NaNoWriMo Part Six

Completely forgot to mention that I failed NaNoWriMo. And rather spectacularly, I might add. Giving up after around 15 000 words really sucks... but hey, at least this year's word count was far better than previous years. And at least I've built a really solid foundation for an idea that's been rolling around in my head for years and years and years. That said, here's a bit more of what I've written. Enjoy.

Martin took off his seatbelt after some turbulence had subsided, and, becoming quite relaxed, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the headrest of the seat ahead of him. He began looking around trying to come to terms with how there was not a single soul in the passenger cabin other than him. He kind of liked the peace. He took out his pocket Bible and placed it on the arm rest after flipping through it, and got up, taking off his sunglasses and resting them on top of his glistening head. He stretched, yawning. He was almost in a fluster not knowing what he should do next, and then it dawned on him. To the rum! he said silently in his head, and he went to investigate at the back end of the cabin.

He saw the bathrooms on his way to the small kitchen room. There were two of them, as clean as a repentant sinner. The toilet was sparkling, and the sink was free of scum. Martin, having not had the privilege of using a clean bathroom in months, was rather astonished at this prospect. He’d have to take a leak in one of them later. Perhaps after finishing a bottle of rum?

The kitchen galley was incredibly cramped. There was a microwave, a fridge, and a few cupboards. Martin investigated the fridge first. There was no visible sign of any rum anywhere in cold storage. Martin shoved a few things aside. Chicken and fish dinners, sodas, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of whiskey. He found no rum. Nothing. He began to worry a bit, and a drop of sweat beaded on his brow as if it had suddenly gotten hot, and he closed the fridge. No worries. He’ll check the cupboards; after all, the fridge was pretty full. Maybe a stewardess had put it somewhere else because his request was so late notice.

He searched the cupboards, and nothing. He found a few drinking glasses embroidered with the airline’s logo, plastic cutlery, kiddie straws and cheap napkins, but nothing that even vaguely resembled sweet, sweet rum. How hard was it to get a quart of rum nowadays on an airline? It wasn’t like he specifically requested that Cuban stuff (although he was actually really fond of it). Martin had enough, slamming one of the cupboard doors after retrieving one of the drinking glasses. He went back to the fridge, bringing out the vodka and a can of cola. He mixed two parts liquor and one part soda, and made sure to put everything back where he found it.

Mission accomplished. Somewhat, he finished the thought. Martin took his makeshift drink back to his seat and put it in the cup holder. He picked up his Bible and flipped through it again, although more slowly this time. He wanted to try and find a passage best fit to his description, but his disappointment was too great to allow him any specific thought other than contempt for the lazy stewardess who messed up his only request. He put God’s book back down and sighed, taking a drink of his stiff concoction. He should have brought the communion wine along with him. At least it had more of a dignified taste.

But this will do, he thought, after taking a drink and relishing its strength. He smacked his lips and became suddenly tired. He felt the alcohol running through his blood already, his face blushing because of the severity of his mixture. It had been a long time since he had drank the Russian drink; he hadn’t had vodka since the chilly mornings of his trip to Siberia with… Mary. Jesus Christ, it all comes back to Mary eventually, doesn’t it? Forgive me Lord, he thought and took another drink, this time just a sip. He looked around at his surroundings once more, looking past the window near his seat and reveling in the sight of pure, white fluffy clouds.

Then there was a sharp thud, and Martin awoke from his slumber. He looked at his drink in the cup holder: empty. He must’ve dozed off watching the heavens, he figured. He looked around for his Bible, eventually realizing that it was back in his pocket. There was another thud. Turbulence began to shake the plane wildly.

“What in blazes is going on?” Martin thought out loud, getting up from his seat. He remembered his suitcase in the overhead compartment, but decided it would be safer for him to leave it there. Something was suspicious. He lurched forward to the pilot’s cabin, and that’s when Martin realized he was kind of drunk. His head was spinning so much he could have sworn the turbulence was a figment of his intoxication. But he knew it was real, especially when a violent shake threw him against a chair on the opposite end of the aisle.

“Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch!” Martin massaged his head, which had just struck one of the overhead compartments, in a feeble attempt to wash away the throbbing pain. It was certainly a different kind of drunk he wasn’t used to. And he certainly didn’t think about a worst case scenario such as this. If he was lucky, he’d be dead before he reached the cockpit.

He trudged on, enduring another violent fit of turbulence. He slid the door to the cockpit open, and walked in. “Whoa. Whoa man. Oh no. Oh no,” he plainly said as he waltzed in. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He took off his sunglasses, hoping it was merely an illusion, putting them back on and off repeatedly. “No no no no no.” He finally took them off, placing them on top of his glistening head, and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. There was no one in the pilot’s seat, controlling the plane.

Martin closed the door behind him. “No no no no no no no no no no no!” He nervously stammered as he sat down in the pilot’s seat; a reactionary movement. He then clearly recognized what he was doing. “What am I doing?” He repeated his thoughts aloud. He looked at the dials and levels and control sticks, and realized he didn’t know any of it, not one bit.

“What am I doing?” He yelled again, and took one of the flight sticks in his hand. He jerked the stick towards him, and the plane pulled back sharply. Martin could feel the force of gravity pulling on his skin. He heard a distinct rumbling and rolling in the passenger cabin, but paid no mind. He had a plane to fly, damn it!

Almost suddenly, perhaps slowly because Martin couldn’t understand the fluidity of time in his current state, the clouds changed from harmless and fluffy and fun to dark and menacing and demonic. Lightning flashed and rain began to speck against the windshield. Martin, almost beginning to panic, breathed deeply, tightened his grip on the control stick, and summoned his rock hard confidence once more. It finally dawned on him that it probably wasn’t vodka he was drinking. He jolted the control stick to the right, avoiding a hypothetical lightning strike. The rain did nothing to hamper his view, and the claps of thunder did nothing to dent his newfound confidence.

Then, all of a sudden, the door behind him slid open. “What in the fucking hell are you doing, laddy?” said a Scottish accent. Martin looked back to see a portly man who was managing to squeeze through the cockpit’s entrance. Martin stared at him blankly, still holding onto the plane’s controls, watching him struggle to fit through. “What, what are you doing?” The fat man repeatedly asked. He finally pushed through and grab Martin by the shoulders and threw him off with three hundred pounds of force. “I can’t go for a fucking leak for two minutes without having some drunk fly the plane? Are you out of your fucking mind, laddy?” He sat down in his rightful seat.

Martin sat in the co-pilot’s chair to the right. “I’m perfectly in my mind.” Martin managed to say. He couldn’t feel his lips. He couldn’t feel his hands. Something was definitely wrong. “I don’t think I was drinking vodka.” He said, obviously enchanted by the obvious drugs he had consumed earlier.

The fat Scottish pilot leveled the plane, looking over to Martin constantly in astonishment, trying to divide his attention between the priest and the heavens. “That was you?” He pointed a sausaged finger. “That was you who drank my special stash?”

“Special stash?” Martin asked. “There was a special stash?” He winced his brows.

“I put my… uh, medicine in there.” The fat man suddenly got nervous. “But never mind, we’re almost to Australia.”

“You mean Austria.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Martin’s heart skipped and he lost his unusual usual confidence. There were no vampires in Australia. As it turned out, the pilot was as every bit incompetent as Martin was when he was drunk and drugged. “Are we going to be alright?” Martin asked, his word slurring a bit.

“Alright? You steered us right into a lightning storm! Is that your idea of alright, laddy?” The fat man asked, yelling at the top of his lungs. “We’ll be very lucky if we turn out—“

And then there was a loud crack, and the lights in the cockpit went out, and the thrum of engines whined down. And then there was only the sound of raindrops until a moment later when another clap of thunder resounded through the cabin. Martin could feel the plane dip down, the force of gravity pulling him upwards. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit up, creating a soft glow in which he could see the fat man’s worried face. Martin’s confidence always returned in the face of certain death. “I guess we better hang on to something then, right?”

Opening Whole New (And Sometimes Old) Worlds

I recently purchased the Metal Gear Solid HD Collection for my Xbox. I popped in the disc, extremely excited to experience these games for the first time ever. I had always wanted to play through the PlayStation classics since I played The Twin Snakes on the GameCube long, long ago, and because I’ve had a copy of Guns of the Patriots sitting on my shelf untouched for about two years now. I popped in the disc, sat down, and awaited to play Sons of Liberty. I watched a cut scene, and watched another, and then a codec sequence, then a light tutorial that only glazed over the control scheme, then another cut scene, and then another codec sequence. It took me twelve God damn minutes to gain control of my character. Twelve. Fucking. Minutes.

Let me just say that I did expect this. Metal Gear, after all, is a Hideo Kojima game. Lengthy exposition is his lifeblood. If it were any other game, however, I would throw a tantrum. It’s torture, essentially, second only to the likes of pepper spray and waterboarding. Though my claims may be slightly exaggerated, there’s no denying that a good game usually has you in its grips within the first few minutes. Halo has you on the go in about a minute. A Link to the Past and Super Mario Bros. has you start within seconds. And the grand-daddy of them all, Braid, let’s you begin playing immediately from the start screen. These are the games that live forever in the memory of gamers. These are the games that have such a lasting impression, because their openings illustrate what it’s all about.

This makes me recall the greatest opening scene of all time in film history, from the original Star Wars. Right away, you knew what you were getting from that movie: an adventurous tale in space. All from a simple long take of a big starship running away from an even bigger starship, all set to the sounds of flurrying lasers and a grand, thundering orchestra. Star Wars has, by all definitions, the perfect opening, and I think game developers should try more to emulate it.

