Black & White (Part 3)

The bell above the door jingles to an empty building. Frank takes care into wiping his feet dry on the welcome mat before entering the diner. He stares at the design stitched into the mat. Dry shoes are good news. Frank agrees. He looks up and scans the diner. Nobody.

He walks towards the bar counter and sits on a circular swivelling stool bolted to the ground. Frank turns each direction for a brief moment. He likes the stool. He notices a bell on the far side of the counter. He gets up and walks towards the far end. One push of a finger and the small bell rings in a high pitch. Frank backs away and lets the sound resonate through the silence. He moves forward and brings his hand over it for a second ring when he hears the sound of a door opening. A faint grunt in the back kitchen.

Frank goes around the bar counter and peers into the open kitchen area to see who is there. A small woman who Frank thinks is most likely a waitress is dragging a large box into the kitchen. Frank looks back at the empty dining area. His case file is sitting on the bar counter, closed. He looks back towards the waitress as she continues to drag the large box through the kitchen floor.

She stops and exhales sharply.

"Are you going to help me or just stare?"

Frank immediately rushes to lend a hand with the box.

"Yeah. Uh, sorry. I wasn't sure if there was anyone in here so—"

They both lift up the box at two opposite ends and place it on a table. The watiress brushes her hair back and looks at Frank.

"Four in the morning? I'm surprised its not packed."

Frank scratches his head, lifting up his fedora revealing his dark, matted hair.

"I just came in for some coffee. Four in the morning, like you said."

"Of course."

She wipes her hands together and goes towards the bar counter with Frank. She goes to the coffee machine that Frank seemed to not notice when he walked in. He was too busy drying his shoes and ringing a bell. He goes back to his seat on the counter and folds his hands over the manila file lying flat on the table. He can still smell some smoke left over from the burnt areas of the folder. The waitress' back is turned but Frank begins to get the feeling that she can smell it too. It wouldn't make sense since the file has been exposed to outside air--damp, wet and dirty as it may be--but Frank is sure the smell just remains in his nostrils. Everything seems to be remaining in Frank. He can't seem to get any of it out.

 
The waitress slides a cup of coffee down towards Frank with expert precision. The black coffee splashes in the cup only a small amount, not enough to overflow onto the plate below. Frank's eyes follow it down towards his hand, as he stops it with one finger. He looks back up and the waitress has already headed back into the kitchen. Frank looks at the blackness of his coffee. He sees his reflection. He could be worse of wear. Maybe not. Frank doesn't know anymore. He opens the file.

Daisy's calf. Frank's best friend for the past two days. What's gone of Daisy's calf is Frank's most hated enemy. Caulder and the warehouse. The Man and the message. Staircases and expired visas. Frank is not looking at the paperwork in front of him anymore. His eyes are heavy; falling down. Deep, deep down. Dream-like.

A banging bell. Frank's eyes widen. He repositions himself on the swivelling stool. He stopped swivelling. He thought it inappropriate now. His coffee is still steaming. It floats high into the air. Smoke from a barrel. Before he risks anymore loss of consciousness, he bears the extreme heat of his coffee and takes a large sip. His tongue burns for a few seconds. His mind recalibrates.

Frank looks towards the door, and follows a man in a long coat heading towards the far end of the counter. He bangs on the tiny bell sitting atop. The waitress pops up from the kitchen floor to the open window of the bar counter.

"Yes? What? Stop hitting that!"

"Yeah, sorry--do you have any meat?"

"What?"

"Meat? Like red meat. Juicy and fresh. Meat."

"We have burgers. Cooks aren't in though. We only serve coffee late hours."
The man is sweating profusely. It wasn't rain. Frank could tell. This man smelled. Smelled like sweat. Possibly something more. He was not just wet from rain though. His face was incredibly red. Hair more matted than Frank's. Frank had not taken off his fedora yet. He didn't want to. This man had no hat though. His hair was short and cropped; professional almost. But it became unkempt in the rain, or perhaps during whatever he was doing. His face looked like as if he had just run a marathon. The waitress noticed this too.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just want meat, God damn it!"

The man slams his fist on the bar counter. Franks notices his hands. Brownish-red. Hands of the Man.

"Hon, we don't have any meat right now. And it looks like you don't need coffee either, so stop disturbing our customers and go home."

