NBA on the Brain

Did I Not Mention...?

2011-06-03T16:28:00.001-05:00

A while back, I changed the name of my blog to avoid any potential trademark issues. So, I was here, then at NBAontheBrain.com, and now you can find me at HoopsontheBrain.com. Come see me!

Go to www.NBAontheBrain.com

2009-10-27T00:01:00.002-05:00

Beginning October 27, 2009, NBA on the Brain and the all-new NBA Dramatique for 2009-2010 can be found at a new location:

www.NBAontheBrain.com

You should go there. Visit, read, bookmark, tell all your friends.

www.NBAontheBrain.com

It's going to be great.

www.NBAontheBrain.com

Raise a Glass

2009-10-25T20:39:00.000-05:00

Ahh, drunk girls. They're awesome. Honestly, those chicks have little to do with my post. I put them up because, well, because they look good and they're drinking, but also because I'm restricting my posting from this point forward. I have decided that I am no longer going to blog about my personal life, or how busy I've been at work, or anything like that. Unless they clearly affect the outcome of a game, I will probably not be writing about drunk cheerleaders failing to recognize the dangers of digital photography. So, cheers.

I was a sporadic poster, and most of the audience that NBA on the Brain developed last season vanished. Because of that and because I wanted to take on a bigger challenge with potentially greater rewards, this is the (next-to-)last post on NBAontheBrain.Blogspot.com.

Like the Jeffersons, though, I'm moving on up.

Beginning Tuesday, NBA on the Brain and the all-new, start-from-scratch NBA Dramatique will appear on a site of my very own.

I am dedicating as much time as I can to learning basic web design. Although it will be rudimentary and perhaps laughably amateurish, my new site will be mine, from top to bottom. I intend to keep it ad-free for the foreseeable future, but there will likely be changes to the design and functionality made on the fly. Just bear with me as the year goes on.

The blogspot account has been fun and educational. I sincerely thank every one who visited and read, and I've appreciated your comments, even when they disagreed or disparaged.

I would like to send a very heartfelt thank you to Henry Abbott, who mentioned my blog once in a TrueHoop post, and gave me a significant boost in readership. I'd also like to thank Rob Mahoney of the Two Man Game and BJ at Basketball for Beginners for early and honest support.

Thank you to my family and friends for your words of encouragement and praise. It means far more to me than you might think.

Most of all, I want to thank my then-girlfriend-now-wife, Shylah. Shylah will be giving me a very important assist at the new site by creating images to go along with the Dramatique story. Here, though, she made serious progress getting this blog noticed and getting people that only barely knew me to visit. Even more importantly, she has disregarded her own lack of interest in the NBA so that I could spend our time and money on League Pass and game tickets. She has sat in stoic boredom while I lived for hours in front of the television and the computer just so I could indulge my interest in a game and the mythology that I find within it. Since I've decided that my personal life is no longer material for future blogging, I'll use this last chance to thank my partner and best friend, Shylah, for her endless understanding, friendship, love, and support. You really are the best, babe.

Also I'm going to post one more gratuitous photo of girl-flesh. See ya at the new joint.

Sunday's Open Practice

2009-10-05T09:46:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, the family and I attended the Spurs' open practice/scrimmage with about 7600 other people. The team looked really, really great. Admittedly, most teams will when you're only seven rows away from them - we were actually closer to the action than Coach Pop and Coach Newman. I think Spurs fans have a lot to look forward to in the coming season.

Knowing that it was a practice, and that it was public, and that the dynamics of a team scrimmage are far different than the dynamics of an actual NBA game, I'm aware that little can be assessed from what I saw. I will say that all of the new additions look promising. The returning youngsters are showing growth. The vets seem ready. October 28th can't come soon enough.

From my view behind one of the baskets, a few players made an impression on me.

First, DeJuan Blair came to play. He is going to make a lot of GMs regret their draft-night decision to let him slip to the second round. He's aggressive on offense and defense, and I imagine that will intensify as he plays against teams that had the chance to pick him up, but passed.

Second, McDyess and Ratliff both looked like solid contributors. McDyess played scrappy below the basket and I know he'll bring some tough to the team. I only worry about the tolerance the refs have for the combined incredulous expressions that McDyess and Tim Duncan will be flashing over foul calls.

Third, George Hill was a personal favorite of mine last season, and his play on Sunday indicated that he'll remain near the top of my list. He's fast. He can score. I thought he had some brilliant moments last season, and he's getting even better. George is likely to extend the career of Tony Parker by carrying a good portion of the PG weight.

Last but not least, Ginobili and Jefferson. I put them together because they will probably be sharing a position over the bulk of their minutes. Jefferson is going to bolster the Spurs' point total every game, taking a lot of pressure off of the big three. He went on a run late in the scrimmage that definitely spoke to the value of his signing. Ginobili - it's just great to see Manu on the court again. The guy is deadly. Timothy Varner at 48 Minutes of Hell posted about the scrimmage yesterday, and his post included this bullet on Ginobili:

"Adjusted Plus/Minus expert Steve Ilardi surprised me a few weeks back. According to Ilardi’s 6 year defensive APM averages, Manu Ginobili is the third best perimeter defender in the league. He trails only Ron Artest and Shane Battier in that department. Striking, right? Well Manu Ginobili looked every bit the offensive and defensive stud during today’s scrimmage. When he’s healthy, only Kobe Bryant and Dwyane Wade are better options at shooting guard. Look out, league!"

Spurs fans have known the genius of Ginobili for years. Kobe recognizes. Barkley and Walton recognize. He's only the second pro basketball player ever to win the NBA title, the Euroleague title, and a gold medal. I would love to see NBA fandom sing the praises of Ginobili this year, and I would love for him to make it impossible for them not to.

The team is formidable, and I'm excited to see how rotations and line-ups evolve over the first part of the season. The Spurs have young talent that needs time on the court to develop into tomorrow's team, and they have experienced contributors ready to win now. I don't know how Popovich is going to distribute the mix. I do know that the roster cuts that have to take place before the end of the month will probably be very difficult for the head-honchos. Everyone has something to offer.

News, soon.

2009-09-29T08:38:00.002-05:00

It's training camp time for me, too!

I'll be back soon to tell you about the past, the future, and other good things.

Dead!

2009-04-29T10:29:00.003-05:00

Good thing those Spurs are done. They won't be a threat anymore. Their dynasty is over. Just walk away from the body. Take a breather. Relax. Heck, jump in the shower. You're safe now.

No More Finger Wags

2009-04-22T08:31:00.002-05:00

I've only been watching this game for a few years, but twice already I've witnessed extremely disheartening occurrences. I was watching live when the career of Alonzo Mourning ended with a blown knee under the basket, and I was watching last night when the career of Dikembe Mutombo ended in a similar manner.

As professional athletes, there is an understanding that you are putting your career on the line every time you clock in. Your body let's you do the amazing things that you do, but by doing them, you could cause harm that will reduce or remove that very ability. It's a risky way to make a living. Knowing that these men acknowledge and accept that risk does not make it any less tragic when the gamble goes in the wrong direction. Mutombo was playing the game at an age that most guys have already stopped. He wasn't doing it because he wanted more money and he wasn't doing it because he felt that his career was somehow incomplete in achievement. He was playing because he loved the game. He was playing because that's who he was.

Like Mourning, Mutombo has used the money he's earned to help many people less fortunate than himself, and I have no doubt that he will continue to do so with even greater dedication now. In the grand scheme of things, that part of his life will have more positive impact on the world than smacking a ball and shaking his finger in denial ever could.

But we'll all miss that finger wag.

Da Bulls

2009-04-21T17:30:00.002-05:00

Just a few short words about Monday night before Tuesday night begins. The Bulls could have won, and I put the loss on their coach. Besides poorly choosing his time-outs, and besides allowing John Salmons a few too many minutes on the floor, Vinny Del Negro missed his chance to deliver a crippling blow to the Celtics. Coming out of halftime, Perkins and Davis both had three fouls. These guys had been killing the bulls with offensive rebounds and elbow jumpers. Rajon Rondo had turned an ankle and was still nursing the pain to start the quarter. If the Bulls had driven the ball right at the Celtics, they probably would have gotten the Celtic bigs in even worse foul trouble, and probably would have gotten Rondo yanked off the floor for not being able to move defensively. Instead, the Bulls stayed outside and launched tentative jump shots until Rondo felt better and the clock had restored a cushion of safety to Perkins and Davis. If I saw this, Vinny sure as hell should have. Bad, bad coaching. I'm going to let it slide as a rookie-coaching flub, but I wouldn't want to spend the summer in Chicago if my name was Del Negro.

Also, Tony Parker is the shit.

Well Played

2009-04-18T16:55:00.002-05:00

All season, I've been not believing the hype surrounding Derrick Rose (I think I only saw one or two Bulls game all year). Effective today, I have to give respect. Rose played the game like a true champion. I now heart Derrick Rose.

NBA Dramatique: Mourn the Fallen

2009-04-17T20:11:00.004-05:00

Pestilence. The Plague of Paralysis. This is the price of being deemed unworthy. The Prize is aware, and knows it is pursued, and will only allow a worthy suitor to possess it. Every season of war brings a day when all are judged by the Prize. The conflict changes. The Plague separates the weak from the worthy.

On the Western sea, a small boat floats aimlessly in still water. The sailors accepted their fate some time ago, recognizing that they had little prepared or planned for combat, and were not equipped to threaten any foe.

The Barony was a complete mockery, failing in its initial hopes of supplanting the dominance of the Western Banner. A sharper contrast could hardly have been imagined. The Master and his Assassin had demonstrated overwhelming dominance of the entire region. The Barony had demonstrated incompetence and weakness at nearly every turn.

Kw-Uhnx-Wa had faltered, but not truly failed. It was never believed that this technology masquerading as religion would capture the Prize. The true goal of the displaced force was to grow, to develop, to continue a transformation from what was to what will be. They are not there yet. But the wings of the Thunder Bird will grow, and fly again, and cast a shadow on the wars of days yet to come.

The Totemic Tribes gathered again in the neutral territory just as they had before the war began. No boastful proclamations were made this time. No torches were raised. No tribe had set itself above any of the others, and all had failed to rise to the level worthiness. There were many injured warriors. Had the Reptile, the Bear, the Wolf, and the Stag all found dissatisfaction with their followers? Were the gods punishing the tribes for some transgression not rectified? The Pestilence would allow them time to ponder, and pray, and hope for redemption.

Elsewhere, the Superhero and the old General watched another year fall off of the calendar without new glory. They found no need for words. No need to summarize or eulogize the war nor the army that now slept against its will. They simply walked away from one another, without animosity, and with a mutual and ingrained understanding of the steps to take when the Plague had lifted.

The Family was embarrassed. Their plans had not been well executed. Some of them maybe talked a little too much before they had done anything. People outside of the Family were questioning the wisdom of the Don. At the very least, they had taken a step back in reputation. At worst, they blew their chances of luring King James into the fold. But at best, the embarrassment will make the Family eager to restore their rep. That could make them dangerous.

The sun was setting behind the tall rows of corn. Miller looked out the window from the booth at which he sat, trying not to admit to himself that he had been waiting since the sun was high in the sky above. He had already eaten, drank coffee until he lost count of the refills, and looked at his watch probably once for each loose granule of sugar that had spilled upon the table. He asbsent-mindedly toyed with a spoon and folded pink packets of sweetener. He sighed. His friend was not going to show up. He knew when he sat down six hours earlier that it was a possibility. Now it was certain. The Legend would not be seen today. Miller thought back to the day many months ago when he tried to lift his friend's spirits. Today, he had only hoped to say he was sorry.

Monta looked at the fat man. Disgusting, he thought, as he watched the bloated fool fall on his back. He was naked except for his white underwear and clutched a jug of beer that was nearly empty. He was trying to sing some unintelligible song and was probably only a few minutes from passing out and vomiting in his sleep. Mad Jack approached Monta as if to speak, but could not take his eyes off of the pathetic display from their chief. "I know one thing" said Monta. "I was clearly not the problem." Then silence and stillness seized them all.

Dazzlin' D'Antoni had locked the jet packs and the rest of the high-speed gadgets away in the chrome trailer. He had given some consideration to moving on, finding yet another town to ply his trade. It wasn't going to happen though. He hadn't done a lot that would be recognized as helpful for these guys of the 7th Second Chance, but he had one accomplishment that he felt proud of. He was still here, but the Clown was gone forever.

Nothing at all had gone well. Almost every spell cast failed. Arenas had sat out almost every encounter, and Grand Mage Edd was banished. The library was in shambles. The Chamber had been desecrated by army after army. The bonds between the Sorcerers would need much work to be strengthened again, but that work would not be able to begin for some time.

In a way, the dead always sleep. Though these corpses had tendency to be more animated, their repose would be extended for longer than they had grown accustomed. He had not had the resolve to do it sooner, but the necromancer was once again presented the opportunity to burn these maggot-ridden bodies into nothingness. The difference this time was that he had far longer to grow comfortable with such an idea.

*****

Well...

2009-03-13T08:20:00.002-05:00

That was ugly. Nice job crapping all over the first quarter, Spurs. You let the Lakers have 21 points in the first five and a half minutes, after which I could only bear to watch the game at the highest fast forward speed my DVR would allow. Nice effort to get back in it, but it couldn't make up for the start. Better hope someone takes L.A. out of the play-offs before you have to see them (file under: extremely unlikely)!

MVP

2009-03-10T00:12:00.002-05:00

Period. Yes, there are other guys that are qualified, but this is the league's most valuable player.

No Fucking Class

2009-03-09T23:40:00.002-05:00

Hey Shithead. That was a seriously low-class move. Yes, it was a hard foul. Yes they happen all the time. It's part of the game. Yes, you can pretend you were going for the ball. Doesn't make you any less of a punk. To take a swing at a guy's head for the sole purpose of making some kind of tough-guy statement (because let's face it - you were not going to overcome a 30-point deficit at the end of the third quarter) just speaks volumes about your poor sportsmanship.

I remember another low-class tool making a move like that just to prove a point. His name was Jerry Stackhouse and he decided to wipe out Shaq during a game back in '06. I'm sure Jerry felt like a real bad-ass when the Heat were clutching the trophy in Dallas.

02-18-2009

2009-02-18T18:15:00.000-06:00

It's my birthday. Last year I wrote a post on my birthday, so I decided to this year to make it a tradition. Though it has been an eventful year for me in many ways, I am particularly proud of the story I've been telling here since October. This blog has been a real challenge for me, and I am enjoying every post that I'm able to make. It's true that I thought I would be able to post more chapters, more often, but time management has been a serious struggle. I have had to make adjustments to both my approach and my personal expectations regarding NBA Dramatique, but learning those things through trial and error has been an essential part of the process. I think my story-telling will be greatly improved over the remainder of the season because I've worked on solving the issues that led to diminished posting.

I really want to thank all of you that have read my work here, and those of you that have taken the time to comment on the posts. I honestly smile every time I find a new comment on my blog, regardless of what you have to say. I greatly appreciate the feedback. I know there are some readers that have made requests and I haven't gotten around to delivering on those, but I haven't forgotten, and I will be looking for ways to work in your favorite team or player.

If anyone is wondering - yes, I do plan on doing this again next year, and I expect it to be even better. I'm not sure yet if it will be a continuation of this year's story, or if I'll find a completely different approach with the same underlying concept, but I've had a lot of fun and I want to keep doing it.

As far as the real-world NBA season goes, I have to admit that it really hasn't been what I expected. I thought a number of teams were going to be better than they have been, and despite being last year's finalists, I didn't think the Celtics or the Lakers were going to be as good as last year. I wanted to see better things from the Wizards, the Sixers, the Grizzlies, the Bucks. I thought the Heat would be better, and that they'd make more impressive personnel decisions than they have thus far. The Hornets are doing worse than I expected, but I'm glad. I am surprised at how Detroit has underperformed. I will say though that, in my opinion, the Pistons aren't losing because of Iverson. They're not losing because of Michael Curry. I feel that the Pistons are losing because Ben Wallace left. Doesn't seem to make sense, does it, considering how he's played since? But my feeling is that Ben and the other starters from the '04 champs and the '05 almosts were a crew, a gang, a brotherhood in the way that they were better as a group than they ever could be apart. The Cavs and the Trailblazers are both making me happy, winning about as much as I thought they were going to. At this stage, I'm expecting a Spurs/Lakers Conference Finals, and a Cavs/Celtics Conference Finals. I think that's pretty much what everyone is expecting now. Here's the order in which I'd prefer to see Finals combinations:

Celtics/Spurs - the match-up I hoped for but we didn't get to see last year.
Cavs/Spurs - An '07 rematch, but certainly no sweep this time.
Cavs/Lakers - LeBron's team and Kobe's team all in. That seems entertaining.
Celtics/Lakers - eh. Doesn't do much for me.

Tomorrow is the trade deadline. I'm going to hold off on any commentary on the trades that have already gone down until the deadline has passed, but I do have one request to make since it's my birthday. Please, please, please, Basketball gods, do not let the Spurs send Mason and Hill away in return for Vince Carter. Vince is not cool. Hill and Mason, cool. Oberto and Bowen are guys that I've liked, but they've seemingly reached the end of the road. I even thought Udoka was going to be a solid player, but his mojo appears to have defected. I don't care if Pop loses any of those three, but I think George Hill is going to be awesome, and Mason has earned his spot. The Spurs don't need Carter. Not for that price. Please don't let it happen. While I'm at it, Portland doesn't need you either, Vince. Stay away from my teams!

NBA Dramatique: I Am The Law

2009-02-17T18:13:00.000-06:00

They were punks. No respect for authority. No common sense. No concern for anything or anyone outside of themselves. He was not impressed. Hadn't been for a long time. If you coaxed it out of him with the right combination of beer and conversational collusion, he'd probably admit to hating them.

He was one of the Overlord's Regulators. Had been since before most of the current soldiers had even been born. His job, his purpose in life, was to make sure war remained an honorable and noble method of power transfer. But that task grew harder every year, because these thugs today didn't know what honor was. Wouldn't know noble if it bit them on the ass.

He watched now as two armies fought against one another. The Legend's Legion defended their Fieldhouse from the attacking forces of King James and the Royal Battalion. Crawford blew air out of his mouth and shook his head in ridicule. This guy was no king, he thought. The Legion came from a land with a rich tradition of war. Their mentor and lord was true to his name - a legend. Crawford could respect that guy. This kid, though...

Maybe "King" James wasn't really so bad on his own. If he had come up through the ranks under the watchful eye of the Legend, the kid might really be something. If he had come up on 7th Avenue, or if he had been trained within the stone walls of the Bastion, maybe he'd be alright. But armies these days didn't make soldiers the right way anymore. There were ways to do things right and ways to do things wrong, but somewhere when he wasn't looking, people started to confuse the two. Even the Overlord and some of the other Regulators got it wrong a lot of times.

See, armies are supposed to be human. They're supposed to live by the blood pumping in their veins and the hunger eating at their guts. They're supposed to have instincts. The blood and the hunger and the instincts are the things that should drive men to the Prize, not Machines. But things changed. They let the brainiacs come in and start screwing with things. Now it's planning and strategy. It's calculating. It's not war - it's math and head games. It's damn cyborgs.

(Crawford knew an old story, and he had every reason to believe it was true. He had heard that there was a young fighter, a real smart and powerful kid. That kid was in the hopes of a lot of armies, but every indication was that he was going to the Bastion. Then the kid vanished. Disappeared. But what was really funny about the whole thing, was that right after that, some tycoons started to spread the news that they had developed the perfect warrior. They said that they had trained a young athlete and wired him up, made him both more and less than a man. The Machine was born. The whispered part of the story though was that the Machine's prototype cyborg fighter was in fact the Bastion-destined young warrior, kidnapped and made a guinea pig for science. It made Crawford sick.)

Well, the more the Machine won, the more armies tried to be like the Machine. Now they had little mathematicians and robot-wanna-be advisers spread throughout the warring nations. The One Who Wished He Was King had a few characters in his court that Crawford suspected might be a little too mechanical, if you catch the drift.

Crawford knew that his job was to maintain order and fairness. He also believed that his job was to uphold the honor of the War, and that sometimes meant giving order and fairness a nudge in the right direction. This battle was close. Too close.

*****

It was a dive, and Crawford drank alone. He sat in a dark corner where he would not be recognized and listened to the broadcast tell of the war he had affected last night. A few other people were in the bar, drinking and smoking and shooting pool. The cell phone in his pocket began to buzz. He answered with the push of a button.

"Yeah?"

"Joey, you made a lot of noise last night. King James is not what I'd call 'low-profile.'"

"So, what's the fall-out this time?"

"You got lucky. No fall-out. Vizier Brown was so incensed that he was arrested for inciting a riot. His temper-tantrum effectively took the heat off of you. But you're not always going to be that lucky, and picking such high profile targets is a bad idea."

"Did you make the Vizier pay?"

"Twenty-five K."

"Good." Crawford pressed a button to hang up.

He drank his beer and thought about the War, and felt like a hero.

Kobe Bryant

2009-02-17T06:13:00.000-06:00

Bill Simmons recently wrote a column for ESPN in which he explained why he did not think it was correct to classify him as a "Kobe Hater". I was a little aggravated to see he had written it because I had been thinking about my own attitude towards Kobe, and wanted to get it on my blog, but didn't want it to appear that I was following any kind of trend. I guess that's what I get for not posting frequently enough.

Because of his incredible skill and abilities, Bryant is more famous than basketball. Like Michael Jordan and Shaquille O'Neal and Larry Bird and Magic Johnson before him. Like Tiger Woods and the game of golf. Like Wayne Gretzky and hockey. People who know nothing about basketball know that Kobe Bryant is good at basketball, not because they've seen it, but because they've been told enough times. I think this creates a negative stigma towards Bryant for true fans of the sport. They take praise of Kobe as a slight, because they've put in the hours and the study and the effort to know the game, which in sum might tell them that Kobe Bryant is the best active player in the NBA, but someone who does none of those things can reach the same conclusion. This creates the impression that Kobe is the ideal of the non-basketball fan, or the fair-weather fan, who has not the necessary education to levy such judgement. Kobe is thus derided for the wide recognition of his talent.

Many seem to take issue with Kobe Bryant: The Person Off the Court. Essentially this is a judgment on how the man conducts his personal life when he's not wearing a Lakers jersey, or a team USA jersey, or a Western All-Star Jersey. Though often unstated, I get the sense that criticisms of Kobe the Human are rooted largely in the accusation of rape and the subsequent trial that occurred a few years ago. When his highly-publicized trial was underway, I had not yet become a follower of professional basketball. I don't really care what happened in Denver on the night in question. I wasn't there. The trial ended. Bryant was not convicted. But because so many people in this country love the rise and fall of the rich and famous, Kobe will never stop being on trial for the things that did or didn't happen in Denver that night.