The issue that video games have is the notion of the start screen, being the first thing a player usually encounters in a game aside from maybe a demo reel. Granted, some games handle their start screens rather well, illustrating the feel of the game exceptionally well while not allowing any player control. Metroid Prime is a stellar example. It manages to convey the overall tone rather well, with its hypnotic, tingling music and red-and-black DNA imagery effectively coming together to convey a very scientific kind of isolation. When the player presses a button to go to the save selection screen, the spine-tingling music makes a dramatic tonal shift, turning into an overdramatic choir that suggests a sense of discovery and overcoming of the fears that seem to have been perpetuated by the first start screen. It effectively recreates the sensation of Metroid games; the player traverses through unfamiliar alien environments, eventually coming across an upgrade that may or may not enlighten a pathway to the next level. Prime’s start screen, then, is effective in foreshadowing the series traditional structure.

Another example, more recent and simplistic this time, is Nintendo’s Super Mario 3D Land, although it takes a more direct approach rather than Metroid Prime’s more subtle queues. The game combines the traditional demo reel and start screen into a fantastic introduction to its mechanics and visual style; Mario is seen in the background doing his jumping thing, acquiring a Tanooki suit and using its powers among other elements. It’s brief, but eloquent and useful, skipping the tedium of a forced tutorial. In addition to the reel—and in the spirit of Super Mario 64’s stretch demo—the player can choose to play around in a small constrained world that quickly demonstrates the Escher inspired visual mechanics.

Nintendo is pretty big on immediately expressing exactly what their game is to the player before they even start. Other Japanese developers aren’t quite as resourceful or successful in this area. Squaresoft used to, and to an extent still do, express the story in their games quite early on, cementing the overall tone of the plot and atmosphere as well as showing off the visual fidelity of games such as Final Fantasy VI and Chrono Trigger rather well, but not touching on the nuances on their structure or design. Final Fantasy VI actually forces the player to sit through a credit sequence before starting the actual game, showing off the once impressive Mode 7 graphics which surprisingly turned out to be a big part of the game. This is mostly forgivable, since story was and is a focus for Squaresoft (now Square Enix) and many other Japanese developers, such as Kojima Productions and Namco’s Tales teams.

But so far, the only examples I’ve illustrated have openings that do not let the player start right away: there’s always a demo reel or star screen that provides a barrier between the player and the experience. This, I think, should be removed for the benefit of the player. Take Jonathan Blow’s Braid, for instance, a game that decidedly breaks this barrier in a rather spectacular way. Blow decides to keep the traditional start screen but does not keep its traditional function as a barrier, and instead he lets players take control of Tim immediately. Blow has effectively fused the game and the start screen together, seamlessly and expertly, much like a filmmaker who injects the audience into a film without so much explaining who made it, what it is, or what’s going on. Instead of following directions such as “Press A to Start”, the player is encouraged to explore the controls, to see which button does what, engaging them from the moment the game boots up. Even the level selection is built directly into the gameplay, rather than being treated as a separate entity outside of the game itself. It’s an experience designed to make the player think twice about how a game can be structured. More importantly, it allows the game to feel like a more wholesome product because there’s nothing standing in the way between it and the player.

That isn’t to say that the start screen should be totally eradicated from the face of the earth. The Star Wars films still has its equivalent of the start screen in the form of gigantic yellow font flying through space. It has the same function, then, as Metroid Prime or Super Mario 3D Land in that it gives the audience a specific idea as to what they’re about to partake in. Also, like Metroid Prime and Super Mario 3D Land, Star Wars wastes no time getting to the action after the initial “demo”. Some games fail to do this, punishing the player by making them sit through a long cut scene rather than get straight into the game. Halo does this on the more tolerable level, keeping its opening sweet and short and to the point. The Metal Gear Solid games are the more extreme example, taunting the player who wants to play by forcing them to sit through several minutes worth of cut scenes. And it’s worth mentioning that Metal Gear Solid does this kind of prolonged exposition well. Other games, mostly, do not.

In the broadest sense, the opening of a video game should be the magical moment for a player, and also the most helpful. It lets them understand what kind of adventure they’re about to partake in, whether it’s a simplistic, cheerful puzzler, or a foreboding, isolated trek through sci-fi worlds. We can look to games like Metal Gear Solid and Metroid Prime and Braid to see just how much variety a developer can inject into an opening. The perfect opening, I might add, comes not from these games, but the games that do not yet exist; the game that puts the player smack dab into the middle of something they’re not familiar with, and encourages them to explore and familiarize themselves at their own leisure. That is the perfect video game opening.

The Rising Skies of Content

It all seems so dream-like, playing Skyward Sword, especially after five years of painful waiting, murky rumors, and cringing reveals. Link’s latest adventure finally arrived only a few days ago, and I’ve managed to pour a few hours into the massive journey. Like Skyrim the week before, I’ve only played enough to give my most basic impressions, but don’t let my meager time with the game fool you: Skyward Sword is most definitely the peak of Zelda games thus far, and it’s a lock that it will remain a classic.

The first few hours of Skyward are about as welcoming as any Zelda game can get. Right off the bat, you’re introduced to a Zelda game that doesn’t have awkward animations or scenes or dialogue. Instead, these characters are wonderfully animated, and more appropriately designed, unlike the mess of characters in Twilight Princess (sorry Malo) and more like the superb cast in Wind Waker (even the lovable Beedle shows up). The music is another improvement you’ll notice right away: the orchestrated tracks are a nice addition, adding to the Disney-like charm of the game. You’ll recognize some tunes here and there, but Yakoto’s score is mostly sparkling new, from the invigorating over world beat to the haunting melody in the first dungeon to the heart-melting romantic theme that plays when Zelda and Link share a precious and surprising moment of sexual tension. The use of music is also used in an incredibly dynamic way, changing or adding instruments seamlessly when you near an enemy in the clouds, or land a successful strike on a Bokoblin, or approach a vendor in the bazaar. All these instances are used to a great effect, either by revealing something about the gameplay to the player, or forcing them into a specific emotional state. Nintendo knows how to use music, and this definitely shows in Skyward Sword.

Speaking of new things, Skyward Sword almost shockingly doesn’t rely on nostalgia to get kicks from the player. The puzzles so far (I’m currently hanging around the Lanayru Desert) are all distinctively new and fresh, drawing from no previous Zelda game. Sure, some if not all items may be lifted directly from other games in the franchise, but they’re used in such ingenious ways that they rival Ocarina’s revolutionary mechanics. This is all thanks to the smooth and accurate controls, which I realize a lot of other writers are complaining about in their own reviews. I thought I would do a specific test to really see what could be truly said, so as soon as I obtained my first sword I tested out each directional slash, in all eight main directions. I performed each directional slash almost flawlessly, except for my horizontal swings. The Motion Plus was reading my movements too accurately, and any slight angle would cause my horizontal slash to deviate into a diagonal one. It’s a trifling matter, for sure, especially considering that the design of the combat encourages you to take your sweet time with the swordplay anyways: every time you want to swing your sword, Link has to stand still, and enemies sometimes patiently wait for your move and have easily readable patterns essential to defeating them. This causes the game to have a refreshing focus on combat, effectively turning each enemy—aside from a few basic ones—into a reflex-based puzzle.

Puzzles are a big part of Skyward Sword. Enemies now taking the role of puzzles themselves, it’s only fitting for the over world to take the role as well. Each area on the surface feels more like a dungeon extension rather than the traditional lead-in gamers have come to know and love (or hate) in Zelda games. No longer is that the case: instead, each dungeon begins almost immediately when you descend to the surface, though the game designers may not necessarily want you to know that, in order to make the game appear more seamless. This is a rather successful and welcome addition to the franchise, even though these sections of the game are laden with fetch quests, just because the puzzles you find in these areas are just as fresh and exciting and challenging as the dungeons thus far.

I won’t touch upon some of the story elements I’ve seen: I’ll save those for my final review when I complete the game. I can say that Skyward Sword is worth your time, from what I’ve seen of the game so far. The controls are all what they’ve been cracked up to be; a real game-changer in terms of revolutionizing motion gaming. The nostalgia doesn’t overpower the game, if it’s even a factor; Skyward Sword survives on its own merit, rather than the legacy of its predecessors. And production values have gone through the roof, reinforcing Nintendo as the master game-makers and catapulting the Zelda franchise into even higher heights than before. If you really want to know what it’s like to play motion-controlled perfection, you can’t look any further than this.

NaNoWriMo Part Five

And yet another installment. I admit, this chapter is a bit drab...

...(also, this was wrongly posted as the fourth part, so now it's been posted as the fifth... the real update is here)...

“Welcome, Father Vengeance.”

The same old man who had ambushed him yesterday greeted Martin coming out of a cab, who was holding a single suitcase and wearing his sunglasses to protect his eyes from the gloomy Monday morning sun. He wore his collar too, just to make him identifiable to the public, just in case. He wasn’t wearing his fedora today, instead letting his shining bald head enjoy some freedom in the crisp autumn air. The old man had another idea: today the stranger was wearing a cowboy hat; fitting for his Texan heritage. Martin put on a weak smirk as the old man held out a welcoming hand.

“Hi there.” Martin accepted the greeting rather regretfully.

“I’m glad you decided to accept the mission.” The old man stated, and they started walking up the stairs behind him. “You’ll find yourself a very rich man, Father. I hope you’re ready to ready to leave.”

“I hope I am too. Let’s get started.”

