I've seen other people put up blogs about weird shit, so I've decided to throw my own experience into the ring. See, I used to live out in the desert. No telling where. It's stupid. It wasn't, but it is now. Anyway, way out in the desert, I met this guy. He calls himself the Amalgamation Sage, but we're gonna shorten that down to Sage. In any case, Sage had some bad mojo on him, and back then, I dealt in mojo. He came to me, being the affable and good-looking sod that I am, and I was more than happy to oblige and bring out my own little brand of whatsits. I brought out a few decks of picture cards and some rum (The rum is important), and damned if it didn't get some results, even if they were vague as all get out. Half the time, I was reading the writing on my forehead more or less, but somehow it worked. Wasn't long after that that things started...dogging me. Noticing me. I couldn't see them worth a shit, but they were all around me and weren't lettin' go. I'd always had that "being watched and someone wants to smack you" feeling before, but never heeded it no mind when I got to middle school and no one really wanted to hear that there was something in the corner of the library that was givin' me the invisible frog-eyes. But that feeling got back in the desert with Sage and the other cast of nutbags.
In any case, Sage and I figured out that this shit sorta passed right by me. Normal people, they woulda left this alone. "Oh," says John Normal, "This doesn't effect me. I can go on with things as they come." But for reasons that will quickly become known, I didn't do that. No, I went into the opposite direction. First, it was tormenting ghosts with lip-syncing and air guitar. Then it was bothering demons with my vast and illegally-obtained collection of MP3s. Then it got worse. "Hit me!" I yelled, "Hit me, hit me, hit---- ME!" I became a human target, and there weren't nothing that tangled with me and got the better end of the stick. That's not a boast, I might as well be coated with psychic Teflon. I'd let 'em hit me, and Sage could kick ass while I was dealing with the smaller threats. Pretty soon, I'd found other people who dealt with it well, and we found a nice little karass (or Nakama, if you're a japanophile and that's your gig) in there. There was Adam, as wise as he was cracked. Lila, with the power to smoke, curse, kiss girls, and...do actiony stuff. Constance, the requisite bitch of the group who could smack someone down with a look. Naomi, the Jersey-girl Elvira clone. Colin, the...well, the quiet badass, more or less. And me. Sage'd fling us against the wall, and we'd all rip loose like crazy.
Then we figured something out.
See, this group we put together? We weren't just a big defensive wall. We were a big defensive wall of fire and chainsaws. We were cuisinarting them, not just deflecting them. So Sage and I, being the leaders of the group, drafted a new plan of attack, though we had to scatter before it went into practice. We'd hit the big leagues, the stuff no one touches, and make sure they all knew from this point forward: You do not. Fuck with. Our. Race.
But we scattered. It wasn't our fault, of course. These things just happen. You've probably read those books where the badasses have to scatter before they reform and kick massive amounts of ass, anyway. Same basic deal.
Let's cut to today. I still deal in mojo, according to most people, and considering I've got the chops and the weird stuff to deal with it (ask me where I keep my tarot cards and my handmade gewgaws, and baby, you'll be getting a ton more than you asked for. And there ain't no gewgaws bigger), mojo is my business and business is a boomin'. And because we were so awesome both on and off the pitch, I just had to get back in touch with the old crew. We may not always get face-time, but we're still the band, and the band always gets back together.
So Sage. Sage has his own bad-mojo factory attached to his ass. He's had to deal with this more than I have, and that comes with its own risks and rewards. I find monsters, and he kinda dogs 'em and gives 'em what for. Occasionally, our old nakama gives us bit of backup before we start smacking some of 'em around. It helps out when you're staring down a shrieking lizard with a tentacle wang if you've got someone else to hang around and look disinterested while you're twitching like a junkie on a Magic Fingers bed and hyperventillating into its face in the hopes that it'll smell your garlic breath and pass out. Sometimes...I don't do so hot with that whole thing. I'm not used to seeing that shit, just dealing with it off-panel. And we do the big league thing like clockwork.
