastinating on CollegeHumour.com, which is an awesome site.

But I was browsing their videos and came upon this one, entitled “Hand Puppets” by the band Sour. I was amazed.

The official title of the song is called “Hangetsu,” but obviously, that’s not the first thing I was noticing when watching this music video.

My title for this post is a bit misleading; a better title of this one would be “Visually and Aurally Audacious Endeavours.” This is an incredible work of art. I don’t know how familiar you are with film or what goes into its production, but this takes endless time and energy to perfect it like they did for this video. And apparently, on a budget of $0 (according to the director).

I am not exaggerating, nor do I mean to sound pretentious. Most people will think this video is amazing, and that is because of two things. One, the creativity demonstrated in even thinking something like this up far surpasses any current or popular music videos out there, and two, it is as hard as it looks to create. I am almost positive of that.

But Sour doesn’t do just that. They also do this:

And this:

Creativity like that can't be reproduced.

Those two factors of awesomeness seem to echo in each of these videos. Plus, they make you smile. For whatever reason that may be, I don’t really care. In terms of style and feel, listening to the mellow, jazz-like composition, combined with the intuitive drumming and impressive guitar and bass, make for a thoroughly enjoying experience.

Speaking of which, it was actually the vocals that most interested me. At first, when watching “Hangetsu,” I thought the singer was speaking Spanish, or some European language. Only until I picked up some words spoken in Japanese did I realize that the singer, whose name I do not even know, was singing in fragmented and slurred Japanese.

Possibly a way to meld lyrical and vocal ambiguity with universal meaning in their videos? No, I’m thinking too much. It’s just a set of really good, really fun, and really awesome music videos.

All three are directed by Masashi Kawamura. You can find him at his website.

Sour, from what I can tell, has some pretty awesome sounds. Check them out at their website too.

Hopefully these will be inspiring, motivating, and moving to you. In a few years this stuff will be internet gold, so be glad I got to you early.

Go and make some art.

Quality tumblings are B.I.A.

Back in action.

How do you get back from being KIA, you ask?

We’ll figure that out later.

Black & White. (Part 6)

The blood on it shined off the light. Frank’s breathing began to get unsteady. He turned around and closed his eyes. He repositioned his grip on the trigger of his revolver. Pressed his finger against the cold metal. His hand had started shaking once again.

Remember it. You’re in the trenches. Your finger is pressed steady against the trigger. Don’t shoot, you idiot. Don’t shoot yet. In and out. The explosions behind him shake the ground. The explosions in front of him blast his senses. The explosions beside him send his comrades flying. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Finger steady, against the trigger. Boom. Boom. Bang.

Frank opens his eyes.

There was no possible way. The only thing Frank heard while he was walking was the creaking of the floorboards and the steadiness of his breath—a steadiness that now ceased. Taking its place was rough, fast, and uncontrolled gasps. Frank started to sweat. His flashlight started to rattle, and so did his gun.

The man from the diner. It had to be him. It’s been more than an hour. If he had been on foot, there would be plenty of time for him to make it here before Frank. What about the footprints? Where they his blood? No, it can’t be his blood, unless he bled from his fucking shoes. No, Frank. He’s walked in fresh blood. The man with the injured hand; you saw him at the diner. He was unstable. He asked for meat. He took your case file. He knows something.

“Hello?”

Frank’s voice echoed in the silent darkness of the warehouse. Frank moved toward the closed door, keeping his flashlight on it. The reflection of light of the wet, bloody doorknob illuminated the bright red stain. Fingerprints were clear, Frank was sure of it. But the blood was also streaked, like fabric. Like a bandaged hand.

Frank turned around. He holsters his revolver and takes out the shotgun from his trenchcoat. Frank doesn’t know if the recoil is enough to injure his shoulder. He guesses not. He exhales sharply and decides it’s time to quicken his pace. He shines his flashlight at the ground in front of him as he keeps his sights on the far stairs. Seven steps. He ran with his shotgun down by his side. The man with the injured hand wouldn’t have an advantage over Frank, especially with that kind of wound. Just find him, Frank thought. Find out what the hell is going on.