They were at the airport. The old man led Martin past the security, flashing a government issued badge. “We don’t need to deal with this trite.” He whispered into the priest’s ear. They moved past the crowds swiftly, and came to a desk. The old man had a bit of sweet talk with the clerk, a young, pretty brunette who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. She nodded complacently and pointed in a direction, presumably where the terminal was. The old man said thank you, and motioned for Martin to come up front.

“How are you doing today sir?” The woman asked him with a perky shine.

Martin couldn’t help but smile back. He was almost blushing. “I’m doing fine, thank you.” He looked at the old man smiling.

“Looks like you’ll be flying alone today, Mr. Vengeance.” She handed him his ticket and a map of directions. “This will lead you directly to your flight. You’ll be on a private plane courtesy of your friend today.”

“Private, huh?” He looked to the old man, who laughed. “You guys got some service.”

“Only the best.” The old man winked.

Martin turned back to the young siren, her red lipstick shining almost as brightly as the fluorescent lighting. “Thank you miss. Do you mind me asking if there’s uh, a bit of drink available on this flight?”

“Of course sir. Do you have any special requests?” Her voice sailed through Martin’s ears like a soft breeze.

“A bit of the old rum. As for brand, surprise me. As for how much… surprise me again.” The old man tapped on Martin’s shoulder, much to the priest’s surprise. Martin fixed his collar and looked at his watch, noticing that the stranger was on to something. “I guess it is time.” He admitted. “You have a good day now.” He made sure to smile at her. What a nice girl. Almost reminded him of Mary.

The old man led Martin away, and eventually they arrived on the tarmac. It had become a bit windy. The small jet was just up ahead, being refueled for departure. The staircase was already brought up, the door open, welcoming Martin to his flight.

“Remember to rendezvous with your partner before you start any funny business, Father. You will be greeted at the airport and taken to the rendezvous point as soon as possible. If you somehow miss your appointment with the driver, call around and ask for the nearest castle. Someone should be able to point you in the right direction. Everything you need to know is in the dossier awaiting you on the plane. Do you have further questions?”

“How much am I going to get paid?” Martin replied in all serious. He couldn’t believe he didn’t ask that yet.

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask that any sooner. Don’t worry. You’ll be paid soon enough, and with satisfaction, I might add. You’ll be a very rich man for the rest of your life, Martin. The feds are ready to support you and your clergy every step of the way. You know how much the government loves Jesus, don’t you?”

As the two approached the awaiting plane, a jumbo jet flew over them, taking off from the airport. It gave Martin a bit of a scare, and he became a little flustered. He felt his first sign of nervousness and his heart began to race. He continued onwards, and the old man stopped at the bottom of the staircase.

The stranger held out his hand again for one last time: “Father Vengeance. I wish you a fond farewell. This is will be the last time we meet.”

“I sure hope so.”

And he got on the plane.

Super Mario 3D Land Review

After a mediocre eight months on the market, the 3DS finally received its first of many supposed kill apps in Super Mario 3D Land. It finally feels that there’s a reason to play Nintendo’s latest hardware offering, because every time I fired up a level in Mario, I couldn’t help but smile at its pleasantness, its ingenuity, and its quirkiness. 3D Land really is a joy to play and, like all mainline Mario games, is the purest definition of video game fun for a list of reasons.

The most noticeable thing about 3D Land is how noticeably pretty it is, often resembling its big brother Galaxy games on the Wii in terms of charming art style, and explicably triumphing over the blandness of the New Super Mario series. It’s bright, cheerful, and eccentric, more than likely because it chooses to accentuate the inherent blocky design that comes with its form of gameplay, playing with these ideas at first and then totally going overboard in later levels when the player finally comes to grip with the mechanics. The 3D graphics actually complement the game fairly well, unlike previous efforts on the system, thanks to the careful placement of the camera: vertical levels have a much needed sense of depth when the camera shifts to an overhead perspective; enemies use the effect to their advantage by attacking at angles otherwise unheard of in a left-to-right platformer; and the M.C. Escher-esque mini-levels become quite the sight to behold when the camera slowly shifts to reveal a mind fuck truly worthy of a Mario game. Even though the 3D should be righteously held as a gimmick, no matter what the game, it’s a gimmick that works in 3D Land, because it feels somehow different when you turn down the 3D volume. This is the only game on the system where I felt compelled to play through entire levels with the head-splitting 3D. You won’t find another game that convinces you otherwise, unless it’s built from the ground up to take advantage of the effect, like 3D Land is.

And then there’s the music. The main theme is particularly charming in its own, especially during the mesmerizing title screen. It stands side by side with the tone of the game rather well, and the game even incorporates some classic tunes in some levels, reinforcing the obvious homage to Super Mario Bros. 3. There’s just a certain joy to be felt by wandering around a Toad’s house listening to that jolly tune we all know and love from years back.

One department that Nintendo could consider spending some time in is the hub world. Gone are the days of having a classic sprawling map littered with levels that make sense cohesively, replaced by a nonsensical linear selection of levels. It would make more sense to have a full 3D hub world connecting each level, like the Mario games of old, but I guess it’s too much to ask for. That, and Nintendo did away with full analog control for this installment, instead opting for a run button coupled with eight directional inputs. This idea works fine in the levels that resemble older Mario games, but in others, it just incites frustration, having to fight with the controls just to jump onto a static platform, but that’s more of my fault rather than the games because I’ve been indoctrinated to think that 3D games should always have analog control. Despite my shortcoming and my apparent inability to play Mario games, Mario 3D Land still controls like a dream compared to it contemporaries, ,pre than likely because its levels are simple to navigate.

Whatever you do, don’t go thinking of Mario 3D Land as a simple retread just because its marketing solely focuses on the classic Tanooki Suit. There’s a lot of new and exciting ideas here, and they’re executed wonderfully, if not a bit easily for the player. That is to say, the game isn’t an absolute must have for everyone; it’s only an absolute must have if you have a 3DS somewhere collecting dust or weighing down a pile of school work that you always intend to finish “tomorrow”.

NaNoWriMo Part Four

Here's the REAL fourth part.

It was quiet and dark, like that moment in Nepal oh so long ago. Light poured into Martin’s humble abode as soon as he had opened the door, and a meow welcomed him home. An orange tabby ran to greet his master, weaving in and out between his legs, rubbing all sorts of cat hair on his pressed pants.

“Hello, Joey.” Martin said plainly as he walked in, throwing the house keys on the kitchen counter. He was tired, and wanted to pack. He knew he’d be leaving tomorrow. He already made the decision but did not want to give off the impression to the old man that he would give up so easily. Martin took off his coat and threw it on a chair in the small living room. A somber portrait of Jesus hung above the old television set, surrounding by pictures of Martin’s immediate family, looking equally as somber. He looked at the black and white photograph of his mother and father, hand in hand, and sighed. He then looked to a picture of his baby daughter in her baptizing dress, a white gown overflowing, carried by her mother. She was so beautiful. She’d be around four years old today. It’s been way too long since he had last seen her joyous smile. He grimaced and went into his bedroom.

It was nothing like it used to be, back in Maine. They used to live in a big house together, with nice furniture, and delicate china. They. They they they they they they. They used to. That was over. That was over long ago, the thought loafed around in his brain. Martin stared at his single sized bed in contempt, sitting down on its rough, scratchy fabrics. Joey jumped up with him, purring and rubbing his sweetness on Martin’s arm. Martin brushed the cat’s head and looked at his alarm clock on the side table, next to a telephone and an answering machine. It was only a few minutes after three in the afternoon. That left him plenty of time to pack. He’ll let the old man know by tonight, he figured.

After shoving Joey off the bed, Martin noticed the answering machine was blinking its red light. He had a message. Curious, he thought; it was probably the men in black trying to contact him earlier. He pressed play, the tape whining through its data.

“You’ve reach Martin Vee. Please leave a message after the beep.” He sounded so dry. He thought he should really touch up on his recording message sometime and make it more cheerful and inventive. He got up and stretched after thinking briefly about it.

Beeeeeeeep.

“Hello Martin.”

He froze. It was his wife. Ex-wife, he corrected himself.

“We need to talk.” Her voice was soft and welcoming as it rang through Martin’s head, bouncing around his mind. “Call me back right away, will you? Please.” She hung up the phone. Beep. Beep. Beep.

That was the only message. Martin sat back down. Joey jumped onto the bed again and rolled around, showing his stomach. Martin rubbed it for luck and the cat purred. “I know Joey. I should probably call her back, eh?”

The cat meowed as if he had understood his master.

“Yeah. You’re right. She deserves it. How long as it been?” Martin muttered, his voice oddly quiet.

Joey didn’t reply, and rolled around instead, digging his claws into the bed covers and raising his tail.

“I know it’s been a long time. Maybe a year since we last talked? I’ll call her right now, actually. Before I forget. Do you think that’s a good idea Joey?”

The cat meowed, settling on top of the bed in a ball. He buried his face under his tail.

Martin picked up the phone and started to dial. He got to the last number before he pondered his action, but pushed it anyways, almost involuntary. As if the hand of God guided him. He held the phone between his head and shoulder, propping up his legs to begin untying his shoes as a means to divert the butterflies in his stomach. He heard several rings and had gotten through one shoe before someone answered the phone.

“Hello?” It was the voice of a gruff man. Martin was stunned for moment, coming to some horrible realization. His heart almost stopped.

“Yes, h-hello.” Martin replied. “Would Mary be around, please?”

“She sure is. Just a minute.” Martin could then hear the man yelling “Mary!” in the background, muffled by a hand clasping the mouthpiece. “She’ll be down in a sec.” He said clearly again.

