NBA Dramatique: Turn the Page

With the pages of the open book lit by a flickering candle, Arenas read and reread the words of the spell, trying to commit it to memory. He had taken Grand Mage Edd at his word, and had been taking as much time as he felt necessary to prepare for the war. He knew it had already started and he knew that his fellow Sorcerers were not faring well, but he was not overly concerned. The war was young. Sorcery was a deliberate process. The Sorcerers never made a ferocious statement to open a war because the spells became more potent and impressive as they became cumulative. All would turn out well in the end, Arenas thought. When he was ready, all would be well.

Arenas was rarely alone in the Chamber library any more. In the past several weeks he had seen more and more of Brendan and Daniels. He took this to mean that his own desire to fully prepare himself was not only being encouraged, but emulated. Arenas looked over the top of his book at the other two Sorcerers and felt proud of the example he was setting as their leader. With that feeling of satisfaction signalling a good reason to end the day, Arenas closed his book and returned it to the library shelf.

"I'm calling it a day, guys."

Brendan and Daniels barely looked up from their own studies to acknowledge his departure, but grunted in understanding. Arenas picked up his candle and left the library in the hands of his fellow Sorcerers. He stepped out of the door, closing it behind him.

Arenas began to daydream as he walked along the corridor in the low levels of the Chamber. His life was idyllic. He was free to follow his interests every day. He was on no one's clock. His membership in the Sorcerer's guild kept him well-paid. There was also, of course, the fame. He enjoyed the recognition that came with spell-casting. It afforded him opportunities for pleasure that might otherwise not materialize. Before that topic of his daydream could develop, Arenas was stopped in his tracks by a firm hand against his chest.

"What is your problem, man?" It was Antawn. In Arenas's absence from the battlefield, he had heard that Antawn was really asserting himself as the lead Sorcerer. So far, it hadn't meant much.

"Hey, Antawn." said Arenas, removing the hand from his chest. "What are you talking about?"

"You are hanging us out to dry, man! There is a war going on! We need you if we're going to get to the Prize, and you're hanging back studying all day. Why are you doing that to us?"

"Antawn, I've explained all of this before. I've talked to the Grand Mage about it. I'm not ready. I'm not the Sorcerer you need me to be at this point, whether I'm out in the fields or not. If I go out there, my spells are going to be half-assed and low-energy. I won't be able to go the duration of the war. As hard as it is to do it without me, I'd prefer to be absent at the outbreak of war than the late days of it, when my efforts might make a greater difference."

"But it's not just you. We don't have Daniels. We don't have Brendan. It's affecting the younger mages. They don't believe they can win so they barely put forth the effort. I'm trying as hard as I can to get them motivated, but they just seem to be on stand-by, waiting for everyone to return."

Arenas sighed and looked down at his shoes. "I'll talk to the Grand Mage. Maybe we can cook up something small, some cantrip or maybe a hypno that will get things moving a little better. I think I'd be up to that." Antawn gave Arenas a disappointed stare. He nodded sarcastically and turned away from Arenas.

"Sounds great. Don't hurt yourself."

Arenas laughed at Antawn's joke. He did need to speak with Grand Mage Edd, and this would just give him one more thing to talk about. It wouldn't put too much of a strain on his preparations to simply work on a mood-altering spell for the younger guys - give them a confidence boost.

The Chamber had a grand spiral staircase that carried Arenas from the study levels, past the open range, past the living quarters, past the observation decks, all the way to the rooms of the Grand Mage in the upper tower. The High Council of Sorcery maintained offices that floated above the Chamber, tethered and camouflaged as clouds by non-expiring spells, but for all his wisdom, the Grand Mage was not a part of the High Council. His study and office were still tied to the structures of the earth. Arenas reached the door to the office and spoke a knocking spell upon the door.

"Enter, Arenas." came the call from the other side. He opened the door and found the Grand Mage seated at his desk. Edd looked haggard, tired. He was in a simple robe without the hood and heavy cloak that Arenas usually saw him wearing. With his entire face revealed, the Grand Mage's deep stress lines and weary eyes were surprisingly apparent. He did not look up from his work as Arenas entered, continuing to read and transcribe from an unfurled scroll. "To what do I ascribe the reason of your visit?"

"I had intended to update you on my progress. On my way here, I was stopped by Antawn, who expressed serious concerns over my continued absence from the field of battle. I was hoping to renew my confidence that you supported my continued study."

"Arenas, we have discussed your absence enough, I think. The only debate on that topic as far as I was concerned was whether or not you could have been preparing earlier. The time for that debate has passed. Is there anything else you wish to discuss with me?"

"No, Grand Mage. I guess there isn't. I'll just report that, with luck, I'll be ready within a month."

"Well, then," answered Edd, looking up at Arenas for the first time, "let us hope for luck."

*****

Arenas had an unsatisfactory night. After his brief meeting with the Grand Mage, he had the feeling that something was amiss. Running through a mental checklist, he could not identify any possession or process that he had neglected. He slept, but was troubled by unpleasant dreams. Even the temperature was cold enough to wake him early and abruptly the next morning. Typically, Arenas took advantage of his open schedule by sleeping late. This meant that he would have the living quarters to himself since all of the other Sorcerers had gone to the open floor to prepare the day's spells. Today though, the other Sorcerer's were all still standing around, whispering to each other, and looking generally worried. Arenas stood from his bed and sleepily shambled over to Caron.

"What's up?" he asked.

Caron looked him up and down and did not seem friendly. "Talk to Antawn" he said.

Arenas looked around and was surprised to find Antawn already glaring in his direction. "What's the problem?" he asked.

Antawn stepped forward angrily. "The Grand Mage is gone. Not gone on a walk. Not gone on vacation. Gone for good. Cast out by the High Council."

"What? I talked to him last night!"

"Yeah. I know. You were the last one. What did he refuse you?"

Arenas was shocked at the implication. "What are you...are you serious? You think I wanted him out?" Arenas realized that Antawn was probably putting on a show for the benefit of the younger mages, but he couldn't be sure.

"You spoke to him. You aren't contributing. He needed you. Now he's gone. Connect the dots."

Arenas replied with unintended irony.

"You can't put this on me. I wasn't with him when he left."

NBA Dramatique: Buried?

Years ago, he was a part of it. He was a contributor, had been perhaps their most valuable fighter. He kept the legacy alive, and added his own tales to the long story of the Western Banner. But that was the past.