When I was able to get past the fame and move beyond the reputation, I started to see the basketball player. Kobe Bryant is an incredible basketball player. For the first phase of his career he was burdened with the "Next Jordan" tag. He didn't shy away from it, and made more than one move to deliberately paint his name over Mike's. After Shaq split from the Lakers, and the team began its spin out of playoff contention, the criticisms began to come with a more frequent accusation: Kobe will never be Jordan. I think it may have been the best thing that could have happened to him. Kobe looked at his feet, and the road beneath them, and looked back at the history of the game and where he had been in that history. Then I believe he came to a realization. He realized that those were his feet. He was standing on his own road. His place in the history of the game was his and his alone, just as Jordan's place was only Jordan's and Shaq's place was only Shaq's. He accepted that Kobe Bryant wasn't going to be the next anything, but that he was going to be the only Kobe Bryant. He transcended the burdens of being himself that had been placed on him by everyone up to that point, and began being himself for himself only. I loved that.

About two weeks ago when the Lakers played in Boston, there was a moment that solidified my appreciation for Kobe. The first quarter was about to expire, and Kobe had the ball. He was dribbling, standing still, in front of his defender. The shot clock was winding down. With less than two seconds remaining on the clock, Kobe whipped the ball to the far side of the court where Trevor Ariza stood, just outside the three-point line. Ariza should have shot the ball as soon as it hit his hands. Instead, Ariza caught the ball, put it on the floor and took a step inside the line, then picked it up to shoot. Guess what? Time expired before the shot was off and the quarter ended. Kobe looked at Ariza like he was the dumbest ass hole ever born, and that was the moment that I realized why I like Kobe.

I make that face.

I'm guilty. Sometimes, I'm kind of a dick. I don't mean to be. I don't want to be. But sometimes I am, and I am in the same kind of situation that Kobe was at the end of that quarter. He expected someone else to do exactly what he would have done in a given situation, and to do it just as well as he would have. That didn't happen, and he was pissed about it. The circumstances didn't matter to Bryant, only the end result, which was failure by someone he trusted to get the job done. In Kobe's head, if hadn't given that shot to Ariza, he would have made the shot himself. If the roles had been reversed, he would have caught the ball and shot it, scoring three points on nothing but net at the buzzer. It makes no difference that he might have missed it too. In Kobe's head, he knew what needed to be done, asked someone to do it, and they couldn't. They let him down. Kobe knows how hard he works, how much time he puts in, and how much sweat he has poured into becoming one of the game's greatest players. As far as he's concerned, everyone else who plays basketball could be that good if they just tried hard enough, but they don't. They're lazy. They don't care as much. So when do I do that? All the time, over stupid things. Washing the dishes. Cooking food. Putting things in the refrigerator in an orderly fashion. Driving. Talking to women. Writing. Any job that I get paid for. It's absurd. And when I take a step back I recognize that I'm being a conceited ass. But in the moment, if something didn't work right, or if it broke, or the result was not as expected, it's because it wasn't done the way I would have done it. More accurately, it wasn't done the way I like to believe I would have done it. It is because of this trait in Kobe (that I recognize now in myself) that I feel I can appreciate him as a player a little bit more.

So, Kobe, I feel you man.

To everyone who knows me - sorry for making that face sometimes.

NBA Dramatique: Scar, Scar, Can You Feel My Power?

2009-02-15T15:51:00.003-06:00

It just hadn't worked. There were mistakes, maybe. Missteps. But now what to do?

The pale necromancer walked alone through his private quarters, reflecting on his past decisions. He thought back on the steps that had brought him to this point in time. He remembered his youth as a soldier, fighting along side the Super Hero. He felt the weight of rings upon his hand, reminding him of his once deadly sharp-shooting. He remembered being assimilated by the Machine when he was a little bit older, and he had foggy, dream-like memories of his cyborg life within that construct. When the Machine eventually purged him, he knew that there was not enough humanity left within him to fight as a soldier, but perhaps he could fight another way. Winning wars had lined his pockets well, and he could use that wealth to affect the war from beyond the battlefield. The once young sharp-shooter invested his money in an army, and began to study the ways of war as a scholar, not as a soldier.

Over the course of the next few years, the man watched as his investment paid off. The army had developed into a surprisingly potent force, and as their skills and abilities made them well-known, their fortunes increased. They were the People of the Sun, and their brilliance in action was matched only by the break-neck speed at which they executed those actions.

But there was one problem. The Machine.

Slow and plodding and mechanical, the Machine was the opposite of the People's army. The People of the Sun were free-flowing and creative and quick. They had an offensive efficiency that rained long-range bombs on their enemies with overwhelming frequency. There seemed no logic in the fact that they could not defeat the cyborgs, but in the final stretches of the war, some twist of luck would go against them, and the Machine would gleam triumphantly.

This was very troubling to the investor. It seemed to him as if the Machine continued to take from him, even after it had taken the last of his physical ability. The Machine had used him to help win a war then cast him aside, but would not allow him to enjoy post-purge success. The pale man was determined to change this, and went to the People of the Sun to leverage his investment.

In the course of his studies, the man had ventured into knowledge of the dark arts. He made it known to the other investors of the army that he knew unspeakable things and that he could use that knowledge to overcome the Machine. They were uncertain, but accepted, because they feared there was no other solution.

They were wrong. Tragically so.

The first act the necromancer performed once he was given the keys to the keep was a magical mass murder. He poisoned the soldiers to put them into a coma, using their sleeping bodies as a staging ritual. While they slept and dreamed, he sacrificed one of them to conjure a demon from Hell. The demon was monstrous and powerful, and his arrival sent such a psychic shockwave through the assembled men that they died instantly without ever again opening their living eyes. The demon then revived the army into undeath, and christened himself the Big Resurrection.

The People of the Sun were at once changed forever, and renamed themselves the Followers of the Sun, for the light of day was something they were never going to see again. The arms dealer, D'Antoni, who had previously been the facilitator of their quick and deadly attack style, was uncomfortable with the dark conversion of these soldiers who had been his friends, and soon packed his bags and headed east. His departure came just days after the undead Followers had been put out of another war by the cyborgs of the Machine.

The necromancer had continued making changes to the army that dismantled the old, fast, rapid-attack force that had been so promising. They were slower. They were attacking less. They were not winning as much. He had been so certain that the changes he had made were going to be the right ones, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that he had been wrong.

A decision must be made. The necromancer was standing in the chamber that the Followers revelled in after the sun set. At the moment, they were corpses, scattered about the room in repose during the daylight hours. The Big Resurrection was a hulking mass of decay in the center of the room. Amare was gently decomposing at his piano, waiting for the moonlight to restore his un-life. Nash was flat on his back on the floor, arms behind his head, looking like he would come to life and start doing sit-ups.

In the necromancer's left hand was the nozzle of a spray gun, the hose of which ran to a tank on his back. The tank was filled with gasoline. Highly flammable gasoline. In the necromancer's right hand was a revolver, loaded with a single bullet. He slumped down onto a plush chair and looked around at his dead men. He looked at his left hand, then at his right. His left again, then his right.

Something had to be done. But he could not decide which trigger to pull.

H-O-R-S-E

2009-02-03T14:41:00.000-06:00

They're going to play HORSE during All-Star Weekend.

Awesome.

Something Completely Different

2009-02-03T11:27:00.002-06:00

Hello, everyone! I know I have left you in a murky silence for over a month. I'm not abandoning this blog, and I assure you things are coming around again that will carry the story steadily from All-Star break to the play-offs.

I have been busy with many other things. My girlfriend is now my fiance, and I'm no longer a temp. I've been very fortunate to find myself working with people that value a person's ability to form thoughts and put them in writing, so I wanted to offer you the opportunity to read the first public piece I've created for their website. Fair warning: the piece and the site are very political with a distinctive lean to the left. If that's not your cup of tea, that's just fine. I'm not interested in making NBA on the Brain a political forum and I won't cross-pollinate, but I wanted to extend the invitation to find me elsewhere if you're so inclined.

Please click here, and jump around over there for more thought-provoking material.

Hell Yeah

2008-12-31T08:51:00.005-06:00

If you didn't get to watch the Boston/Portland game last night, I feel very sorry for you. It was incredible to see the Blazers work so effectively without Roy in uniform. I think a lot of things happened last night that will contribute greatly to the maturation of the Blazers as a team and the younger guys as NBA-caliber players. Even the six-guys-on-the-court debacle seemed to be a tension-reliever for Portland (not so much for Boston). I'm not going to break the game down because plenty of other places are going to be on that already. Check ESPN (from which I stole the photo) or Blazer's Edge or the Rip City Project for some good stuff.

NBA Dramatique: If at First

2008-12-28T21:12:00.007-06:00

"Twice already."

"Yeah, I know. But I think we can do it."

"Why? What's different this time?"

"We're better. We're more experienced. We've fought them before."

O.J. and Rudy looked again upon the bright and shining exterior of the Machine. In their heads were visions of conquest. They could visualize the flying sparks and oil slicks upon the ground as the Bear Tribesmen laid waste to cybernetic terminators. It was pure imagination fueling these visions, though. The Bear Tribe had been repeatedly beaten by the forces of the Machine.

"We still have that guy from the Sky Fortress. Can we use him for anything?"

Rudy shook his head. "Nah. I don't know if he's ever gonna be any use to us. Maybe we'll eat him."

*****

The Bear-men had encircled their enemy's headquarters, and had been pelting it with stones in an attempt to provoke. The repeated noise of rocks bouncing off steel activated defense programs, bringing the cyborg killers on-line. In the low red light of the staging bay, eye-like ocular sensors glowed green. Relays and motors began to click and whir. Lubricating oil and hydraulic fluid began to warm and the robotic killers began to move at the command of the Great Machine. Their movements were deliberate and calculated. Efficiency dictated every motion. The bay doors opened and the bright sun threw its rays into the barely-lit interior of the Machine. Not one of the cyborgs was still human enough to throw up an arm to block the sun from their eyes, nor even to squint. The sun's light was brilliant on the chrome skin of each fighter, and made their bodies appear wrapped in mercury or molten silver. They began to take heavy but calm steps out into the light to face their opponent. The chants of the Bear Tribe fell silent. Those in fur watched those in metal form their own circle around their fortress. The cyborgs were expressionless, emotionless, and their electric "eyes" gazed at the tribesmen with cold indifference. The enormous spiked cog destroyed the pregnant pause by spinning into action, making a terrible mechanical growl as it drove downward, and just missed a number of tribesmen who were fortunate enough to dodge the surprise attack.

Rudy's assessment before the battle had not been completely incorrect. The fighters of the Bear Tribe had learned. They had faced this opponent and they had faced others, and now they were using their experience to wage a smarter war. O.J. especially was becoming a more fierce fighter with every day that passed. Rudy had moments in which he wondered if O.J would surpass him, and wondered if his friend would eventually usurp his leadership. When he thought about it, he found that to be the most likely outcome. He also thought at times that they might be too competitive to remain friends and that one of them would have to go. For now though, they were tribesmen. They were strong with the spirit of the Great Bear. Rudy was happy that O.J. was his friend, and he was happy to have a fellow hero to fight and bleed beside him.

*****

O.J. was determined. He was no loser, and these cyborgs had tried to convince him otherwise already on two separate occasions. He gave no quarter, and attacked with the strength the Bear had granted him. He accepted blows against him and repaid in kind. He dented and broke solid parts of machine-men and tore or ripped the softer pieces of his enemies. He grew tired, and felt beaten, then would feel the Bear roar in his gut and have new energy to keep fighting. He refused to quit in his head or heart. That would have served him against other opponents, but this was, after all, the Machine. Where his emotions would have been a poison against lesser armies, the Machine was immune. They countered attacks. They defended mightily. They felt no fear of loss even when ebbing. They showed resolve and patience, because they had not been programmed to show anything else. So in the end, they won. Again.

*****

On the trail away from the Machine, with bodies aching and bruised, Rudy and O.J. remained silent. Both had the same thought in their heads:

"Three times already."

Both also followed that thought with another:

"Next time."

Christmas Post

2008-12-28T10:45:00.002-06:00

The Lakers, Magic, Spurs, Cavaliers, and Mavericks all got Christmas presents on Thursday. I saw all of the games except the Magic/Hornets, but I can say for all of the rest that not one of those winners had the game locked up until the final moments. The Lakers won at home, with a really unusual lack of free throws for the Celtics, so, you know, make of that what you will. I like it when the Hornets lose. The Spurs win was yet another classic instance of them breaking the spirit of the Suns. I know Amare probably left the arena looking for stray cats to punt (I'm sure Amare is not actually cruel to animals. I was making a joke about his intense frustration. Please, no angry letters). The Cavs...man, that was a close one. Antawn and Caron should get together with Amare for a few drinks. Drown their sorrows. I'm pretty disappointed about the Mavericks win over the Blazers. They earned it. There was nothing shady about it. The Blazers played the game and stayed in it. But Howard got tossed early, and Portland should have capitalized. Maybe, though, the win sans Josh is further evidence that the Mavs are better off without him. I stuck up for that guy back in September, but it has always seemed to me like he has a pretty terrible attitude, and I really believe that Dallas has been unable to make the championship leap over the past few years because of poor team chemistry. I think they have more than one locker room poison. Dirk deserves better.

Anyway, no Dramatique post on the Christmas games. I was planning on doing the Lakers/Celtics game, but it was so over-hyped that it feels stale to me. Sorry to let you down, Lakers fans. I know you're out there. But I have no doubt that the Western Banner will continue to play a major role in this tale of mine as the season progresses.

NBA Dramatique: No Good-bye

2008-12-25T22:10:00.002-06:00

"I did not know I would never see them again, but I could tell at the beginning that the night would end badly. I watched Yao looking out of the observation window at the palace below us. He could see the soldiers of the Royal Battalion move into position and our own troops as they rappelled onto the field of battle. His face read disgust and impatience. As he turned away from the glass bubble I knew before I looked what he was not wanting to see. The One Who Would Be King stood atop the parapet on the southwest end of his palace, hands stretched towards the sky. A cloud of dust encircled his form."

"Yao was already in combat fatigues, and I watched him pull the goggles down over his eyes and walk to the jump door, then grab one of the rappelling lines and descend. 'Good luck out there!' I shouted after him. I don't think he heard me."

"We were on the attack right away. Well, when I say 'we' I mean the troops. I wasn't fighting. I haven't fought in a long time. But I was ready, and I would have fought, if they had called upon me."

"Maybe we were over-confident. Maybe we were under-confident. It's hard for me to say now. We knew that no one had bested the Royal Battalion on their own land in this war, but we could have. As an observer, maybe it was too easy for me to see where mistakes were made. We let Big Ben get away with far too much at the outset. The notion that his interest only lies in protecting the King and the castle was proven wrong. The other knights would not relent, despite our superior weaponry, and they continued to fire and fight as if this was a battle to end the war."

"Our troops are not slouches. They're not scrubs. The Commander himself led the attack. Scola and Battier fought as hard as they could. I watched Brooks and Bones launch devastating shots as they were meant to do. I think what really beat us was not the King or his knights. It wasn't our lack of ability. It was the Overlord's secret police."

"Yao's demeanor before leaving the mothership was such that I fully expected him to come back on board with a blood-soaked uniform and human remains under his fingernails. He was going out to spread death. He never got the chance though, because the regulators kept stopping him from attacking. It is a bizarre notion to think of rules being enforced in the midst of war, but it happens. The idea is that all of the armies agreed to this supervision as a means of preventing any other army from developing overly inhumane forms of attack. We follow the Overlord's rules so that everyone else does too. But Yao creates weapons and likes to test them. Sometimes the rules let him. Sometimes they don't."

"Without Yao, we couldn't overcome. The Battalion is strong and fast, and their King fights with nothing in his line of vision but the Prize. Major Artest stepped up to fight the King toe to toe, and Major Artest is not only strong but crazy to the brink of fatality. The One Who Would Be King prevailed. He finished his evening by sneaking behind Yao and crushing Yao's last usable rifle with his bare hands. It was impressive and sickening to me simultaneously."

"As I said before, I expected to see Yao return to the mothership looking like a weary killer. In fact, I never saw him return to the ship at all. As combat decayed, I received a summons to the aft bay. I began walking alone, and at some point, an unseen assailant struck a blow to my head and rendered me unconscious. I write this note now, unsure of what occurred and how exactly I arrived in my current predicament. My clothes have been stolen and I am dressed only in fur. I believe that I have been captured by the Tribe of the Bear, but I have not yet been addressed, and do not know what these tribalists intend to do with me. Perhaps I will fight with them or perhaps they will make me a sacrifice. I write this in a hurry, to you, unknown reader, hoping that you will find it and in turn find me before anything unfortunate befalls me."

"Please send help."

No More Excuses

2008-12-22T21:44:00.005-06:00

Excuses. I don't want to write them anymore. You don't want to read them again. Agreed? I'll write some stories. You read them, enjoy, comment. No more excuses from me on why they aren't getting done. Thank you for being here.

***edited for the sake of clarity***

NBA Dramatique: Check Yourself Prior to Wrecking Yourself

2008-12-07T15:19:00.004-06:00

The Legend's Legion traveled through the countryside away from their loss at the Bastion and back towards the land of abundant cornfields they called home. They used high-speed motorcars to move across the land, but the bodies in control of those vehicles slumped in their seats, looking anything but speedy and quick. More than one driver let drowsiness overtake them for a moment, swerving off of the road and rumbling along the shoulder before being startled awake and righting the vehicle. A small castle appeared on the horizon, and Danny made a decision to help his fellow soldiers. He activated the radio within his driving helmet.

"Alright, guys. You're looking very sloppy. If we keep driving tonight, at least one of you is going to wreck. You might get hurt, you might hurt someone else, worst of all me. So let's head to that castle and see if we can get some rest."

There was radio silence for about twenty seconds before T.J. came back across.

"Danny, you know who's castle that is right?"

"Yes, I know, damn it! Are you afraid to go there? You're afraid of the big bad King?"

T.J.'s sigh came across as a static crackle. The roll of his eyes and shake of his head did not transmit. "No. No, man. I'm not afraid. I'm just saying, King James hasn't been showing a great deal of hospitality. But you're the boss. I'm moving in that direction, just like everyone else."

"That's right." said Danny. "I'm the boss."

*****

The ear-splitting growl of combustion engines gave the castle residents ample warning of their approach. A party of knights waited outside of the gates as the Legion brought their vehicles to a screeching halt. Danny stepped out and greeted the knights.

"The Royal Battalion laying out the welcome for me! How kind. I don't see the face of King James, though. Is he not well?"

One of the larger knights stepped forward to reply. "The King is well. He wonders about the purpose of your visit, as do his knights."

"We have been traveling from the Bastion. It was our intention to return home, but my men are perilously fatigued. We would like to sleep here for the night." Danny answered.

The knight turned and walked back towards the castle gate. A small unarmed boy was there, and the knight bent forward to whisper something to him. The boy looked over at the fast cars of the Legion, then turned and entered the gate, running. In just a moment he had returned and nodded affirmatively at the knight. The knight turned back to Danny and removed his helmet. Now recognizable as the King's master-at-arms, Z, he spoke loudly.

"King James welcomes your visit. He hopes that all of you will join us this evening for a meal in the banquet hall."

"Haha!" laughed Danny, and clapped his hands. "I knew it! And the King is gonna cook for us! How 'bout that?" The Legion troops stepped away from their vehicles and followed Danny into the castle as he continued to talk loudly, and the knights closed ranks behind them and followed through the gate.

*****

The clock struck nine as the knights of the Royal Battalion and the soldiers in the Legend's Legion took seats at a grand table in King James' banquet hall. The King himself was the last to arrive. He approached the head of the table where a servant awaited him holding a bowl of flour. King James took a handful of the flour and rubbed his hands together, then threw the flour into the air.

"Let us eat!" he shouted. The King began by carving a large slice of ham and placing it on his plate. The servant who held the flour then lifted the ham and began moving to his left, serving a portion to each diner in turn. A procession of servants did the same for each dish, allowing King James to take what he desired before entering the rotation for the other diners. As the ham reached Danny, he cast a curiously disapproving glare at the King. The King was quick to notice.

"Is there something about this meal that you find unsatisfactory, legionnairre?"

Most of the other members of the Legion looked quickly to Danny then back down at their own plates in anticipatory embarrassment.

"I find it curious that you serve yourself before your guests, 'King' James. I also find it odd that you pretend to not know my name. It's Danny."

King James laughed as he chewed his food and looked at several of his knights, who joined him in laughing. "Danny. Are you suggesting that you should have been the first to dine? Is that my understanding?"

Danny did not smile as he said "Where I grew up, they teach us something called manners. I was raised to know that a guest is to be treated better than the residents of a home."

"Well, Danny, I'll tell you what. When you've got a castle, you treat your guests just as you'd like. In my castle I'll do likewise. And the manners I learned growing up taught me to be a gracious guest when in someone else's home, and to be grateful for anything I was offered." The King gave the young man a steady stare to help drive his point, then joined his knights in eating and laughing. Danny continued his meal in silence.

After dinner the King took his guests to a room of the castle in which he screened films. The King positioned himself in the best seat and allowed his knights to fill the seats surrounding him. The Legion was left to fill the seats on the perimeter, which were positioned less advantageously for viewing the film. The film itself was about the early life of the King. Danny sat in the back of the theater, fuming. With his arms tightly crossed over his chest, he spat words at Rasho sitting next to him.

"He's acting like I'm a nobody! As if I'm entertained sitting in this dark room, barely able to see the self-aggrandizing movie he subjects us to. Surely he's seen my name on the Ballot!"

Rasho simply shrugged and tried to nap. As the film progressed, Danny allowed his sense of slight to fester and grow. He muttered disrespectful comments under his breath, hoping someone else would join him in discontent. There were no takers. At the end of the film, King James and his knights stood and filed out of the theater. Danny, in anger, pushed and shoved his way through the crowd and reached the King.

"I demand to know why you have treated me with such disrespect and low regard from the moment I walked through your gate! You did not come to greet my Legion upon our arrival. The quarters you provided us were more poor than those likely used by your servants! Your meal was heavy and your hospitality lacking! And you 'entertain' us with this tale of your own accomplishments?! Don't you know that my prowess on the field has come to rival that of Miller, the last great Legionnairre?" King James had not broken stride nor even given the appearance that he heard Danny speaking up to this point. Danny reached his hand out and grabbed the King's arm roughly, shouting "Show me your respect!"

The King looked down at the hand upon his arm and stopped walking. Quickly, he spun and drove both of his fists into Danny's chest. The young man collapsed to the floor in a heap. With fast efficiency the Royal Battalion separated the rest of the Legion from Danny, and held them at bay as the King payed his respects. The legionnairre Troy protested "Stop pushing me! Stop pushing me!", but he was no threat and was summarily ignored. Without a word, all of them witnessed King James lift his right fist into the air and mightily drive it downward into Danny's face, then watched him lift his left fist into the air and mightily drive it downward into Danny's face. He repeated this see-saw motion of powerful punches at least a dozen times until Danny was unconscious and his face looked like roadkill. He stopped punching and lifted Danny by the shirt, then dragged him over to the waiting Legion.

"Go home now." he said.

They did.