“Thank you.” Martin said, but he was sure the man didn’t hear him. He waited a few seconds before he heard footsteps clapping against a hardwood floor, and his heart sank a bit more into some unknown dark crevice in his chest.

“Hello?” Her voice pierced his ears. “This is Mary.”

“Hi Mary.” Martin said plainly.

“Martin?” She replied. “You actually called! Oh, thank God you’re alright! These men came by the house yesterday and were asking about you. I had no choice but to tell—“

“It’s alright, I’m fine, I’m fine. They just wanted to talk to be about something.”

“They didn’t force you into anything did they? I told them you’d be interested but I wasn’t sure how they—“

“You were right. I was interested. I told them I’d call them back sometime tonight.” Martin got his other shoe off and grabbed the phone with a free hand. He stood up and began pacing around his bedroom. “How are you, anyways?”

“Oh,” she sounded surprised that he would ask that. “I’m doing fine. Really well actually.”

“And Lisa? How is she doing?”

“She’s doing great,” said Mary. Martin could sense she was smiling, and he was right. “We’ve been taking her to daycare. She’s really enjoying it, getting along with the other kids, you know how it is.”

“Can I talk to her?” Martin asked.

“Oh, well, she’s at a babysitter’s right now. John and I are…”

“John?” Martin interrupted. “Was that...”

Mary returned the favor. “John is my fiancé, Martin. We’re going out tonight, and I dropped Lisa off after church today at the babysitter’s. I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’ll be gone tomorrow.” Martin said bitterly.

“I’m sorry.” She sounded burdened with grief. That was the last thing Martin wanted. “You know, you could come visit Lisa once in a while. She asks for you sometimes.”

“I’ve been busy. Tell her… tell her I’m sorry. Daddy will see her again some day.”

“Martin. You haven’t been very busy. Tell the truth. The only reason why I told those men, agents, warlocks or whatever is because I know you’re just sulking around your apartment all week thinking about how you’re going to wing your one hour service on Sundays.”

“Now that’s not true.” Martin denied. It was true. “I do plenty of things.”

“Like what?”

Martin stumbled for a second. “Uh, like, I go grocery shopping, and read a book. And sometimes I take Joey for a walk.”

“Very funny shit Martin. You know, this is why I left you. You’ve become… you’ve become so, so, so, so… so boring! Do something with your life, will you? Do something exciting again, like Siberia! Remember that? Remember how lovely that trip was?” She was almost hysterical at this point.

“How could I not? What a romantic trip that was…” Martin was unenthusiastic about it. That was such a nightmare trip, all those years back. He never wanted to relive it. “Listen, honey…”

“I’m not your honey anymore.”

“…sweetie?”

“I’m not your sweetie either, Martin. I’m not your anything but your child’s mother. I just thought you needed something in your life. That’s why I told those jerks where you were. That’s why I left you.” Martin could hear her frustration seething through her teeth. She quickly reverted back to a calm, cool voice. “Now, I have to go. John and I have a date.”

“Have fun.” Martin said, sardonically.

She hung up without so much as a goodbye.

Martin hung up his end of the phone after listening to the tone for a minute with a heavy heart. He laid on his back on his bed, and wondered where he went wrong. Siberia? Nepal? Egypt? South America? All these exotic places had caused nothing but trouble for him, but he still went, seeking the thrill and excitement of hunting down and studying the paranormal and the supernatural in the name of God. He made a small prayer, speaking softly to himself with his hands folded and his eyes closed.

“Dear God, please be a good God, and show me what I should do. Show me the way to a better life. Lead me out of this wretched cesspool of normality.”

He opened one eye and looked at Joey, who was peering back at him. The furry friend yawned.

“You’re right. He’s not going to answer that one.” Martin sat up and dug into his pants pocket and pulled out the note that the old man gave him. He took the phone in his hand again and began dialing.

When someone picked up the phone, Martin simply said: “I’m in.”

Aiming for the Edge of the Sky

I went to work on Saturday, expecting the worst. Imagine how terrified I was when my fears turned out to be true: the release of Skyrim in Nova Scotia had brought a flurry of costumers just waiting to dive into Bethesda’s virtual crack stash once more, and I was at the front lines. Everything was chaotic, dramatic, over-the-top, and needless, but it was all so worth it. Giving into the hype, I decided to purchase a copy myself, despite having been disappointed with Oblivion years and years ago.

Thank God I did.

Having only put roughly eleven hours into my game so far, I can only give a modest impression that doesn’t quite capture just exactly how good this game is. I don’t even think a full play-through could justify an accurate review. All I know what to say is the game is exceedingly excellent, raising all bars that Bethseda had set in terms of gameplay, quality, and storytelling in Morrowind and Fallout 3. The game also dramatically improves every facet of Oblivion, choosing to reinvent the once boorish conversation elements and polishing the spectacle of the series’ signature real-time combat. Skyrim is extremely satisfying in these regards. Hell, even the trademark Bethesda bugs are seemingly squashed, at least in what I’ve played so far.

The randomness of the Elder Scrolls games would sometimes lead to some pretty punishing bugs and infuriating save-losses, but in Skyrim it seems the developers have fixed these problems to a large extent. For example, I traveled to the College of Winterfold to learn magic and, lo and behold, one of the game’s many, many (superbly designed) dragons descended to rain chaos upon the school of mages. I’m not completely sure if this was a random event, but the encounter handled itself pretty well and gave the illusion that it was unscripted. The only problem I have (and this is a very minor problem at that) is that the dragon’s skeleton spawns in a totally different place in the school than where I murdered its sorry ass. And it does this every time I go to the location. I made sure I drained the bastard of all its loot, but its empty carcass still insists on chilling in the courtyard, and every NPC in the area just pretends it’s a giant ornament.

Another minor pet peeve is the save system, which I both applaud and despise. For some reason, I absolutely hate getting killed. The actual act of dying, however, doesn’t really bother me, but the process of reloading auto-saves that you know are five or ten or twenty minutes behind is kind of grueling. Now, I realize that Bethesda has tried to remedy this by including three auto-save slots, but it still doesn’t record your game data fast enough. The intervals need to be smaller, like one to three minutes short so that I don’t lose my patience and have to start from the dungeon entrance again. Granted the game is so streamlined and rewarding that this is really a non-issue, and you shouldn’t have any problems at all if you save compulsively, which this game really encourages.

Otherwise, Skyrim is a beautifully crafted game. Well, so long as you overlook some technical infidelities like blurry textures, but again that’s hard to judge considering the bug that’s currently present in the Xbox version of the game that prevents textures from loading. The art direction is still fantastic despite this ongoing glitch: everything looks like it belongs in the world and everything meshes together well. It’s extremely pleasing to my eyes, except for the rare instance of climbing a mountain with geometry and textures that resemble an obscure N64 game.

Play it, as soon as you fucking can.

NaNoWriMo Part Three

Here's some more NaNoWriMo stuff.

New England, Five Years Later

It was a lovely Sunday morning, as crisp as the autumn leaves and as golden as the sun’s rays. And glorious it was inside the congregation of one Martin C. Vengeance.

“Our Lord, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy kingdom come on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

“You may be seated.”

All thirteen people sat down in their pews. All elderly, all zombified, they chattered amongst one another as father Martin prepared the offering. He looked at his small collection of townsfolk, dotting the landscape of the church. He bit his lip in disappoint and rubbed his shaved head. There could be two hundred people here, but today he served only a baker’s dozen. And they were old, fruitless and almost lifeless. He took no gratitude in staring back at their sunken eyes and dropping brows and saggy ears and dried up slick hair. They were monsters, hanging onto the last hope they had left: the church itself, because it brought back memories of good and joyful times. Martin wasn’t going to deny them that last hope. He continued on with the service.

A few moments later, when Marty was offering the flesh of Christ to old Miss Dandelion, he noticed an entourage of men in black suits waiting at the back of the church, by the fountain of Christ. They had their arms folded, and were whispering to one another, being careful not to disturb the service. Martin carried on.

Near the end, it was time for the announcements. “Make sure on Wednesday night you all come to the latest Bible Study session. Last week we had a very good turn out.” Martin smiled as he looked at the elderly. He looked up and saw one of the men in black was quite a prune himself, with a wispy, twisted goatee. Martin looked back at his announcements. “And off course, Mrs. Champlain will be holding her bi-weekly knitting session on Thursday night at seven, in the Sunday school room. She’ll be showing how to knit animal mittens for all of your grandchildren in the coming Christmas holiday.”

That was it. Martin gave the blessing and the church mass was over as quickly as it had started. He left for his office in the recession off to the side of the altar, after cleaning up after himself. He rushed over there, not wanting to be watched by the mysterious men who still stood at the back. Martin desperately wanted to avoid them. They could only be here for one thing. If he was quick enough, he’d be able to—and then he saw Miss Dandelion waiting outside the door, and his heart sank. It better not be about her darn dog again.

“Good morning, Miss Dandelion.” He nodded, gleefully, faking his smile.

She smiled back with her perfectly white fake teeth. “Good morning Martin, splendid service today. You really do well for such a fine young man!” She continued smiling as Martin opened the door to his office.

The mysterious group of men in black approached Martin and the old lady. Martin nodded towards them. “Good morning gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I have to attend to Miss Dandelion here first. Her and I have some pressing matters to see to.”

“Oh Martin, dear, I was just—“

Martin pushed her inside the open door, muffling her voice. He waved to the men, and shut the door behind him, coaching Miss Dandelion to the chair in front of his desk. He came around, taking off his ceremonial robes and hanging them on the wall, next to a picture of the Lord. He closed the blinds to the window behind his desk, peaking through them as Miss Dandelion made herself comfortable and smiled weakly. Martin sat down.