The Big Resurrection was telling stories to the newer Followers about his years spent with the Western Banner. There was a part of him that missed life within the castle walls. He had certainly enjoyed success. If only he had been able to co-exist with the assassin. The two of them had fought side by side, year after year. They had captured the Prize three times for the Banner. Unfortunately, being a great warrior can be a heavy burden on the ego. The Big...what was he called then?...and the Black Knight had both sought to lead the Western Banner's forces. Neither was willing to accept following the other, and neither was willing to accept co-leadership. Though the particulars of his exile have decayed from his memory, the fact was he went to Hell, the assassin stayed in the castle.

*****

The assassin carefully moved his hands across the face of the cliff, looking for the entrance. He had located the lair of the Followers of the Sun, and was about to lead his knights into their lair. His mind shuffled through thoughts as his fingers looked for the point of access. He contemplated war with the undead and considered what he would do to destroy them. He thought about the men that the Followers had once been. He thought back to the days when he fought beside one of those men, and they had basked in the light reflected off the Prize. He remembered the days of contention the two of them had gone through, when the big guy had been unwilling to accept the ascendance of the Black Knight. He remembered that he had not touched the Prize since his former partner had been sent away, but that his former partner had. He found this troubling. He found the secret door and opened it, and his knights followed.

*****

Though they fought with conviction at the outset, the Followers of the Sun grew lethargic as the battle went on. They recognized that their lair was not in danger of being lost; the Banner knights had invaded simply to have something to fight, as they had done against several other forces. Once they saw that they were not going to be victors, the undead simply went through the motions until the Banner grew tired, claimed victory, and departed.

Unobserved by any of the participants in the fight was a notable parallel. It may or may not have had an effect on the fighting spirit of the armies, but two men in the battle, on opposing sides, were listless and disinterested. They did what they had to do - what was expected of them - but they had each ceased attacking before the battle had officially ended. Perhaps they were weary from the fighting, or perhaps they misjudged the deciding point of the skirmish. The possibility existed also that these two men, once friends, then begrudging coworkers, then bitter enemies, had no desire to do harm to one another any more, and that they took themselves out of the fight before that circumstance could arise.

NBA Dramatique: Bring Your Beatdown to Work Day

It was good to be wanted. There were many different kinds of power that a man could wield, and King James was familiar with a number of them. The one that he found most intriguing was the power of youth. Specifically, his own. He was a young man destined for greatness, and most of the armies of the world believed that he could achieve that destiny with them. It was always whispered wherever he went that his loyalty was only as good as his army. If his soldiers could not carry out his orders to take possession of the Prize, he would likely abandon his castle and take control of an army that could.

He had been invited to the Factory. The owner was a man very serious about business. The invitation had been sent, its meaning somewhat deeper than the actual script. The written words offered a chance for the King to view the Factory and to consider a treaty. That was the ruse. The One Who Would Be King knew exactly want the true intention was of the invitation. "Come see my Factory. See my workers. See my army. Doesn't it fit nicely? Would you not succeed with these men at your side?" The King was no fool. He decided to accept the invitation but with an agenda of his own in mind.

On the day of the visit, the Would Be King's horses paraded up the lane to the Factory late in the afternoon. The knights were resplendent in armor and the King led the procession in a heavy crimson cloak. The Factory owner, Joe, walked towards the procession with an outstretched hand.

"Welcome, King James! I've been thinking a lot about your visit. I've done my best to make sure everything was just right for your arrival."

The One Who Would Be King dismounted and shook hands with Joe.

"Thank you, I appreciate it. Is the Factory in operation now?"

"The first shift is just running down. Our second shift will be arriving before the end of the hour. May I show you around?"

"If it's all the same, Joe, my knights and I would prefer to tour the facilities unaccompanied."

Joe did not let his smile falter, nor did he hesitate with his reply.

"By all means. If you have any questions, please send for me." Joe turned and walked away, knowing exactly where he needed to be. He was no fool.

King James turned to Z. "We have him fooled. Let's get inside and take this Factory for our own." The knights entered the Factory and spread out quickly. The first-shift workers had known that the visit was coming, and had made sure that the Factory was highly presentable and that their work was top-notch. However, King James had purposely arrived at this time, knowing that the workers on the first-shift would be rather worn down and tired. With his knights in place, the One Who Would Be King walked to a large steel press, aware of all present eyes upon him. He placed a hand on top of the press and dragged the hand forward, collecting a handful of dust. He looked at his hand. The workers looked at him. The knights looked at the workers. With a loud clap he brought his hands together above his head and the dust blew out into a cloud. "War is in the air!" he shouted. The fight erupted.

*****

Joe had hurried to the bar down the street from the Factory. He knew that some of the guys liked to go there right after work, and hoped that he would find at least a few of them there tonight. When he arrived, he found that he was in luck. Two of his best were at a table near the entrance. They saw Joe come in looking concerned and stood up to meet him.

"Guys! I think you should come back to the Factory."

"What happened, Joe? We just left a few minutes ago!" asked Wallace. He had come to the bar with the Answer after a long work day, and wasn't in much of a mood to be bothered with more business.

"King James is here. He brought all of his knights. They're up to something."

"Let's go." said the Answer. The three men left the bar in a rush. Two cold untouched beers stayed behind on the table.

*****

"You were right. They're too tired to fight us." Z said to King James. He had been at the side of his king through most of the fighting, bashing men over the head. James was not giving much to the fight, instead letting the knights do the work. They were having an easy time with this enemy, an opponent usually more difficult to overcome.

"Once they're beaten, it will be even easier to take out the second shift. Then the Factory will become my palace." said King James excitedly.

As soon as the words had left the air, a tremendous crash was heard from the area of the Factory entrance. Wallace had driven an over-sized forklift through the wall. The Answer held onto the frame of the cab, and the forks held a large pallet, on which stood the men of the second shift. Wallace turned the engine off and looked at the men on the pallet.

"Hey guys. Why don't you go get clocked in. The Answer and I will get started."

*****

Start they did. The second shift came in energized and within moments had turned the tables on the knights. Stuckey and Afflalo loved their work, and took pride in doing a good job. They did a superb job demonstrating that men in armor did not belong in their Factory. Wallace and the Answer showed how they survived year after year of war. The knights lost composure and the One Who Would Be King lost interest.

The Factory produced another victory.