NBA Dramatique: Ubuntu

2008-12-04T14:11:00.005-06:00

He thought he had certainly lost some teeth. It would make for strange symmetry with this enemy. Rajon checked for gaps with his tongue and was surprised to find everything still in place. His opponent's skull had struck Rajon's mouth hard and caused enough pain for tiny stars to blink about his vision. Rajon stumbled away from the fight and found a place to collect himself.

*****

The Legend's Legion had attacked the Bastion. The Legion was hopeful and haughty after an unexpected victory against the Western Banner, and had brought war with them all the way back east. Rajon and Old Man Sam watched the approaching army earlier in the day from the upper turrets of the fortress.

"Should we worry?" Rajon asked.

"Never." said Sam. "Never worry. They bested us on their ground at the beginning of this war. It doesn't mean anything. They're coming to this fight very proud because of beating the Banner and because we couldn't beat them last time. But it's empty pride."

"You think they're weak?"

Sam waited a moment then answered. "No. They're not weak." He turned his eyes to the young saboteur. "But they're not us."

Rajon smiled and nodded at the old guy. "Yeah. Yeah, they're not us."

*****

Rajon's elbows rested on his knees and his head hung low. He spit, and made a red splatter on the ground between his feet. The shouts of his friend House broke through the rest of the noise and flew to his ears. Rajon shook his head to dismiss the pain, returned to his feet, and stepped back into the thick of the battle. Kevin, seeing Rajon's return, yelled and tossed a large staff to the young fighter. Rajon swung the staff viciously as he caught it and knocked a Legion trooper unconscious. From a distance, the man who had driven his head into Rondo's mouth fired a shot which missed Rondo but hit the wall behind him. Concrete fragments sprayed the back of his head, causing him to find cover. He pulled a grenade from his belt and tossed it back towards his attacker, but also missed the mark. He darted across the field of battle, ducking fire, to get closer to the rest of the Bastion fighters.

"We lost you for a few minutes there." Ray's rifle was still strapped to his back, but Rajon knew that would soon change. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah." Rajon answered, "Everything's cool. I was seeing stars, but I hid away for a minute."

"Alright, guys." said Kevin as he reloaded an Uzi. "We need to take it to 'em. They are running off of ego and adrenaline, so let's humiliate them."

The gathered Bastion troops nodded in unison and spoke a single word in chorus.

"Ubuntu."

*****

Rajon put his stealth to use right away, sneaking behind the enemy and stealing weapons. Ray fired at will as Legion troops moved across the field and wounded a few instantly. Kevin caught a buzz bomb that Rajon tossed at him and didn't let it rest in his hands for a second before sending it in a high arc back at the enemy. Next, when Kevin threw a knife at one of the Legend's troops, it missed and bounced harmlessly to the ground. Rajon used his speed to race out and grab that knife, picking it up and sending it back through the air in one fluid motion. The knife sank deep into the throat of the target soldier, who bled, fell, and died. He then spotted an opponent trying to take cover, and shouted the hider's location to Ray. Ray sighted the soldier and sniped, ending the soldier's attempts of self-preservation.

Rajon was with the spirit of war, and felt the blessing of the Prize was within him as well. The Bastion knew when luck was with them, and saw Rajon's surging offensive as a strong indicator that they had it in droves. Kevin and Ray continued to shred the Legion mercilessly, and Perk, Leon, and House fed off of the blood thirst of their brothers. The Bastion was not going to allow this upstart insurgency to gain any more confidence. Rajon would send them home, their confidence broken, their delusions of grandeur erased.

*****

Tired and battle-weary, Rajon stood at the top of the Bastion's west turret and watched the Legend's Legion retreat. Old Man Sam stood beside him again, and Kevin climbed the stairs to join them.

"You showed your heart today, Rajon. You were everywhere. That was awesome." said Kevin.

"I told him early today that those guys weren't his equal." said Sam. "He's faster than they can manage."

Rajon was happy to hear the praise of these fighters that he respected so much. "Thanks a lot guys. I did all I could. I'm not your hero, though. I am who I am because of those around me."

NBA Dramatique: Street-Fighting Man

2008-12-02T18:51:00.003-06:00

Life with the 7th Second Chance was maddening. War was hard enough with your enemies out to get you; having to fight on a second front within your own ranks was a disheartening struggle. Things had started out so well when D'Antoni rolled up 7th with his jet packs and sales pitch. They won a few battles, then they lost a few. Then they lost a few more. Unexpectedly, the 7th Avenue landlords decided to issue some evictions - to make room for future improvements, they said - and some good guys were forced to move away. Those guys had been helping them win fights, and the only change that the landlords were likely to get was that a few bums would have a new home. The jet packs had suffered some casualties of their own and were not fully functional at the moment. On top of everything else, the Clown had let his feud with D'Antoni escalate to a miserable degree and everyone in the gang was feeling the stress.

David had tolerated the madness for a couple of years. He tried to tune it out. He would go to the weights and sweat out his frustration. He practiced his marksmanship, and his draw time, and his protections, and did so alone when the rest of the guys wanted to fight one another like school children.

David decided to go for a run through the city streets. Though he might be surrounded by people as he ran, he knew that none of those people would be the other Second-Chancers, and that relieved him. He put on some earphones, broke into a running pace as soon as he was on the sidewalk, and had cleared several blocks before the first song had finished playing. The air was cold. The sky was gray. David's breath formed clouds in the air as he exhaled, which gave him the appearance of a steam locomotive powering down the street. The longer he ran, the further he moved from the public congestion. He passed by a constantly diminishing number of people until he found himself running in a network of empty alleys and loading areas. There was a way, he knew, to use these alleys exclusively to make his way back to 7th Avenue and avoid people all together, so once he exhausted his energy, he slowed to a walk and went in that direction. Besides, it had started raining.

David gazed down at his shoes and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Puddles were forming, and David noticed by the reflection of lights in their surface that the sky had grown dark. Though he was a large man, and certainly not one to back down from a fight, the realization that he was isolated put David on edge.

His instincts were correct.

Metal scraped against metal and cement. A large steel plate was flipped over and created a harsh echo against the tall buildings. David watched a large arm rise out of the hole once covered by the steel plate and then pull its enormous owner onto the street. The figure was impossibly large. The rain bounced off of his skin and created an artificial aura against the street lights. He stood tall and wide, and David watched a dozen other figures emerge from the hole. Then he knew.

The Underground.

David momentarily lunged forward, then, realizing how badly he was outnumbered, stepped back. He was not one to run, but unarmed and alone he would not defeat this foe. He quickly cut to his left and ran top speed down the alley, mentally mapping the twisting route back home. He heard the fast and heavy feet of the Underground fighters slapping the concrete as they gave chase. Although his earphones were still in, the sound of blood pumping hard in his ears drowned out the music. David ran until he thought his lungs were going to tear open. He was within four blocks of home when he began shouting out the names of the other Second-Chancers, hoping to draw them out. He was out of breath. A hand grasped at his head and pulled the hood back. David braced for the blows that he was sure were going to begin landing on his face and body. An explosive roar. A blast of heat. A flash of fire. All of these things at once as something flew just above his head and collided with his assailant. Then, a chorus of like roars erupting behind him as the 7th Second Chance entered the battle against the Underground to protect 7th Avenue.

David saw Duhon standing and brushing himself off. He was the one who flew over David's head, and he stood now over the hulking beast that initially crawled out of the street. David thought that the big guy might have done him some damage if he had gotten the chance, but thankfully he was taken out of the fight before he got the chance.

"I damaged this pack, too!" Duhon shouted over to David. "It's not going to be any use at this point."

"Drop it." said David. "Let's do what we can on the ground."

The two fashioned weapons out of broken pieces of jet pack and joined the fray.

David noticed that the roar of jet packs had fast fallen silent. He and Duhon stepped into the crowd of Underground fighters and hit them with hunks of metal. David swung and landed punches. At times he was back-to-back with Duhon as they swung fists and connected with chins. More of the Second-Chancers were entering the battle, which had rapidly devolved to a low-tech street rumble. He took elbows in the mouth and across the top of his head. His stomach was compressed by Underground slugs. The feet that he had earlier heard chasing him now made their impression in his back. David never gave up. He still was beaten.

The Underground stole any equipment they could from the unconscious bodies on 7th Avenue, then retreated through the manhole covers. Dazzlin' D'Antoni watched them go and paced the Avenue, softly kicking his troops in the ribs to re-awaken them.

The Clown sat on the curb on the far side of the street, watching, laughing loudly and with malice at the defeated salesman.

NBA Dramatique: Turn the Page

2008-11-25T23:59:00.001-06:00

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?

2008-11-21T19:28:00.004-06:00

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

2008-11-19T22:10:00.006-06:00

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

2008-11-19T12:34:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-11T14:39:00.007-06:00

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

2008-11-10T22:53:00.001-06:00

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

2008-11-10T20:55:00.000-06:00

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

2008-11-10T13:00:00.000-06:00

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

2008-11-07T19:53:00.003-06:00

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

NBA Dramatique: Growing Pains

2008-11-07T13:30:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-05T15:58:00.002-06:00

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

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

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###

USER_ID: .POP

ASSM: “SPLITTER”; ###LOAD FAILURE###

###LOAD FAILURE###

USER_ID: .POP

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

#####

AUTOCONFIG? YES/NO

DNCN-21…….100%

PRKR-9…….100%

FNLE-4…….68%

BRT0-7…….54%

BWN-12…….43%

MAKE CHANGES? YES/NO

DNCN-21

PRKR-9

GN0BL1-20

MNM1-28

BWN-12

READING……………….

***ERR***

INACTIVE UNITS. REPAIR STATUS IS “REPAIR”

RETURN TO DEFAULT CONFIG? YES/NO

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

2008-11-04T23:41:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-04T22:14:00.002-06:00

Game on!

In the real world

2008-11-04T16:27:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-04T09:26:00.007-06:00

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

2008-11-03T08:07:00.003-06:00

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.

2008-11-01T08:22:00.002-05:00

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.

NBA Dramatique: Friendships

2008-10-31T09:24:00.006-05:00

The General felt that his men were not ready. War was breaking out all around him, and he had not been encouraged with the performance of his men during the previous month's training exercises. What he did not want, though, was to watch his troops pounded into dust in their own headquarters for their first battle. He wanted to motivate them. He wanted to give them confidence. He wanted them to have a sense of hope, false though it may be. He had learned of the loss at the Bastion that King James had endured to start the war, and made the decision to attack the King on his turf.

The One Who Would Be King and the General had met several years ago. The General had been tasked with leading a special forces unit that drew from multiple armies, with the goal of suppressing outworld forces that might one day set sights upon the Prize. Though the Prize often changed hands through the course of war, it had never been removed from its home continent, and all of the armies wanted to make sure it stayed that way. A very young King James had been selected for that elite squad, but the General was not convinced of his claim to the throne. They disagreed with one another throughout that campaign, and it was ultimately deemed a failure. The Prize still remained anchored to its land of origin, but the decimation of foreign threats was left incomplete. King James was certain that the General had been the primary cause of the failure, and the General knew this. There was no love lost between them.

*****

Without warning, the German's fears began to play out. The Sky Fortress had moved a little closer each night to the Ranch, and now Deputy Bass could see that men were leaping from its bay with parachutes. Bass ran from his watch post to wake up the others.

As the Deputies ran out into the open, the paratroopers were already on the ground, freeing themselves from the entanglements of their 'chutes. A brilliant firefight erupted immediately, with the Deputies firing the first shot and then Major Artest himself igniting the counter-attack. It was a testament to the resolve of the Deputies that they would give no ground, as they fired lead from revolvers and rifles while their opponents attacked with futuristic lasers and toxins. Advanced weaponry had allowed them to make short work of the Bear Tribe just the day before, and Yao was optimistic that they could knock over these damn cowboys just as easily. As bullets and beams sliced through the air, he smiled, and ran into the thick of it.

*****

When Gibson the archer called down from the parapet that soldiers were approaching, King James tensed and quickly began making his way toward the young watchman. When he reached Gibson's side and looked out upon his land, he needed just a moment to recognize the approaching force. Once he did, he nearly doubled over with laughter.

"You know who that is?" he asked his sharp-shooting friend. "That's the old General! I thought that man had hung it up already."

"This is a friend of yours?" asked Gibson.

"I can't stand him. Fire at will."

*****

The battle at the Ranch had gone back and forth with both sides swapping possession of the upper hand. Though the Deputies were on familiar ground, they had been only observers of the fighting up to that point. The Sky Fortress had already worked out the kinks against the local savages, and her fighters had come warmed-up and eager for a fight. Each squad was slowly advancing toward one another as men would run from cover to cover, and the conflict was becoming increasingly dangerous. Major Artest had been carefully dueling with Deputy Howard for most of the battle and, while reloading, watched him run across an open expanse. The Major expected Howard to find new cover where he would begin again exchanging shots, but instead he watched with surprise as Yao came from out of nowhere to meet Howard. The Deputy and the tall munitions manufacturer jostled for a moment and both men began to reach for melee weapons that they carried. Major Artest sprinted to the two men as guns fired all around him. He reached Yao's side and began to pull him away to safety, though Howard believed he was under attack by both men. A group of Deputies were quickly beside Howard to assist, but the Major and Yao managed to hastily remove themselves from the area. Yao recognized that Artest had risked his own safety to help him, and some of his initial skepticism about the Major subsided.

*****

The Followers of the Sun returned to their hideout carrying spare Machine parts like trophies. Their achievement had put terrifying smiles on most of their ghoulish faces. Their celebration was cut quite short though by a clever ambush.

CP3 had decided that the HORNETS would earn a few more kills after tracking and assaulting the nomadic Warriors by blasting away at the already dead. He made certain that Squad Chief Scott procured some unusual supplies before dispatching them on this mission, such as garlic, silver bullets, holy water, and flame-throwers. He had not been able to find an entrance to the Hideout, but brought bait with him to lure the undead. Horry - the bait - was a crippled old man who had served some of the best armies in many wars. His final years of combat had been spent within the Machine, and the toll of the cybernetic conversion and subsequent purge was apparent in his hobbled gait. He had touched the Prize more times than many felt he deserved, especially the Followers. They despised the torturous cyborg they had known as H0RY-5, and seeing him now would whip them into a murderous frenzy, no matter that he was retired, broken, and free from the directives of the Machine. Horry had been bound and gagged by CP3 and DX (themselves feeling no kindness for the cyborg that they too had faced). They tied him to a post in the middle of a clearing near the spot the HORNETS believed the Hideout to be. Now, night-vision goggles activated, they waited for the hungry to come home.

*****

King James had grown bored with the trouncing of the General's army, and left the fighting in the capable hands of his knights for long stretches of time. He would knock a man unconcious, walk calmly back within his castle walls, perhaps grab a leg of lamb or squeeze the rear of a young maiden, drink from a goblet, then walk back out onto the battlefield and calmly kick a man in the gut. The old General was far too aged for King James to fight, so he simply looked at the old man and tightly grinned as he and his knights made a mockery of the unskilled lot the General had delivered. When enough time had passed and before the casualties became severe, the General ordered his men to retreat, and they obeyed the order with haste. The General had many years of experience, and did not feel the sadness of defeat as he marched his men away. He had accomplished several things. He got his men fighting. He had a real battle on which to evaluate them. They had done some things well, and he would commend them for it, boosting their confidence. Most importantly, he had inflated the confidence of an enemy. Confidence was something he could always exploit.

*****

The Major had gotten his hands on a rather impressive mortar cannon, and watched excitedly as the shell he fired arced high in the air and came down among the Deputies. The shell exploded, and gravity was defied for a moment by the bodies of self-righteous cowboys. It was at that point that the battle was effectively ended. Yao designed weapons that liked to be fired, and those who wielded those weapons obliged for a few more minutes. As each force accepted the outcome, and began collecting whatever pieces they needed to move on, Major Artest again caught sight of Deputy Howard. There was no weapon in either man's possession at this point. Artest approached Howard slowly.

"Deputy" he shouted. Howard turned and was at first angered at the Major. But he relaxed upon seeing Artest's open hands. He did not answer, but looked at the Major's face and waited for him to continue.

"I just want to tell you that you're doing your job well. You should be proud of yourself. I look forward to facing you again."

Deputy Howard watched the Major turn and join his withdrawing comrades. Howard wiped dirt from his own face and looked around at the wounded men and damaged Ranch. He realized that he would look forward to another meeting as well.

*****

Horry made muffled screams of terror as he saw the advancing undead race towards him. They were a terrible enough encounter when he had the benefit of seeing them through electronic vision filters and their odor was removed with the aid of particle-separating breathing aparatus. With human senses they were nearly enough to stop his heart. Horry closed his eyes and braced for a painful death, when he felt a tremendous surge in the temperature, and heard a chorus of dirt-clogged screams split the air. He opened his eyes and saw that his zombified attackers had been hit with the blasts of flame-throwers, and were rolling on the ground and slapping at themselves to extinguish the flames. HORNETS burst into the clearing at that point, lobbing vials of holy water and cluster-bombs of garlic at the Followers.

The chaos of war was all around, and Horry was struggling to free himself from the ropes. Suddenly, he had unexpected help. The Big Ressurrection, parts of his decaying flesh burning still, was loosening the knots that bound Horry. He was at first concerned that he was simply being unwrapped prior to eating, but the Big Ressurrection spoke.

"I still remember. We were friends. You should run."

Horry ran as fast as he could away from the center of the clearing. He looked back only once as he neared the safety of the trees. The Big Ressurrection stood still, arms at his sides, watching Horry run. HORNETS blasted his huge body with jets of fire. Horry turned back to the trees and ran as fast and as far as his wobbly old legs could go.

*****

NBA Reality, Oct 30

2008-10-30T21:02:00.002-05:00

It's the third night of the season and I wanted to change hats for a second to just be a regular basketball blogger. I'm watching the Rockets/Mavs and just having some thoughts on the season so far.

How disappointing was it to see Oden limping down the court on Tuesday night? That was not the way that the season should have started for anyone. Even Lakers fans should have been let down. Don't quit on the Blazers though.

The Lakers aren't really interested in a relationship right now. They'll bring you to their place, do you raw, make you feel cheap and used, and send you home. But before you go they'll let you know that this wasn't just a one-time thing. It'll happen again.

I like how it's unacceptable for men to cry in public, except when they win at sports. Then you get your cry on, dude. Adam, I said "win".

Seriously, Lakers, did we do something to upset you? Why are you treating us so cold? It's like you only care about one thing.

Maybe I'm just a fan, but I thought the Spurs looked good in spite of the loss. Timmy and Tony just went off. 32 points each?!? Put Manu back in the line-up and they'll handle the Suns easily. That said, I thought the Suns looked good too. Shaq looked more capable than I've seen in a long time.

Pop wins the award for Coolest Human in Pro Sports Ever. Why? Goofing with Shaq flies not only in the face of the traditional bravado inherent in sports, but also is completely contradictory to the public perception of the Spurs organization. Thumbs up indeed, Pop. Thumbs up indeed.

The Heat looked like nobody told them they were starting the season on Wednesday. Like they woke up from a nap and were in New York all of a sudden. I think they'll get sharper, but Wade occasionally has games where I think he feels the pressure of high expectations, and can't get in the groove.

If you aren't already checking out my man Rob's site Upside and Motor, do so. For real. He also contributes regularly to one of my other favorites, Hardwood Paroxysm.

Hornets are about to come on. See ya.

NBA Dramatique: Falling Dominoes

2008-10-30T10:10:00.015-05:00

Once the war had begun, it spread rapidly. For each battle that took place on the first day, four took place on the second. The outcome of many of these skirmishes could have been easily predicted before they even began. There were some notable conflicts, though, which were interesting in their unfolding.

Night had fallen on 7th Avenue, and dark clouds rolled in quickly to cover the moon. A strong wind gusted up the street, blowing random debris into the air. D'Antoni had been training his new customers to use their spectacular jet packs from atop the city skyscrapers, and as he turned his face into the wind and saw the ominous darkening of the night sky, he knew the time for action had come to them.

"Men," he shouted, "get ready!"

*****

Goran was awoken by someone shaking his body roughly. The piano player with the eyepatch was trying to rouse him from sleep, but Goran's slumber had taken on new heaviness since the transformation, and it took considerable effort before he was fully concious.

"Get up! Get up! Get up! We have something to do!" Eyepatch was excitedly saying. He moved away from Goran to another body and began the shaking of that one too, saying the same thing over and over. Goran looked around the room and saw that some of the living corpses were already moving about, having been awoken before him. Nash, the small pale one who had been helping Goran adjust to his new un-life walked over to the bed on which Goran had been sleeping.

"We're travelling tonight." Nash told him.

"It is not to feast?" Goran asked. He was not hungry, and the memory of his last meal would have made him ill if that function of his body was still operative.

"No" answered Nash. "This is more for...fun. See, when we were our old selves, we were consistently taken out of the war by the Machine. Every time..." Nash stared off blankly for a moment with sunken eyes, seeming to recall the almosts and nearlys that the Machine had denied him. He came back to the moment and gestured towards Eyepatch. "Amare especially hates the Machine. He thinks it has magical powers that allow it to cheat. He hates their cyborgs. He lives to destroy it. So Amare recently found out that it has gone active again, but with an important piece missing. The -20 unit is in a repair status and can't enter combat, so we want to attack it now. It will be far weaker without that -20."

The Big Resurrection overheard their conversation and shambled over. "Cowards" he said. "I'll make them pay."

*****

The men were lining up in formation at D'Antoni's urging, jet packs reflecting the blues and oranges of the city's nighttime colors. There was a fiery glow of red on the horizon, and D'Antoni thought he could hear the cacophonous shrieks of the approaching enemy. A tap on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts. D'Antoni turned around to find an angry bald guy and an angry fat guy staring him down. The Clown and the Clod.

"Yeah?" asked D'Antoni sarcastically.

"Where's our jet packs?" the Clown asked.

"You don't get one."

The Clown and the Clod exchanged angry looks then turned their glares back to D'Antoni. "Why not?"

"I don't have any more"

The Clod could see the open hatch of the chrome trailer in which the jet packs were normally stored. There clearly were a few still inside, each with a 7 stenciled on the side. "There's some right there!" he said, pointing.

D'Antoni didn't bother looking in the direction of the pointed finger. "Those are display models. They're not for sale."

"We got money, man! Sell us the packs!" said the Clod.

"I don't think you two are understanding me" said D'Antoni, looking from one to the other straight in the eye. "They're not for sale. Not to you. Got it?"

The two were left speechless for only a moment, then the Clown answered. "Yeah. Yeah. I see what you're saying. I don't think you understand the situation, though. That's our gang. Our Boys. They follow us. You don't get to come around here and flash your gadgets and tell them what to do."

D'Antoni allowed himself a chuckle. He then got very close to the face of the Clown and spoke in a serious tone. "Yes I do. The notion that that's your 'gang' has been reduced to opinion. Your opinion. I think you'll find that they no longer share your opinion. You and your big friend are not needed. You're not wanted. I suggest that you shut your mouth and find a nice comfortable spot to sit down because you won't be flying with your old gang. Not anytime soon. Damn sure not tonight."

