New Book, Chapter 2

Sorry it took so long to get it out there.  I'll try to be faster next time!!!!

Chapter 2

“Mike?  You don’t mean like the Archangel Michael, do you?”

After everything that had happened to him, Mark didn’t think there was any way he could be surprised again, but finding himself face-to-face with God’s own problem solver was a bit disconcerting.

“Hell, son, I don’t put a whole lot of faith in the stories they tell about me.  Call me Mike or Michael, whichever you want, and we’ll be just fine.”

Mark quickly replied.

“Yes sir.”

Michael smiled at Mark, and it was the smile of a predator who’d just locked eyes on easy prey.

“Sir?  I think I might like that even better.”

Both Jay and the old man chuckled at Michael’s response, and the old man motioned for him to have a private conversation.  Jay led the two outside, keeping a respectful distance as he did.  The old man spoke first.

“I believe that if you have everything under control, I’ll be on my way.  I don’t want to risk bringing our friends down on us.”

Michael agreed.

“After what happened in Rome, I can’t say I blame you.”

He threw a glance over his shoulder, catching Mark as he tried to both eavesdrop and look innocent at the same time.  Michael raised his voice.

“Well, son, you coming or not?”

Mark hesitated, seemingly uncertain of what the right answer was, and Michael patiently waited several seconds before calling out again.

“Dang nabbit, son!  When I ask you a question, I’m expecting an answer!”

The harshness of the tone and words jolted Mark back to reality.

“Yes.  Yes sir.”

Michael nodded, and the four men continued their walk away from the house.  What Mark saw outside brought back feelings he hadn’t had since the War.  Eleven men, dressed in identical white dusters, were guarding the perimeter of the property, Winchesters at the ready.  As Mark took a closer look, he thought he saw something familiar about them. 

He was also amazed by the wagon he and his three companions headed towards.  Wells Fargo didn’t have a strong wagon as impressive as this metal monstrosity, and it gleamed as the midday sun hit it.  He was taken with the level of protection it afforded, and even more impressed when two of the men he’d noticed milling about took their positions on the driver’s bench, armed and ready to go.

“She’s something, isn’t she?”

Jay’s voice drew Mark back into reality.  It occurred to him he’d been staring off for too long.

“Yeah.  She is.”

“Too bad there’s a real need for her.”

Jay’s previously jovial tone seemed to turn momentarily somber, but it passed, and he smiled as he clapped Mark on the back.

“Good to have you on board, but you might regret it once Mike’s done with you.”

Michael’s reply carried over quickly.

“I heard that, you little long-haired punk.”

Jay grinned again, then headed for a small cluster of men, with whom he discussed plans for the return trip.  Mark couldn’t hear the conversation, and so allowed his focus to turn to Michael, who was in the middle of what appeared to be a heated discussion with the old man.

“I’m telling you, sir, I’ve got this under control.”

The older man shook his head, though Mark could swear he noticed a slight grin as he did.

“I knew you’d object to the offer, but I don’t think it’s wise to leave you and Mark alone right now.”

Both men became aware of Mark’s attention, and quickly moved to end the discussion, though Michael got the last word.

“I can handle a few demon dogs.  What’s important is that we get you home safe and sound.  Just send my usual messanger with the gear.”

The older man allowed a smile to break across his face, mischief in his eyes.

“You DO realize Jay’s going to start taking it personally if you keep asking for her to bring things to you.”

Michael grunted.

“Serves him right, the little punk.  Never mix business with pleasure.”

The old man laughed again, shaking Michael’s hand as he did.  He then moved to Mark.  As they shook hands, he stared Mark down with a serious gaze.

“Now, son, I know you’ve been through a lot today, and I’m sorry for that.  Michael will answer as many of your questions as he can.  But, make no mistake, his job is to whip you into fighting shape, so don’t be surprised if that gentle exterior of his gets hard on you.”

A lump formed in Mark’s throat as they finished the handshake.  Unable to speak, he smiled and nodded as the old man turned and climbed into the coach.  It took mere seconds for the calm silence to transform into a flurry of motion as the carriage and all of the horses sped off—precious cargo in tow. 