“Who are you? Why did you take my file?”

Frank remains unanswered. He continues swiftly moving around and past the shrouded furniture across the warehouse floor.

Frank heard the crunching of broken glass under his feet. He glanced down and noticed more syringes. He thought he saw surgical gloves. He paid no attention to it. Seven steps. Get to them. Frank reached the far stairs, right beside the high shelving units. Although the warehouse’s height was shallow, Frank still felt towered by the empty units, save for one. Something covered in white tarp laid on the top shelf.

He looked at it while he made his way up the iron steps. Each one was a loud clang that echoed towards the walls of the warehouse. The railing that Frank touched was wet. He didn’t have to look at them; he knew it was blood from the way it felt. The door was bloody. This man’s blood trail was too obvious. Easy takedown. Get ready.

Frank leaned against the wall beside the closed door, stained with bloody handprints. He adjusted his grip on his flashlight, and the grip of his shotgun. Steady your hands and your head, Frank. Steady. One swift kick and the door flies open. A violent crashing sound. Frank scans the room left and right, looking for anything resembling a human figure. He saw none.

“FUCK!”

Frank kicked the door back into the frame. He put his flashlight, bulb facing upwards, beside him on a desk while he looked for a light switch. Frank’s eyes struggled to readjust with the bright lights above him. He took his flashlight, turned it off, and threw it back on the desk. He was in the administration office of the warehouse. Dust floated past Frank’s eyes, as the beams of light illuminated tiny particles. Frank waves his hand back and forth to avoid inhaling it.

The place was abandoned. Frank guesses that it was an administration office when the warehouse was operating. How long ago, Frank doesn’t know. He is tired of not knowing. Look for the case file. Where could the man have gone? There are only two rooms in this warehouse. Frank looks out the window into the dark floor below. The shadows of furniture litter the warehouse. He scratches his hair under his fedora.

He turns around again towards the window.

Below him stands the man from the diner. Frank can only see his eyes and teeth. The rest of him is shrouded in the darkness of the floor below him. Frank stands frozen, looking at him. His teeth drip of blood. His eyes are bloodshot. Frank cannot stop staring at them. They are more human than the rest of his face.

The man’s face starts twitching. Growling breaths and a low, rasping sound from his mouth. Frank can see his hands clearer now that they are in front of his face. They claw at the air as the man thrashes his head around violently. His whole body seems to contort. They begin clawing at his face. More blood appears on his red hands. The bandages on his hand from the diner have now become loose, and trail with his violent movements.

“Jesus Christ.”

 
Frank’s voice is quiet with his short breaths. His eyes follow the streaking white fabric of the man’s bloodied bandages, and the eyes that disappear behind his hands. So much blood. Who is this man? What is he doing here? Why does his face—

The man disappears in an instant.

Frank pushes off the open window the office and runs towards the door. As he swings open the door, he grabs his flashlight and turns it on. His feet clang the iron steps, echoing in the background as he jumps the last three. Frank drops the flashlight from his mouth. While on the ground, he turns it on and stumbles forwards, regaining his balance. He places his shotgun on his shoulder as he leaps over the shrouded furniture.

The cool, dry air of the warehouse races past his matted, sweaty hair. His fedora shifts up his head. Frank sprints towards the back of the warehouse, looking for any blood trails.

 
As he turns into the third aisle of empty shelves, blood drops litter the floor. Frank turns in a circle to gather a bearing on its direction. He follows the trail towards the third aisle at the back of the warehouse, into the far corner. Frank sprints towards the back wall and turns towards the far corner.

The man from the diner smacks his head against the cement wall. Frank lowers his shotgun. His panting seems to go with each hit. Pat. Pat. The wet sound of it makes Frank cringe. Frank tries to quiet his breathing. Pat. Pat. Drip. The pool of blood below the man spreads out as more blood falls from his swollen face. His rasping growls pause with each hit against the hard cement.

“What the hell are you doing? Hey! Turn around! STOP!”