Guilty guilty guilty guilty

Man, I feel terrible about being away from my blog for so long. I haven't gotten any angry emails, so I guess it isn't that big of a deal to anyone but myself, but for those of you that have followed regularly, sorry to go MIA. If I wrote about all of the things that went wrong or were overly complicated with the recent move, you probably wouldn't believe me. Also, my DVR issues are resolved and I'm back to full access. There are a lot of interesting games happening tonight, so I'm going to put on the pot of coffee and sacrifice my sleeping hours to get this story back in action. Comments comments comments people! Let me know you're out there!

NBA Dramatique: Day of the Beast

In Hell, the only music is bad music. Beastly was currently listening to a number of songs that he wasn't particularly fond of, but his options were limited. He needed a theme song. Something to get himself pumped up before battles.

Don't need nothin'
But a good time
How can I resist?

Maybe that one. He loaded the track onto his music player and headed for the Pit. He listened to his songs as he made his way down the paths from his own quarters and did his best to dance with the songs he had.

Beastly was a pure Demon - created from the lake of fire. He reveled in his wickedness. He was a prankster and was skilled at the verbal goad. He liked to spit on his own skin to hear the sizzle as it boiled away. Everything about being in Hell was something he could enjoy. Especially the Pit.

The Pit was a large theater formed in a caldera that was the central feature of the Demon's lair. This was the easiest and most obvious point of entry to the cursed underworld. The walls of the Pit were stepped, and they would fill with all manner of damned creatures to watch as the Demons fended off attacks or, even better, brought back armies to kill in fun. This night was an example of the former, as the Underground had found their way to the caldera.

Beastly had been paying attention to the stories of the Underground. He liked the secretive nature of their organization and their willingness to leverage the sordid past of their city. However, as he pushed through the gathering crowd of bat-winged ghouls starting to fill the Pit, he caught his first glimpse of the Underground fighters. They did not look as though they were intimidated by their surroundings, nor did they seem prepared to lose.

The Demons took defensive position within the Pit quickly. Beastly looked to the Demon Prince for a moment and wondered if he might be able to steal his crown. Maybe another year or two, he thought. The Underground launched the attack. They were resilient and strong, and were quick to rebound from any offensive the Demons pressed. The Prince made a move to strike mightily against the enemy, but a crafty young fighter crept up behind him and disrupted the blow. Charmers attacked and drew blood.

The Underground fighters were either tall or fast, and the Demons were finding it difficult to keep them held off. If not for their Prince, they might not have stood a chance. Fortunately he was a dominating force, and attacked with speed and fury, over and over again. Beastly watched him with awe and envy, just glad again that they fought together. The Underground seemed to have the advantage when a lull in the fighting came about, and an anxious energy took hold of them. Beastly could hear them shout excitedly amongst each other things like "he's coming" and "he's ready". The Demons formed a defensive line in preparation, then Beastly saw what the Underground had brought.

A monster, dressed in the form of a man, was making his way towards the front lines. Heavy chains swung from his wrists and the indentation of a heavy collar could be seen on the man's neck. Beastly was excited in a morbid way to see what this monster might do against his fellow Demons. The lull died and combat was again engaged. Beastly tried to stay close to the giant, though not close enough that he would be squeezed and crushed. He watched with fascination as the hulk jumped high into the air and brought severe pain down upon the Demon Jole. The Pit erupted in a cacophony of howls from the spectators. As Beastly continued to stick close to the monster, though, he could tell that it grew tired quickly, and that it struggled slightly to manage such a massive frame.

The simple fact of this fight was that the Underground was stocked with killers, and the Demons were still not matching the effort. They were distracted and disorganized. The Prince almost single-handedly was keeping the Underground from completely over-running Hell, but it would be a much harder task to claim victory. The Underground attacked from near and far, and never gave up. They could not match the Demon Prince with a single man, but they could overcome his power by being deadly in numbers. Victory for Hell in this contest was always within reach, but the Demon fingers never quite closed around it. With a thunderous final blast of hellfire, the Prince conceded defeat. He waved a hand in the air and the watchers on the walls were instantly gone, then slashed the air with his other hand and the Undergound fighters were teleported out of the Pit. Only the Demons remained, silent over their loss.

The Demon Prince started to scream and curse at the rest of them for the job poorly-done. Beastly listened for a moment with diminishing attention as words were tossed out about being outcast and defending the realm and the devil himself and on and on. Beastly was bored with it. He slyly stuck the listening devices back in his ears and pressed play for more of Hell's music.

I get mowed down
But I get up again
You're never gonna keep me down

NBA Dramatique: Ketchup

A vast failure of the magical energies surrounding them had sent the Sorcerers on a journey. Grand Mage Edd had searched the astral plane for an answer and detected a great upsurge of mystical power far to the south. His acolytes came into contact with a young man who had discovered an enchanted artifact that bestowed fantastic abilities upon him. His very body was a type of magical construct, and his companions seemed to be created whole-cloth from the magical ether. Though it was apparent almost immediately that the young man's artifact was not the cause of their own disconnect with mysticism, the Grand Mage allowed a contest of power to play out. It was an error, for the might of this child in the form of a super man was more than the crippled sorcerers could contain. The Man-child directed his associates in a defensive stand that protected the artifact, their fort, and their rep, while making the magic-users look old-fashioned and out of touch. Antawn was especially embarrassed for himself and his brothers, and harshly criticized their lack of dedication to the craft.

*****

The false-idolatry of Kw-Uhnx-Wa had yet to shake the foundations of the earth. The pretend totemic rites that were meant to glorify the activation of the super-weapon not only were meaningless, but had not achieved any effect at all. The machine had yet to properly operate. The only enemy that had fallen before them had been the Wolf tribe, and that was merely due to the benefit of having the power of flight - not a common commodity in the war. One day prior, the first fight of the war to take place completely in the air had been a thorough trouncing of Kw-Uhnx-Wa by the Sky Fortress, which the young upstarts had foolishly initiated. They were better prepared for the next air war. The Red Death had appeared flying in fast from the east, and engaged the false-feathered fliers upon sight. The Red Death was undermanned, but that was unknown to the youngsters. Both squadrons flew with courage and skill, but the streamlined micro-jet fighters of the Red Death edged the weather manipulators, and flew off from the dogfight as loose feathers floated somberly to the ground.