She points to Frank. The man looks at him. He sees the man's face clearer. His teeth are shivering and his eyes are visibly bloodshot. Drug addict, maybe. The teeth are surprsingly yellow. Frank would imagine his breath not being much better. Under his long coat is a white uniform. Frank cannot make it out. He doesn't want to stare at the man any longer.

Frank gives a single wave and looks down at his coffee once more, taking another long sip. He doesn't care about burning his tongue.

"No, you don't understand! I need meat, lady!"

He leans closer towards the counter. Frank sits up and watches the man. He has a peculiar feeling about this. The waitress comes out of the kitchen to the bar counter.

"We don't serve any right now. Leave, or I'm calling the police."

"Give me...some f-fucking meat."

His finger pointed at the waitress catches Frank's attention more than most of this man's growing aggressiveness or apparent descent from proper hygiene. The finger is odd, as Frank can best describe it. His nail is long, but broken. His hand is bandaged at the palm, stained brownish-red, like the rest of his hand. Frank can tell it is fresher though. The colour of his hand seems to have settled in long ago. This bandaged stain was more recent. The whole finger seems wrong. Seems off. Frank gets up from his seat and starts approaching the man.

"Hey, do you want meat?"

"Yes! Yes! Do you h-have any? Meat? Y-yeah?"

"No, I don't. But if you wait a while, I can get you some. Does that sound good?"
Frank has one arm outstretched in compliance. He puts on a friendly face, which contrasts greatly from his usual calm, cool demeanour. The one any private detective should be accustomed to. But Frank knows he should deal with this situation a different way. A quicker way.

"Yeah, that sound's f-f-fuckin' amazing, p-pal."

The man's eye twitches slightly. Frank is five feet away from him, arm still outstretched.

"What happened to your hand there?"

"Oh, this? This is n-nothing, pal. Nothing to worry about. Little s-scratch. Nothing to worry about. N-nothing to w-worry..."

The man's eyes go blank. Frank stops. The waitress backs up towards the kitchen wall. She notices too. All three are silent. The man presses the palm of his un-bandaged hand to his wet, sweaty forehead. He squints painfully. His mouth widens in pain as well. No sound comes out of it. His body contorts forward and he is stuck in this position for a brief moment. Frank takes a step back.

The man's body recovers from the brief contortion and his eyes open again. He turns to the waitress.

"So where's my FUCKING MEAT?!"

His voice is booming now.

"I'm calling the police!"

She says this to Frank, and not the man. Frank nods sternly and as the waitress sprints to the telephone in the back room, Frank sprints to the front door. The tiny bell tolls once more. Frank runs through the hard rain, his shoes splashing up water onto his pants and shirt with each smacking step. He reaches his car and fumbles to get out the keys. Once able to open his door, he leans into the passenger seat and opens the glove box. Blindly feeling around, he grabs a hold of his revolver and slams the glove box closed. Locks the door. Sprints back to the front entrance. Bell tolls. Frank plants himself in front of the door in a stable and ready stance, like a police officer ready to apprehend a suspect. Only there is no one to apprehend. Frank relaxes his stance and throws his revolver onto the bar counter.

The waitress emerges from the back section of the diner and scans the dining area.

"Where is that asshole?"

"Gone."

"What the hell."

"I don't know."

"Well, the police are coming. I swear to God, I hate this job."

The waitress mumbles in complaint back towards the back part of the diner, out of sight. Frank finds his coffee and drinks the rest. As he puts his cup down he stares at his case file. He also stares at a large red stain on Daisy's calf. He looks under it and sees the remnants of Caulder's report. It has been ripped from the folder. Frank sits down once more on the stool. He starts swivelling as he puts on his fedora.

"Sonuvabitch."

He scratches his matted hair under the fedora. Pockets his revolver and closes the case file. 3rd Street warehouse. He had a guess on who might be there, or on his way at least. Frank takes out a dollar bill from his pant pocket and gulps the rest of his coffee down. The bell above the door tolls one last time. Frank chuckles slightly as he gets into his car, rain once again pattering down on the windows. He turns on the ignition. There were no rocks or old men at this diner. But Frank wasn't careful of what he wished for.

He begins to think he will pay for it.

The plumber and his princess.