In any case, Sage and I figured out that this shit sorta passed right by me. Normal people, they woulda left this alone. "Oh," says John Normal, "This doesn't effect me. I can go on with things as they come." But for reasons that will quickly become known, I didn't do that. No, I went into the opposite direction. First, it was tormenting ghosts with lip-syncing and air guitar. Then it was bothering demons with my vast and illegally-obtained collection of MP3s. Then it got worse. "Hit me!" I yelled, "Hit me, hit me, hit---- ME!" I became a human target, and there weren't nothing that tangled with me and got the better end of the stick. That's not a boast, I might as well be coated with psychic Teflon. I'd let 'em hit me, and Sage could kick ass while I was dealing with the smaller threats. Pretty soon, I'd found other people who dealt with it well, and we found a nice little karass (or Nakama, if you're a japanophile and that's your gig) in there. There was Adam, as wise as he was cracked. Lila, with the power to smoke, curse, kiss girls, and...do actiony stuff. Constance, the requisite bitch of the group who could smack someone down with a look. Naomi, the Jersey-girl Elvira clone. Colin, the...well, the quiet badass, more or less. And me. Sage'd fling us against the wall, and we'd all rip loose like crazy.
Then we figured something out.
See, this group we put together? We weren't just a big defensive wall. We were a big defensive wall of fire and chainsaws. We were cuisinarting them, not just deflecting them. So Sage and I, being the leaders of the group, drafted a new plan of attack, though we had to scatter before it went into practice. We'd hit the big leagues, the stuff no one touches, and make sure they all knew from this point forward: You do not. Fuck with. Our. Race.
But we scattered. It wasn't our fault, of course. These things just happen. You've probably read those books where the badasses have to scatter before they reform and kick massive amounts of ass, anyway. Same basic deal.
Let's cut to today. I still deal in mojo, according to most people, and considering I've got the chops and the weird stuff to deal with it (ask me where I keep my tarot cards and my handmade gewgaws, and baby, you'll be getting a ton more than you asked for. And there ain't no gewgaws bigger), mojo is my business and business is a boomin'. And because we were so awesome both on and off the pitch, I just had to get back in touch with the old crew. We may not always get face-time, but we're still the band, and the band always gets back together.
So Sage. Sage has his own bad-mojo factory attached to his ass. He's had to deal with this more than I have, and that comes with its own risks and rewards. I find monsters, and he kinda dogs 'em and gives 'em what for. Occasionally, our old nakama gives us bit of backup before we start smacking some of 'em around. It helps out when you're staring down a shrieking lizard with a tentacle wang if you've got someone else to hang around and look disinterested while you're twitching like a junkie on a Magic Fingers bed and hyperventillating into its face in the hopes that it'll smell your garlic breath and pass out. Sometimes...I don't do so hot with that whole thing. I'm not used to seeing that shit, just dealing with it off-panel. And we do the big league thing like clockwork.
It's apathy, you see. You have to give a fuck without giving a fuck. It helps if you're clinging to a rotten plank of sanity, like we are. Because then when it calls on you to charge nude into a forest or firebomb a single-level ranch house for the sheer thrill of being alive, you go "I can dig it and there's no problems here, pendejo." I've been going insane recently, so I've got the insanity and the apathy. I care enough to know they're there, but not enough that they can hurt me. If you don't give a fuck if they exist, how can they convince you they can hurt you? Also, how the hell can anything be confronted with an insane person? Telepaths can't take that shit, it infects them. Anyone who feeds on fear is likely to appear as your hot indie-chick English Lit teacher who made you too afraid to talk as much as a giant bunny because you saw Night of the Lepus too many times. I mean, if you were King Shit of Fistpile Mountain and some mope stripped naked and ran at you singing "I'm a little teapot", you may win that fight, but my friend, you will not win it intact, because that memory of a turgid, bouncing manhood (or hypno-chest, if you prefer) would be bouncing at you in your dreams forever.
So we fight monsters. And not just the small-time stuff. This ain't a blog where you'll hear about us going insane through something in the woods or eaten by some god-pounding house, oh no. We're the Big Damn Heroes, and Big Damn Heroes deserve Big Damn Monsters to fight. And fight we do, because we're not the kind to be driven insane or give up. Oh, no, we're far too crazy for that. Like I said, we're big leagues now, and that comes with bigger stakes. Us or them stakes. Oh, fuck what have we done stakes.
I'm your narrator. Call me Tao. Let's have some fun together. Let's rock.
A = A
I'm your narrator. Call me Tao. Let's have some fun together. Let's rock.
A = A
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