*****

The Band had made its first blunder of its sneaky and deceitful campaign, and did so by forgetting a simple fact: you can't con a con. Jerry and his Trojan Horse Tour rolled onto 7th Avenue with a spotless record of success. Their fleece job faltered though when "Dazzlin'" D'Antoni (a rather crafty pitchman) and the former hustlers that made up the 7th Second Chance saw some disturbingly familiar behaviors from the road crew. Pick-pockets were trapped. Shadow-lurkers were confronted and beaten. Equipment was inventoried before and after the performance. The musicians played and played well, but when the show was over and they exited stage left, the look on Jerry's face read plain and simple: fail.

*****

Destiny. A word used more often than it should be. A word that conjures a sense of wonder and fulfillment of things deserved. It can also contain great danger. Those that believe destiny has graced them will often fail to put forth the required effort to bring destiny to fruition. Destiny rewards those that chase it, and makes fools of those who await it. The assassin lived for the chase, and was determined to make sure those who fought at his side would not await destiny. He refused to let them rest when there were days between conflicts. He pushed them to be on the proving grounds earlier and earlier and to stay later and later (although no one was ever there before he was, and no one ever left after). He berated them. He belittled them. He directly attacked them and knocked them to the ground. Then he knew to praise their resistance and strength and determination, but never so much that they felt they had redeemed themselves to him. He was a taskmaster, the bad cop to the good cop played by the Master. It was no act though, and he was not teaching for their benefit. He was ruthlessly single-minded and cared for nothing outside of destroying his enemies in pursuit of the Prize. He wasn't making stronger soldiers, he was sharpening weapons. He was making certain that those he used were the most usable. If they all fell in his quest for the Prize, so be it. It would be his.

This is the enemy that the Sky Fortress faced when they sent their landing craft into the courtyard of the Western Banner. The Sky Fortress was an assemblage of dangerous and relentless combatants. They faced the Black Knight. The Sky Fortress had the advanced weaponry provided by the technological corporations of Yao. The Banner had the Black Knight. The Sky Fortress was a rogue's gallery of fighters that had either made their name by fighting with other armies or climbed the ranks from the infancy of the Fortress. The Black Knight was the most dangerous man alive, without question, and already knew what it was like to see the Prize reflecting purple and gold. Had seen that three times as a young killer. He missed it.

Another display of merciless dominance. The defeat of the Sky Fortress sent mouths into motion all across the land, with one word formed over and over: destiny.

*****

NBA Dramatique: No Deal

HORNETS were en route back to the Hive. They didn't have a problem with traveling - that was just a part of war. This trip had been a forced march, though, and it neither began nor ended well.

They had been resting within the Hive for several days. The precision attacks and clever maneuvering that they employed had brought them several impressive victories, and it now seemed as though they could choose their own course through the war, as no one had sought to attack them as they waited at home.

Four days in, warning sirens had sounded and HORNETS had been slow to react. The Hive was bombed extensively by a mercenary air force called the Red Death. HORNETS had not spent much time studying this enemy before being attacked as their threat level had been estimated as insignificant, so it was after the attack that most of the information on the Red Death became known.

Too little, too late.

HORNETS contracted a construction company to repair the external damage to the Hive and hit the road while repairs were underway. Hoping to drown their sorrows in blood, HORNETS made plans to attack a low-grade enemy while traveling that would boost morale and provide an easy enemy to get live practice against. They chose the wrong day to pick a fight with the General. They had found his base camp and surrounded it and under most circumstances would have made short work of this under-developed squad. This time it was not to be. The General had wisely broken from his traditional patterns, and innovation plus luck had handed him the victory.

After two unexpected and uncharacteristic losses, the young commando unit was headed back home. The sky at sunset was rose-red and clear. After many long hours they reached the Hive, eager for sleep and showers, but instead found an assembly of demonic soldiers camped out lazily in front of their headquarters.

It was no longer shocking. The HORNETS found already in this war that your enemy could take some frightening and incredible forms. They had scorched the rotting flesh of the Followers of the Sun, and would now do battle with the minions of the damned if necessary.

Before any shots were fired, one of the Demons stood up and walked towards the HORNETS with his hands splayed in front of him as a showing of peace. He was a strange sight to behold, with skin like cinder and fissures of molten lava running along the lines that would have been his veins. His face was covered by a wide mask, which made for a frightful visage with its impersonality. DX leveled a machine gun at the approaching figure, but Chief Scott motioned for him to drop it.

"Gentlemen, there is no need for fighting!" exclaimed the masked being. "My colleagues and I would like to make a proposal to you in hopes of avoiding bloodshed."

The commandos looked at the masked thing with severe skepticism. The Chief especially was doubtful, but was the first to respond.

"Ok, Demon. I'll hear your offer." The masked creature hopped slightly with pleasure and approached Scott.

"Please" he said, as he put a charred arm around Scott's shoulder. "Step aside with me."

HORNETS again began to ready their weapons as the Demon pulled their commander away but Scott again motioned for them to stand down. He allowed the masked Demon to pull him aside.

"My friend," began the Demon, "we are aware of your recent troubles. We look upon your men and see that they are fatigued. If we fight now, we're sure to win, and we won't be gentle about it. Here is my proposal: quit. Just quit. Before you protest, let me elaborate. If you stop fighting, the armies of the world will think that your success in past wars was a fluke. You'll lure them into a false sense of security! Your men will get rest, and it is quite clear that they need it. You'll be eliminated from this senseless fighting early, and have prime selection of the newest crop of soldiers ready to fight in the future. And you, sir, will be derided and mocked this year, but when you come back in the next war with a vengeance and a rededicated purpose, you'll be hailed as a genius! What do you say?"

Chief Scott looked at the bizarre mask and wondered if the Demon was as dumb as his idea. "Men," he said loudly, "destroy these monstrosities."

The masked demon shrieked in anger and large wings on his shoulder blades unfurled to lift him quickly back to his fellow damned.

The Demon Prince raised himself from rest and stood in the center of his brethren. He looked volcanic, like the masked one, with a cracked and burned musculature ready to do damage to anything in his way. His eyes were smoldering embers of hate. The other demons milled about in anticipation of the order, then the Prince gave it, leaping straight at the HORNETS with reckless abandon.

Upset with themselves for the loss to the Red Death and the General, HORNETS just wanted to beat up on something. They lit up the evening sky with a torrent of gunfire and explosive projectiles. The Demons were terrifying in appearance, but not a difficult opponent in a fight. Their burned flesh was still susceptible to traditional ammunition and blood still ran from their wounds. HORNETS recognized the Demon Prince as the only true threat, and employed a strategy of neutralizing the other Demons to limit the Prince's effectiveness. It was a success.