“What seems to be the problem, Miss Dandelion?” Martin relaxed in his comfy leather chair, reclining back as he pulled a drawer open. His magnum was lying next to a bottle of rum and a drinking glass, the latter two items he pulled out. He secretly wished that she wouldn’t talk about her dog, but that chances of that were slim to none. Good Lord, did he ever hate dogs.

He shut the drawer and poured himself a quarter glass full of rum. He took a sip as Miss Dandelion put on an astonished look on her face. She quickly regained her frail, innocent composure and began. “Well, Father Martin, it’s my dog. Peppy. She’s not well.”

“Peppy again?” Martin’s lips shrunk as he swallowed the sharp rum. He put down the glass and folded his hands together. “Have you taken her to the vet yet, like I told you last Sunday? And the Sunday before that? And the Sunday before—“

“No, not at all,” she frowned, beginning to rummage through her purse. She looked up at Martin with dimming eyes behind her bifocals. “I told you I don’t believe in silly veterinarians. They don’t do no good, especially no good for Peppy. She deserves only the best treatments!” She pulled out a bottle of what appeared to be ground up herbs. “I give her a bit of this in her dinner every night. The doctor said it would cure her naturally, with no operations needed.”

Miss Dandelion handed the bottle to Martin, who examined it. “Are you sure he was a doctor, ma’am?” Martin inquired, raising a brow.

“Yes! Quite sure, Father.” She was glowing with energy now and leaned forward. “I met him on the street last weekend, and he gave me this medicine for my sweet little dog. He was a nice young man.”

Martin placed the bottle on the table. “Right. I think your doctor might have been a drug dealer, Miss Dandelion. What you need to do is throw this” he pointed to the drugs, “out, and take Peppy to the vet. God’s orders.”

“Drug dealer? Oh no, he couldn’t have been. He was so very sweet and caring.” Her eyes widened behind her thick glasses, and she took back the bottle of what Martin could only imagine to be some sort of super drug. “Do you think you can perform an exorcism on dear little Peppy?” She asked out of the blue.

This question stunned Martin for a second. “Now, Miss Dandelion, you know I don’t do that sort of nonsense. He laid back in his seat, raising an air and twisting the air with his fingers for some reason. He leaned forward again, getting serious so he wouldn’t give off the impression that he thought the old woman was just being absolutely ridiculous. He grabbed his drink and finished it. “I just want you to go home, take your dog to a real vet, someone who can do something for her, and… enjoy life.” He got up, as well as Miss Dandelion. Leaving the rum and glass on his desk, Martin got his coat and he coaxed the elderly woman out the door.

“But Peppy doesn’t like the vet.” She changed up her excuse, her mind as sporadic as a failed game of leapfrog. “Do you think Peppy could be possessed by devil? Oh, I hope she’s not.” She trekked upon the subject of demonization once more, her memory as lively as an old goldfish. “She’s the only thing left I have in this world. I would be very sad to lose her.” She said in a soft, melodramatic voice.

Martin almost laughed, instead wincing with sadness, surprised of her sudden honesty. He put on his coat and began to open the door for dear old Dandelion. “No, Miss Dandelion, Peppy is going to be fine. I can assure you.” He opened the door to find the four men in black waiting outside, chatting amongst themselves. Martin gave them a cold look as he put on his sunglasses and escorted Miss Dandelion out. “Have a good day, Miss Dandelion, and I’ll see you on Wednesday for the Bible Study?”

“Yes, father. I’ll certainly be there.” She smiled and walked off.

Martin closed his office door and confronted the approaching men. “Sorry fellas. Closed up for today. Maybe next week?” He started to walk away when one of the men grabbed his shoulder. “Come on guys,” Martin whined like a two year old; he really didn’t want to talk to these people. He already knew what they wanted. “I got to go home and feed my cat.” He couldn’t believe that lame excuse just came out of his mouth.

“You can feed your cat after we discuss something, Father Vengeance,” the oldest one said in a brass Texan accent, opening the office door and letting himself in. He poked his head out the door after Martin refused to follow him. “Please, come in.” He gave a toothy grin and retreated back inside the office. His three buddies coerced Martin back into his own office, slamming the door behind him. All three of them waited outside. Martin was left alone with his books, his rum, and this unruly old man.

“Beautiful day out, isn’t it?” The old man opened the blinds, letting the sunlight flourish inside the room. He sat in Martin’s chair and laid back, with his toothy grin reappearing, this time stretching from ear to ear. He pointed at the bottle of rum rather excitedly. “Do you mind if—?”

Martin nodded, still standing as straight as he could, remain as calm as he could. He watched as the old man poured the rum into the empty glass. He sat the rum back down on the desk with a heavy thud, taking the glass and downing the drink in one entire gulp. He smacked his lips, putting the glass down with a clink on the desk, and motioned for Martin to sit down. “Sit down, sit down! We have much to talk about.”

Martin slowly sat in the chair where Miss Dandelion had been only moments before. He folded his arms across raised a brow. After a moment of awkward silence he asked, “Who are you?”

“United States Federal Government.” The old man said immediately and seriously. “Paranormal division.” He leaned forward. “You must’ve know we’d be coming back for you eventually, Father Vengeance. You’re just too good.”

“My days of paranormal activities are over, Mister…?” He paused for a second to allow the old man to answer.

“My name is not important. And even if it was, it’s classified information.”

Martin smirked at the paradox. “So why are the feds here on such a lovely Sunday morning, sir? You have a wild goose chase on your hands? Reported sightings of goblins in the New York sewers again, like last time? Or maybe the dastardly Chupacabra is eating that prized Texas livestock? You’re not going to send me to Siberia again chasing after some dogs, are you? Because everyone loved how that turned out.” His words reeked of sarcasm.

The old man shook his head. “Something better this time, I can assure you.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Martin actually needed a smoke. He pulled out a cigar from his coat pocket. “In fact, I’ll join you.” They both lit up with matches lying on Martin’s desk, breathing in the sickly smoke and exhaling clouds of delicious poison. Martin never thought much of smoking; he just always did it just to look cool. He chomped on his smoldering cigar and inhaled again. “So, what’s the deal. Don’t waste my time.”

“We have a mission for you.”

“I figured that much. Go on.”

The old man put his cigarette between his dried up lips, and dug his hands into his overcoat, rummaging for something. He pulled out a few pieces of paper and laid them on the desk. Black and white photographs. Gruesome black and white photographs, as Martin looked closer. He gave the old man an odd look, raising an inquisitive brow.

These were photos of murders, of people seemingly eaten alive. One was a corpse with the flesh almost completely ripped off his skeleton. Another with his skull cracked up, brains oozing out from the enormous crevice in his head. One depicted an old lady, much like Miss Dandelion, sitting in her rocking chair, her entrails strewn across her carpeted floor and her neck and shoulders suffering from vicious bite wounds. The others were almost too disgusting to describe. Martin looked at each carefully, resetting his nervousness with an awkward cough. He handed them back to the old man. “Do you know what did it?” Martin finally asked, regaining what little composure he had lost.

The old man retrieved his photographs from the desk and shoved them under his coat. He had a somber look on his face, and he leaned forward. “We’re thinking its vampires,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Martin shook his head in denial. “No. This wasn’t no vampire who committed these crimes. They’re far too gruesome.” He frowned and looked at the old man straight in the eyes. “Where was this? Where did these… killings take place?”

“Most of these murders have taken place in several small rural communities in Upper Austria, along the German border. While vampires may or may not be the culprits behind these horrible atrocities, there is no doubt that there is something supernatural behind it. And we think that a Neo Nazi terrorist group has something to do with it.”

“Vampires and Neo Nazis. I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to settle between the supernatural and the political here. I don’t hunt humans. I hunt creatures.”

“There have been reports that Neo Nazis have been breaking into homes in these border villages for a number of months now, and kidnapping the elderly, probably to perform experiments or mystical ceremonies, who knows? All we know is that the first murders began popping up only a month after the first reported kidnappings. Something’s going on, and it ain’t good.” The old man continued, taking a huff of his cigarette. “So we want you to go over there and check it out. We’ve located where these Neo Nazi scum bags may be hiding too, so we got all that work done for you.”

“And what if it just turns out to be some sick psychopath? People who are mentally insane? I don’t do that. You know I don’t do that.” Martin got up without thinking, literally almost throwing himself out of the chair. “I’m not going to do this. It’s been way too long.” He pointed a finger at the old man. “Don’t you remember the last time your… your organization hired me?”

“Yes.” The old man nodded, leaning back, lounging around. “And we understand that that was a very unfortunate incident. But that was years ago, Father Vengeance. You need to come to terms with what transpired all those years ago and move forward.”

“I’m already moving forward!” Martin spun around. “Look at this place! I’ve never been happier!”

“Have you, Martin? Your ex-wife doesn’t seem to think so.”

Martin was stunned. “You… you talked to Mary?”

“Well, of course.” The old man disposed of his cigarette in the ash tray and folded his hands together on top of the desk. “We had to. After you moved from your last church in Maine, we couldn’t find you. FBI and CIA didn’t want to cooperate with us, so we had to pay a visit to Mary. She’s remarried, you know?”

“I know.” Martin sat back down, biting his lip. “She told you where I was?”