D'Antoni gave them cold stares and began to turn away, then caught their eyes again. "And they'll probably punch you in the mouth if you call them 'Boys' like you used to. They wanted a new name with a little more dignity."

"Oh yeah? What do they like to be called?" the Clown asked with frustration.

"The Seventh Second Chance." D'Antoni turned and watched as his men took flight towards the arriving threat.

*****

The Followers of the Sun arrived at the quarry near which the Machine was stationed. They saw the vast form of steel silhouetted against the night sky, artificial clouds formed by its dark exhaust. No signs of outward activity were visible at the moment, and they approached cautiously.

Just as they had all gathered around the gigantic Machine and began looking for a point of access, a loud alarm sounded and red flashing lights illuminated their position. A robotic voice was amplified by loudspeakers proclaiming "Intruder Identified! Neutralize Threat! Intruder Identified! Neutralize Threat!" Without further warning a massive cannon telescoped outward from the side of the Machine. Its barrel was nearly two feet in diameter and came to a halt just six inches away from the face of the Big Resurrection. He looked down that barrel for a moment of frozen uncertainty, then a tiny gloved hand on a robotic arm extended from its depths. Delicately held between the first finger and thumb of the hand was a fragile daisy, petals ready to fall off with the slightest breath. The bizarre laughter of the undead erupted among them all despite themselves. The Big one then swatted the flower aside and said "Let's tear this thing apart."

*****

Demons were descending upon 7th avenue. They were an unsightly, cursed bunch. D'Antoni, though, was not terribly concerned. After all, he was quite well-traveled and had seen Demon infestations on more than one occasion. They could be quite fearsome, but they were also easily flustered and confused. D'Antoni was in constant communication with his fliers, keeping them motivated and focused. He was able to determine also from experience that many of these attacking horrors were young ones. They were unsure of themselves and still growing accustomed to their Hell-spawned abilities. There was one among them that D'Antoni recognized. With sadness he remembered the young man from out west that used to fly with his old crew, and shook his head with regret that he had been unable to prevent the tragedy of his demise. Maybe he's better off than the others, though, D'Antoni considered.

*****

Those others were currently busy fighting within the bowels of the Machine. Though the Followers' information had been correct regarding the non-functionality of the -20 unit, the Machine's cyborgs were not apparently lessened in their ferocity. DNCN-21 and PRKR-9 were viciously effective. The battle was tightly locked for several hours with neither force being able to demonstrate a definitive advantage over the other. The contest was not truly decided until the final moments, when the vengeful Amare was able to cause serious damage to a crucial motherboard, and -21 and -9 both had targeting glitches that would have otherwise returned to them the advantage. The Followers of the Sun took immense pride in their victory, and escaped from the Machine clutching wires and damaged parts in their rotting hands.

*****

A day after crushing the Underground with ease, the Master decided that a more public display of force was in order. In no mood to travel, he decided to unleash the knights of the Western Banner upon the Barony. His assassin again found little challenge in the task at hand, but obediently erased the dreams of any within the Barony that they could supplant the Banner. The beat-down of the Underground had been a warm-up. The attack on the Barony was nothing short of a slaughter. Baron Boom fought hard and did his best to rally his troops, but it was simply not within their ability. He cursed the betrayal of Baron Brand during the massacre, unaware that the former baron was himself witnessing a devastating attack by the Tribe of the Reptile. He too momentarily cursed his betrayal.

*****

With surprising ease, the Demons were sent back to Hell by the Seventh Second Chance. The longer they spent in the air, the more confident they became in themselves and each other, and after a long spell of repeatedly getting their asses handed to them, it was a great joy to win a fight. As the fliers congratulated one another and smiled, feeling happy to be a part of something positive for a change, they were watched with envious and spiteful eyes. The Clown and the Clod watched the men carefully stow the jet packs back in the trailer, and watched D'Antoni lock it back up. Their stares would have burned holes straight through the victorious squad if possible.

"What are we going to do, man?" asked the Clod.

"I don't know yet" he answered. "But we ain't goin' out like this. I promise you."

*****

Sorry sorry sorry

2008-10-29T18:21:00.002-05:00

I know this is coming very late, and for those of you following regularly, I apologize. I had this written much earlier, but Office 2007 gave me serious attitude about the format when I tried posting it to my blog. Also, I was hampered by having to do work at my job, voting, trying to handle my car insurance problem (don't ask), and preparing to move this weekend.

No excuses, though. I want those following regularly to know that I'm going to bust my butt to keep this story moving. I'm doing this for me, but it is beyond awesome to me that you care what I do.

It may take a few days to figure out the best schedule for watching games/writing/posting in a timely fashion, but I'll hopefully come up with a satisfactory solution. Also, I'm looking at all of the games happening tonight and I want you to understand that I can't write about all of them every day. I'm going to be touching on the stories that I find most interesting.

Okay, blah, blah, blah and without further ado, here ya go..........

NBA Dramatique : It Begins

2008-10-29T16:27:00.008-05:00

"Stand your ground. Don't fire unless fired upon, but if they mean to have a war, let it begin here. - John Parker

It was essentially a lack of patience that caused the war to begin. Young armies with lofty aspirations grew bored with preparation and decided that initiative was ripe for the taking. If given the opportunity though, each would likely change their decision and sit still for just a little longer than they had.

In the east, The One Who Would Be King awoke on that morning pledging to interrupt the legacy of the Bastion. The Prize had rested within their stronghold after so many of the previous wars that the citizens of that land considered it their rightful possession, and considered it merely on loan when not in their keep. Though they had rightfully secured it last time, King James would not allow their self-centered righteousness to be validated any further. The Prize would be his, and he would begin his claim to it by striking at those who had most recently denied him.

He mobilized his army and boldly led them to the Bastion, feeling no desire at all to disguise his intent. His men were dressed for war, and he answered directly any questions from the common people about their purpose: "We're going to win it all. We're going to hold the Prize. Anything less is failure."

When they reached the outer walls of the Bastion, King James grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground. He then threw it into the air and watched the wind carry it away. "War is in the air!" he declared to his troops. They were anxious, somewhat nervous. He could read it in their body language even though they all tried to hide it. Even for all of his confidence, he would be a liar if he did not admit to himself that he , too, felt the cold hand of the unknown squeeze into a fist around his gut.

It was the young knight Delonte that actually fired the first salvo. He threw two grenades at the fortress wall, and war had begun.

*****

Because King James made his opening move without subterfuge, word spread quickly of the start of war. The Tribe of the Great Stag had been lying in wait at the boundaries of a dilapidated headquarters. Redd had led his people to this spot for the purpose of attacking those that lived within - a weak and disinterested force, he had heard. One of his scouts had just returned with the news that the army of King James was marching on the Bastion. Redd took this to be a good omen, and decided then to strike. He stood within the shadowy tree line and loudly ordered his tribe to attack. They came out of the woods running towards the headquarters, screaming and with weapons held high.

*****

The Bastion was not ready. The Lucky Ones had celebrated their victory from the moment it had occurred, and were celebrating still when the first explosions struck the wall. They were no fools, though, and moved quickly into battle position both inside and outside the fortress walls. There was little about the ensuing combat that was spectacular, as both squads seemed to be shaking off the cobwebs from months of peaceful activity. King James could be a ruthless blood-letter at times, but the Bastion forces held him at bay. Likewise, Kevin, Ray, and Paul were deadly in combination, but the Royal Battalion was able to keep them separate and out of sync. The fighting was quite evenly matched, and it looked for the first hours that King James would achieve his initial goal of besting the Bastion, but their luck had not yet run out.

Leon and Tony were younger and less experienced than their more well-known comrades, but their contributions had been essential to the capture of the Prize, and their refusal now to bow to The One Who Would Be King energized the rally towards victory. They found the speedy saboteur Rajon and hatched a plan. Rajon began making excursions into the heart of the King's squad, while Tony and Leon followed just behind to brutalize the stunned knights. As the Bastion army surged, James grew increasingly frustrated with the tone of the battle. With the opportunity to land a crippling blow, his arm failed him, and Leon was able to slip past. Leon then detonated a concussive blast that drove back the knights and left no question as to the victor of this encounter. A few straggling swipes were taken by the knights, then the Royal Battalion retreated with their King.

*****

The Underground was in some ways the reverse construct of the Royal Battalion. They made their move under the cover of darkness, not parading towards their enemy under the watchful eyes of the day. The Underground was structured to utilize the strength of all its members, with an augmentation from their secret weapon: Oden. The Royal Battalion was designed to utilize the strength of their king, hoping to be augmented by contributions from those that he gathered at his side. In common, they both were confident enough to challenge a fierce opponent. As Leon deliverd the finishing blow against King James' army, on the other side of the continent the Underground broke into the castle of the Western Banner.

*****

The Tribe of the Great Stag had miscalculated. Skiles had become their medicine man after being cast out from this army that lived in the run down headquarters, and it was his information that led the tribe to believe they were going after an easy slaughter. However, the medicine man had never met the New Guy, and for all of the unlikelihood that the youngster would be able to lead this gang of underachievers, they were at least inspired enough to not let savage forest-dwellers invade their home.

The New Guy was far from perfect, but he brought his pride to the fight. His determination to live up to the uniform and the legacy of the Super Hero was apparent in his actions on the field. His presence alone renewed the vigor in several of his fellow soldiers that had felt it slipping away before his arrival. With each minute that passed, the followers of the Stag knew that the cause was lost.

*****

As they made their way through the lower tunnels of the castle, McMillan whispered encouragement to his fighters. "This won't be an easy fight. They are experienced and battle-tested. But understand that they are the present. You are the future."

They ascended a wide staircase and came to a stop at a pair of ornate doors. The maps that they had acquired indicated that these doors would lead them into the castle proper, and that's when the real work would begin. Oden stepped forward and knocked the doors down with a mighty shove, breaking them into splintering fragments. The rest of the Underground fighters quickly charged through the opening he had made into the vast castle foyer and found themselves face-to-face with an unpleasant surprise.

"Glad you could make it" said the Master from a balcony at the far end of the room. "We've been waiting." The knights of the Western Banner were lined up along each side of the doors that the Underground had just busted through. They were suited up and fully armed, and most wore expressions of cruel self-assurance. The Black Knight stood on the balcony beside the Master, wearing the loose and soft garments of a martial artist. He allowed a second of bewilderment and dread to invade the minds of the Underground fighters, then leaped from the balcony towards them. In the air, he drew a katana from the scabbard on his back and shouted "Attack!"

'It's a trap!" McMillan yelled. The Underground was too slow to react, and the knights were upon them instantly. It was a relentless attack. The Western Banner had an answer to every plan that McMillan had formulated, and demonstrated superiority in every possible way. Though the killers from the Underground made moves and attacks that were impressive in their own right, there were simply too few of those that could rival the onslaught of the Banner. Even Oden, the monster of a man, was overwhelmed within minutes and left lying on the cold floor of the castle. The assassin was able to take his time, take things easy, recognizing the inferiority of every man that faced him. It was like a game. The Underground was a collection of toys for his amusement, and but for a brief and ultimately meaningless moment of resistance from Przybilla, not one of them even gave him any real exercise.

When the fighters of the Underground were battered and bloody, with the result of their ill-advised invasion a clear failure, the knights of the Western Banner simply commanded them to drop their weapons. They complied. Aldridge and Przybilla lifted Oden from the floor and supported him enough to stand. The knights motioned to the broken door that the Underground had entered through and, understanding, the Underground filed back out the way they came. Their heads hung in humility.

"Come back and see us sometime!" said the Master.

'You bet" answered McMillan, the last man to exit through the battered doorway.

*****

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 28

2008-10-27T20:00:00.000-05:00

In the brief span of time between the threat of war and the act of war, it is appropriate to stand as an outsider and examine the cause of war - The Prize.

The Prize is a golden sculpture, depicting the Earth at the edge of a deep hole. The intent of the depiction has been lost to history, but it is often interpreted as either being a representation of the world falling into darkness and uncertainty and in need of rescue, or the opposite - a new world emerging from the depths of chaos into the new light.

Thirty armies will spend months engaging one another in all-out combat for the chance to obtain the Prize. They each have their own particular reasons for seeking it out, and the soldiers, generals, commanders, bureaucrats, etc. that comprise those armies may have individual reasons for wanting it, but there are some common factors that make it desired by all. There are compelling reasons that this war is fought again and again, with never a permanent peace. Wealth is one reason. Those that come in contact with its surface often find their personal fortunes increased. Though this wealth tends to be fleeting, it remains a powerful motivator. Another reason is fame. If you make a name for yourself and your fellow fighters by claiming the Prize, those names are not soon forgotten. That reason plays into the third - immortality. Capturing the Prize is a terribly difficult task to achieve, and it can not ever be undone. If a man touches it just once, he will always have touched it. Its cool and gleaming surface will carry his name with it everywhere for all of existence, and for as long as that man draws breath, he will be reminded and questioned about his time in possession of the Prize.

It should be noted that these gifts increase exponentially with each successive capture of the Prize. Claiming it once makes one rich, and famous, and remembered, but capturing it more than once makes one richer, and renowned, and timeless. It also grants a perpetuation of legacy upon repeat victors, for the more often it is claimed by a single army, the easier it becomes to lure the best soldiers to that army, which in turn makes it easier for that army to claim the Prize again.

If at this point I given the impression that the Prize is an unwitting nonparticipant in its fate, I must apologize. The Prize has abilities that I have described above that may be supernatural or may be the complex mechanics of social behavior. But it also has a will, and an awareness. Consider this: the Prize was captured in the last war and is currently held by the Bastion. If the war were only the means to the ends of taking the Prize from the Bastion, twenty-nine armies would batter the walls of that luck-blessed outpost until it was no more than dust, then fight amongst themselves in a giant dog-pile with the Prize at the bottom. But that would be simple and dull. The Prize moves itself into the arms of those most worthy. It knows which army is most deserving of its gifts, and awards the force that displays true dominance over all others.

As the quiet of today draws its last breath; as those who fight make their final preparations; as those of us who watch and report wait with anxious excitement; as all good things and high hopes and fantastic dreams for all involved are, on this day, still alive and well; the Prize begins its long deliberation to determine if its current possessor is still worthy, or if another shall hoist it high above and find their own piece of forever.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 27

2008-10-27T00:34:00.002-05:00

From the upper balcony of the Chamber, Arenas looked down at the display of spellcraft taking place. He loved the art of sorcery, loved it with his whole heart. From beneath the deep blue hood that covered his head, his eyes widened and his smile spread with every new trick displayed on the floor below. Brendan had just conjured a tidal wave out of thin air and just as quickly made it vanish - with not even a drop left behind - right before it had crashed down upon Grand Mage Edd himself. Arenas laughed to himself with pleasure at the thankfully surprised expression he could see on the Grand Mage's face. He walked towards the staircase that would take him to the practice floor below.

When he reached the floor, another Sorcerer was demonstrating a new technique. Caron started running from the far end of the floor. As he ran, he shouted an incantation, and a dozen large rams materialized beside him, charging at full speed. Caron stopped running but continued reciting his spell, and the rams charged on until their horned heads in unison slammed into a stone wall. The wall crumbled and fell into a cloud of dust, and the rams were magically returned to the elsewhere from which they were conjured.

Reluctantly, Arenas approached Grand Mage Edd.

"Greetings, Grand Mage." Arenas bowed slightly then pulled back the hood of his robe as he returned upright. "I've been watching from above" he said with a smile. "We've got some real creative stuff being shown today, don't we?"

"Greetings, Sorcerer. Yes, I like what I'm seeing. These guys have been putting in some serious work. But I'm very curious as to why I have not seen you earlier today." The Grand Mage gave Arenas a concerned but irritated look. Arenas had been going on and on for weeks about his new spell. He was a proud Sorcerer, and he had the right to be because of his talent, but he also tended towards boastfulness and hyperbole. There were many throughout the land that believed his strongest magic was with words, not combat, and he was more than eager to prove them wrong.

"That's what I've come to discuss. Though I've been preparing, and I'm greatly encouraged by what I'm seeing from the other Sorcerers, I'm not ready. I know that you are readying the Chamber for war, and I too sense that we're on the brink, but I must have more time to prepare."

The Grand Mage looked at Arenas for a moment without giving a reply. He put his hand on the young Sorcerer's shoulder and guided him off to the edge of the Chamber floor. "Watch them for a moment" he said, gesturing toward the other spell-casters on the floor. They had ceased individual demonstrations, and were using their abilities together. As they chanted and made motions and recited carefully transcribed spells from large books, mystical energy flared in colorful arcs and auroras around each caster. "They are powerful. Aren't they? Each day that they work together, I see the power increase. I've watched certain combinations grow increasingly potent. Of particular interest, Daniels, Antawn, and Caron seem to be forging an interlocking spellcraft of staggering strength." The Grand Mage paused as they watched those three Sorcerers simultaneously conjure complimentary elemental attacks. "Arenas, if you need more time, you can have it. I know you are talented. I know you belong here. Your friends will fight without you. I must warn you, though - they are becoming rather accustomed to doing so. I would go so far as to say your leadership is not guaranteed among them. It is in your best interest to conjure the most terrific wizardry upon your reunion with them, or you are going to become expendable or even detrimental. Do you understand?"

Arenas nodded. "Yes, Grand Mage. I will return as soon as I am able." He pulled the hood back over his head casting dark shadows across his face. This helped to hide the anxious smile that spread as soon as he turned away from the Grand Mage. Arenas knew that once he had mastered the spells he was working on, he would return triumphantly to the field of battle. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the Grand Mage's words.

"'The most terrific wizardry'" he laughed. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 26

2008-10-26T00:34:00.000-05:00

The Band had been on a tour of small clubs before kicking off the full U.S. tour, and they had stopped in an out-lying city to play in front of a few hundred people. They had been playing for over an hour. The crowd was packed tightly into the little club and sweat covered each member of the audience. Large fans blew out into the crowd to try and keep as few as possible from fainting. The guys on stage baked under the hot lights, and they were at least as soaked with sweat as the people who watched them, if not more so. The band had paused between songs to catch their breaths, and the lead singer went to the mike with a casual step.

"I'd like to take a moment to introduce the band." The crowd cheered and the room echoed with the high-pitched screams of young girls. "On the bass guitar, let's hear it for Mehmet." Polite cheers.

"On rhythm guitar, the Red Shredder, the Machine Gun, AK-47, - Andrei! He's still got a free pass, ladies!" Screams and squeals.

"The beast on the drums, bringing the beats, we just call him The Boozer!" loud applause, mostly from dudes.

"On lead guitar, the man with the plan, the star on guitar, Deron!" Loud screams and whistles and the approval of envious men.

"And my name is Kyle. I like to sing for you." The ladies in the audience drowned out the other gender with loud screams of desire, and breasts were bared with great excitement. The Band then launched into another song, and the show went on for another hour.

Afterward, the Band was cooling off backstage. A long table of refreshments was in a state of disarray from the many fans, and groupies, and local reporters, and bloggers, and radio guys, and contest winners who had all helped themselves to the drinks and the food before the members of the Band had gotten to lay a finger on any of it. Everyone had finally cleared out and the Band looked exhausted, with shirts cast off and sweat-soaked towels hung over their shoulders. Their manager, Jerry, came into the room to address the guys now that he had successfully removed all of the unwanted elements.

"Alright, men. You did a great job tonight. I think the Trojan Horse plan is going to work wonders. I've lined up the tour so that we'll have access to venues on bases or near known outposts. In some cases I've even booked multiple dates. We'll procure legitimate finances through the shows. Morris and Ronnie will work the crowd from the floor, either spreading propaganda, picking pockets, or straight-up mugging. Fesenko and Brevin will fleece the venue of equipment that can be sold. The main idea is that we stay covert and under the radar as much as we can, then as forces succumb to financial attrition, we use our cash reserves to fund explosives for the overt strikes."

The Band remained silent. There was no need to ask questions or offer comments. Jerry was a cunning and experienced terrorist.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 25

2008-10-25T00:34:00.004-05:00

Circuitry. Wiring. Programming. Commands. Complex engineering. Void of emotion. A product of industry. The height of technology. Form following function.

Imagine yourself as a part of these great wars, and imagine the hopelessness you would have felt against this enemy - a machine built to kill. It was a grinding, crushing, thrashing machine of slow methodical murder. It was a machine to break hearts. To steal hope. To suck out the held breath of anticipation. To end dreams. This machine - The Machine - was made to be the last word in war. You could not win against it if it ran correctly. Your only hope would be for some internal malfunction. It would be completely indifferent to your wishes, your efforts, your theories, and your theatrics. It moved only with efficiency. It would not celebrate small victories and it would not mourn meaningless defeats.

The Machine made its preparations to enter the war, electronically and mechanically refining its team of cyborg stormtroopers. The sub-zero liquid nitrogen coolant was replenished in DNCN-21. Mercury-balanced accelerators in the limbs of PRKR-9 were fine-tuned. Laser-guided explosive charges were installed in the knee cannons of BWN-12. Diagnostic tests located damaged gyroscopes in the propulsion system of GN0BL1-20, and deactivated the unit for repair and upgrades. FNLE-4 was rusting and showing concerning signs of wear, but the unit was stream-lined and polished. It was not ready for the scrap-heap or system purge quite yet.

The controllers of The Machine, hidden in a far-away bunker, planned as always to keep their hands on the levers through each battle, to gauge and tinker with The Machine until perfection was achieved. They planned with silent satisfaction to watch their enemies writhe and crumble, and then make The Machine kill faster.

The Machine is programmed to execute a single command above all others: conquer. The prime directive demands the destruction 0f twenty-nine armies, laid to waste by the gleaming construct of silver and black. Though it does not feel emotion, it does have memory, and can recall the fact that it has captured the Prize on four occasions, only to have it stolen away each time. It can recall the tortured cries of enemies as they experience hate and envy. It can recall the sound of bones being ground to powder by the gigantic spiked cog that once again begins to rotate as The Machine lurches forward to engage in war.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 24

2008-10-24T00:34:00.001-05:00

"Alright, listen guys." The Brothers stood at the forecastle of the ship and addressed the men assembled on deck. "We're going to keep this short and to the point, because there's not much sense in doing anything else. All we want to do is make you guys rich and, in turn, make ourselves richer. We all know that capturing the Prize from the Bastion would unlock incredible wealth for all of us. We just don't see it happening, guys. Not this time."

The men in the crew gave a disappointed but knowing grunt of aggravation.

"Damn it. We're just going to float around again?" Mikki asked.

"What do you want to do, Mikki?" asked Brother 1. "Yeah, we're going to float around. We wanted a new base, we didn't have the money. We wanted to move south, we couldn't move. We made some bad choices with personnel. We made some bad choices in weaponry. Hell, I don't even know why we thought this boat would be a good idea! There's no other sea-bound army fighting for the Prize! Whoever we attack, they're gonna see us coming. Either they'll fire at us from land or they'll bomb us from the air. We've got some improvements to make and we just don't have any money to make them right now."