The Hive was secure, and its residents finally found a night of peaceful sleep after a difficult journey.

Trailing their retreat, the Demon Prince turned his fiery gaze backwards to view the Hive. He was greatly displeased with the loss, and incredibly disappointed with his allies. He had waged unparalleled destruction on the commandos, but was a victim to the ineptitude of the Demons. His sentence in Hell continued.

*****

NBA Dramatique: Surprises

The old General hated to lose. He had come to expect it, as his last reasonable claim to success had been a few years back. It still wasn't pleasant. To make matters worse, he had been around for so long and been involved with so many factions that going to war was becoming a tour of former failures. When King James beat the General's current army, the would-be-ruler was happy to flaunt his power in the face of the old man. The Factory workers that he had once managed and led into the streets to fight had shown up on his doorstep, and though they were fond of the General, they still did their business with heartless efficiency, as their new boss had directed. A couple of days later a bunch of vandals with personal jet-packs had spray-painted the number 7 all over his base, then capably beat his soldiers. Those fliers had been mostly guys he recognized as a street gang from 7th Avenue. He had tried to make that gang a respectable army once but they had serious problems respecting his authority, and they ran him out of town. He wasn't confident that his soldiers had the stuff to win this war. He wasn't sure that they had the stuff to even win many battles. He was only sure that he hated to lose, and that he would try to teach these men to hate it as much as he did so they would stop doing it.

*****

There was a lot of unrest among the Prisoners. Something had been taken from them, and they felt cheated. The Answer was gone - had simply disappeared in the middle of the night with no explanation or even acknowledgment provided. The Prisoners feared that word of their brewing escape plan had leaked and that the Answer was made to pay. There was a sense of distrust spreading among the whole gang. After all, it seemed that someone had broken the golden rule of being on the inside: No Snitchin'.

It would have surprised nearly all of the Prisoners, though, to know what was taking place during the moments just after the Answer had been smuggled out of his cell and away from the mountains. Guards had come in the darkness to the former Goldilocks just as they had to the cell of the Answer. In this case however, the star inmate was not asleep, not surprised by the visit. He was waiting, seated on his bed when the guards arrived. His cell door opened and he stepped out, then walked with the two men along the corridor, all of them being careful to be as silent as possible. They passed through the holding area and into the main yard. From the yard they entered the laundry. Through the far end of the laundry they entered the kitchen galley, went to the opposite end of the kitchen, and encountered three more guards at the receiving area. The guards there unlocked the bay doors to reveal the back of a refrigerated truck, open, with frosty condensation covering the curtain-like rubber flaps of the trailer. The guards motioned toward the truck, and the inmate stepped through the rubber flaps, unaccompanied, into the refrigerated trailer.

Warden Karl stood inside wearing a fur-collared coat. A bald man with a newly issued inmate's uniform stood behind him.

"It's done" said the Warden. "Let's talk business."

*****

HORNETS had swarmed his headquarters. The General knew their reputation for being well-prepared, aggressive, dangerous combatants and as soon as he saw them, he expected to be beaten. They moved in formations. They attacked in combinations. They showed confidence and no mercy.

He didn't give a damn. He was the General.

Even with a squad that he knew to be behind the curve, the General was not one to concede any contest. He was here to lead these men, and was going to do so. If he had to lead them to an embarrassing beat-down then he certainly would, and had already. He knew that learning could come from mistakes. His men had made enough mistakes that they should be very well-learned by now.

He instructed them to fight, and fight they did.

*****

"I guess this ain't nothin' new to you, so welcome back. You can call me Mellow." The newly self-christened Prisoner shook hands with the bald one.

"It feels great to be home. I'm Chauncey."

Warden Karl still stood with the two men in the refrigerated truck. " I don't think I have to tell you both to keep this meeting in strictest confidence. Our alliance will have tremendous benefits, but if it becomes public knowledge we could all suffer. I'm not going to have anyone - inside or outside of this facility - tell me how to run my Prison. Get the inmates behind you and we can avoid outside interference."

"We'll do it. Just remember your end of the bargain" said Mellow.

Warden Karl did not reply as he walked out of the trailer. As soon as he was gone, the guards entered and directed the inmates back to their cells.

*****

His men were surprisingly holding their own. The General commanded the troops to hit the HORNETS as hard and as often as possible. He capitalized on his enemy's mistakes and kept HORNETS off-guard by employing unorthodox attack formations against them. Two young guys that went by the names of D.J. and Ammo teamed-up to fire long-range assaults and drive within their defenses. Felton and Richardson brought the heavy artillery and blanketed the field of battle with their fire. HORNETS sharpshooters continued to strike and also refused to fall without a struggle, but crucial attacks faltered. The General never let up, and when the smoke cleared, his army stood as the victor.

His men celebrated, and he allowed them a few moments of joy. Truth be told, he was happy too. But he knew that little had been accomplished. It was still the time to be a teacher.

"Enough smiling" he yelled to the group. "We've got one hell of a mess to clean up around here, and when I say "we" I don't mean myself. Be in ranks at 0500. You're happy to win. Anybody would be. But you don't hate losing yet. Until you do, you've got nothing to celebrate."

The General began walking back to his quarters, thinking of the beer and cigar that he would enjoy behind his locked door.

*****

When the Deputies galloped up the mountain path on their way to "restore order", Warden Karl was watching from one of the high guard-towers. He thought about the work he had tried to do as the Warden of this Prison, and how the corrections company that owned it had continuously managed the facility in a way that limited his reach. He watched the horses carry their star-breasted riders up the path and heard echoes of their hooves reverberating through the canyons. He imagined that somewhere those Deputies had a sheriff that was probably in a position much like his own, in that he might be the little boss, but definitely wasn't the big one. He thought about the hopes of that sheriff and wondered if he ever dreamed of becoming a warden, as Karl had once dreamed of being a sheriff. He wondered if that sheriff was ever tempted to violate his station in the most extreme way and use his authority for his own benefit, crossing over to the other side of the law. Warden Karl sure had. He was thinking of that very thing as he dreamily watched the Deputies get closer and closer, close enough finally to see the glint of sunlight reflecting off of those starry badges. He lifted a two-way radio to his mouth and hit the button.

"Open the cells."

Karl had kept his initial part of the bargain. He lured these men of law into a brutal trap, and watched from above as the Prisoners took out their frustrations and exercised their new unity upon a group of men that only wanted to do what they thought was right.