“She did, but not without expressing her dissatisfaction with us. She did say, however, that this is what you’ve been needing. You need this job, Martin. What else are you going to do? Suffocate here, with the elderly? Slowly die a humble death serving God? I don’t think you want that. Do want you’ve always wanted to do. If it turns out to be nothing more than just crazy Neo Nazis, we’ll compensate you, fly you back here immediately and let our CIA pals handle it. If its vampires or ghouls or what have you, you’ll have a bit of an exciting time on your hands, don’t you think?” He smiled wryly, that mummified Texan grin in full force, as if he had just wrangled a bull into its pen.

But he did want that, Martin wanted nothing more. At least, that’s what he told himself. He told himself that every day, every minute, and every second. But for once, the doubt began to ring in his mind for the first time in years, since the death of his friends, since his separation from the woman he loved, since the birth of his own child. He needed to take a hold of something to bring him back to life. This was it, he thought for the briefest fraction of time.

“I’ll think about it,” was all that came out.

The old man held his smile. “Good, Father Vengeance. Thinking is great, thinking is great indeed. Well,” he rose from Martin’s chair, “we will be in town if you decide to accept the mission at hand. We will also have a plane for you, at the ready, to fly you immediately into the danger zone. Here’s our number. Call us when you get the chance.” He handed Martin a small piece of paper with a telephone number on it. He walked towards the door as Martin sat melancholy in his seat, shoving the note into his pants pocket.

Before the old man left, he added: “Oh, and you won’t be working alone. We sent one of our own boys over there. He will be accompanying you on the mission. You will rendezvous with him to receive the latest intelligence on those Neo Nazi bastards—pardon my language. Hopefully, that will factor into your decision, somewhat.”

“I don’t do partners.” Martin replied, unmoving, thinking, pondering.

“You’ll need all the help you can get with this one. Audios, amigo.” With that, the old man opened the door and left, signaling to his men to leave.

As their footsteps in the church faded away, Martin got up from his chair and poured himself another drink of rum, not bothering to clean the clean. He chugged and winced, thinking about what he may or may not do. He thought about Mary for a split second, and his heart sank. She knew this would be good for him, and she was right, he thought. He had nothing to lose but his dignity. He had everything to gain. Fame. Fortune. God’s righteous love and eternal gratitude.

He put the liquor away and got out his gun, concealing it under his coat. It was time to go home.

Crossing the Streams of Simplicity

Taking a break from NaNoWriMo, I decided to finish up writing my review on this little gem:

Mario's Picross, quite plainly speaking, is downright addicting, even though it’s embarrassingly simplistic and shallow. That is to say, it’s better than 99% of the original Game Boy games out there. The game involves some puzzles that vaguely resemble Sudoku with blocky pictures, with Super Mario imagery slapped everywhere imaginable. It’s a game that has a lot of charm, even though its depth doesn’t seem to match.

There’s certainly a lot of visual appeal working for it; Mario’s sprites and frames seem to suggest a breaking of the fourth wall, and he even breaks out in a sweat when there’s only two minutes left on the board. It’s stellar stuff for the Game Boy, which can only do so much on a technical level. However, the pictures are a different story: sometimes they barely resemble a vague depiction of what they’re supposed to actually depict. But then again, it’s forgivable. There’s only so much artistic value you can jam pack into a 15 by 15 grid.

The gameplay itself is a bit of a hit or miss, but it’s what essentially defines Picross. While the game is addicting, there’s not much substance to be found. Puzzles start out as mostly guesswork if you don’t use the hint system (hint: use the hint system, unless you want to memorize puzzles entirely over a period of multiple play-thoughs), but they slowly become understandable pieces of logic within themselves. It’ll take about a dozen hours to do every single puzzle, which is an incredibly satisfying length for a puzzle game on the original Game Boy.

Some of the best parts about the game, aside from the actual gameplay, are probably the tunes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XBiWRW5xuMA

So much of the game’s personality rests on the music. It’s incredibly well done.

It’s just too bad the asking price on Nintendo’s eShop is too high. Four bucks is definitely a lot to ask for in this day and age of $0.99 iPhone games. I found it well worth it, but other people might find it a bit of a steep ticket price. Regardless, it has my recommendation, especially since Mario’s Picross pushed me to buy the contemporary DS version.

NaNoWriMo Part Two

Here's the next part. Unedited. Uncut. Unadulterated. Enjoy.

The mountain air was sheer cold, freezing their windpipes as it flowed into their lungs, hitting their insides like bullets against impenetrable sheet metal. They traveled up the winding path with their climbing boots and picks. One Sherpa led the group up the twisting face of the mountain, his AK slung over his shoulder. His face was uncovered, enduring the strong blistering winds. Martin followed next, covered in a thick black jacket, wearing his aviators tightly strung to his head with a head band. He wore a bandana over his chiseled jaw, trying to stop the freezing temperatures from crinkling his fair skin. He was only partly successful, as he could only feel part of his face. His teeth chattered like jack hammers and his ears felt like they were falling off. He could feel his blood slowly freeze, although he was sure he was just being hyperbolic.

Teddy was behind him, having no such troubles even though he had a gnarled walking stick to aid his adventure up the mountain side. He braved the storm with no complaints. Martin said nothing verbally, but it was clear through his body language that the cold was taking a toll on him. Teddy on the other hand stood and walked strong, plowing through the storm so much that he often closed the gap between him and Martin when they were supposed to remain spaced out to reduce the danger of everyone being swept off the edge of the cliff.

The other Sherpa took point behind the rest, cautiously looking over his shoulder as if though he was expecting an ambush by the very prey they were hunting on the mountaintop. Somehow, the snow got worse, falling harder and colder as if dark forces were calling themselves to shroud the mystical creature the group was after.

The four continued their trek for hours. As time went by, Martin had more difficulty breathing. He wheezed as much as Teddy did when they first met in the mountain village. He could hear the muffle of the Sherpa ahead. The path was much wider than before now, Martin noticed, looking side to side with frosted eyes behind his sunglasses’ tint. His backpack suddenly became heavy and his thoughts turned towards his wife back home for a split second. He remembered wavering in the waning wind briefly before collapsing on the icy path. He could hear the muffled cries of Teddy, remembering a hard iron grip on his shoulder and his legs dangling thousands of miles above the world.

Then he woke up, in a blaring sweat, still dressed warmly in his winter clothes and climbing gear. It was dark, except for a faint light outside, and he could smell some sort of burning meat. He was in a tent, covered in thick blankets, and his head was bandaged. He was out cold for hours, he could only assume, fainting because he no longer felt his mind working. What a fool, Martin thought. He needed to be stronger out here. He looked around for his sunglasses. They were in his coat pocket. He didn’t put them on, seeing as though it was dark. He got up, crouching because of the tent’s low ceiling, and un-zippered the door, which whined through the darkness, causing Martin to wince.

He stumbled out, fresh snow crunching under his boots. He could see the faint light of dawn approaching from the east. It must be the early morn, Martin thought, and he wondered how long he was out for. He looked towards the light, which had transformed into a fire, surrounded by the Sherpas and Teddy sitting on rocks, huddling over it for warmth, cooking breakfast in a small frying pan. Canned sausages and baked beans never smelled so good, but never posed a more dangerous threat. Martin walked over to the fire in a hastened pace, growling. He grabbed the pan, not paying attention to the gasps of the Sherpas, and threw it over the mountain side, dropping down in the deadly crevices below.

“What are you?” Martin whispered to the Sherpas. “Stupid? We’re not feeding him dinner, we’re trying to catch the thing. He can smell this miles a way, put it out!” He started shuffling snow onto the fire.

Teddy got up and laughed softly. “You’re pretty wise, Marty, always have been. But I wouldn’t worry about it.” He grabbed Martin by the shoulder and lightly pushed him away from the fireplace. The fire survived Martin’s attack, but only barely. “We’ve got him Marty. He’s wounded, wandering around this area somewhere. We’re just trying to lure him here now. It’s only a matter of time before we catch the creature that the world has been always dreaming of seeing.”

Martin smirked a bit and pointed at Teddy. “Are you sure. Because if you’re sure, I’m sure. You can never be too careful. How was he wounded?”

Teddy nodded to one of the Sherpas, with the other putting another dry log from his backpack onto the dying flames. “Buddy here shot it in the arm. That monster wailed like a baby. It was a lucky thing that—“

And before Teddy could finish, Martin walked over to the Sherpa and punched him square in the jaw. The other Sherpa immediately took his rifle and aimed it at Martin as he took the other to the ground and tussled in the snow with him. Teddy put a finger to his mouth, shushing the Sherpa’s aim, and pulling the AK’s muzzle down towards the ground with his other hand.

Martin got in a few more punches before Teddy pulled him off of the Sherpa. “Now would you listen for a sec!” Teddy whispered hoarsely. “He didn’t mean to the shoot it! We were spooked. He was carrying you when you fainted on the path. He was defending you!”

Marty shook off Teddy’s grip, falling to the ground and sitting, breathing heavily and staring at the Sherpa he had just assaulted. The guide got up, wiped a bit of blood hanging from his grisly, unshaven chin, and stared back at Martin with a face wearing contempt. Martin got up, breathing a sigh of relief, and offered a hand to the Sherpa. He declined, turning away to retrieve his gun from the snow, slinging it over his back.

Teddy smiled. “He’ll get over it. Come on now. It’s almost time to get moving. I guess we’ll have to skip breakfast now.”

Martin looked at his feet, disappointed in himself. He silently asked for forgiveness from his friend and from God. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Teddy looked at Martin with a spry countenance, one that seemed to suggest everything was going to be alright. “Don’t worry about it. Some grub down there is going to enjoy it more than we would have. Besides, we’ll eat well tonight! Roasted ram and frosted greens! Ale and vodka by the barrel! You like ram, don’t you? Tough little bas—sorry.” He caught himself again, not wanting to offend Martin. Martin appreciated this gesture greatly.