Michael stared after them until long after they’d sped from view.  Mark just stared silently—taking in everything he’d seen and heard without saying anything.  After several minutes of that, Michael turned and headed back to the house.  When Mark hesitated to follow, Michael called out over his shoulder.

“Until I tell you otherwise, you go where I go, son.”

Mark fell in obediently behind him, and they both walked back to the house in silence as the sun set.

The early part of the evening passed in silence.  Mark fixed dinner for himself and Michael, and neither of them spoke.  The silence continued as they ate, then as Mark cleared the dishes.  Mark had finished straightening up the cabin, putting fresh linens on the bed and laying out a sleeping pallet when Michael finally spoke.

“I know you’ve been through a hell of a lot today kid, and I’m sorry about it.”

Mark shrugged.

“Wasn’t your fault.”

Michael shot Mark a curious glance.  The comment had come out with no emotion, not even sarcasm.  He slowly shook his head.

“If you’ve got something to say, son, I’d suggest you say it.  Starting at sunrise, I’m gonna be riding you like you ain’t ever been rode before, so you if you’ve got something to get off your chest, tonight’s the night.  Cuss, scream, yell……hell, son, do SOMETHING other than stand there with your feet sunk in the mud.”

The sudden burst of emotion from Mark came as if shot from a gun.

“Sunk in the mud?  You think I’m moping around?  Let’s take a quick look at how my day went, shall we?”

Mark was furious, mixing anger with sarcasm and waving his hands wildly as he spoke.

“First, I get shot up by a bunch of men who stole my girlfriend.  Next, I find out that instead of being dead and able to relax inside the pearly gates, I’m actually still alive and talking to the Almighty himself.”

The more Mark spoke, the more animated he got.  Michael had to work hard to hold back a smile.

“God….I mean, who actually TALKS to God?  And when I do, what does he tell me?  He tells me I’m going to be his new Avenging Angel, doing his bidding in exchange for my life.  How the Hell do you answer that?  I want revenge, and He’s giving me the way to do it, but….”

He stopped, his anger released.  He blinked hard several times before finally sitting down at the table.  Michael said nothing, choosing to give Mark the chance to gather his thoughts.  When nothing came, he stepped in.

“You’re not sure if you want to do it anymore.”

It wasn’t a question, and Mark knew it.  Michael had said exactly what he’d been thinking.  When the old man had laid out the plan, Mark had initially seen it as the way to get revenge for his untimely death.  The fact that God had swapped the word “justice” for “revenge” hadn’t slowed him down a bit.

“You’re right, you know.  It’ll never be the same again, regardless of how this all works out.”

Mark nodded, unable to speak.

“This new life comes with a serious catch, son, so you need to understand it before we go any further.”

Michael leaned forward, locking eyes with Mark as he continued.

“You can never, and I mean NEVER, have contact with the people you knew in your past life.  From this point on, you’re dead to them.  They can never know you’re alive, why you’re alive, or what you’re up to.”

Mark’s expression asked the question he couldn’t find the voice to.

“Nobody can know about you.  That’s the price.  You’ll never have a permanent home.  Hell, son, you’ll be lucky if you get to sleep in the same place more than once.  Other than the old man, Jay, myself, and the rest of the boys, you’ll never have a family.  We’re it, for better or worse.  Better still, this is an ‘all-the-time’ job—you don’t get days off.”

Mark interrupted, having finally found his voice.

“I thought you were supposed to be SELLING me on the job, sir.”

Noting the sarcasm, Michael smiled.

“You’ve got pluck, kid.  I can see why they chose you.”

Leaning back in his chair, he produced a cigar from one of his pockets and a match from another.  He lit the smoke as he continued.

“I AM supposed to sell this job to you.  Thing is, though, I don’t want to get you doing this only for you to decide a year from now that you got ripped off on the deal.  Figured I oughta be up front with you, and the hard truth’s about as up front as I can get.”

Mark nodded, and Michael continued.

“I’m giving you the choice I didn’t have.  When everything first went down, the old man needed a general, and he needed one quick.  I volunteered to take the job, knowing I’d be fighting some of my friends who changed sides, but I knew that if the old man fell, we’d all fall.”

It occurred to Mark what it was Michael was talking about.