There comes a point in time when an owner of a Nintendo Wii has to come to terms with a sad reality. It’s one that’s almost heartbreaking to hear, and it truly is a shame. But its the sad truth. And sooner or later, each and every Wii owner will have to face this daunting question put out in front of them after however long they put that thing in the living room, now gathering dust and sitting lonely beside the old VCR.

Why the hell did I buy this thing?

It’s a common dilemma; an issue many modern homeowners must face regarding the future of their at-home entertainment experiences. You don’t play it—sure, you may have picked it up often when you first got it. Probably put in the ol’ Wii Sports and flung that wireless controller around like a chump. Yeah, that was pretty cool for about a month. Then some new games come out, and you’re just sitting there thinking, ‘Man, I wish I had another console so I could play those games.’

You stare at your Wii with sympathetic eyes; it’s not the Wii’s fault. It tried its best with something new. The kids love it, don’t they? You tried your best too, but its just too hard. There’s only so much you can do, Wii. Only so much.

But then I remember, this is the Nintendo Wii. This is the greatest game developer of all time! Surely they cannot fall from such a high pedestal. But alas, I see Barbie Pony Riding on one end and Call of Duty: Not Really Modern Warfare But The Closest Wii Can Get on the other. Where is the salvation? The saving grace for this little console?

Nintendo does no wrong in trying to save it the only way it can: Mario.

After all that turmoil of quality games amidst downgraded ports, child-oriented puzzle games, and imitation platformers, Wii owners can always marvel at the gems in the dirt with each Nintendo game that they release. Be it Super Mario Galaxy or SSBB: Brawl, it only fits that Nintendo’s top-selling and top-rated games are the ones they make themselves.

While Galaxy may have made my head hurt a lot and Brawl cause me unnecessary amounts of Wii-rage, the original Super Mario Bros. never lets you down. Ever since my first experience with it on a Gameboy, it’s always the 8-bit music, the Woo-hoo’s of Mario’s jumps and that rewarding sound you get with each coin collected that never gets old. I mean never.

So there it is. Push those games over; the Barbie Pony Herding or Toy Shop Tycoon, and find out what the real purpose of owning a Wii is. Fighting Koopa one more time, saving Princess Peach yet again, or going down those awesome pipes, there will always be enough for more. More fun, more platforms, and now, more players. It’s almost impossible not to have fun just watching the gameplay footage.

Super Mario Bros., Metroid—hell, even Wii Sports now—these are the reasons why we still keep our Wii’s. It’s our obligation to Nintendo to prove to the gaming world that they will always be on top.

No arguing there.

Black & White (Part 2)

The pouring rain batters the car windshield relentlessly. Frank smokes a cigarette as he squints to decipher street names amidst the blurriness of his windshield. He almost misses the red light in front of him. Frank slams on the brakes and jolts forward, bracing himself with his free hand against the cold glass. He falls back into his seat and exhales sharply. Frank is beginning to feel the effects of insomnia. Only now did he begin to think of the lack of sleep he had been getting. The Man was too vivid in his mind to allow Frank the pleasure of a good night's rest. Frank did not seem to miss it; he did not seem to remember it either.

He looks across the intersection. There are no cars in sight. He looks down onto the case file sitting in his passenger seat. Once again he flicks it open with one finger. Daisy's calf is a little burnt, but the photograph is still good. He picks up the file and looks once again through Caulder's paperwork. Going to the precinct would be a stupid idea, Frank thought. If this is a stolen police file, and Frank enters the headquarters with this, things would go wrong. The light turns green. Frank puts down the case file and continues cruising through the relentless downpour.

Frank wonders how The Man had even obtained it. Did he work for the police? Stupid question. Maybe a doctor or a scientist. Frank remembers his encounter with little difficulty. The shivering of his whole body. His ghost white face. The stiff, outstretched arm with the file in hand. Stained. Was it brown? Was it blood? Come on, Frank. Detect. This is your job.

He rubs his eyes furiously while driving. If Frank does swerve in the road, he doesn't care. The roads are empty. The pain in his shoulder pulses back into attention. Frank grabs it with one hand. The rock. The warning. What the hell was all this? What the hell was Frank's purpose in it? Another red light.

All questions, no answers. You're not doing your job, Frank. In fact you're doing the opposite. He picks up the open case file again and examines Caulder's report. Daisy was found at 23:49 inside the 3rd Street warehouse lying on the left wing staircase. Who called the police? Frank scanned the report with his finger. Anonymous phone tip. Was it him? It had to be him. Frank knew it. Caulder would have to wait, if he could find him at all. 3rd Street warehouse was across town. Frank hadn't moved since the light turned green. He checks his rear-view mirror. A car is behind him. Frank looks back quickly.