He was only mildly surprised to find himself enjoying it.

*****

Poor Shawn Marion

He sure looks weird with that mask. Get well soon, dude.

NBA Dramatique: Growing Pains

The secret was out. The Underground was no longer an unknown factor and had become a target of enemy forces. The man-beast remained under lock and key. Their only combat victory had been against a clearly under-performing Machine. Those two factors, plus the bloody lesson they were forced to learn within the walls of the Western Banner, had diminished a great deal of the confidence they had been building. McMillan saw the problem and understood the setbacks, but knew he had to find a way to reverse the trend.

His first idea didn't turn out so well.

They had traveled incognito under McMillan's advice to get a little rest and relaxation away from the tunnels and the stress of training and combat. He took them all to a performance by a band of traveling musicians that had become rather popular, hoping that the songs would help take their minds off of the setbacks they had endured. In that sense, McMillan's plan may have been too successful. They had not been vigilant, and several of his men had their pockets picked while their attention was on the performance. Worse, they had been followed out of the venue and unceremoniously mugged. Nothing at all seemed to be going their way. The hope of bringing back positive spirit had definitely failed at that point, so they returned to the Underground tunnels tired and defeated.

*****

There was a large pool of water - bright blue - with scattered light bouncing off of its surface. The light was reflected back upwards against the dark stone walls of the cavern and the skin of the man looking down into the water, and it made patterns like jump-ropes, intertwining and revolving around one another. The one watching was McMillan, and his interest was not the usually tranquil and relaxing Underground pool, but the activity taking place within it. Oden was walking across its floor, fighting against the drag of the water and pulling a huge stone block behind him, tethered to his waist by a large iron chain. Two other men, trainers, were in the pool with Oden trying to encourage his efforts. Even from high above, McMillan could read the exhaustion on Oden's face, and could sense the will of the hulking man beginning to bend under the pressure.

"I need you to get there, big guy. I need you to get there." McMillan said, too quietly to be heard. He turned and walked out of the pool cavern, hearing the deep and tired grunts of his biggest hope echoing all around.

*****

An early warning siren had sounded and the fighters had gathered in the planning room, less than twelve hours after returning from their poorly-fated trip. Fast approaching was the Sky Fortress.

"I know as well as any of you that things aren't going according to plan." said McMillan. "We had an idea of how things were going to go. We worked hard to develop strategies and we knew our roles based on those plans. Things changed. That's life. We can't spend another day acting like we are finished. We've had a little bad luck, but that's all it is. Remember a year ago? Nobody cared about us. Nobody thought we were worth a damn bit of their attention. We thought we were hot because Oden was going to rip people in half while we watched. What happened? We couldn't use him. We had to learn to do without him, and you know what? We did well. We grew. And we still stayed under the radar for the most part. We waited and we trained and we were going to go out and rule the world. But Oden got hurt and we're without him again. All of you feel like it's last year all over again and you're going to work hard with no pay off." McMillan paused. "You're wrong."

He looked at the faces in the room and could see in every one of them that they were listening, and wanting to believe, but they needed more.

"Oden is going to fight in this war. I see him getting closer every day. But you guys can't expect to have him do it all for you. You have to fight like he's not there so that when he shows up, he becomes the extra piece and not the centerpiece. All of you can do this. I've seen it. I've watched you. You don't need him. You want him to be there and so do I, but he doesn't have to be. Get that into your head and lock it in. You guys are killers. Kill. Kill! And when Oden is unleashed, kill with him."

Brandon and Aldridge looked at one another and nodded. They stood, embracing their roles as leaders and fighters. Brandon spoke to the assembled group.

"Get ready. Now."

*****

A long battle. Hard fought. An experienced and talented enemy. Blake slices and Brandon stumbles. Scola hunts. Batum. Ka-boom! From below, Oden hears the sounds and longs to contribute. Bones with an eagle-eye. Outlaw and Frye fire at will. One so young his beard looks false. Brandon out of rhythm. The young one, Brooks, demonstrates a blinding speed and a true shot. Fernandez with the spirit of war. Major Artest joins the front lines and his troops rally, but Aldridge helps the Underground push back. A brief calm, but no surrender. Przybilla on the offensive. As the fight rages, McMillan has hope. Sees the change in his men and imagines Oden's return. Major Artest is denied a kill. Ka-Boom!! Aldridge, Przybilla, Outlaw all showing the fighting acumen that McMillan had seen in the training hall. A face-off - Bones and Fernandez. Bones is reduced to a shaking wreck on the floor. Major Artest and Yao try to stop Fernandez, but he bests them both. The speed of Brooks, the cruelty of Commander McGrady. Neither side will quit. Neither can yet claim a win. Commander McGrady is trapped, but drops a smoke bomb and narrowly avoids capture. The endgame arrives.

*****

Brandon wanted to be the one to end it. He believed himself made for moments like these. No side was going to give up, so one must be forced to do so. He darted towards the enemy, unable to discern their faces, and flanked their position. He saw the Commander and stopped on a dime to shoot. The Commander dove to the ground, and Major Artest stumbled as he tried to intercept the attack on the Commander. Brandon's shot hit, and the Commander fell, bleeding. Still, the Sky Forces would not surrender, and Yao saw an opportunity. Brandon left his allies vulnerable, and Yao fired a tiny rocket from his wrist that destroyed a stone support, cutting off a number of the Undergound's fighters. There was little chance for an Underground victory now. The calm stillness of necessity took over Brandon's body, and with uncanny speed, he fired a shoulder-cannon towards the whole of the attacking force. Luck had decided to come back to Brandon, and his shot caused an explosion that rocked the Underground tunnels and left the Commander's squad burned and coughing within a cloud of debris. Their position compromised, the Sky Force retreated back to their landing craft, and returned to the Fortress in defeat.

Brandon took the time to account for all of his soldiers, then found McMillan. The strategist was giving his top man a knowing look, but waited for the young fighter to speak first.

"We can do it." Brandon stated, sounding more surprised than he had intended.

"I know." answered his boss. "Will you?"