Martin walked to the edge of the cliff side encampment as Teddy and the Sherpas retreated to their tents for a moment to pack up. The sun was blooming, cresting over the mountain range and bleeding into the sky. Martin sat down and became contemplative for a moment. It was beautiful. A creation of God was before him, and he took it all in, enjoying every second… living every second. It was worth it to be alive. It was worth it to have chosen to follow the Father. He never intended for this life. At least, he never wanted it to go this far. He rolled a snowball in his fist and threw it at the rising sun. He watched it drop down the mountain until he could no longer see it. As the sun grew taller, he took out his sunglasses and strapped them around his head securely so that the wind may not take them. He admired the world with a black tinge, a darkness that could only be described as deeply comfortable with him. The only darkness. It allowed him sanctity that even the power of God would not be able to give him. It calmed his nerves. How can they be so stupid, he thought, how could Teddy be that stupid, especially? He didn’t want to wound the creature; it wasn’t part of his contract. It was to be brought back to America live and well. But now that Teddy was the contractor, Martin wasn’t sure what to think of the mission, some botched attempt to catch a monster that may not even be a monster. It could be a loving mother. It could be a lost soul damned to wander the mountains for an eternity. Martin didn’t know. But he felt as if though the creature could lose something here in the attempt of lesser beings to try and capture it, and take it away from such a beautiful home.

Martin sighed and drew a cross in the snow and prayed for his safe return home. And then he prayed for the safe return of the other three. And then he prayed for Teddy’s life to be as fulfilling as it once had, when they adventured through the tombs of vampires and the lairs of hobgoblins. He prayed for Teddy’s apparent sins of lust and greed.

And then he heard the angry roar echo behind him.

The mountain grumbled, its relative serenity disturbed by the massive war cry. Martin looked behind him, startled, and saw the giant snowman, standing at an impressive nine feet tall, with a wide girth big enough to give five men a death hug. And it was angry. Very angry. It picked up a Sherpa with its mighty grip. The little man tried desperately to escape, biting and scratching the giant’s thick, gnarled fingers, but it was no use. The other Sherpa, the one Martin had punched earlier, ran out of his tent with his AK at the ready, aiming it at the beast’s face, but Teddy emerged from his tent in the knick of time to tackle the guide to the snow as the snowman crushed his buddy to death. Eyeballs popped out of his sockets, and his mouth bled, literally having the life squeezed right out of him as he squirmed and squealed. There was nothing they could do as he died.

Once the snowman realized his plaything was dead, he threw the body over the mountainside, over Martin’s head, and into the depths below. He fell without a scream, dying as nothing. The other Sherpa ran to confront the monster, but it swiped him away, cutting a large gash across the guide’s face. He fell meters away from the creature, ending up on his back, shrieking in pain: his face was cut open, skull showing and exposed to the extreme cold, his left eye slashed into oblivion. Teddy rushed over to help him. Martin then looked straight at the creature, its red eyes glowing at him, reflecting the rising sun’s light. It roared, shaking its ragged and dirtied white coat of long hair, and began charging.

Time slowed, and Martin’s life flashed before his eyes once more. He thought of his wife as he reached for his Child. Martin saw Teddy scream. “No, Marty! No, don’t do it!” He knew Martin was reaching for his Child, and didn’t want his prize possession dead and gone. It was then Martin realized he still had his backpack on, which contained his guarantee to life. He grabbed his weapon with a different intent in his head now. He cocked the gun and aimed, seemingly for the charging beast, with the mountain rumbling underneath his feet, uneasy and nervous.

Time returned. Teddy screamed again. “Martin, what in God’s fucking name do you think you’re doing!?”

Martin pulled the trigger, and a loud bang echoed throughout the mountain range. The creature stopped a few feet short from tackling Martin over the cliff, clasping its hands around its shrunken ears, growling. It fell backwards, seemingly in pain. But Martin didn’t shoot it.

The mountain rumbled underneath everyone’s feet. Teddy looked at the ground despairingly, slowly raising his eyes towards Martin. Those cold, old, frightful eyes. “Martin. What did you just do?”

Martin gulped and gave a big smile, holstering his gun and making sure his sunglasses were secure around his face. The sun was in full force now, and the mountain grumbled louder. The ground under their feet cracked and splintered. Ice separated from rock. And Martin simply said to Teddy: “You better get ready for a bumpy ride.”

The ground fell underneath them, and the cliff broke away from the mountain side, crumbling into pieces. Martin fell to one knee and gripped his piece of rock with a gloved hand, directing it down the steep slope in a flurry of time that was almost indescribable. He didn’t see Teddy, or the Sherpa, or the snowman. Martin raced down the mountainside on his rock, gliding through the air until he hit a low incline and started racing down that. He saw the dead Sherpa from moments earlier sprawled across sharp rocks, his intestines everywhere across the ice and snow. Martin made a small prayer in his name, and looked back. The snowman was chasing after him on foot, somehow miraculously surviving the fall without landing on some sort of rock or ice slab.

The beast was demonically fast, but it was obvious that Martin’s ride was slowing down. He was wondering what had happened to Teddy. And then, suddenly, he saw his old friend racing along the slope on his own makeshift ice sled. But then Martin saw another threat: a plethora of snowballs, gaining mass and speed, bearing down on them, followed by a giant wall of snow. Martin threw his leg over the slab and kicked off the slope, gaining some speed. He ended up not needing to, since the incline grew a bit steeper, and the snowman was still gaining on him. He could hear its snarls. Martin looked ahead: the slope disappeared ahead in a few hundred meters. He wasn’t too worried about it; after all, he knew the mission was a failure at this point. He made sure his backpack was buckled around his waist, and that was when he felt a sharp tug. He looked behind him and noticed the snowman was mere inches away from him, pulling at his backpack in an attempt to pull him off the rock sled and tear Martin to pieces. They started a tug of war with one another, and Martin was beginning to lose.

“Let go! Let it go!” Martin hopelessly screamed. He didn’t notice Teddy gaining speed and pulling up beside the creature. When he saw his friend reaching out to grab the creature, Martin looked ahead at the incoming cliff, and back again, and realized what Teddy was doing. “Teddy! No! Don’t you dare!”

Teddy didn’t yell back. His sled pulled away for a moment, but came back towards the rushing snowman, who looked towards Teddy at the last possible second, and a look of surprise overtook the creature’s countenance as Teddy rammed his slab of ice and rock into it, pushing it aside. The creature rolled away, almost broken, and Teddy’s sled, as well as Teddy, ran over the side of the mountain, disappearing over the icy edge.

“No!” Marty remembered screaming at Teddy. He saw the gathering snowballs being overcome by the rushing white wall, and saw the snowman’s body consumed by the white as well. Marty looked ahead. As his sled slowed down, he got off and ran for the cliff’s edge, and jumped. He remembered falling, and looking over his shoulder, and as soon as he saw the avalanche leaking over, he pulled a cord from his backpack, activating a parachute, as red as the blood dawn. He safely floated down the slope, as the rush of snow poured from the face of the mountain, and the echoes of snowmen roaring rung through his ears, taunting him as he escaped from certain death.

NaNoWriMo Part One

So I'm deeply entrenched in participating for NaNoWriMo, and I'm actually really, really excited this time. Having not done it for the last two years, and failing each time I had done it before, I feel extremely compelled to actually do it this year and win. And so far I'm succeeding, with just over 6000 words as of the time of this post. So, for this month, I'll probably be strictly posting all about NaNoWriMo, just because I feel like any motivation I have should be going towards getting this behemoth done.

Here's the first chapter of my novel, by the way. There's more to come (even though I don't have much of an audience as of yet, but maybe that's a good thing)...

Nepal, 1987

It was bumpy. Slippery. Dangerous. Rocky. Creepy. Treacherous. Suicidal. Adventurous. Volatile. Reckless. Murderous. Whatever other word in the English language. There were thousands upon thousands of combinations of letters across a hundred tongues, dialects, and cultures to describe the road ahead.

Tires rolled through the snow, wrapped in rusty chains and doused in sea-salt. The truck wearing them was as rustic and ancient as the chains themselves, caked with ice. It was old, chugging in pain, its engine groaned as it zigg-zagged on the mountain pass. It was treacherous; an icy cliff side bade no well future, only bad omens. No prayer could ever turnover the sickening feeling of vertigo. The Nepalese driver and his cloaked passenger didn’t seem to mind, probably because they weren’t looking down. They wouldn’t be able to, if they wanted to; the snow clogged the skies so thickly that a wall of white surrounded them. But they were still safe. It was probable that the driver had driven this road a thousand times, and a thousand times over in the night’s cold shadow, and a thousand times more after that with a common whore wrapped around his genitals. It didn’t matter; the passenger was confident enough that he’d arrive at his destination. He has work to do, and he can’t do it dead.

The icy road led to a small village, obscured by the furious winds of perpetual winter. It was nameless, just as the snowflakes in the storm. As the truck came closer, the winds seemed to die down as if though some sort of magic was afoot. Divinity parted the snows, and the village came into view. A few humble houses of stone brick were laid on a cliff’s side, with straw roofs and creaky wooden doors that slammed with a burst of wind. It was a pacified place, a place of few excitements, but a place of little worry either. The few people who wandered around looked tired, carrying mundane things, but at the same time, they looked as if though they enjoyed the simplicity of their lives. They led a very boring, ordinary life on the mountain, untouched by outside society apart from a few visits from a rusty old truck that spat and sputtered black smoke into the clean, cold air, polluting the very essence of the extraordinary landmark.