He cannot make out the face behind the steering wheel. He turns around and looks at the bright green light, the rain illuminated and whizzing down onto the street. Frank grips the steering wheel tightly with both hands. His knuckles turn white as he grips tighter. His hands shake. The sound of the leather of his steering wheel scrunches and relaxes in his grip. The light turns amber. Frank steps on the gas. The car behind him turns left and out of sight.

The rain patters down heavily. It never stops. Frank closes his eyes. He opens them. He is in the opposite lane. Eyes widening rapidly, he turns his steering wheel the opposite way to avoid hitting the curb. The sharp turning swings the large rear of his car dangerously close to the sidewalk. As he counteracts this with another sharp turn of the wheel, the back of his car stabilizes and he regains control. Frank steps on the brake.

He jolts forwards and back as the car comes to a halt, but he is already burying his head in his hands. Frank widens and squints his eyes in rapid succession to test his consciousness. Test his sanity. Where are you, Frank? Do not do this now. If someone says you're going to die, you should do something about it, Frank. Get out while you can. What if Frank can't? It can't be too late already though. Too soon. Frank needs time to solve this. He must solve this. He sits back up and looks out the blurred window, water covering any detail of what is outside. Still, the bright neon sign is clearly discernable through the rain. Frank needs the caffeine.

He closes the case file and tucks it under is arm while opening the door with the other. The rain and thunder waste no time in penetrating Frank's ears. Hard and cold; as bad as it can be. They hit the pavement quick and droplets bounce back up. His first step out of the car splashes water everywhere. Before he makes a second, he returns to his front seat and grabs his fedora from the dashboard. He puts it on snugly and jogs to the front entrance under the bright, neon sign.

Frank hopes there will be no messages on rocks thrown through these windows. No strange old men confronting him in this diner either. For some reason, he expects anything to happen.

‘It’s Russian.’

I can’t pass this one up. I mean, it’s too good. Way too good. And Fox News jumping on it too? Come on, it’s an insult to the video game industry and Infinity Ward if I don’t address this. So here I go:

I enjoyed killing countless numbers of civilians with a machine gun and grenades.

Yes! Run amuck, silly conservative parents! Ban me from things! Call me a terrorist! Brand me a sinner to America’s nationality. Call me a psychopath capable of shooting up his school after a night of Modern Warfare 2. Cry wolf, point and shout, throw rocks if you have to. You won’t change the facts:

This has no impact on anyone’s lives whatsoever.

I mean come on, this game—this incredibly awesome game—tells you straight up if you want to pass on shooting unmoving, unsuspecting and vulnerable targets like cow-tipping on a pasture. It’s the only time you will be able to shoot unsuspecting and vulnerable stationary targets in this game, and possibly any other FPS.

And you expect me to click ‘No’? Are you stupid or something?

If it counts for anything, it was really fun. For the people who survived the initial random spray from my horrible console shooter aiming, I could aim down my sights for once and just shoot them in the kneecaps so they die from trauma or blood loss. Or I shoot them in the head and they explode and whatnot. Wait, wrong game. My bad.

Violence in video games. Honestly? It’s almost an contradiction itself with that statement. Everyone’s caught on to the voice behind the debacle, and if you haven’t, get it in gear. Put the most hardcore COD4 gamer from one of the most prestigious teams in the world into a real-life wartime setting. They will shit their pants. Guaranteed.

So when I hear ‘video games are getting too violent,’ what’s the reasoning behind this? It teaches kids bad behaviour. Uh, no. Fuck off. Or maybe it's conditioning them to think its okay to pick up weapons and shoot everyone they see. I could fertilize crops with that much bullshit. And my personal favourite: the one where a parent, so caring about their child, confronts biased news networks to release to the public how much a ‘violent’ video game as worsened their child’s life and their own.

There’s your crying wolf. Your scapegoat. Mrs. Responsible Parent thinks she’s a smart apple to get some extra attention on the news. And guess what? No backlash. Because the news ceased being the news for a while now. But that’s another story.