*****

NBA Dramatique: The Man Behind the Curtain

BOOT COMMAND

SYSDATE 3/82/0809

RUN: SYSDIAG

SYSDIAG/FULL/58N_8N+0N10

DIAG/ALLSYS

//

DNCN-21:3311933-550-112-20823317115978

PRKR-9:3310431-581-215-1717819209378

MS0N-8:308914-227-102-20889224837

FNL3-4:339210-244-103-52688003527

BNNR-15:32635-163-90-059141011913

7714-3:10163-71-24-40001100011

D0KA-5:30523-132-91-211112201169

FRMR-33:20252-52-52-2011000228

VGHN-11:30313-70-00-0213410136

BWN-12:33552-51-30-0156120035

TM4S-40:31591-70-02-201212210164

BRT0-7:10141-10-00-0000000132

GN0BL1-20: --nodat--

MNM1-28: --nodat--

TLVR-35: --nodat--

SUMDATA/ALLSYS

//

58N_8N+0N10:30720108-22021-5141-542083103541052857278

CHECKSUM/ALLSYS(VECTOR)

//

VECTOR:30XX120-24219-4942-5631901216320112353301

58N_8N+0N10:30720108-22021-5141-542083103541052857278

***ERR***

//SYSFAIL//

TROUBLESHOOT? YES/NO

N

RUN: SYSLOG/SYSLOG(SEARCH:PURGE)+(SEARCH:ASSM)+(SEARCH:on)

//

USER_ID: .POP

PURGE:H0RY UNIT;STATUS:PURGED;APPROVED

USER_ID: .POP

PURGE:STOUD UNIT;STATUS:PURGED;APPROVED

USER_ID: .POP

PURGE:BRRY UNIT; STATUS:PURGED;SYS ERROR-DETAILS YES/NO

Y

DETAILS

BRRY UNIT COMMAND: PURGE USER ID: .POP SYS ERROR:

PURGE OF BRRY UNIT LIKELY TO CAUSE OTHER PROGRAMS TO RUN LESS EFFECTIVELY AND/OR FAIL. OVERRIDE REQD TO PROCEED.

OVERRIDE USER_ID .POP CODE *******

END DETAILS

USER_ID: .POP

ASSM: “MASON”; PROGRAM LOAD; SYNCHDATA; SUPPORT/RUN/BIO11001010101010101010000001001

USER_ID: .POP

ASSM: “SCOLA”; ###LOAD FAILURE###

###LOAD FAILURE###

###LOAD FAILURE###

USER_ID: .POP

ASSM: “SPLITTER”; ###LOAD FAILURE###

###LOAD FAILURE###

###LOAD FAILURE###

USER_ID: .POP

ASSM: “UDOKA”; PROGRAM LOAD; SYNCHDATA; SUPPORT/RUN/BIO11001010101010101010000001001

#####

AUTOCONFIG? YES/NO

Y

//

DNCN-21…….100%

PRKR-9…….100%

FNLE-4…….68%

BRT0-7…….54%

BWN-12…….43%

MAKE CHANGES? YES/NO

Y

DNCN-21

PRKR-9

GN0BL1-20

MNM1-28

BWN-12

READING……………….

***ERR***

INACTIVE UNITS. REPAIR STATUS IS “REPAIR”

RETURN TO DEFAULT CONFIG? YES/NO

Y

SAVEDATA

RUN/PROJECTION

//

42-40 82/82/0809 (IF) SUMDATA 3/82/0809 NO CHANGES

RUN/SCAN/VECTOR/ISO/<25

//

TRIBAL(WOLF)-REPOSTIONING REQUIRED

RUN/REPOS

LOGOFF

NBA TV

I've been a fan of NBA TV for a while, even though they tend to run programs to death. Their coverage has always been quality, in my opinion.

But wait.

I'm watching now after keeping the news on for most of the night, and I am highly displeased with the degree of retard-itude that I'm witnessing. Ahmad Rashad, Gary Payton, and Chris Webber are "covering" the games from the night, and doing a more ridiculous job than any three random guys that I could find at Buffalo Wild Wings. They were just showing clips from the Boston/Houston game, and remarking on a long outlet pass that McGrady threw to Scola for a bucket. Guess what, though. That wasn't Scola. It was Brent Barry. Right there on the screen - Brent "Bones" Barry. Been in the league, oh, I don't know, ten or twelve years. Has a couple of championship rings. Good job, former NBA players!

Where the hell are Fred Carter and Andre Aldridge?

U.S.A. Basketball

Game on!

In the real world

Just a few things to mention.

I moved. When I moved, I had to change cable providers. My new cable provider has a DVR service that is far inferior to that of my previous cable provider. As such, I can now only watch a game if nothing else is on or being recorded. With my old system, I could watch a game that had already recorded while two other games were recording. That was awesome. Besides giving me access to a ridiculous amount of basketball, it also allowed a reasonable arrangement to exist with the lovely lady of the house who likes girly-non-NBA-things like Desperate Housewives and The Hills, and the 5-year old boy who likes cool-but-still-not-NBA-things like Spongebob Squarepants and Ben 10. What I'm getting at is I need a Tivo. If any reader out there has a good Tivo unit that they want to sell, or, - way way better - give away, please let me know.

I like the Iverson trade for both teams, and I like it for Iverson. I think the Pistons are a better fit for him then the Nuggets.

I wish Miami would get better soon so I can write interesting things about them.

Mavs/Spurs tonight. That match-up normally feels like a big deal, but whichever team wins doesn't have much to brag about right now. I'm feeling Houston over Boston. Phoenix should easily handle Jersey.

NBA Dramatique: Unchained

The Answer heard the loud rattle of a nightstick against the bars of cells further down the row. Another day was beginning. Another day that would be just like the one before it. He stood up and used the toilet, then began to put the blue jumpsuit on. Once dressed, he waited silently for the cell door to receive its electronic signal to slide open. Vertical line shadows moved across the surface of his face when the barred door rolled to the right and opened. He stepped out of the cell and turned to his right, as did the other men in the Prison, and they formed a line that then marched quietly into the dining hall for breakfast.

*****

Goldilocks was back. The retrial had ended and not much had changed. The verdict? Guilty of a lesser charge, but not lesser enough to get him out of the Prison. Things had been strange since his return. For starters, he had cut his hair. He also told everyone that he did not want to be known as Goldilocks any more, which was somewhat appropriate since the name was partially derived from his long-present cornrows. He hadn't mentioned his preference for a new name. Maybe it was up to the other prisoners to decide. It was more than superficial changes that had come, though. The retrial had altered his outlook in some way that was hard to figure out. Maybe he had gained maturity by going through the process. Maybe he had a better understanding of how he got here, and what it would take to get free. Maybe he was secretly happy that he wasn't leaving, and could continue to be seen as the leader to these men that desperately needed one. Whatever the case may be, he had not spoken to anyone in the crew of conspirators that had awaited his return, and this caused the Answer to wonder if he was still fated to end his days within the Prison walls.