"You don't have any money? Really?" said Babyface, sarcastically.

Bobby spoke up from the back of the crew. "Listen, fellas. I'm older than a lot of you and I've seen good times with this outfit. Things are gonna be hard at sea, but you guys are a good, tough crew. Sweat it out together and we'll get better!"

The young guys on the deck nodded begrudgingly. They pretty much had to go along with what they were told - there was nothing nearby to which they could swim.

Brother 2 began handing out new uniforms. "Listen guys. Just do your best. That's all we ask of you. Put on your red shirts and fight as hard as you can when you hit the beach."

"Uh, Brother?" Brad spoke up. "These shirts are purple. Not red."

"Oh, uh, yeah. I know. Redshirts. It's a figure of speech. Ignore me."

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 23

2008-10-23T00:34:00.002-05:00

Underground. They had been putting something together for a few years - not so much in secret, but trying to go unnoticed. Little by little and piece by piece, they had worked to get rid of the weak links. They had brought young fighters into the ranks and watched their development closely. The young recruits had learned to fight hard, fight hungry.

McMillan descended the stone stairs which wound in a circle down, down, into the darkness. He held a lantern in his left hand and kept his right hand against the stone wall to keep himself balanced. The tunnels were an old part of the city's underworld. Once they were heavily used, but had been mostly forgotten. They had been home to a criminal element that tarnished the name of the city and contributed to a bad (although deserved) reputation, so many people preferred to pretend that they had never existed. McMillan intended to change that.

He reached the bottom step and began moving to his right along the narrow corridor towards the facility. There were indications that something quite large had recently passed this way. There were deep cracks in the stone floor and huge, fist-shaped indentations in the walls. McMillan looked back over his shoulder into the darkness that extended in the other direction. He had a sense that if he moved in that direction, he would come to a familiar, heavy steel door, and that the door might be hanging loosely off its hinges. He continued forward. At the end of the hall McMillan's top man, Brandon, stood waiting outside of another locked heavy door. "Is he in there already?" McMillan asked. Brandon's bearded chin dipped twice. "How does he look?"

"Tired. He's looking pretty tired. But amazingly strong." Brandon was a top-notch soldier - a natural leader on the field of battle - and the man McMillan trusted the most. He would be entering his third year of war. He was anxious and determined to make great strides for The Underground this campaign, and had great faith in the troops that were gathering to fight at his side.

"Tired is to be expected" McMillan said looking again at the places in the stone walls that were indented. "And strong." The corner of his mouth turned upward in a slight grin. Brandon saw the look on his commander’s face and matched it. They were both excited about this one. "Let's go in."

Brandon turned and unlocked the door. It swung outward slowly on the heavy-duty hinges. Though the outside corridor that they spoke in had been narrow, dark, and cold, the area they entered was of a completely different nature. They were in a vast open room, well over a hundred feet in length and about half as wide. The ceiling was maybe 45 or 50 feet above them and lined with powerful electric lights. The dark hall was very cool; the large room was humid and warm. A polished wood floor helped every sound in the room echo loudly. Six men were facing off against each other in training exercises, three against three.

He was among the six.

McMillan could see that Oden was breathing heavily, sweating through his clothes, and resting as much as possible between exercises. He had been recruited over a year ago, but an existing injury had kept him completely out of the fight. His year of gestation had benefits, as far as McMillan was concerned. Instead of gaining a soldier that other troops might have looked at as a savior (and subconsciously putting forth a lesser effort because they thought Oden was going to shoulder the burden) they had retained their optimistic spirit and fought harder. They had become strong despite his absence. Now, his strength would be added to theirs. That strength was remarkable. He moved where he wanted, muscling other men out of his way. When the other men tried to move him, they found it to be as futile as trying to move a truck. When he jumped, the ground quaked with his landing. However, his fatigue was apparent and McMillan knew it would take more time for him to be in war-time condition.

But Oden was hardly his only asset.

The cabal with which he worked had assembled a true team of killers that were both calculating and dangerous. He had sharpshooters and explosives experts and murderous acrobats. If he needed someone to drive, or fly, or run, he had someone that could. If he wasn't their commander, he would fear for his life knowing they were out there. Aldridge, Blake, Outlaw, Webster, Przybilla, Fernandez, Rodriguez, Bayless, Batum. They were mad-bombers. They were throat-cutters. They were knock-out hitters. And ahead of them all was the young and cunning leader, Brandon.

McMillan watched as Fernandez made quick cutting spins towards Oden, staying low to the ground while Aldridge leaped through the air to attack Oden from above. Any other defender would be faced with certain death under this assault. Oden simply reached out and grabbed them both, one in each hand, and hurled them away.

McMillan could nearly feel the cold surface of the Prize in his hands. The Underground was rising.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 22

2008-10-22T00:34:00.005-05:00

Goran was extremely tired from the long flight. He thought that if he would have been allowed to sleep overnight on the plane, he would have simply stayed in his aisle seat until morning. Instead he took his heavy bag out of the overhead compartment and made his way through the gangway. He had left his homeland half a world away at the urging of an unknown benefactor who promised him wealth and glory. All of the correspondence that he had received regarding this opportunity was signed simply "Followers of the Sun". Goran felt a sense of mystery and perhaps even danger about this curious invitation, but also sensed that he was being given the opportunity of a lifetime. Caution be damned, he packed his things and got on an airplane.

As he walked towards the baggage claim area, there were a few people waiting at that late hour for passengers who had just arrived. He noticed a tall, thin man wearing sunglasses and a long black raincoat who seemed to be smiling and staring at him. As he got closer, Goran could see the outline of a sun embroidered on the breast of the coat.

"Are you Goran?" he asked. Goran nodded that he was. "They call me Barnes. I hope you had a good flight, but I'm sure you are quite tired. If you'll follow me, we'll take the car back to the hideout."

"The hideout?" Goran asked.

"Haha! Come on!" Barnes put a hand on Goran's shoulder and guided him to the door. Outside was a black limousine with darkened windows waiting for them, and another tall man holding open the door for the back seat. "Raja, this is our new friend!" said Barnes with a smile. "Let's take him to his new home." They got in the plush compartment of the vehicle and Raja closed the door, then walked around the get behind the wheel.

Goran found the soft seats very comfortable. Barnes offered him a drink. He wasn't sure what it was, but it smelled strong, and was dark in color. Barnes was drinking one as well, so he drank it as not to offend. He had no memory of the rest of the drive.

When he awoke, he found himself in an extremely large room. From the high ceiling hung a gigantic chandelier. Heavy crimson cloth hung on the walls to appear like curtains, though there was no actual window anywhere in the room. A large man wearing an eye-patch played a celebratory song on piano from an elevated platform in the corner. Multiple sofas, over-sized chairs, chaise lounges, and beds were arranged around the room. On each was at least one man and and least two women. They were all laughing or loving, drinking out of bottles and large decorated goblets what appeared to be the same beverage he had partaken of in the back of the limousine. On the wall to his left was a large mural of the sun in the sky. It was chipped and looked prematurely old. On the wall to his right was a scene painted in three separate frames. In the first, men were depicted fighting in war wearing armor that was decorated with the same sun symbol that Barnes had on his coat. The second frame contained a damaged painting - the lower half was torn away - of a sun, low in the sky, with a human face that appeared to be crying. The third showed a night scene, with the same armored men, but with gaunt, frightening expressions on their faces as they tore their enemies limb from limb.

Suddenly, the lights of the chandelier went out and the room became completely dark. The assembled revelers howled and shrieked with happiness, their laughter became manic, and groans of pleasure became frequent. The piano continued playing but the mood of the tune changed considerably. Goran remained frozen in place, too frightened and confused to even consider moving. Then, without warning, he felt many hands forcefully grab onto his arms and legs, holding him tightly in place. He struggled to get free from his unseen captors, but could not find the strength to resist. He felt warm mouths attach themselves to his neck, his shoulders, his abdomen, and his thighs, then felt his skin tear open as those mouths sank their teeth into his flesh. The noise from the darkened room was a chaotic symphony of howls, screams, and laughter on top of the crashing minor chords that the piano player continued to bash out. Goran could feel his own warm blood washing over his skin as the hands that held him began to slip upon it. The mouths continued to bite and draw, and soon consciousness slipped away from his weakened body once again.

Goran awoke in the same place he last remembered, but he was looking straight up at the chandelier, the lights of which had turned back on. He heard low laughter surrounding him, and he turned his head without sitting up to see who was nearby. What he saw caused him to bolt upright immediately.

The people who had been in the room previously were all still there, but had undergone a disturbing transformation. The soft and supple shapes of the women now appeared rotting and grotesque. The men who had appeared athletic and strong were putrefied and nearly skeletal. Barnes was there. Raja was there. The piano player. Many others. Every one of them a walking corpse.

"You're monsters!" he said to them. They made bizarre laughing sounds and hit their own hands together in a twisted imitation of applause. A large, hulk of a man with dark flesh hanging loosely from the bones of his face stood and stepped slowly towards Goran.

"We are what we are." he mumbled in a low empty voice. "And now you are too." Goran looked quickly at his own arms and hands. He was pale as ivory, and large chunks of skin and muscle were gone where they had been eaten away. He could see his own bones in places. "No one else can see us like this if we stay out of the sunlight. We look the way we looked when you first saw us, and so will you. But understand - the sun has set on your old life. You are reborn. You will never die. You're one of us now and forever. Call me the Big Resurrection."

Goran was shocked beyond speaking. He was also beginning to feel hungry, and dreaded what that could mean.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 21

2008-10-21T00:34:00.001-05:00

He rode quickly through the night. There were two reasons for his haste: the threat of capture and the concern of not arriving in time.

He had made a secret pact with the Revolutionaries to come to their aid and help lead them, but he was well aware that time was working against him. The Revolutionaries had to bolster their ranks, and if he did not arrive quickly enough they would outfit simple mercenaries to go into battle. Brand was not against mercenaries per se, but he believed in the Revolutionary cause and felt that he could be of greater benefit than any group of mere hired hands.

At his back was the quiet shame of betrayal. He had ruled the Barony for years, always struggling in the shadow of the Western Banner. It had been his dream and his goal to elevate the Barony to prominence. Just when the bureaucrats had orchestrated a deal to bring in a powerful cohort, he had a change of heart. Yes, with the help of a new ally he may have eventually toppled the Barony, but the other powerhouses of might in the western lands would be more difficult to destroy. Nothing would really change. Brand had become aware of a loose-knit group of skilled fighters in the territories of the east who were making life difficult for the Factory and the Bastion. Those fighters had heart and purpose, and it seemed that they did have the ability to shake up the unbalanced status quo. Their goal was to secure the Prize and restore parity of strength across the land. Brand admired them and their spirit in the face of adversity. And, to be honest, he had grown weary of the stale Barony and its’ problems. So he escaped.

Brand had pushed his horse so hard that the fatigue was nearly killing it. They had ridden through the dark night at top speed for eleven days, and the horse had burned through so many calories that ribs were prominently visible through its skin.

“Almost there, friend” Brand said, stroking its neck.

Coming around a hill on the dirt road, Brand saw the expected form of the sentry troop standing near the tree line – his rendezvous.

“Am I in time?” he asked the guard as he quickly dismounted and handed over the reins. The sentry, Samuel, nodded.

“Iggy’s not here yet, but he sent word that he’s coming.”

“Alright. Good. We need to begin. We have a long road ahead.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 20

2008-10-20T00:34:00.000-05:00

The child had been having the dreams for weeks. Each night he went to bed hopeful. Each night his hopes were answered in his dreams. Each morning he awoke, sad to find that he had only been dreaming. Not today.

Most mornings when his alarm went off he got himself out of bed. He casually checked to be sure both of his parents had already left for work. He took a shower and dressed himself. He walked out of his bedroom and poured himself a bowl of cereal which he ate in front of the television. When the time came, he turned off the television, picked up his backpack, and walked out the front door, locking it with the key he wore around his neck.

As he walked to the bus stop, he usually got his first beating of the day.

There were older kids who hid in the woods and smoked cigarettes that knew he would be walking by each day on his way to the bus. They made a game of finding a different way to torture him, some days pushing him down, some days smacking his face, some days stealing from him.

On the bus ride to school he was not spoken to, and if he didn’t sit by himself he sat with another kid who had no friends.

During the school day he was usually assaulted two or three times between classes. Kids would shove him against the wall or knock his books out of his hands and kick them down the hallway. They would corner him in the bathroom and punch his stomach. They would throw food at him or steal food from him in the cafeteria.

On his way home, the smoking kids would get their kicks again by tripping him or punching him in the back. They laughed at him as he pretended to ignore them all.

Three weeks ago, he had been hit until he vomited twice during the course of the school day. The thought of getting on the bus with his tormentors for the afternoon ride home was more than he could handle, so he got on a different bus, not knowing where it would take him. He cried in the seat, sitting alone. He cried because he was hurt. He cried because he couldn’t understand why he was treated so badly. He cried because he didn’t know how he would get home. Because of his tears he had not paid attention to the route of the bus, and only got off at a stop because it was the last one and the driver told him he had to.

A few strange things happened to him that afternoon, and now is not the time to talk about them (the time will come), but he did find something that day that became very important. When he eventually got home, and after his parents had gone hoarse from yelling (out of love, he knew), he went to bed with the important something forgotten in his backpack. And that night was the first dream.

In his dreams, Dwight was incredibly tall. His muscles were well-defined and powerful. He had friends! But most importantly, he could do amazing things. He could fly. He could make things happen that no normal person could. His friends were always with him, helping him save the world with powers of their own. They fought against entire armies that actually feared his strength. He was happy in his dreams and loved his dream life. So most days that he woke up, he was depressed with reality.

Not today.

Today he awoke to find his legs hanging well over the bottom edge of the bed. He looked at his pajamas, shredded to tatters on his muscular frame. He held his hand to his face and saw a mystical glow surrounding his fingers. He stood up, and everything looked different in his room. Then he realized that he was looking at it all from about two feet higher, due to his increased height. He took two great strides toward his bathroom and looked in the mirror. Looking back at him from the glass was his dream self. Tall. Strong. Powerful. He could feel energy boiling within his muscled limbs. Miniature fireworks sparked in the palms of his hands. He smiled at himself, and actually found his own smile charming. He spoke a single word, with tremendous gratitude.

“Magic!”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 19

2008-10-19T00:34:00.002-05:00

The world is put into motion by rich men. It is the actions of those with money that push change, good or bad, upon the rest of the people. In the time of our particular story, a rich man decided that his super-sonic air force was no longer of great interest to him, and no longer making him even more of the money that he already had in abundant supplies, so he sold his air force. He made a grave mistake in doing so, because he fooled himself into believing that his buyer was going to continue doing business as usual. He actually believed that he could sit back and watch the triumphs of his fighters, and share slightly in their victories without the burden of responsibility to pay for those fighters or a defensible base of operations. He was wrong. He came to visit his former base one day to find everyone vanished, no signs of life, and only the word “OKLAHOMAN” scratched into the trunk of a tree. So, now an air base lies abandoned, in ruins, and only ghosts defend its perimeter. But they need not stand watch, because there is no longer anything there to attack.

The man who bought the force saw no need to keep things as they were. In fact, he had his own reasons to change everything. The cost of maintaining this technology was astronomical. The base was too far away from everything. Primarily, he wanted to create a fighting force that was his alone. He had the money, and he had a plan. He conspired with a group of scientists and bankers to bring his plan to fruition. He had a secret weapon that could alter the weather, and it was his plan to use the disruption of nature to unseat more powerful combatants. Granted, his contraption was untested, and really no more than a prototype, not very likely to get a massive change in the weather to occur, let alone get past many of the warring nations. But with the right mix of subterfuge, misdirection, and time, he felt that he could get anything he wanted.

A new land, in a far away new place, the remnants of that old force began to reassemble. The men who remained were young and inexperienced, but hungry. They abandoned the visible technology of the old rich man's super-sonic war craft, and saw with their own eyes the terrifying splendor of the new rich man's weapon, Kw-Uhnx-Wa. They would go to war using fear and secrets, and they would use the devastating Kw-Uhnx-Wa to attack their foes with storms of wind, lightning, and thunder!

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 18

2008-10-18T00:34:00.002-05:00

It was a lazy afternoon in the early fall, and the Boys were relaxing on 7^th Avenue. Summer was just on its way out and the weather was still pleasantly warm enough to enjoy the hour just before sunset. Malik was telling a story to the younger guys.

“Well, a lot of those years I was a cog. That’s right. One small part of the great big Machine. It took something from me, Boys. You go into the Machine and you aren’t what you used to be, but you come out of the Machine and a part of you just wishes you could go back in. It's crazy.”

“You ever get sick of it?” asked David. “I don’t mean the Machine. I mean do you ever get tired of fighting in the wars, over and over again?

“That only happens two times” said Malik. “You get tired when you’re too old to do it anymore, and you get tired when you’re too young to know that there’s nothing else you can do as well. You’re still at the beginning, David. It’s hard to keep coming back when you gotta work for a guy like the Clown, and you know you’re probably gonna get clobbered every damn time. He made it hard for all of us.”

“Word on the street is that the Clown is packing his bags” said Jamal. “I hate to see him go, if it’s true, but he sure did make a hot mess out of things.”

Nate looked around to make sure unwanted ears weren't listening. "If he's goin', I don't hate to see him go. Whatever happens to him is okay by me. And he can take a couple of his friends with him, for all I care."

Mardy laughed. "Things sure are crazy around here. I won't know how to act if it's anything different. We go into a fight and I don't know if we're gonna use guns or gum. One day we've got grenades, the next we've got rotten eggs."

As the Boys continued bad-mouthing their old boss, a large van with tinted windows was slowly pulling alongside the curb in front of them. At the back of the van was attached a very long trailer, shaped like a bullet and fully chromed. Words were painted on the side of the van in stylish script that read “Dazzlin’ D’Antoni’s Serums and Scientifia: potions, powders, and projectiles providing plentiful power at prudent prices!” The van came to a full stop and the driver hopped out and slammed the door closed. He walked around the front side of the vehicle with a mischievous smile dancing below his mustache. “Well look what we have here,” he thought to himself.

“Well, well! What do we have here?” He said quite loudly. “Seems I recognize you Boys. You’re fighters, right? I know fighters when I see ‘em! What’s the topic of conversation, gents? I’m in the mood for some good chat and I think I’ll interject myself into your discussion. If you’re not opposed, that is. I certainly wouldn’t want a group of fighters to have a bad disposition towards me!”

Quentin gave the man a curious look. “I’ve seen you before. Where do I know you from?”

“Well, son, if I had to guess, I would wager that you’ve spent some time out west. My name is D’Antoni. I’m a salesman, you see? I used to do business in the Far-lands, but I’ve spent my summer working my way towards this coast. I have to say, business has been pretty good!”

“What’s your business?” asked Duhon.

“My business? An excellent question! We live in dangerous times, and the threat of war is always upon us. I sell things that make war a little easier for those who need help. Got every gadget, device, potion, curse, weapon, or widget you could think of right here in my van. Now, I would never think of trying to sell my wares to you gentlemen because I know you have no need! I sell to only those who aren’t clear winners such as yourselves. Got to keep the contest fair, don’t we?”

“So, you are saying that you won’t let us buy anything?” asked Danilo.

“Wha..? Pff! Don’t tease a man trying to make a living! You Boys are quite deadly killers! I can tell just by looking at you! You have no need for what I provide!”

“Listen” said Wilson. “Let’s just say we were interested. What do you have?”

D’Antoni looked at each man as if they were joking. He put his hands on his hips and stared in apparent disbelief at each one of them in turn. “Wait a second. Wait a second, now. Something’s not right.” His expression grew very serious and he made specific eye contact for a second with each of them. “You guys are in some kind of trouble. Something hasn’t worked out the way you thought it would.”

D’Antoni let silence hang in the air for a moment, just to ensure he had their full attention. “It’s your boss, isn’t it? You don’t have to say anything. I’ve heard some things in my travels. You don't think you can win, no matter what you've got in your hand.”

The Boys looked to him like they were unhappy to admit their boss’s incompetence, yet eager for someone to give them new hope.

“Do you have money?” They nodded enthusiastically. Perfect customers. “I’ll tell you what, Boys. I think I can help you.”

They each seemed to grow slightly, or their body language changed. It was like a plant turning its leaves toward the sunlight. “You all have to make me a promise though. Understand? You have to promise to trust me, and to follow my lead. How about it Boys? Do you trust me?” They said they did in unison. “Well, forget the stuff in the van. That’s kid stuff. Let me show you the trailer!”

The men crowded excitedly around D’Antoni as he walked to the back of the chrome trailer and searched his key ring for the one that fit the large lock on its hatch. “Boys, if you’re ready, I can show you how to win a war.” He unlocked the hatch and opened the trailer. Inside were fifteen machines straight from the future, gleaming with chrome parts. D’Antoni looked at the men with a pleased expression. The Boys stood in awe.

“That’s right.” He gleamed. “Jet Packs!”

Pardon the interruption

2008-10-17T09:23:00.003-05:00

I wanted to take a minute to say thanks to everyone that has let me know how much they are enjoying my stuff here. It's great to think that my insane idea is entertaining people, and your comments are very encouraging. If you post a comment, I'm usually responding back in the comments myself, but if you leave an e-mail address I'd be happy to write you back. Also you can find a few ways to contact me by viewing my profile on the blog. Finally, I'd like to ask that if you like what I'm doing, tell other people about it! I'm trying to grow my audience as much as possible, so e-mail your friends, post links on MySpace and Facebook, leave comments on other blogs, anything. I'm writing for my own enjoyment, and I'm happy if 5 other people are reading it, but I'm even happier if 5000 people are reading it.

Thanks again! I love getting your feedback, so keep it coming.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 17

2008-10-17T00:34:00.000-05:00

Scott came around the side of the conference table and handed a sheet of paper to his newest acquisition. Posey looked at the page he was handed and noticed the large CLASSIFIED stamp across the top.

“I have no doubt that you’ll fit in well here, Posey. I know the kind of work you’ve been doing for the past couple of years. We have a tight-knit unit, and I’m sure the guys will bring you into the fold in no time.”

As Posey read the document detailing his new mission, he thought back to facing this squad in the past. They were extremely dangerous. They were quick and deadly and they were rising as a serious threat during times of war. That hadn’t always been the case, but in the past several years a young killer had been leading them in the field. Posey saw him referred to in the document in his hands.

“Strike Force HORNETS proceeded further west from their victory over western Deputies and encountered opposition forces (the Machine). Tactics and strategies were correctly executed under field direction from commando designate: CP3. CP3 performed with a surprising level…”

“Our plan is to make a decisive strike in the coming weeks” said Scott. Posey thought that the squad chief had probably been speaking already, but he had been absorbed in his reading. “We have several possible target candidates and we’re looking at the advantages and disadvantages of those choices. Lowering the morale of multiple enemies by defeating a single, strong opponent is one of our goals.” Posey nodded in understanding and looked back to the page.