Modern Warfare 2 is a game that will break records. It will be a significant game, if it isn’t already. If your kid is nothing short of downright ecstatic that he got Modern Warfare 2, he’s a faggot. Your kid’s life is worse because you made it worse. Don’t blame a fucking video game. Let’s be adults here, for God’s sake.

I’m not saying this because it happened, its because I’m worried it will happen. And people tend to not learn from mistakes or past experiences that well. Or maybe I’m just surrounded by idiots. Who knows.

All I know is: stop it before it starts. If you’re a COD gamer, or a gamer of any sort, speak up about this kind of shit. Gamers Against Completely Fucking Retarded Prejudice.  GA(CF)RP. It even comes off as a retarded-sounding acronym. If you’re a parent, it depends what you should do. If your kid is 9 years old and he is killing Russian civilians in an airport, what the fuck is wrong with you and return that game immediately. Right now, at once. If you’re a parent with a kid who’s over 14 and capable of conscious thinking, give them a break because chances strongly point towards your child not turning out to be a terrorist.

If you fall into any other category besides that, enjoy the game, because its fucking awesome. 

Black & White (Part 1)

The rain pattered against the high window of Frank's office. Each patter of rain reminds him of the muffled gunshots heard in the air as he dashes into the sand, scrawling for cover. His comrades lay beside him dead or dying, crying for their mothers, wifes, children, God. But this was just rain hitting the window.

Frank stepped away from it and took a seat back at his desk, ashtray filled with cigarettes and case files strewn all over. Unorganized, he thought, but he can work with it. He was never an organized man, just pragmatic and smart. It got him places. He opens the case file on top of the others as he takes a long, final drag of his cigarette and stuffed it into the ashtray, the smoke dissapating from the extinguished butt. He follows the smoke with his eyes. It reminds him of the smoke from a barrel.

He stares down at the case file open in front of him. Daisy Monroe. Nurse. 27. Frank looks at the evidence photographs. Her face is light and relaxed. Her eyes stare at Frank, though they remain empty. Her hair hangs in front of those eyes, most likely due to a scuffle. He scans each picture carefully. Bruise marks, no indication of outside influence. No ligature marks or textured abrasions. He stops at one. It is of her calf, only it is half. The other half seems to have disappeared in a chunk. He looks at it closer. He runs his fingers over the section of the calf that turns red. Bite marks. Her calf was torn from the leg.

The day before, an old man--hair wild and uncombed, glasses large and magnifying his eyes--stormed into Frank's office with this case file in hand. His hands were stained brown, maybe off-red. Frank paid little attention to his hands, and more to his face. This man's face was white as a ghost. His lips were quivering. Frank had wondered how he'd even gotten to his office. He offered the man a chair, but he fervently refused. He said he had no time. Frank didn't know why he'd go to a private detective before going to a hospital, but this man gave him no time to inquire about any of this. He just said these words and left:

"They will rise. Get out while you can. Now."

The old man then extended his hand sternly, holding out the case file to Frank. It was unmoving, compared to his shivering, frightened body. Frank tried to decipher this man's purpose, origin, ethnicity. Before he could properly do a mental profile of him he stormed out Frank's door. A loud banging sound of it closing was heard throughout the floor. Frank was left standing there, case file in hand. He thought little of it, and more of the man who had just appeared in his office, and as quickly as he came, disappeared.

Now that he had opened it, the closure he was looking for seemed to escape him further. A dead nurse with a chunk of her calf missing. Given to a private detective. What did this man assume Frank would do with this? Pursue the case? He had no monetary incentive. Throw it out, Frank thought. It's not worth the trouble. Look at your desk. Willing clients. Money to be made. Frank closed the case file once more and held it in his hand. He stood there without motion as the rain pattered against the windows and he again remembered the muffled gunshots in putrid, bloody air. He stares at the garbage can beside his desk. And again at the case file.

Frank slams it onto the pile of other folders littered all over his desk. He brings out his worn, wooden chair with one drag. He takes a carton of cigarettes from his breast pocket and a lighter from his back one. One flick lights the flint as the burning of the lighter warms his cold fingers. They are trembling. He doesn't know why. He covers the flame with one hand as he lights another cigarette with the other. Puts it back in his pocket. He takes it out of his mouth and blows out the smoke from his nose in one long trail. Smoke from a barrel.