Frank prods the back of the man. Pat. The man’s face stays against the wall. Frank steps back. The growls turn into grunts. The man’s eyes are as wide as they were from the office window. His teeth are jagged, rotting and falling out from the impact of each hit. His forehead swells into a large lump, discoloured into purple and yellow. But his eyes, they remain locked onto Frank, and Frank does not shift his focus.

“Oh, God.” Frank turns away from the putrid smell coming from the man’s mouth.

 
It opens, despite the constant growling emanating from his throat.

“Tun...gah.”

“What?”

“Tunng...ska. Guh. Gahska.” The man’s eyes seem to cease their life for a brief moment.

Frank’s eyes widen in clarity. Tunguska.

“What do you know about Tunguska? What is it? Is it a place? Who are you and what’s your job? Whose blood is this? Why do you smell so bad? Where the hell—”

“M..Meat.”

The man rushes at Frank with raised, dirty, bloodied hands. Frank can smell his mouth while he lunges at him. Frank remembers the smell from the trenches. The man’s fingernails are sharp and jagged, like his teeth, and yellow, like his swelling forehead. What look like pustules litter the skin of his hand. The dried blood rakes Frank’s face as he frantically attempts to push the man off of him.

Both men topple over as Frank drops the flashlight beside him. The man’s hands do nothing but obscure Frank’s face. They do not form fists and try to punch Frank. The man’s mouth attempts to grab a hold of Frank’s fingers, as he tries to push the man off him by his face. Frank’s forefinger slips into the man’s open mouth. The man clamps down.

“AH, GOD DAMMIT!”

Frank instinctively takes his other hand and reaches around his torso, grabbing his revolver from the holster. It takes three shots for the man to fall limply to the side, letting go of Frank’s finger.

“Shit. Fuck. Who the hell are you?!”

Frank can see bone. The cut is deep, and is bleeding profusely. Frank looks around for anything to stop the blood. He feels around the ground for his flashlight, and finds the fabric of the man’s bandage. Ignoring the dried and wet blood staining it, he rips it off with his teeth and wraps it around his injured and middle finger, joining them together. Frank grimaces in pain as he wraps it as tight as possible. Frank can still move his finger’s joints. He wasn’t aware that so much blood could come out of one finger.

He finds the flashlight shining away from the whole scuffle. Frank wasn’t aware that it was on. He shines it at the man’s face.

“Ah!”

The man’s eyes dart back and forth in front of Frank. He can still hear the silent deflating growls from his half-open mouth. They stop and stare at Frank once again. Frank points the gun at the man’s heart as he leans closer.

“Tunnnguh..Guhska. Mmm...”

“Meat? You want meat, you crazy bastard?”

“Mm. Mmmm.”

The man’s mumbling can hardly be heard. His eyes point downward towards his crumpled body. Frank follows them towards the man’s pointed finger. It uncurls slowly; the movement is stuttered and pained. Frank looks at what the man is pointing at. He shines his flashlight on the cement wall.

“What the hell?”

Frank stares at a three foot wide, four foot tall hole in the wall. It leads into more darkness. He turns back towards the man. His mouth has begun foaming and small convulsions shake Frank who sits beside him.

Frank stands up and backs away. He unloads his revolver and replaces the bullets. A swift movement and it clicks back into the chamber. He holsters it and picks up the shotgun off of the floor. Frank stares one final time at the man. His eyes have rolled to the back of his head.

Frank steps towards the hole and shines his flashlight into it. The ground is made of dirt, and the tunnel that the hole leads into dips downwards. Faint light can be seen under the edge. Frank can hear distant humming of machinery. Clicking sounds are the only thing he can make out besides the ambience of humming.

“My case file better be in this damn hole.”

MindBlender Quiz – Best iPhone App of 2009?

I think so!

Remember, if you vote, I will give you a super random, totally unheard of, limited-edition awesome thingymajig better than anything and everything that exists in the physical realm! Not convincing enough?

Well, If you don’t vote, I’ll sue you.

Yeah, so get on that. 

Movie Reviews from December

Hope everybody had a good New Year’s celebration. Get on those resolutions, people.

Barton Fink (1991)

Big Fish (2003)

Good brain stimulus, those two movies. I’d recommend you watch them both.