“…suffered from a combination of disadvantages. Commando designate DX was limited in effectiveness by minor injuries, and the squad as a whole was young and inexperienced in prolonged campaigns. Despite impressive assaults, the Machine withstood and adapted to HORNETS attacks and initiated counter-offensive measures that eventually resulted…”

“Of course, not every minute of every day is about our job” Scott continued. “I just need my agents to know their priorities. My priorities are their priorities. Do you understand?”

“I think I do” answered Posey. “You want a guy who isn’t going to mess up team chemistry, goes into his missions with focus, and knows how to listen.”

“Exactly. I don’t need anyone to come in here trying to make a name for themselves. We’re after the Prize, but we’re after it as a unit. I don’t have a spot for anyone chasing personal glory. I think you’ve had your hand on the Prize enough times to recognize that as the proper approach.”

Posey smiled and looked at the two large rings he wore – reminders of the ultimate victory. The rings were on the hand that still held the classified debriefing.

“…firepower of sharpshooter designate Stojakovic could be augmented. Recommendation of pursuing offer of agency to Bastion soldier Posey should be pursued. In addition to long-range sniping abilities, this individual has been observed to be a superb negating element against opposition offensive strikes and has been credited with effective sabotage against enemies. In some theaters of combat, this individual carries a reputation for…”

“So, are you ready to enter the Hive?”

Posey stopped his reading again, and this time he folded the paper into a small square and put it in his pocket. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Scott flashed bright teeth and nodded. He shook Posey’s hand and said “Let’s go.”

“I have a question” said Posey. “Do I get a code name, like ‘CP3’ and ‘DX’, for these debriefings?”

Scott laughed and threw his arm around Posey’s shoulder. “We’ll see how it goes” he said, smiling. They laughed together and walked out of the room into the long corridor that would take them to the Hive.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 16

2008-10-16T00:34:00.002-05:00

It was a large house; a mansion, really. The black cars had arrived in procession hours earlier, dropping off passengers near the front while drivers took the vehicles around the back and the side to congregate amongst each other over cigarettes and small talk. The passengers had gathered indoors, resplendent in expensive gowns and tuxedos with cigars and wine and scotch. It was a gathering that had a social façade but the main purpose was business. As was the custom every year, after drinking and mingling and laughing at jokes, the important men gathered upstairs, behind the closed doors of a well-furnished study. Here is where the serious discussion could occur. This was the time and place to discuss business.

“Baby Don” Frank took his place in the large upholstered chair behind the desk. “Gentlemen, I want to thank you for coming to my home tonight to celebrate another year of business together. It makes me very happy to have you all here. Sit, sit. Let’s talk.”

The men found seats in various plush chairs throughout the room. The cigar smoke filled the air quickly, and most of the men held their tumblers of scotch and ice in the hand not holding a cigar.

“First of all, let’s get the easy stuff out of the way. We are financially sound. Most of you know that the intent of our operations at this point is to use our monetary muscle for a two-pronged attack. First, we return to New York, and stop running our operations out of this backwater outskirt.” This part of the plan was met with excited chatter among the men in the room. “Second, we leverage our considerable wealth to achieve legitimacy. We become the ultimate power, and we become unassailable. To do this, we buy the King.” This was met by even greater excitement and the soft clapping of hands. The men laughed with each other with cigars clenched between teeth. The Don continued. “I’m projecting that both of those goals can be met in about two years. For now, we have to address more…immediate matters.”

“Contract” Van Horn leaned down from behind the desk, placing a hand on the Don’s shoulder to whisper something to him. Frank nodded at the consigliere’s words and dismissed him with a flick of the wrist. “Well, that brings us to one piece of business” he said to the room. “Since his departure, we’ve been trying to keep an eye on the Kidd. Some of our long-distance contacts have reported seeing him out west. Seems he’s done exactly what we were afraid he would do. He’s got some new friends, and those friends wear badges.”

Vince “the Vinsanity” became unsettled. He was visibly angry. “Don Frank, we can take him out. I can take Junior and Yi and we’ll put him someplace that they’ll never find him.” “Junior” Harris and “Chairman” Yi nodded and seemed eager for the chance to take out the Family’s former ace.

“No. No. Settle down, Vince” said Frank. “It’s not that much of a problem. He’s far away and he’s likely to face enough trouble over there soon enough. It’s enough that we know what he’s doing, and we watch our backs. Let’s talk about now. We want the Prize. Everybody does. I’ve got people spread out, and it seems all of the fighting is about to break out again. I’d like to keep the Family out, I would, but we know things don’t work that way. I’m gonna shoot straight here, you guys don’t have the muscle right now. You don't have the muscle to take the Prize. We’ve gotta get stronger. We’re going to have to fight and show that we can hold our own because the rest of those jerks are gonna try to push us around. We might not be able to take over the town yet, but we aren't going to let them run wild through our neighborhoods."

Most of the men in the room looked questioningly at one another, or simply down at their own shoes. They had hoped for better news. But for the most part they were realists. More importantly, they were Family.

"In the meantime," continued the Don, "let's send them all a message. Capice?"

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 15

2008-10-15T00:34:00.001-05:00

He could remember past achievement. He would take a group of men that were nothing but potential and would make them far greater than they had ever been. He made himself the forge, the hammer, and the anvil so that he could make them into swords. He could turn a man into a weapon of war, and then turn them as a group into a phalanx. They would hate him for it. They would feel abused and mistreated, overworked and under-appreciated. Then they would win, and feel like champions. They would understand that everything he had done to them was actually for them. He used to do it often, but it was becoming less common.

He could remember past glory. He had led armies that trampled their enemies into dust over and over again. There was a time when he could not lose, when he knew at the end of one war that he was sure to win the next. Those victories had become far less common. He felt in some moments (which he kept to himself) that the last victory may have been The Last Victory. He was old, he knew, and he was tired, he had to admit. He wouldn’t be commanding the army this time, but instead would seat himself within the bureaucracy and manipulate as much as possible from afar. Maybe if things looked promising after a few skirmishes, he would come down from his seat into the fields again. Maybe.

He ran one hand over his slicked-back hair and sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest and paced the room, thinking of ways to unleash the fury and the frustration he felt. He was a devil, and this was Hell.

Another man was nearby, also remembering past achievement. His memories were not so long ago. He was recognized as a fierce combatant during his first year at war. In his third year of war, he rallied his fellow troops when all hope seemed gone, and they conquered their foe, after conquering all others. He hoisted the flag above his head and the defeated armies looked on with blood and dirt in their eyes.

He was in Hell, and things had a way of coming undone. After his victory, he was being called one of the greatest warriors of all time. But then injuries and shame surrounded him. He found that his body was not strong enough to fight as hard as he had been. He found that his allies were not strong enough to win without him. They were crushed. They fell apart. Soldiers defected and even the commander seemed to give up.

He was not old. He was not tired. He was young and fast and strong. He refused to stay down if he had the strength to rise. He was not ready to give up and was not ready to accept defeat. He was working now to improve, and had been working for months. He wasn’t going to get younger, but he was getting faster, he was getting stronger, he was getting meaner. He was remembering the fire in his gut that allowed him to pull his comrades along with him when they were too tired. He was forgetting the doubt that had come to live with him during his periods of injury. He was finding the forge, the hammer, and the anvil inside himself.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 14

2008-10-14T00:34:00.000-05:00

“In the name of the Great Reptile, I call you to order! The Council of Totemic Tribes is now convened! Let us bring our people together in peace for one night, for the outbreak of war looms, and it will likely be many months before we can unite as brothers and sisters of nature again.” Bosh stood on the dais made of freshly cut logs, his skin illuminated by the firelight of torches. All of the people of the four Totemic Tribes had come together in the great forest for this summit, and they were intermingled in a large mass before the dais. “The Reptile has blessed my people. He has granted his ferocious attack to our tribesmen, and we now instill fear in our enemies. With his speed, we attack! With his claws, we attack! With his teeth, we attack! In the last great war, our tribe was in battle for many days after the rest of you had accepted defeat. I stand before you now, brothers and sisters, to remind you of what we all face. Our people adhere to the ways of the Earth, and we use what the Earth and the Great Beasts provide us to fight our wars. But the armies of the lands around us do not maintain their link to nature, and have created unnatural things with which to do war. On the field of battle, we face weapons of all variety. We’ll see swords of steel; projectiles of lead, fire, wood; sorcery of great power; all manners of technology. May the Spirits protect us and help us overtake them!”

From the crowd a voice shouted out. “Bosh speaks true!” The crowd shuffled as the man with the voice made his way to the front and climbed the dais to stand beside Bosh. “I am Redd, and Bosh is a wise and true friend, though we are of different tribes. The Great Stag has blessed my people. Our enemies will be pierced by his crown of antlers and trampled beneath his hooves! Though the enemies will come at us from the sky and the sea, and from all directions on land, we have the will of the Great Spirits on our side. We must not lose faith in them, nor be swayed by the lure of technological armies. There are many among us today who have been within their ranks, and found the true way of the Great Spirits.”

In the crowd, ‘Cisco turned to French Marc. “He’s right. I was assimilated by the Machine. They purged me, and I found the way.” French Marc nodded in understanding.

A young man named Foye had made his way to the dais. He was not familiar to Redd and Bosh, but they greeted him with honor and friendship on this night. “People of the Great Spirits. People of the Tribes. I am Foye, from the tribe of the Great Wolf. We are a long-suffering people. But I call upon the Wolf to bless us and rend the flesh of our enemies with his teeth. Our winter of loss has been long, but I believe that the rays of the sun will begin to warm us. Most of us have seen enough war now to know what to expect. We also have new men among us that are ready to be strong and determined fighters. In this coming war, we will stalk our enemies quietly, and when they are calm and unprepared, we’ll strike. The People of the Wolf will no longer be content to sulk in the snow.” The followers of the Wolf among the crowd proudly cheered their fellow tribesman.

Foye stepped away from the front of the dais to stand near Bosh and Redd. A young man wearing a fur skin walked slowly to the dais and the crowd grew increasingly silent with anticipation. He took his place at the dais and waited a moment to command even more silence. “People of the Bear!” he shouted. The Bear clan shouted back loudly in greeting. “I am Rudy and I am here by the grace of the Great Bear! The Great Bear will tear our enemies to shreds with his claws! He will crush their bones in his powerful jaws and his sharp teeth will be red with their blood!” The tribesmen of the Bear clan were yelling excited cheers back at the stage in response to every sentence. “We are a young tribe, and we are hungry! We don’t care about the weapons that our enemies bring against us! We are strong! The Bear lives within us, and we’ll roar from his heart!” The Bear’s followers were frenzied, and even a few of the younger warriors of other tribes were getting swept up in it. “Our strength comes from the new blood joining our tribe.” O.J., French Marc, and the Iranian, stood together in the crowd. Their bearskin cloaks were the product of fresh sacrifices. Rudy continued. “Let us go forth and reclaim the land for the Great Bear! Let our enemies tremble before us, despite their unnatural weapons!” The Bear clan was excited above all others. The tribes of the Stag, the Lizard, and the Wolf began to grow annoyed at the excitement of their brothers of nature.

From the stage, Redd kept his thoughts to himself. He scanned the crowd, and exchanged knowing glances with Bogut, with Lue, with Bell and Charlie. They were his brothers in the tribe of the Stag. They kept their cool. They were calm. They were old enough or wise enough to keep to themselves their secret. It had been foretold that the Bear would bleed by the antlers of the Stag.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 13

2008-10-13T00:34:00.000-05:00

He was known as the Black Knight. He was something else, though, and you knew it as soon as you saw him. For starters, he never wore armor. He didn’t need it. He was calm, poised, and confident in his manner. His demeanor only changed if those that fought beside him were letting him down, and then he would loudly tell them so. More than anything, it was his eyes that set him apart. He never looked at you without analyzing how you could be destroyed. He saw through your confidence straight to your weakness. He was a natural-born killer. He was the assassin.

In the garden of the grand castle of the Western Banner, the monk trimmed the errant branches from a small tree. He heard the chirping of birds, heard the buzz of insects quickly zipping by, heard the splashing water in the fountain behind him. He felt the sun on his face and on the back of his neck and on the back of his hands. His expression was unreadable. It would appear to an outside observer that the monk was at peace in a peaceful setting. The monk was almost never at peace. That was part of the discipline – fight to achieve the peace that he knew he would never attain. It was perhaps this quality that made the monk similar to the assassin.

The assassin who was often called the Black Knight was practicing his attack. He had mastered the killing blow and still wanted to improve it. He had learned to be quiet and fast but was reaching for silent and instantaneous. He was skilled at the dodge and parry but sought a way to become invisible and intangible. For every move he knew to make, he went through the motion five hundred times so that his muscles and nerves and the bones and the blood could not forget how the move was made. He wanted his body to act without the need for conscious thought because then he could use his brain to create newer and more deadly strikes in the heat of battle.

The monk who was often called the Master walked slowly out of the garden and made his way to the castle courtyard. Before he even saw anything, he sensed that he would not be alone when he got there. He expected many of the young knights to assemble in the courtyard this afternoon, at which time he would help them find the focus and inner resolve that was an essential part of their combat training. It was, though, still morning, and several hours before the knights would assemble. He came around the corner and saw exactly what he projected he would.

He watched the assassin without speaking, his own silence matched by the quiet efficiency with which the killer trained. For not a moment did he believe that the assassin was unaware of his presence, though it was not acknowledged. He watched the exercises and recognized what was being practiced, knew the skills that were being honed. That move was to kill a man from far away. That spin was to confuse an opponent and open his vulnerability. That step was a way to more quickly slip past a defensive parry. The motions were perfect. The monk knew perfection well.

The exercises stopped and the assassin stood still, letting the perspiration on his skin cool him. The monk approached as quietly as possible.

“You continue to impress me. Your dedication to the art of war is unrivaled. It is my hope, friend, that our army does not fall into old habits when fighting eventually breaks out. We both know that fighting will break out again, and soon, I think. You left a path of corpses for them to follow last time, and they helped you go far, even though we fell short in the final days. I will make sure they retain the discipline that they demonstrated in the last campaign, and I will push them over that last hurdle so that we can finally reclaim the Prize. I need you to do only two things: let them know that you trust them to succeed again, and destroy everything that gets in your way.”

The assassin said nothing. He did not move, and kept his eyes closed and his head bowed. The monk was initially surprised and mistook the assassin’s silence as an insult. But then it dawned on the monk what was actually happening. In the courtyard of the castle of the Western Banner, the assassin was silent as a showing of respect to the dead. The dead that he was about to go forth and create.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 12

2008-10-12T00:34:00.001-05:00

On the outskirts of the Western Banner was the Barony. The accolades, the victories, the love from the commoners, and, most importantly, the money – nearly all of it went to the Banner, leaving nothing but scraps for the Barony. Most of the time, the Barony took what it could get and complained only in a quiet, obligatory manner. Baron Brand had surrendered his title, though, fleeing the west to join a group of revolutionaries in a distant region, and a new Baron had risen in his place. Baron Boom was not content with being a quiet compliment to the Banner and was already beginning to plot an uprising.

Boom had come from the ranks of the Warriors. He abandoned that guerrilla force to pursue wealth, learning during one of their pillaging runs through the Barony that the wealth of the Banner could be siphoned into this treasury. His initial plan was to join Baron Brand and utilize their combined talents to fleece the Banner, and eventually overthrow it. He schemed in advance to usurp the Barony seat from Brand when the time was most advantageous, only to have Brand abdicate and flee before the first stage could be put into action.

So the Barony was his, which was simply not enough. He wanted the seat of power, which meant he had to reverse the relationship between the Banner and the Barony. Rather than be in the shadow of that gold and purple flag, Boom wanted the kingdom to look up to the red, blue, and white. Then, of course, the rest of the warring nations would fall, one by one, until he ruled supreme.

He was drawing those to the Barony that would fight ruthlessly beside him. He had found a man from the Prison with a chip on his shoulder, and two straight from Hell with their own axes to grind. There were young men and old living in his realm that were ready to fight again, and eager to capture for themselves the pride that had been the domain of the Banner’s knights so often. He had even retained the grizzled old general, in the hopes that the man’s tactics and his own on-the-field leadership could compliment each other. If they couldn’t work together, that could be resolved later. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had to make his own decisions in the midst of war.

The Baron looked out across his land to the trees, and far past the forest he could see the towers with the purple and gold flags flying at their peaks. He imagined the future, in which he was casting those flags into the fire and raising his own. The trees reminded him of his past, and the Warriors, and lurking in shadows or running through nights, fighting for fun. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if the past or the future was more appealing.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 11

2008-10-11T00:34:00.000-05:00

Miller drove along the old country road for some time, passing fields of corn for miles. He was concerned for his friend. It had become increasingly difficult to make contact and, when his friend bothered to answer the phone, the conversations were brief and dismissive. Miller knew it wasn’t a personal thing. His friend carried a lot on his shoulders, and it had been many years since he had received anything resembling commendation for doing so. Miller felt in some way slightly responsible for that, but his window of opportunity to do anything about that had passed. Like his friend, Miller’s age had taken him off the battlefield.

Eventually, he saw the small old-fashioned diner along the side of the road. He slowed the car and turned into the loose-gravel parking lot. Miller parked beside the car that he recognized as belonging to his friend and stepped out of his own vehicle. The day was clear and sunny, and the sunlight reflected brightly off of the chrome and glass surfaces of the diner’s exterior, causing Miller to squint and shield his eyes with his hand. He walked toward the door of the restaurant and went inside.

Sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the diner, back turned to the door, was Miller’s friend: the Legend. He had been larger than life as an infantry man, leading on the field like no other. Now he just looked large, thought Miller, laughing to himself. He walked over and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder for a moment. “Glad I finally caught up to you.” He sat down in the booth across from his friend.

The Legend looked at Miller with mild irritation, and let it pass. He looked back down into the cup of coffee that rested on the table in front of him. Silence passed between the men for several moments, one staring steadfastly into his coffee and the other staring at his friend. Miller finally broke the routine by turning his head to the right to gaze out the window at the road. “You shouldn’t put so much of this on yourself.”

“It’s not that so much anymore.” The Legend continued looking into his mug and stirred the coffee with a spoon. “It used to be that. I used to feel that. I felt it a lot when I was a fighter. When I was on the field, I felt like it was up to me. I had plenty of help, but I knew it was up to me to get ‘em all into gear. When I was a general, I felt it. If I couldn’t teach the men how to win, I was failing at my job. But I’m not in the trenches anymore. I don’t fight the battles. I’m a politician. I don’t feel like it’s my fault anymore if they don’t know how to fight. I feel like it’s theirs.”

“Well, something’s got to you. It’s all over your face. You aren’t talking to anyone. People don’t know what you’re doing. It’s concerning.”

“You want the truth? I’m starting to think that maybe I just don’t care anymore. They don’t care. They go out and half-ass it and grumble under their breath and just get beat. They don’t care. And if they don’t, why should I?”

Miller sighed. The waitress approached and asked if he wanted anything. “I’ll take a glass of milk and a cup of coffee. Mmmmmaaand a slice of the sweet potato pie.” The waitress scribbled and left. “No. You care. If you didn’t, you’d just walk away. There’s some part of you that still thinks you can make a difference in some way.”

“In war, in any contest, there’s only one winner. Everyone else loses. There’s no real difference between losing first and losing last.”

Miller sighed. “Look…I wish things had gone differently when I was still in uniform. We just couldn’t get over the hump. I take a lot of the blame for that. I’m gone, Jermaine left without becoming the leader you needed in my absence, and you’re stuck. I get it. But you’ve got young guys who believe in you and believe in the war. Guys who have seen a few tours of duty and know what they’re doing. Don’t give up on them.”

The Legend looked at Miller and shook his head. He threw a few dollars onto the table as he stood up and then pulled his keys from his pocket. He said nothing.

“What are you doing?” Miller asked his friend.

“I have to prepare an army” he said. But in his head, the sentence was “I have to prepare an army to die.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 10

2008-10-10T00:34:00.000-05:00

Yao watched explosions flash across the sky and was pleased. The noise, the fire, the lights – they were the product of war. War made him feel good. In his heart was a love of battle, and a need to win. He had been groomed from early childhood to lead a nation to victory and he knew that if victory was not achieved during his life, his ghost would never rest.

The giant airship within which he stood watching was tens of thousands of feet in the air, testing weaponry of the latest design. Yao was certain that some of his enemies must be watching from afar, and he hoped that they saw the explosions and imagined dying within them.

Silently, Battier stepped from somewhere behind and moved to stand beside Yao. He, too, looked out at the explosions and a smile spread across his face. “The new weapons are testing well. Our success is virtually assured.”

“I’m not as certain” said Yao. “The new weapons could be highly effective. Yet victory could elude us if they are used without skill.” As if on cue, Commander McGrady entered the observation deck through a hatch at the aft end of the room. He was followed by another man wearing the insignia of a Major whose eyes scanned the room from left to right repeatedly. Yao recognized this man. He gave a quick bow to greet them. “Commander. Major Artest, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yao, Major Artest has joined our ranks. I am showing him around our airship and introducing him to his new comrades. The Major is a true warrior and will be a strong asset to our forces.”

“Commander, I wish I shared your optimism. I have no qualm with giving a man a chance to prove himself, but I must say that your reputation precedes you, Major. You are known as a malcontent and –“

“Enough, Yao!” Commander McGrady interrupted loudly. “The Major has proven himself capable of far more than making trouble for his associates! I insist that you show him the utmost respect!”

“It’s quite alright, Commander” said Major Artest. “Yao has the heart of a champion and does not want to subject his organization to negative influences.” Yao tilted his head in polite acknowledgement. “However, I’d like to assure you that I’m here to help, and help in a big way. As a tribute, I’ve written a short verse that I’d like to recite.”

“Major Artest will aid your offenses

and shore up the strength of defenses.

I will assault all of the enemies’ senses

And steal off in the night with their wenches!”

The Commander smiled appreciatively at the Major and gave Yao an inquisitive look. Yao smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Major. That was…enlightening. I’ll be happy to assist you in any way as you acclimate yourself to our organization.”

“The Major and I will continue our tour of this vessel. I have much to show him still.” The Commander walked quickly to the forward hatch with the Major following, and they exited the room. Battier and Yao both watched them leave and continued to gaze at the hatch after they had gone through it.

“He seems a bit of a fool” Battier said.

“Yes. And not to be trusted. Not yet. Find Rafer and Bones. They should keep a close eye on him. They’ll report to you. You report to me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know that he’ll really be with us, but even more, I want to know how much trust the Commander puts in him. The Commander's judgment is lacking. We need strong leadership even if we don’t have a strong leader.”

“What of the Emperor?”

“He will make his own judgment. And I trust that in his wisdom he will see things as I do.”