He stares at the file and flicks it open with one finger. He stands over his desk with the chair under him. Flips through the evidence photographs. Paperwork of a Coroner's Report. Cause of death was blood loss. Frank thought for a moment. Could a wound like that, brutal, yes--but relatively small, cause enough blood loss to kill someone? Daisy must have been incapacitated for her to lose that much blood and die. Found outside the 3rd Street warehouse on Wednesday. One Phillip Caulder, New York Police Department officer, called it in. Frank sat down. He sifted through more paperwork. Last known address. Relatives. None in the city. Canadian citizenship, visa expires four days from now. Nothing significant. Nothing to make him do something about Daisy, or the man who entered his office.

Frank's window suddenly shatters as he flinches when the glass hits his back. He drops the cigarette from his mouth as a hard object hits and bounces off of his shoulder. The glass of the window litters the floor and he can now hear the crashing rain. No more pattering. Thunder penetrates the air as Frank gathers his senses. The sharp pain in his shoulder subsides. The cigarette sets a folder alight. He pours a glass of whisky on the fire by reflex. Frank is not thinking straight. He jumps up and grabs his trenchcoat from the hook. Throws it over his burning files. Jumps up on the table and pats it down with his feet. He takes it off and examines the blackened fabric of his coat. He will need a new one. He takes the squished cigarette off the burnt files and examines these too. Most are intact. Daisy's calf is burnt at an edge. Some paperwork is destroyed. Frank spreads his hands to the edges of his desk and notices his hands are still shaking. He stands up straight and rubs his brow, gathering himself. He had almost forgotten what had caused this stint of chaos in his otherwise calm, dark office.

He sees the rock. It sits beside the leg of his coat rack. A piece of paper stuck on it. He crouches down to pull it off and read the scrambled, barely legible writing.

'Don't trust. Streets run red. TUNGUSKA. HERE. DO NOT TRUST.'

Frank examines smaller writing under this scribbling. It is also barely legible.

'Not from here. Not from anywhere...end. it is end. will not survive. but you will, Frank.'

Frank stands up. Somebody knows who he is. The old man? No, Frank didn't say anything to him. He just listened to the man talk. Could it be him? He looked mentally unstable. No, he was mentally unstable. Frank was tired of cryptic messages throughout his career as a private detective, but this one peaked his interest.
Most likely because it included his name in it and it had been thrown through his office window.

Frank's hypothesis on the message being sent by the Man who entered his office seemed to be gaining legitimacy, logically anyway. He struggled to find a purpose to it however, nevermind the contents of the message. Frank noticed that he had crumpled the paper in his hand while in thought. He looked down to it and discovered writing on the back of the message as well. It covered the entire back, only this writing was clearly legible. He looked closer. Frank's mouth widened slightly.

'YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM.YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM.'

Frank didn't like the thought of dying. Not one bit. He pocketed the damp piece of paper and grabbed the case file in hand. The crashing thunder and hard rain had turned into ambience to Frank's ears. Only one voice remained in his: The Man who entered his office and his plea. Get out while you can. Out of New York is probably what he meant. New York's a big city. Frank didn't want to get out just yet. He grabbed his trenchcoat from the rack and looked at the blackened fabric once more. He put it back on the rack and grabbed his fedora. A trenchcoat Frank could spare, but a private detective is nothing without a proper hat. Frank was glad he remembered at least this much with everything running through his head.

As he locks his office door and proceeds down the corridor, he reads Officer Caulder's report, though slightly singed. Frank guessed that Caulder would be working at this hour. He exits the building and crosses the street quickly. His car is bombarded with rainwater that splashes on impact into Frank's face. His hair is wet and his shirt is getting wetter. He makes sure to keep a stern grip on his keys as he opens the door and enters his car. The file is kept safe under his arm. He closes the door and puts the keys in the ignition. Throws the file on the passenger seat, along with the message out of his pocket. He exhales deeply.

The rain patters against the car windows. Get out while you can, he said. He remembers the muffled gunshots in the sand. Frank always tried to get out. And he'll try again.

Movie Reviews from October

See, in my world, less is more.

Much, much more.

The Paper (1994)

5 Centimeters Per Second (2007)

Actually, my blog talks about zombies a lot.

So why stop now?

A little while ago, in the vague and fuzzy memory of this year’s E3, Valve pulled a fast one on us leetle and puny fans. They announced Left 4 Dead 2 to be released almost exactly a year after the original. Surprised, shocked, doubtful, appalled; the fans expressed all these emotions after learning of this fascinating new news.