The truck puttered through the village, driving over a brick road partly covered with the white stuff. It slowly made its way to one house in particular, one with blue painted stone brick and a door with a red smear on it. In its straw roof a humungous black bird made its nest, and it shrieked at the truck as it pulled over in front of the house. Its endless eyes peered through the tinted windows and into the very soul of its passenger. He knew the omen, looking back at the devilish creature. It was a sign from Satan.

“This is your stop my friend.” The driver said in a heavy accent, but in English. He hadn’t said a word the entire trip.

The strange passenger tilted his black fedora towards the driver in thanks. “Thank you. Your payment will be waiting for you back at the Embassy.” And then he got out.

He stepped into sunlight. The black bird cawed, screeching continuously until the stranger took a step forward. The bird retreated into the skies, flying away to an unseen placing, cawing what seemed to be a warning. The stranger took no heed. He lifted his head towards the sun, which shone brightly against a blue sky. The storm had passed entirely. It had gotten considerably warmer. An act of God, maybe.

He stared directly into the sun, his eyes guarded by a pair of aviator sunglasses. He enjoyed looking into the face of danger. He looked at the door, which seemed to be smeared with blood rather than paint. A thick brush marked this door, a warning perhaps, like the bird’s call. But the stranger ignored it. Signs of Satan were to be ignored. He was a man of God, after all. And with that thought, he fixed his priest’s collar and stepped onto the stoop of the house, put his one hand on the hilt of his weapon—a gigantic magnum holstered in black leather—and clasped his fingers around the rotten door knob. He turned it, slowly, the door’s hinges creaking and croaking with indeterminable age. He looked inside the darkness for a moment.

“Hello?” He said, un-phased by the eeriness. He looked back a second. Dark clouds started to muster around the sun, and a few of the villagers set sunken gazes on him, watching him ever so closely. Guardians of the mountain, the ambassador told him back at the embassy, willing to protect their quaint home at any cost. Never let their appearances deceive you, he warned. God will protect him, the stranger thought, and turned his shielded eyes back into the darkness of the house, opened the door more fully, and stepped into the oblivion of Satan’s overwhelming abyss.

He took off his sunglasses to make sure it was really as dark as he had thought, stuffing them away in his coat’s pocket. The floorboards creak under his feet, despite his attempts to remain as silent as possible, as to not disturb whatever dark creature lurked within. He moved slowly. He saw a faint light where he could only assume was the other end of the main room. The smell of a strange smoke invaded his nostrils, a wondrous aroma that could only be described as both pleasant and disturbing at the same time. It lured him deeper into the darkness. He kept his hand on his magnum, which he named Child.

There was a groan, something inhuman was beyond. The man of God remained unflinching, continuing onward. The floors stopped creaking, and began cracking; the weight of his unmoving fear was weighing down the fragile house. Then all of a sudden, a raspy voice called out his name:

“Martin… Vengeance. Martin Vengeance. It’s nice to finally… to finally see you… again…”

It was an unnerving sound. Martin rummaged through his pants’ pocket for his matches. He pulled out the box and struck one. The light illuminated the entire room, and he was blinded momentarily, becoming vulnerable to the dark spirits for just a precious second. He dropped his match and he was almost certain it had went out, but the bright light persisted. He was open to anything, especially capture or death. He knew the risks, but he didn’t think it would end here. He didn’t want it to.

Fortunately it didn’t. As he began to reach for his Child he heard something rather welcoming and pleasant to his hears, like the organs of his church back home echoing in the clergy.

“It’s nice to finally see you again, old buddy!” It was a jolly old voice, something far from what Martin had thought he heard earlier.

Martin took his hands off of his weapon and instead, thankfully, rubbed his eyes until he could open them again without being blinded by the four studio lights in the room. He opened his eyes and found that he was in a church, with pews lined up on either side of him, and arched hallways surrounding him, with a raised dilapidated altar only a few feet in front of him. On top of the small staircase, standing on the molding red carpet, was a jolly old man matching the jolly old voice, complete with a beard as white as fresh snowfall. He was accompanied by two Sherpa armed with machine guns. AKs—Martin recognized the guns, and tried to recognize the thinly Santa Claus of a man, but failed for the life of him, so he raised a brow and took a step back in response. It could be a trap.

The man smirked behind his beard, his black eyes shining in the bright light. He stroked his thinning hair and rubbed his stomach, stepping down from the altar. The two Sherpa remained unmoved, their AKs, thankfully, remaining untrained.

“Martin! You don’t recognize me?” The man raised his arms to offer a scary hug.

Martin didn’t move, of course. He stood there bewildered still. He cocked his head sideways in an attempt to maybe even recognize the man, but then it suddenly dawned on him. “Teddy?” Martin posed the question. “Teddy is that really you?”

The man nodded frantically, almost maniacally. “Yes! Marty! It’s me!”

Martin smiled and walked in Teddy’s hug. They squeezed and patted each other’s back like old friends. After all, they were old friends. They both laughed and hugged again. It’s been years, Martin thought. Why now? Why here? He wondered as they both released each other from their death grip, smiling. He looked so different.

“You look so different, Teddy. Where’ve you been all these years?” Martin inquired sincerely.

Teddy put a heavy arm around Martin’s shoulder. “Martin, I’ve seen all kinds of weird shit. I—“

“Don’t use that word around me, Teddy.” Martin pointed a finger, getting serious all of a sudden. They both broke into smiles.

“I forgot about this!” Teddy tugged at Martin’s priest collar. “So you went and became a silly God person, did you? Good for you Marty! Good for you! I always knew you’d be some kind of worshipper or nun or whatever. You got that spirit in you, that’s for sure! I hope it doesn’t hamper your real job!” Teddy was almost yelling, but kept his jolly tone, laughing. He guided Martin up the altar’s stairs with his arm still over the priest’s shoulder.

“But what about you Teddy? What have you been doing?” Martin got more somber and serious now. He was deadly serious about finding out what had happened to Teddy. He had looked so different.

“A few ancient, magic relics here. A few monstrous demons there. And a few ghosts and ghouls and goblins everywhere. Really stresses you out. Causes you to age a lot faster too.” Teddy took his arm off of Martin’s shoulder, relieving him of that little stress. “As you can see.” He weaved his fingers through his beard. “I wear this to hide the wrinkles.”

Martin thought it was kind of odd for a man he knew to be twenty years old ten years ago to be looking as if though he was hitting the age of eighty, especially since he used to be so plump and chubby. Now he was this aging shell of his former self. Something had happened.

“But you look so… old, Teddy, forgive my intrusiveness. How did you come to be as you are now? Surely there must be a story involved.” Martin raised a brow, digging into his pocket and retrieving his sunglasses. He put them on, eyeing the Sherpas as he did. They remained unmoving.

“Well, Marty, it goes like this. When you see something glowing bright gold, you might think it might give you everlasting life. Surely some sort of tool of God must irradiate an aura you cannot resist touching. I touched it, and sure enough, yes, it did grant me everlasting life, so to speak. You know the rest. Don’t touch shiny things God tells you to touch. And especially don’t wrestle with its lizard guardian, I can tell you that much too. Damn leathery little bastard…”

Marty pointed a finger. “I told you not to go after that thing! I told you! But you did anyways! Now look at you!”

“That’s beside the point, Marty. It doesn’t matter! It’s in the past now.” He coughed wildly for a moment, hacking all over the altar. Thankfully he has his mouth covered. Martin could have sworn he saw a Sherpa grimaced in disgust, breaking his stillness.

Teddy motioned towards the sherpas. “I’m sure you’ve noticed these fellas by now. They’re going to be our guides—“

“Our guides?” Martin looked at Teddy with a weird look. “You’re coming with? Are you the contractor?”

Teddy bellowed with a strained laugh. “No, no my friend! I’m merely being contracted, such as you.”

“What I’m trying to say is… are you sure you should be going up there?” Martin tried to sound as genuine as possible. His attention span became short and he quickly examined the rich embroidery of the altar cloth covers, running his fingers over the gold silk and red cloth. Jesus was depicted nailed to the cross on the quilt’s raised center point, over what could only be a gilded cup of Christ. Teddy’s chuckle, which had become almost insidious sounding by now, thanks to his wheezing throat, brought Martin back to full attention.

“I’m sure, Marty, I’m sure. I may look and sound old, but my bones are as rich as ever. They’re ready to climb that son of a bit—“ he remembered he was trekking on fragile ground with Martin and stopped himself. “Sorry my friend. I keep forgetting you are a man of God now. Peace be with you.” He nodded his head, closing his eyes.

Martin did the same. “And also with you,” he said quietly. “I hope what you say is true, Teddy. It will be a dangerous journey. What is the plan?”

Teddy looked back up at Martin and smiled, stroking his beard again. “We’ll climb the mountain early in the morn tomorrow.” He reached for a rolled up piece of paper in his back pocket, unraveling it to reveal a torn map of the mountain range. He placed it on altar, pointing to a red X near the center. “We travel along this route.” He traced his finger over some red ink splotches and pointed at another X, tapping it three times. “We make camp here. This was the last reported sighting, over here.” He pointed to a red circle. “Given his habits and hypothetical breeding grounds, the bugger should be in the area where we’re going to make camp. We have elephant tranquilizers and flares already up there from a recon expedition. We spotted footprints, Marty. Footprints! We’re so close to getting the bugger!”

“Let’s hope so.” Martin bit his lip as he looked over the map. The mission was dangerous, but they were going to do it. They were going to catch the Abominable Snowman alive and well.