The explosions continued to dance in the sky, and Yao watched, still pleased.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 9

2008-10-09T00:34:00.000-05:00

"We’re called the Warriors because no other word would fit us!” laughed the great white bear of a man. He sat awkwardly cross-legged on the dirt of the ground. Monta wondered how he would find the strength and agility to propel his massive body back to his feet, and almost smiled. “We fight! We’re not the kind of men that think with our heads! We let actions think for us, and sometimes that’s going to help us win. Sometimes it will make us lose. I know that you’re down on yourself, young one. You should be. It was a damned stupid thing that you did. But you will learn from the stupid. You’ll learn from your mistake. You’ll get hungrier. Your friends will expect that hunger from you. Even in moments when you aren’t sure that you feel it, you will see that they expect the fire in your belly. And your need to prove your worthiness to them will bring the hunger back.” The fire crackled in the night air before Monta said anything.

“I hope so. I feel terrible. This was my chance to step up. I feel like the opportunity was put in front of me and I blew it.”

“You didn’t blow it, Monta. I’m telling you, this is what we are. We’re not supposed to do anything right! Hahaha! We hide in the bushes. We sneak around at night. We hit you when you aren’t looking. We look disorganized, and you know what? We are disorganized! People come and people go. You think that it all falls on your shoulders because one guy walked away? One guy!?”

“Well, I guess I do think that” Monta replied.

“Monta, no one guy is that important. As we scramble about the land night after night, some guys decide they don’t want to do it anymore and we never see ‘em again. Some guys decide to join up with a bunch that has a little more organization. They just leave. On the other hand, sometimes somebody we’ve never seen before is fighting along with us like he’s been there from day one. Sometimes we talk guys into leaving those stuffy armies and running free with us. See Ronny over there? Just a few months ago, he was fighting under the Banner, trying to take down the Bastion. Why is he here? I don’t know. I don’t care! It doesn’t matter. He’ll contribute, and that’s all that matters. Guys come and go, Monta. You can’t let yourself believe that one guy makes the difference. So look at yourself. You’re hurt. It doesn’t matter now why you’re hurt. What matters is that you might not be ready to fight when the fight comes. It’s coming soon, I think. I’ve heard noises in the brush, and I think we’re being followed. But if you’re not ready, Mad Jack will be. Andris will be. "Machete" Maggette will be. All of these guys will fight hard while you rest and heal. All they’ll expect in return is that when you can fight, you fight like you have catching up to do.” He fell silent and took a swig of his brew. He was sure that he heard a twig break under the foot of a lurking predator deep in the trees. He was not afraid. “Will you fight when you’re ready?”

“I will. Thanks, Nell.”

“Don’t thank me. Just go out and kill.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 8

2008-10-08T00:34:00.000-05:00

Joe was all business. He ran the largest factory in the land, and was proud of the product that his factory manufactured. That didn’t mean he was a happy man. Quite the opposite, really. Joe was a man who was never quite satisfied. He knew that to remain competitive, you always had to be one step ahead of the other guy, or at least be ready to catch up quickly. Joe was always trying to find that extra something that was going to put him over the top.

Joe had fired his foreman. The Factory had not managed to out-produce the other warring nations last year (or the year before) under that guy, and as a result their armies had not suffered the attrition and failed supply lines that he had been hoping to force. Joe had a lean army that he drew from the ranks of The Factory’s workers, ensuring cost-effectiveness and reliability. They were a hard-working crew that he felt he could count on. Yet they hadn’t been focused to a sharp enough point on the battlefield, so the sharpener had to be replaced. The new foreman would be arriving any day now.

There were mumblings and rumors that maybe the worker-soldiers grew weary as the war stretched on. People suggested that Joe and/or the old foreman worked the men too hard and expected too much from too few. Joe thought that was a load of crap. He thought about his best guys and the drive of those men. Rip was fast and efficient. Chauncey was a capable and effective team leader. Max was a powerhouse – full of hustle. Wallace was a firecracker that strangers tended to dislike and distrust, but Joe knew that grew out of Wallace’s inner perfectionist. Prince was a go-to guy who always did exactly what you needed him to do. The descriptions in Joe’s mind for these men were true of their roles both in the factory and in a fight. They were solid and consistent. There were other guys, of course. Grunts. Second and third shift guys. He would probably need to lay a few guys off before things really got underway this year. Keep things tight and efficient.

Joe was up early. He was always the first man on the job. It was just about time to flip on the lights.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 7

2008-10-07T00:34:00.000-05:00

Trays were filled with slop. Men shuffled through the food line accepting what they were given, able to muster no enthusiasm for their meal. They carried their trays of “food” to tables they had unofficially claimed as their own, and sat among one another to eat and speak in low tones about secret things. The guards watched everything with an air of disinterest that was false. It was a poorly kept secret that they hoped for an infraction of the rules so they could administer punishment. Punishing brought them both satisfaction and validation.

The prisoners were in identical uniforms, only a number differentiating one man’s shirt from another. To maintain their individuality, each man adorned his skin with multiple tattoos. There was a living art gallery having lunch in the Prison.

“Are we gonna try to do it?” Smith was a young guy. A lot of trouble had found him on the outside. Some of that trouble had managed to find him behind the bars as well.

“Man, you’re always asking questions. Why don’t you shut up? Take it easy. Just ride this out.” Martin had been in a while and seemed to split his time between the infirmary and solitary confinement.

“Chill out, Martin.” The Answer was an old-timer. People inside said that he couldn’t be killed, and they said that because people had tried. “Keep your voices low and look at your food. Don’t draw attention.” He waited a moment while the rest fell silent. “I’ve been on the inside for too long. I don’t want to die in here. I say we try, but we need to get Goldilocks on board.”

The Birdman had just been locked up. He was new to the Prison, but he had a history with people on the inside. He didn’t get the newbie treatment. “I haven’t even seen that guy. I get that he’s the big name in here, but where the hell is he? Was he the guy got paroled?”

“Nah” said the Answer. “That was Marcus. That guy wanted to stay in. Prison said he wasn’t enough of a risk to keep inside for the cost. They let him go. Goldilocks has been goin’ back to court. New evidence came up – four years after the fact. His fate’s up in the air.”

“Well, we’re all listenin’ to you, man. We know you got his ear. Why don’t you talk to Goldilocks for all of us? Let’s get a plan together.”

The Answer put his spoon down and stopped eating. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. The thought of spending another day in Warden Karl’s jail made him want to scream. Several more minutes passed without words. Then he said, maybe to himself, maybe to the rest of them, “Yeah. We gotta get out of here.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 6

2008-10-06T00:34:00.000-05:00

The horses kicked dust high into the air as they charged up the mountain. The men riding the horses held tightly to their reins and kicked into their flanks to spur them onward. Bandannas covered the men’s faces to protect from the dust, and only their eyes squinted out from beneath the brim of their hats. On the front of each man's shirt was a six-pointed badge identifying its' owner as a Deputy. They reached the flat outcropping that looked far out over the surrounding plains and rumbled to a stop. The horses circled restlessly for a few moments as the men brought them under control and lined up along the southern edge to look upon the land. Far to the southwest great pillars of black smoke grew towards the sky as The Machine began its grinding processes of destruction. Far to the southeast, explosions and multi-colored lights from the Sky Fortress flared across the sky and burned out as new weapons were tested and toyed with.

The Kidd looked over at the German and didn’t speak.

“It’s bad. They’re going to come at us from both sides” the German said. “They both think that we’re unfortified, and knocking us over will make them look stronger to everyone else.”

Howard pulled his horse between them. “We’ll kill ‘em. They can ride in all arrogant if they want. We’ll put ‘em down anyway.”

The German glared at Howard. “You can't act like it's going to be that simple. Look at what's out there. If you look at the sky to your left, you can see a fortress floating in the sky. They've got weapons that we don't even know about. We're on horses. We're just going to 'put 'em down'? See the smoke in the sky to your right? That Machine doesn't care about our badges or our laws, and they're not human. I don't think shooting them does much good."

"I don't care how we do it!" said Howard. "I don't care if we're on horses or if we're running on foot. I don't care if we're using pistols or throwing rocks. And I don't care if we do it with our badges on or if we have to hide our faces while we shoot 'em in the back. We need to regulate these parts. We need to be the authority 'round here."

"You don't care one bit about your badge." The German kept his voice steady, but was visibly frustrated with Howard. "I don't get it. You worked hard your whole life to earn that badge, and now you have it, you don't act like it means a thing. You've got a job to do, Howard. Part of doing that job means that people are counting on you to do what they can't do for themselves. They're looking up to you whether you know it or not, so remember that star is on your chest even when you're not in the mood." Howard looked away from the German and tried to give his friend Stack a knowing glance, but Stack was purposely looking down at the dirt. The German continued. "Sheriff Carlisle has asked us to recon these two outfits, because he thinks one of them is going to try to move against us real soon. He doesn't want us to attack or make ourselves known to them yet. He just wants us to report back with what we see so he can decide what we should do."

Howard shook his head and scoffed. “Why are you always worrying about what someone else wants you to do? You know how to use your weapons. You know how to take a man down. You know that you’re put here to do just that. Why do you think you have to listen to someone tell you how they want you to do it?”

“That’s enough from you, Howard” said the Kidd. “The German’s right. The Sheriff calls the shots. We pull the trigger. That’s the way it works. You don’t like it, ride on.”

Howard locked eyes with the Kidd. They stared each other down for a long moment. Howard flinched and tried to pass off a derisive laugh. “You’re something else, old man.” He pulled his horse along side the Kidd’s. “You haven’t been riding with us that long. Don’t think that being old makes you the boss.” The Kidd kept his gaze on Howard as the young man trotted his horse off the outcropping.

The German started to follow the path down as well. He looked at the Kidd as he passed. "He's got a point, doesn't he?"

Kidd gave the German a sly grin that only he would see and spoke in a low mumble. "Damn punk hothead. Of course he's right. He's just got to learn to be quieter about it."

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 5

2008-10-05T00:34:00.000-05:00

There is no kingdom. There is a great fighter, with great power. They knew he was coming before he ever arrived, and all of the armies of this splintered nation waited and hoped that he would rise within their ranks. When he was found, it was in a region that had long been in need of a leader - a land that had never stood triumphant over all of the warring armies. An army fights behind him - an army that believes in him, and follows his lead, and calls him “King” even now, before his reign begins.

The One Who Would Be King dressed quietly, and alone. The others had not yet arrived. As he suited up and prepared for the coming war, he thought not at all about those who would fight beside him. Though he cared for them, and at times considered some of them friends, he knew that they were in some ways forced to live in his shadow. He knew that if he was to obtain the glory that was his destiny, it would be attributed to his own actions. History would not be awed by the work done by those around him. Sometimes this made him unhappy and ashamed, but only sometimes. He would prefer not to think about it, which is why he was not thinking about it now.

If he thought about it, he would have to think about those in his army that had fought for far more years than he had. Not one of them had ever been seen as “the chosen one”. He would have thought about the wars of the past, and how sometimes his troops would fall, and not be capable of combat. They were never happy to miss it. They felt useless and dishonored. He would have thought about the politics of this world he planned to shape, and knew that the man he called friend today could be an enemy next week, and an enemy could become a friend tomorrow. But thinking about these things would confuse the real issue, and he would not have that.

The real issue was winning. The real issue was beating everyone else. The real issue was claiming the title and the throne that everyone knew was his destiny. The real issue was to become King James not just in name but in station. In jewels on his hand.

He was within reach of the throne once, only to be soundly defeated by the onslaught of The Machine. The Machine was getting old, and breaking down, and he did not believe that The Machine would survive a final showdown with him again. There were other factions that he was more concerned about this time. The Western Banner had broken the Machine in the last war, then battled and lost against the Bastion. The Western Banner employed the world’s most dangerous assassin. If there was one individual that James felt was a threat, it was that damned assassin. Every tribe got stronger with every new war, it seemed. There were easily a half dozen armies the last time that fought hard and gave them trouble. There would be probably a half-dozen more that would come back stronger this time.

Z came around the corner and found James alone. James looked up into the face of Z. It was the face of a man that was never considered “the chosen one”, was never going to be glorified if the glory came. It was the face of a man who had fought many times, and for many years before The One Who Would Be King had shown up. It was the face of a man that James often considered to be a friend.

“We will win it all this time?” Z asked.

James looked him in the eye and said nothing for a moment.

“Yes. All of it.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 4

2008-10-04T00:34:00.000-05:00

The New Guy got off the bus. He hadn’t arrived at his destination, but the bus driver was not willing to drive him all the way. “That’s a wasteland! Nobody goes in there for anything good. I’ll let you out right here, and if you decide to walk into that place, it’s your own fault!” So the New Guy walked.

When he finally got there, he could see the bus driver hadn’t been lying. The place was in shambles. Broken windows, graffiti, trash blowing in the street. A man whom he recognized as one of his comrades appeared to be passed-out drunk outside of an open door.

The New Guy walked cautiously toward that door, trying to nudge the drunken guy awake with his foot as he passed. No response. He entered, instantly surprised by the oppressive heat indoors, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light after being out in the bright sun. Ten men were in the narrow room, laying on cots, or sitting on chairs, or stretched out on the floor. Two played a video game at the far end. Four played cards. Two read magazines. Two slept, snoring. The room was full of smoke. He recognized all of them, but hadn’t met any. No one bothered to stop what they were doing when he entered, nor was his presence acknowledged in any way.

“Hey, everybody!” he said, smiling. “Call me Rose. I’m the new guy, I guess.”

One of the magazines was dropped in annoyance. “Hooray, New Guy. You’ve arrived.” The sarcasm was unmistakable.

“Uhh. Yeah.” A few seconds went by, and still no one seemed interested in saying hello or even recognizing that another living being had entered the room. “Listen, guys. I’m really happy to be here. I’m ready to put in the work, and I think we can do some amazing things. I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you better.” No one stirred. “When do we start training?”

Annoyed Magazine Reader kept the page to his face, but from behind it said “Don’t know. Still waiting for the New Boss to get here, New Guy.”

The New Guy didn’t bother putting his bags down. He walked out of the room through the door he entered, passed the unconscious drunk, and back out into the street. Down the road another block, he could see the site of the historic battlefield, and made his way toward it. He found himself alone inside, and looked upward at the flags of champions that had come before. It wasn’t that long ago, and yet so much had changed for these people. A Superhero used to make this his home. The one that they had all looked up to had been here, fought here, won here. Now no one seemed to care. No one who fought for this army seemed to recognize that their colors had been His colors, and that to lose in those colors dishonored Him. He was like a god to all of them, and they didn’t seem to care. “That’s my job. That must be what I’m here for.” He looked back up at those flags and shouted “I’m here to make them care! I’m here to help them remember!” He was young.

Great idea. Really.

2008-10-03T08:06:00.001-05:00

This is not what Denver needs.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 3

2008-10-03T00:34:00.000-05:00

Feet fell without grace upon the metal catwalk, clanging loudly above. “He’s watching” said the General to no one as he turned his eyes upward toward the noise. The troops went through the drills, some more enthusiastically than others. The General had a reputation. He was known to be hard on soldiers, and even harder on young soldiers. He was known as a guy who got things done. He had a lot to do here.

The General was old, and there is no enemy as difficult to defeat as age. He knew it. He could feel the foot soldiers of time moving into position all around him. He just hoped that he could find a way to outsmart them at least once more. The stain of failure had soiled the General’s record, and it made many people across many lands who were familiar with war question the abilities of a man they had once seen as unquestionable. Oh, many still had faith in him (out loud), but the whispers behind his back were multiplying. He needed to go out with a win. He needed to retire with vindication.

“Hit the showers! You’re done for the day. Be here an hour earlier tomorrow and expect to stay two hours later!” He watched them file out, heads hung from fatigue or the knowing shame of letting him down. They dripped sweat and smelled of exertion. He sat - once they had all exited - to collect his thoughts and begin planning for the next day of training.

The footsteps that he had heard above were now echoing off of the floor and coming towards him from his left. He knew who it was but looked up just the same. As the tall bald man made his way toward him, the General was aware for a moment of their one similarity. “That man was a super hero” he said quietly to himself, “and even he couldn’t escape age.”

“How do they look, Larry?” the Superhero asked.

The General shook his head briefly. “Not that good, Mike. Not really that good.”

“Can you change it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I can. It’s going to take a lot of work. There will be many complaints. Some guys will want to quit. They’ll want out. I might break one or two of the softer ones.”

The Superhero laughed. “OK, Larry. You do what you need to do to them. We need to win.”

The General was uncertain if the Superhero meant “we” as in all of them collectively, or if he meant “we, Larry. You and I”. Either could be true. The two old men alone now on this floor needed to win. One needed to restore his legacy and the other needed to add a dimension to his own. The General decided that it didn’t really matter what the Superhero meant. They just needed to win.

I was just thinking...

2008-10-02T09:02:00.003-05:00

Just for the fun of it, I made some predictions about 10 days ago about the end of the upcoming season. I am sure they will be way off once June gets here, but I was thinking - why would I pick the Pistons to win it all when they're dealing with a new coach? That doesn't make sense! So, I'm going to tweak my prediction just slightly and say that the Cavs beat the Pistons in the conference finals. 'Sheed goes absolutely nuts at the final buzzer and might go to prison. Then in the Finals, Hornets beat the Cavs, causing LeBron to take a vow of silence towards the media for the next year so that he doesn't have to repeatedly discuss his plans to leave Cleveland.

That's my prediction. Ok, not really. I just wanted to say that despite my previous post, I don't think the Pistons will capture the title with a new coach.

Maybe the Spurs can do it again...

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 2

2008-10-02T00:34:00.000-05:00

Kevin walked with a purpose. He knew where he was going and what he needed to do. He was all business. There would be nothing to distract him. His schedule allowed for extra time that would be spent as people on the street noticed him, recognized his face, and approached him in an attempt to befriend him. He appreciated the people and respected their admiration, and was happy to have done what he had done for them. But he was serious-minded and did not come out today to make friends. He knew how to get things done.

Kevin entered the grand stone building through one of the many glass doors. The air inside was a full 20 degrees cooler, and dry, and subtly smelled of being many times recycled. He was dressed not for war, but for business. It made him no less imposing. Heads turned involuntarily to watch him walk by and crowds parted without being asked. He entered a spacious lobby and was quickly met by three men also in business suits – older, shorter, facilitators. They shook hands and smiled. Kevin walked with them to an office just off the lobby and sat at a large desk. The three men spoke for a time about Kevin’s money and how much he had and how he could get more of it by letting them take charge of it. He found their presentation appealing and believable, and he decided that they could have twelve million of his dollars.

Kevin walked back through the lobby with the three men and enough people there had seen him pass through the first time that there were now three times as many people. Many of them tried to pretend that they were going about some other task when all they really were there for was to see him, but there were a few that boldly intercepted the group of suited men. Kevin was polite but economical with his time. He shook a few hands and smiled and signed two autographs but did not allow conversations to linger. He said good-bye to the three advisers and exited the building. His business here was done, and he was now headed to the training facility. War was coming again, and he would again stand and fight for the Bastion. They had secured The Prize, and he was determined to keep it.

Kevin’s investment ended up earning him over eighty million dollars. He was lucky.

Four minutes after he walked out of the stone building, three men in masks entered, drew guns, and attempted to rob the bank operating in the lobby. They were unsuccessful. All three were killed, as well as one bank customer, one bank employee, and one police officer. Kevin was lucky that he walked with a purpose.

On the other side of the city, Rajon shifted into sixth gear and blazed past other drivers on the freeway. He crossed under a bridge, behind which sat the cruiser of a state trooper. The state trooper was in pain and shock, as just seconds before he had sneezed violently, causing the hot coffee in his mug to splash out onto his crotch and burn him. He was not paying attention to the sports car that passed him by at 140 miles per hour. Rajon was lucky.

Paul had decided not to go out on Friday. His friends went without him. As he sat at home and watched a movie, there was a knock on his door. Felicia had dropped by on a whim just to say hello. Paul was happy to see her, as he had thought of Felicia often since he had last seen her (several years ago). He had always been interested in her, and she in him, but there was always a circumstance of timing that kept them apart. Tonight, they talked, relaxed, and then had sex for hours before falling into a restful sleep. Paul was lucky. His friends that night had found themselves spending a lot more money, getting into far fewer places, and drawing the interest of no women without their very popular, wealthy, and well-known friend along side them.

Good luck for one almost always means bad luck for another. The Bastion was lucky.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 1

2008-10-01T11:00:00.004-05:00

Money. So many times so many things boil down to money. Such is the life of a mercenary. You fight because of pay, not principles. Your allegiances are based on the value of your services in the eyes of those willing to pay for those services. That kind of life makes you unsentimental in a very short time. You see everything as transient and tenuous and your skin thickens and your heart hardens.

Josh’s friend was gone. Josh’s friend, Josh, was gone. He was a merc pilot too. The funny thing though is that Gone Josh had very drastically changed the mercenary universe by the way he became gone. Gone Josh reminded them all that the world was a big place.

So Gone Josh got big money to go fight wars in a different part of the world. He didn’t defect to another warring tribe in this nation, and it struck Josh as somewhat strange that he would see his friend neither fighting at his side nor facing him down from the ranks of the opposition. There would be no aerial dogfight in which they could match skills. He was just gone.

Josh didn’t leave. He thought he could get even bigger money than Gone Josh from one of the warlords here, and he was right. In the end the air force that he had been flying for would continue to pay him to keep flying, and they would pay very well.

So what was he facing in the battles ahead? The pilots that he knew were getting better. The new guys looked decent. Their wing commander, Woodson, was still hanging around, for better or for worse. Would they be a more powerful force this time? Was it up to him? Was he the guy that made the difference? Was it time to stop thinking like a solo flier and start joining the squadron? Was it time to make this an air force to fear? There would surely be money in that.

NBA Dramatique: An Introduction

2008-10-01T10:45:00.000-05:00

I started my little blog here just to have a place where I could put my own two cents in regarding the activities of the NBA. I’ve liked having that place, but there have been a number of things working against me being able to turn the page into what I ultimately wanted it to be – a well-known forum for fans of my favorite sport to convene and converse. For starters, I wasn’t posting anything on a regular basis. I’ve always been a procrastinator, and the blog was certainly a victim. I’ve had big, big changes sweep through my life since I started the blog, and I wasn’t making a priority of my writing. Secondly, I didn’t see much point in busting my butt to put information out there that any web-savvy basketball fan could find on a dozen other sites. I realized that I needed to find a unique voice if I was going to bother speaking on the subject. I gave it a lot of thought over the summer, and I found the idea I was looking for.

What I’m going to attempt here is a fictionalized account of the NBA season as it happens. I don’t think this is going to interest everyone, but it interests me. I hope that my enthusiasm translates into something that at least a few people will enjoy following.

This idea came to me by looking for a way that I could express just how impressive and dramatic I find the game. I thought about the things that entertained me, not just in basketball, but all around. I've always liked stories. When I was a boy, I especially liked myths and other tales of heroic drama. I was a huge comic book fan for many years. Even as a kid playing with G.I. Joe or He-Man action figures, the story came first for me. I would think up plots or copy them from comics or shows, and then I would tell my younger brother what we needed to accomplish in that play session. Ridiculous, right? But this has carried over into many aspects of my adult life, and watching the NBA season unfold has never (for me) just been about guys playing a game. There are story-lines all over the place, and the more of them you know, the more you can enjoy what happens. I've tried to inject an other-worldly element into how I'll describe the game to you as a way of trying to express how awe-inspiring I believe the sport to be. I wanted to be able to show the super-human and fantastic elements of professional basketball without falling into the clichéd and over-used descriptions of the play-by-play commentator.