Shortly after the former Goldilocks had returned, the Prison was attacked by the Western Banner. It was an unnecessary battle, as the prisoners were no threat behind the reinforced walls of the penitentiary, itself isolated high in the mountains. This was another of the Banner monk's theatrical showings of force. True, the Prison and its denizens were making no trouble for the Banner. But they were, after all, dangerous convicts. No one would cry foul over assaulting them, and beating them down would further carry word of the Banner's steel-fisted dominance of the west.

*****

The Answer heard the loud rattle of a nightstick against the bars of cells further down the row. Another day was beginning. Another day that would be just like the one before it. He stood, and felt the pain of a hard-fought battle in his bones and muscles. They had fought intensely, and the Answer felt that they had almost defeated the monk and his assassin. The concerns he had about Not Called Goldilocks were still there, though. The Answer had occasionally caught sight of him during the battle, and was not impressed. He was not connecting, not being the force that the Answer knew he could be. Maybe he wasn't trying or didn't care. When he did finally fire himself up, it was not enough to counteract the damages done by the Black Knight, and the Banner eventually left the Prison looking like a triage ward - blood and bandages on bodies sprawled across the yard.

The Answer waited silently with his thoughts for the cell door to receive its electronic signal to slide open. Vertical line shadows moved across the surface of his face when the barred door rolled to the right and opened. He stepped out of the cell and turned to his right, as did the other men in the Prison, and they formed a line that then marched quietly into the dining hall for breakfast.

*****

He believed that he was having a dream on the following night, because his sleep was broken in a way that did not follow routine. There was no rattle from down the row. The buzz of the cell's electronic lock was followed by the sound of the rolling door, and the Answer turned a sleepy eye to the noise. The fluorescent overhead lights were not on, and instead the bright beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness. He was unable to see who held the flashlight, and before he could react, two men held him down on his cot while another placed a cloth over his mouth and nose. He knew he wasn't dreaming just a few seconds before the chloroform returned him to quiet sleep.

*****

The Answer awoke with a start, and found himself face-to-face with a rather serious and unhappy looking man. The man was sitting behind a desk in a well-furnished office. Behind the desk was a large picture window that looked out over some type of industrial plant. The Answer found with some surprise that he was able to move freely and was not cuffed or bound in any way. He was dressed in overalls similar to what he was used to, but had on steel-toed boots rather than the soft shoes of the Prison. His name was sewn onto a patch above his breast pocket, and he had a belt stocked with small hand-tools.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Welcome to my Factory. My name is Joe."

"Why am I not in Prison?"

"It was agreed upon by a number of parties that your time had been served, and there was no further benefit to keeping you behind bars." As Joe explained this, The Answer thought about his former fellow inmate, Marcus. "I've had some trouble here. I've made some changes, and I want to do a few things a little differently. I have a job for you to do. I expect that we don't need to discuss in great detail just yet what my expectations are. I think it's enough to say that you're here, you're no longer in Prison, you'll do as I ask, and you'll get paid."

"Sure," said the Answer. "I think that's fair."

"As you can see behind me, my Factory is a serious producer. That's because the guys I have working in that Factory are serious producers. You give it all, all the time, whether in here or when we go out to fight. My employees are also my soldiers. We want the money, the power, the product, and the means to make all three. Understand? If you think it will help you, I'll call down to Curry and get you on a practice line before you're operating on the main line."

The Answer looked out at the work being done in the plant. "Nah." he said. "How the hell can I make my teammates better by practicing?"

*****

NBA Dramatique: Wages of War

The war was fully engaged. Every army in the land had taken up arms at this point, and none would now accept peace for months to come. In the early days of war, very little is revealed about the fate of these 30 factions as they will unfold. False starts, late surges, defections, injury, and the timing of encounters can vastly alter the landscape of the war as time goes on. The Overlord reflected upon this from his secret lair five days past the initial attack by King James upon the Bastion.

The Overlord was primarily a man of business. He was motivated by money, but not in the same way as the mercenary. His interest was almost academic rather than practical. He wanted to collect as much of it as possible, not because he needed it, but because it intrigued him to discover ways of drawing it to himself. The Overlord's interests in economic matters was closely tied to the interaction of the warring armies. He more than any other single person had an interest in perpetuating the conflict indefinitely. Though he was not associated with any one force, he had a role in the bureaucracy of them all. So by having a hand in the coffers of those that found success, he could divert funds to those that did not, keeping them afloat until such a time that their treasury would overflow and he could siphon that cash to another struggling participant. It was this financial sleight-of-hand that made the war forever possible, and most of those who fought were not aware of the manipulation.

The Overlord was an experienced diplomat, working from the negotiating table for many years before ascending to his present position. He seemed to be a friendly and genial old gentleman, but when crossed revealed himself to be a stern and unforgiving disciplinarian. He headed the organization of secret police that monitored the activities of all the armies of the land. If a combatant's activities violated the agreed-upon conventions of war, the secret police were generally on hand to take corrective action. But if a combatant's activities threatened the sanctity of the war itself, if the act was so egregious as to threaten the flow of perpetual war, the Overlord would see that the combatant was punished. This was a fate to be feared, for while a punishment handed down from the Overlord had a prescribed and public component, his reach into every force could lead to a much more damning sentence in effect. Cross the line too far, and banishment was not unheard of.

The Overlord sat within his secret lair and reviewed data and reports of collected information from the most recent outbreak in the War With No End. He was pleased to see the initial stumblings of the Machine (a poor cash-producer), the aggressive blitz of HORNETS and the Sky Fortress, and the vital savagery of the Reptile tribe. He was not pleased to know that the beast-man Oden was once again locked behind a thick steel door in the tunnels of the Underground, or that King James had not made a declaration of dominance across the Eastern sea-front. He was aware of all that had happened, and one thing above all else was keeping his heart warm and his mind happily engaged. He thought of the funds that must already be spilling from the purses of the Western Banner, and how those funds would grow exponentially if the monk and the assassin continued to leave a trail of destruction behind them. That money could help so many others to fight. To fight just enough to almost win.

Ugh. Not fun.

I'll have to be Non-Blogging Guy this weekend as we move to a new place. Lots of work to do. Look for a new stuff early Monday.

Batum rhymes with Ka-Boom.

Talk to ya soon.