Then the boycott started, and it all went to shit. No, the fans were not happy that one of PC gaming’s most revolutionary and loved zombie-themed shooters was getting an early sequel. ‘No!’ they said, ‘we don’t want a sequel! We want more of Left 4 Dead! Give me maps! Give me weapons! Give me game modes!’ So we wept as puny, leetle fans, and Valve could do nothing but cackle at our sorrow and bask in bathtubs of gold from their undeserved fortunes made off of a few PC games.

‘DLC!’ we cried, ‘Down with the system! It’s our God-given right!’ Us PC Gamers really are a spoiled bunch. It seems to me that we just want to see the bad side of things. We’re never pleased. We’re just a bunch of lazy, anti-social elitists who want nothing more than to be aggravated at everything because being happy is something we’ve stopped enjoying a long time ago.

But now, I’m happy again. And I’ll tell you why.

Because of this:

…and this:

…and especially this:

So guess what? I am going to pay $50 for this game. You know why? Because I just played the demo, and from the looks of it, I’d say it ranks somewhere between completely fucking awesome and a god damn once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Let me inform you of why it deserves to be bought and kept close to your heart for eternity. The moment I load up the game the whole feeling of it is different from the original Left 4 Dead. This is due to the modified soundtrack, adaptable weather settings, new characters and the sort. Not DLC material. DLC should keep the same feeling of the game. This is another feeling, or atmosphere, or whatever you call it; it deserves its own game.

Not convinced? Alright, I’ll be frank. The only reason I wanted this game was the new gore effects. And guess what? They’re fucking sick. You shoot the crotch, the crotch obliterates into little bits. You shoot the neck, blood flies everywhere and the poor zombie’s throat is missing. Shoot the stomach and all that viscera is pleasantly displayed. Throw a pipe bomb, wait a view seconds, and then witness godly zombie-exploding goodness.

Still not convinced? How bout some weapons? Which one are you privy to? Want to go back to classics? Then there’s your original L4D weapons: pump-action, auto shotty, M-16, Hunting rifle, Uzi, and don’t forget your trusty sidearms, the M1911 and Glock. Bit boring for your taste? Don’t worry. There’s always the main differentiating factor between L4D1 and L4D2 to humour you. Here’s some pots, axes, baseball bats, guitars, batons, machetes and other bludgeoning/slicing weapons to get all that boiled up hate against Valve released onto willing zombified participants. Oh, you like big guns? Well, there’s always mounted machine guns, grenade launchers, AK-47’s, a fucking Desert Eagle, and the enjoyment incendiary ammo to complement it.

Look how big that paragraph is. Do you think that’d fit into L4D1 DLC? Smarten up. DLC shouldn’t introduce features in a game that would end up being almost as large, as large, or larger than the original game. Same mechanics, same gameplay style, but c’mon, really?

For the infinitesimal amount of people that actually fall under the category of L4D2 boycotter or critic who actually reads my blog, this should convince you. Otherwise I’m just rambling on about how fucking awesome the demo of Left 4 Dead 2 that I just played was, and plan to play again shortly.

Left 4 Dead 2 officially releases November 17th. Pre-order on Steam or in-store and you get a free in-game baseball bat to abuse zombies with.

If you’re any kind of respectable zombie-killer, this is a no-brainer.

Hell yes, pun intended.

Who said geeks and zombies are what my blog’s about?

I’m going to do something drastic. Something new and exciting. Something blogs only once in a while dare to attempt. You may have seen it a bit here and there—even on my blog, but this is a large-scale change. It’s going to revolutionize my blog. It’s going to be live.

I’m going to post original content.

Flood of amateur photography commencing in 3…

2…

1…

Black & white using Lab Color, with slight levels adjustments to bring out contrast.

First try at Infrared effects, using lots of Channels experimentation.

Slight green filter applied to attempt to take away from the overexposure (shitty).

Playing with color contrast and masking (failing at the latter).

First attempt at cross-processing, with a low-opacity yellowish-green color applied.

All photos were taken with a Nikon D40 and a Nikkor zoom lens, forgot which length. Photoshop provides all of the editing and effects. As for the model, he’s our trusty friend at kg’s Point o’ View. This is actually him on a daily basis; I just happened to have a camera at the time.