Here is a very important disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. The story will unfold in a way that is inspired by the real-world events of the NBA, but it is not necessarily meant to be seen as an editorial statement on the teams or players as portrayed. I don’t know any of the people that work for the NBA or play professional basketball. The names I use are representations of characters, inspired by real people, but not meant to be a reflection of any real person’s thoughts, attitudes, actions, or behavior. Think of it as a big epic fantasy sci-fi war story that I cast using the stars of the NBA. I love this game and I love the league, and the last thing I want is to offend anyone that is a real participant in the game. That being said, I have to make bad guys out of some of these people for dramatic effect. It’s nothing personal.

I’ll begin things by posting an introduction to one team each day leading up to the beginning of the season. My plan is to continue the story on a daily or near daily basis, all the way through the last game of the finals. I hope you enjoy this as the season progresses, and I hope I can see it through to the end. I’d love to get your feedback on what you think of the story.

Wow. That Would be Crazy.

2008-09-30T20:57:00.005-05:00

NBA.com has a page up right now detailing what happened when they let NBA Live 09 simulate the upcoming season. It's funny and a little insane and there would be some serious craziness if things really shook out like that in the East. Check it out.

Josh Howard is Sorry

2008-09-29T19:19:00.002-05:00

ESPN is reporting that Dallas Mavericks forward Josh Howard is apologizing for "everything that's happened in the past five months."

Thanks, Josh. That whole $700 billion dollar bail-out thing had me worried. I'm glad you took responsibility. All those Chinese babies with the tainted milk probably appreciate your apology too. And when I quit my job at the beginning of June and shook my life around like dice in a Yahtzee cup - man, I've been waiting for you to step up on that one.

But seriously, I don't think Howard has anything to apologize for. No harm came to anyone as a result of his activities over the past five months, as far as I'm aware. So in my book there's no need to say you're sorry.

In my opinion, I think we owe you an apology, Josh. I'd like to speak for many when I say we're sorry. We're sorry that you've grown into adulthood with some bad misconceptions. It's unfortunate that you have not been taught that reckless actions, like street racing, could put many people (in addition to yourself) in harm's way. Even if you think it's weak to be concerned with other people's safety, why don't you care more about your own health? Why don't you care that you have been gifted with physical ability surpassing billions of people? Not only do you participate in dangerous driving, but you do damage to your lungs and possibly your brain when you smoke weed. I'm sorry that no one ever took the time to explain that to you, or if they did, I'm sorry that they didn't make you realize that they were telling you that because they cared about you. I'm on no soapbox. I've done both of those things that you did, Josh. I was lucky enough to either realize on my own or have people help me understand that I was putting myself in danger by participating in those activities. I was lucky enough that my mistakes weren't on the news. So I think we should be sorry for making a big deal out of things that are hopefully youthful indiscretions.

The thing that people have really wanted to talk about is your comment on the Star-Spangled Banner. I'm a white guy but, in a way, I share your sentiment. I stand up at a game when the lights go down and they want to perform the Star-Spangled Banner. I can show that much respect. But I don't put my hand on my heart and I don't sing. In my opinion, and an unpopular one it's sure to be, that level of involvement crosses over from respect to jingoism. I choose silence as a commentary on my disappointment with the American government, and my belief that our nation's leaders have failed to lead for many, many years. Now, my opinion my be just as hated as the one that you expressed. The difference though is that I've explained myself a little, and could explain my position further if questioned. I'm sorry for you that your political leaders, teachers, friends, and your parents have not helped you develop an eloquence that would have allowed you to make a statement on the dissonance between race relations and American patriotism. Instead, your statement that you don't participate because you're black comes across as being simple, ill-informed, and nonsensical. Really, I suppose, that's exactly what it is, and that's why I think the apology is owed to you, not the other way around. You're young and full of opinions that you don't yet have the experience and wisdom to be quoted on in a national forum. It's everyone else's fault that you were quoted anyway. Not yours. I'm also sorry that angry and ignorant commentary was directed at you after those comments were made public that probably made you feel somewhat justified in making them. As a nation, and as human beings, we should all be above that.

Apologize only to yourself for making choices that diminish your self-worth. Seek out the wisdom of books and people who have lived through harder things than you have. No one can tell you that your opinions are wrong, but you should come to the argument with the proper tools to defend those opinions.

So long, White Chocolate

2008-09-26T21:09:00.002-05:00

The word out of L.A. this evening is that Jason Williams is hanging up his sneakers after a ten-year career in the NBA. I only knew Jason's game from the 05-06 Heat, but from what I've read, he was a real show-off. I mean that in a good way. Williams was probably not the ideal point guard and was probably a coach's nightmare, but I'll always have some appreciation for him because of that title run he made with Miami.

So, Jason, if you're really going away for good, I wish you the best. You helped make my little brother (a Heat fan) love the game of basketball, and I appreciate you doing that. Maybe you looked at the situation you were going into with the Clippers and realized that your best days in the NBA were behind you. Just remember, no matter what anyone might say about your career now that it's over, you were a champion. Good luck.

Who I Want to Win

2008-09-21T16:14:00.004-05:00

Some people only watch one particular team. If that team isn't playing, the rest of the basketball world makes no difference to them. I consider that to be an emotional attachment without context. I'm interested in the records of at least half the league, either hoping they win or hoping they don't. Mostly, though, the team that I'm pulling for is directly related to who they are playing. I'd like to put my preferences in a list form, as best as I can. If you're at the top of the list, I want you to win. If you're at the bottom, I hope you lose. So if team 8 plays team 12, I'm hoping team 8 wins. If team 12 plays team 17, I'm hoping team 12 wins.

Here's what I'm feeling right now, before the first game happens. This is subject to change during the course of the season.

Spurs
Trailblazers
Heat
Wizards
Cavaliers
Celtics
Knicks
Suns
76ers
Rockets
Thunder
Grizzlies
Bucks
Timberwolves
Raptors
Magic
Hawks
Bobcats
Hornets
Bulls
Nets
Warriors
Clippers
Pacers
Lakers
Nuggets
Kings
Pistons
Mavericks
Jazz

These are not predictions! Not power rankings! I know the Jazz could stomp most of the teams listed above them, so could the Mavs and Pistons and Lakers. This is just how the season would shake out if I had my choice. I'm a little iffy on that 1-2 combo. I really like the way the Blazers are going to come out this year.

If it all turned out the way I wanted, either the Spurs or the Blazers would face the Suns in the Western Conference Finals, with the Suns losing in 7. The east would have Miami and D.C. face off for 6 games (it's almost funny to type that). The winner of the west would win the finals in 4 games.

However, if I were going to make predictions now, before the first game even tips off, this is my guess:

The Eastern Conference will find the Pistons facing the Cavaliers. Although the Cavs will make a dominant push through the play-offs, the Pistons will recognize that their championship window is closing and dig down deep to overcome Cleveland in six games.

In the West, youth causes serious upsets. Despite the notion that they're too inexperienced to go deep into the postseason, the Trailblazers (passing the Spurs in a surprising 4 games) enter the Conference Finals against the also young Hornets (dispatching the Lakers in six games). Hornets win in five and proceed to the Finals, where Detroit closes a five-year gap in championship celebrations.

In June, we can probably all look back at this and have a good laugh.

Offseason Activity

2008-09-15T14:44:00.002-05:00

I'm breaking my silence a little to drop a few lines on offseason drama. There won't be too much of this kind of thing on my blog once my special project ramps up in October, but one of my friends is looking for something to read, so he's nudged me into posting this. As always, I'd love to have you make your own comments in response to what I have to say.

First, here's some things that haven't happened...yet.

Miami trades...

As of this writing, Miami hasn't done a thing to bring in any real help. They got Beasley in the draft (unproven, immature?), brought in Magloire (washed up, inflated ego?), and resigned Quinn (pretty much a bench guy), but everyone has expected them to make a deal that has yet to materialize. With Beasley, Marion, Haslem, and Dorell Wright all apparently having some value as trade pieces, Miami has done surprisingly little to improve at point guard and center. My guess is that Riley wants to see this team perform, and see if his guys will step up where needed. I think also he's eager to see what kind of rapport the players develop with Spoelstra in his new role as head coach. Once we're a few months in, Riley can re-examine the Heat's assets and liabilities, gauge the likelihood of a contribution from Alonzo Mourning, and capitalize on other teams' dissapointing starts.

Ben Gordon plays for...

Ben Gordon is in a terrible spot. It's called "Chicago." Ben wants money that the Bulls don't want to spend, and they seem perfectly willing to say "Alright, Ben. I guess we'll catch you later" because they know he's not worth as much as he wants, they know no other team can pay him what he wants, and they totally caught his agent bluffing on the whole playing-in-Russia thing. That team is in bad shape. They absolutely fell apart last year, they have poor team chemistry, and they're going to be working with a brand-new coach. There's also a young new guard in town who comes with the pressure of being the number one draft pick. It's going to be absolutely crucial, I think, for the coach to connect with the young guys in a way that Skiles couldn't. He has to inject a stronger sense of team into the Bulls or they're going to continue sucking. Gordon needs to decide if he wants to be a part of their rejuvenation, and if so he needs to accept less money and dedicate himself to being a positive component. If he can't make that choice, I think the Bulls would be happy to decide to leave him waiting at the curb.

Remember that lousy GM?

Now that the Isaiah era is over in New York, Walsh and D'Antoni are going to be trying like hell to fix his mistakes. Marbury is problem number one, Z-Bo is problem number two. Here's the thing with Randolph: the only reason he made it to New York was because Isaiah didn't have the sense to say no. Portland had a young team with a lot of promise, Randolph was locker room cancer, and they decided to get that guy the hell away fom the young, good players that they had assembled. Everyone knew Randolph was trouble, but Isaiah didn't care. I don't think Portland could have unloaded his issues on anyone else. True, they had to take Steve Francis, but they just bought out his trouble-making ass for a lot less than they would have paid to waive Randolph and the Blazers got Channing Frye out of it! I think that Donnie Walsh sees himself in a situation similar to Portland's when they dumped Zach. I think that he would prefer to get rid of Marbury and Randolph both and never think of them again. I'm sure, though, that he doesn't want to spend money to get rid of them knowing that another GM will pick them up at a bargain rate and he'll have nothing to show for it. The Knicks are going to have to find a way to convince some team that the risk is worth it, and that means playing these guys. Regardless of how they produce, though, the Knicks aren't going to keep either player any longer than they have to.

I'll throw some more opinions out in a few days. Talk to you soon.

Things to come...

2008-09-09T10:14:00.002-05:00

I just wanted to make a quick post here for a short announcement. I've been purposely quiet on this page since the end of last season. I wanted to take some time to think about my approach to this blog and how I could make a unique niche for myself in the over-populated world of basketball/NBA/sports blogs. The web is full of them, really. I've come up with something that I think is pretty interesting, and I've had a lot of fun thinking up my particular approach. I'll go into more detail at a later date, but I hope it's something that a lot of people can enjoy. If it's not to your taste, there's plenty of other websites out there for you to visit. I'll be silent here for the rest of the month, but you (and I!) should expect posts every day beginning in October. I hope to see you then.

This one’s in the books!

2008-06-18T17:39:00.001-05:00

The Boston Celtics brought an end to the 2007-2008 NBA season last night by achieving their 17^th championship, and crushing the L.A. Lakers in the process. I have to say that I wanted this to happen all year. I said to several people throughout the season that the only way I wouldn’t be pulling for the Celtics to win it all was if they had to face the Spurs at the end. Even if they had faced the Spurs, I would have been happy with either team winning the title. Really, it wasn’t Boston and it wasn’t the Celtics that I was rooting for. I wanted to see Kevin Garnett become a champion. I wanted to see Ray Allen become a champion. I wanted to see Paul Pierce become a champion. Those guys, especially Garnett, always seemed to have a quiet struggle within themselves between knowing that they could do it and sensing that they would never get the chance. I’m very happy that they got the chance and made the most of it.

I hadn’t started the blog yet when all of the trades went down, so I have no proof for what I’m going to write next. When Boston traded for Ray Allen, I didn’t really get it. I know I wasn’t the only person to think it was a bad move. As much of a scorer Allen has been in his career, I felt that he was an old guy with lingering injuries that wasn’t going to put the Celtics in any different situation than they were already in. When they got KG, I was impressed. I was excited for Garnett, Pierce, Allen, and the Celtics franchise. I thought they had a really good shot at the title. When they signed James Posey, I was almost certain that they would win it. That might sound crazy, and I’ve heard things about Posey that indicate he’s not always well thought of, but I see him differently. I became familiar with Posey when he played for the Miami Heat two years ago when they took the title. I’ve written in earlier posts about seeing that Heat team scrape their way to the top of the heap, and James Posey’s three-point shooting was a big part of Miami’s story that year. I knew when the Celtics got Posey, they were a major threat. Pat Riley knew it too and was quoted saying so. Jeff Van Gundy said the same thing last night, and I pointed at the screen and shouted “that’s right!” My girlfriend looked at me like I was a crazy person.

So congratulations to the Celtics, to the city of Boston, to Garnett, Pierce, Allen, Posey, House, Rondo, Davis, Powe, Brown, and the rest of the team. Congratulations to the fans of the Celtics and to everyone who enjoyed the story of the season as it played out.

This blog was something that I have wanted to get going for a while now, and I have high hopes for it next season. My posting was really sporadic, and I’m not ever going to get anyone other than family and friends to read it if I don’t make it more active. Next year is going to be a break-out year for me and for NBA on the Brain. Thanks for reading, and keep your eye on this space. As news comes out over the summer, I’ll get some more posts up. I can’t write much about the draft because I am willfully ignorant of college basketball. I don’t know a thing about any of the guys in the draft pool except a few of their names. But trades will happen, coaching moves may still occur, and there will be things to talk about. That being said, it’s way too early to begin talking about next season, but I do have some gut feelings that I’m going to put out there now. We’ll see how the moves of the summer affect my opinions by opening night of 08-09.

Prediction 1: Celtics don’t repeat. These guys knew this year that this was their best chance to win a title. It was now or never. That drove them to the title, but next year won’t have the same sense of urgency, and those old guys are going to be one more year closer to retirement.

Prediction 2: Portland is going to tear it up. I’ve been telling people that Portland is going to be crushing dreams next year. I think with Oden, Roy, Aldridge, Webster, Fernandez, and to a degree, Frye and Przybilla, they’ve got a pretty insane team. I think they could probably use another seasoned vet on the roster for guidance, but I can’t wait to watch them play.

Prediction 3: San Antonio will scare me. I think they need to do some serious work this summer. I didn’t like the look of the team at all this year. Too much reliance on older players that just didn’t have the juice anymore. The Spurs are going to either struggle in the early part of the season with bringing new components into the fold, and then breaking into a streak of mind-numbing dominance after the all-star break, OR they’re going to look sloppy and old all year and possibly even miss the play-offs. The Western Conference is not getting any worse and the other teams are looking at the Spurs like the sick animal in the pack.

Prediction 4: These teams will be better next season: Atlanta, Chicago, Miami, New York, Portland. These teams will be worse: Boston, Denver, Detroit, Phoenix, San Antonio.

I’m already looking forward to it. Talk to you soon.

Worst blogger ever.

2008-04-27T21:15:00.002-05:00

Yeah. That's me. I blogged this year like the Heat played basketball. Practically not at all. I'm not going to make a bunch of excuses, I'm just going to say that I didn't live up to my own expectations. The guys over at Hardwood Paroxysm posted blogger awards last week, and it will be my goal to be on their list this time next year. Wish me luck.

The first round is well underway, so my two cents about things so far:

Pistons/Sixers - No one expected this to be a contest, except maybe the Sixers. Detroit is one of three teams that I love to see lose, so I'm happy this series isn't going completely their way. Go Sixers.

Magic/Raptors - Don't care. I really don't. Both teams can play an impressive game, both teams have impressive players. Neither team has a snowball's chance in hell of going all the way. Orlando will Probably take this round.

Celtics/Hawks - The Celtics are going to tear through these playoffs. There is no doubt in my mind. And the only way I'll be rooting against them in the Finals is if they're facing San Antonio. Still, there's no excuse for dropping a game to Atlanta, even if it's in Atlanta. Go Celts.

Cavs/Wizards - This one is really getting to me. As a team, the Wizards are superior to the Cavaliers. As a player, LeBron James is superior to the Wizards. I think that Washington should be tearing Cleveland apart, but it's not happening because LeBron isn't letting it happen. The Wizards are also being hurt, I think, by Gilbert Arenas (knee) and DeShawn Stevenson(mouth). I would like to see the Wizards win this one, but I really just want the series to end now so I don't have to listen to any more middle-aged men talk about Soulja Boy and Jay-Z.

Lakers/Nuggets - I think the Nuggets are pure garbage. Not all of them as individuals - Iverson is amazing and I think Anthony could be insanely great in a different environment. I don't like the Nuggets because I think their team culture ruins potential. They have a collection of negative personalities and a coach that either can't or won't keep those personalities in check, so until a major change is made in the Nuggets organization that team will flounder. And in doing so they will have squandered years of talent from some incredible players. Go Lakers.

Jazz/Rockets - I wanted to see Houston win this series until T-Mac went on his "woe is me" sarcastic diatribe a few days ago. Screw that guy. He's a loser. Go Jazz.

Hornets/Mavericks - Dallas is another team that I enjoy seeing lose under any and all circumstances. I can respect Dirk, and I had respect for Devin Harris when he was on the team, but I don't like the attitude of the rest of the team. They're smug pricks, and I like to see them crumble in the playoffs. I seriously don't think I've enjoyed any playoff series more than I enjoyed last year's disassembly by the Golden State Warriors. It was exquisite. Go Hornets.

Spurs/Suns - hahahahahahahahahahahaha!! I'm loving it. Ok, admittedly, San Antonio played like turd today. And those first two games were serious tests of faith to sit through and hope for the win. But they did it. Never give up on the Spurs. Never. I have a soft spot for the Suns. They're a good team and I learned a lot about the game through that team. But the Spurs own their asses in the post-season. They just do, and you can see it all in the actions of Amare Stoudemire. His frustration every time he gets whistled for a foul is almost a physical object tumbling out of his mouth. He knows deep inside that if they just get past the Spurs, they probably win it all, and yet the Spurs manage to put him down every single time, and it is breaking his heart. It's breaking his spirit. This series isn't over yet, but I could see in Amare's pre-game body language that he knows the Spurs are still just a little bit better than his team. Go Spurs go!

The Spurs Rule

2008-02-19T22:21:00.002-06:00

I watched pieces of the game tonight in San Antonio against Charlotte. Let me tell you - not terribly impressive. The Spurs held the Bobcats to a season-low 65 points, but dude, it was the Bobcats.

The Spurs are my team. I tell people often that there are two things to keep in mind if you are going to be a Spurs fan. Number 1: Never worry about the win/loss record until after the All-Star break. Number 2: Never worry about the score until the end of the 3rd quarter. After watching them for a few years I've learned that they don't usually turn the heat on until late. All-Star weekend tends to be the point of the season that they really get rolling, especially since the two weeks prior to the break are spent on the road while the rodeo inhabits the AT&T Center. The road-trip gets everyone to gel, the All-Star break gives 'em a breather, and then it's time to start killing. The game tonight held true to the standard rules, but it wasn't pretty. The Spurs won, and they won it mostly in the fourth. Defense helped the Spurs tonight, but their shooting percentage sure didn't. This is not a game that I feel bad for barely watching.

Up next for the Spurs are the T-Wolves. We'll see if that game is any more impressive. Hornets follow and that one won't be anywhere near as easy.

Back to it...I hope.

2008-02-18T20:01:00.003-06:00

Today is the day after All-Star Weekend. It is also my birthday. Both occasions give me reason to look back, and examine what has come before while taking a look at what I hope is to come. I started this blog at the beginning of the NBA season with every intention of posting regular commentary on the 07-08 season. Obviously things didn't go the way I expected. Before I get to the basketball stuff, I'll tell you a little bit about the things that have been happening in my life that have kept me away from the keyboard, because I know you care.

This year I decided against ordering NBA League Pass after having it for the past two. When I have the option of watching basketball every night of the week, sometimes 4 or 5 games in one day, then I watch basketball every night of the week, sometimes 4 or 5 games in one day. While this hasn't been that big of a deal in the past, I moved in with my girlfriend in November, and I felt that much time in front of the t.v. might not be a great way to get our home in order. I like spending time with her, I like being able to have focused conversations with her, and I like being able to interact with her and her son, at times other than commercial breaks. She is a great woman, but still a woman, and doesn't care enough about basketball to watch it for four to twelve hours on a daily basis. Add to that the cost of League Pass against the costs of building a home together, and you'll start to see why I decided to let it go for a year. There are a lot of teams and players that I haven't seen at all this season, so most of my knowledge of the league comes from reading about the games on-line.

I've also been bogged down at work to the point of mental collapse. For almost two months now I've been working 10 - 12 hour days with no lunch breaks, and often going in on weekends. I would really like to find another job with less demands on my time and my brain, but if you see the above paragraph, you'll also see that a job change right now could be a major set-back. I'm typing this at 8:20 p.m., and when I'm done, I've brought work home with me that will keep me up well into the night.

I've had an ex-wife come out of the buried past and she was talking about wanting to see me, talk to me, get back together, etc. That was some seriously out-of-left-field stuff that I hadn't expected.

I feel like I've gotten a lot older this year. I've had a great time, made new friends, and experienced new things. I'm happy with most aspects of my life, but whenever I have really good things going on, it casts a brighter light on the things that I'm not happy with, and I stress the fuck out.

Writing is what I really like to do. I feel that I'm reasonably good at it, and I had hoped to use my blog to exercise that writing muscle on a near-daily schedule. It didn't work out that way over the past four months, but I'm going to try to get it back on track.

NOW, the NBA stuff. Finally.

The first half of this season has been a blast. The West is insane, with more competition and uncertainty than I've previously seen. There's really no way to feel confident in predicting which eight teams are going to make the play-offs. Will Portland hang on? Can the Nuggets live up to the potential that everyone thinks they have? Did the Suns already set? Are my Spurs finally as old as everyone says they are, or are they sticking to the slow and steady plan they seem to use every year? Are the Lakers back? With the trades that have been flying, and probably a few more to come, the second half of the season is going to be a real dogfight in the West. In the East, the only story is how far Boston is going to go. Detroit, Orlando, and Cleveland are the only other teams that I think pose a threat, and even they have to hope for an upset against the Celtics. KG has fire in his belly that an abdominal strain isn't about to get rid of.

I want to talk about the big trades that we've seen so far but I think I'll save that for tomorrow. I also want to talk about my hierarchy of favorites. Right now I'm tired, and I have work to do.