“You mean, when Lucifer declared war on God and was sent to Hell?”

Michael nodded.  Mark was stunned.  He’d expected Michael to give him a speech to bolster his confidence, but had never expected the older man to share his real feelings.  At least, not like this.  Realizing Mark was unable to speak, Michael filled the silence.

“I never even considered what it would be like to do this job.  The old man needed me, and I stepped up.  All these years later, I still wonder what would’ve happened if I’d let somebody else take the job.”

Noticing Mark’s jaw dropping, he smiled, changing his tone.

“So, you’re not sure you can do this job.  Who is?  I mean, when the old man agreed to let me do this, I didn’t know which end of the flaming sword to hold.”

Mark laughed, but quickly stifled it, gazing in fear at Michael, who allowed the smile to remain on his face.  He nodded and continued.

“That’s what I wanted you to do—lighten up a bit.  Look, I know you’re not going to be sure what to do at first.  That’s why I’m going to be here to work with you.  Later on?  Your instinct will kick in and you’ll take action without even thinking about it.  That’s our goal.”

Mark nodded, understanding.  Michael took another drag off his cigar, then snuffed it out on the sole of his boot.  He slowly rose, stretching out as he did.

“Okay kid, enough small talk.  We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, so I suggest we turn in.”

Mark nodded, heading for the pallet as he did.  Michael held out a hand, stopping him.

“I’m used to sleeping on the ground.  I’ll take the floor.”

Before Mark could thank him, Michael smiled and added.

“Besides, once I’m finished kicking your ass tomorrow, you won’t be able to sleep in a comfy bed for weeks.”

New Original Work of Fiction......

So, when I first created this blog, I said I'd use it to post original writings from both myself and my friends.  This, dear readers, is the first original writing, and it's one of mine.  It's the first chapter of something I've been working on for a few months, so take a minute to read it, and let me know if you're interested in reading more.  If enough people like it, I'll keep trying to churn out at least a chapter per month (maybe more).  CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM ONLY, PLEASE.

Chapter 1

“This isn’t what I thought it would be like.”

Mark Turner’s last conscious thought on earth was as cryptic as it was prophetic.  Lying in the middle of his house, his blood rushing out from the fist-sized hole in his chest, it was the only thing that came to his mind.  He’d lost the ability to move his arms minutes earlier, and now felt the cold grip of death working its way from the tips of his toes north towards his head.  When it reached his knees, he knew his time was nearly over.

A lifetime’s worth of memories rushed through his brain:  his childhood on the farm in Kansas, falling in love for the first time, the horrors he’d witnessed during the War of Southern Aggression....

What he focused on in his final moments, however, was the woman who had gotten him into this situation, though it wasn’t her fault.

Three years ago, Mark’s life had changed forever.  Shortly after Easter, a friend of his had introduced him to someone who’d just moved to town.  Mark had reluctantly agreed to the meeting only after his friend had reminded him that “No man should have to die alone.”

As Mark now felt his life leaving his body, he mentally laughed at the thought that he was, in fact, going to die alone. 

Sandy had moved to Sutter’s Ridge from Iowa a few days before they met.  She’d been widowed twice-  once by the war, again by smallpox-and had decided to leave Iowa for the Kansas plains.  She was a simple woman:  she dressed plainly in dresses she sewed together herself, she insisted on tending to the garden, milking the cows, and helping Mark take their produce to town to sell every week.  She believed in God, but never tried to force her beliefs on anyone else, Mark included.  He’d also loved the fact that while she was a very attractive woman, she went to great lengths to be as plain-looking as she could be, since she valued beauty much less than most other people, preferring instead what she called “intelligent conversation.”

His mind froze on her face the first time he made her laugh.  It wasn’t the dainty laugh of a fragile woman, but rather the loud, bellowing laugh of a woman who’d lived her life to the fullest.  She did, and because of that, so did Mark.  They’d packed three years together with as many memories as some folks did in an entire lifetime.

He then focused on the last time he’d seen her, moments earlier.  She was crying and screaming his name after he’d taken two barrels of buckshot to the chest.  One of the last sights he’d had was of her struggling with the two men who were trying to force her out of the house.  He’d secretly feared something like this would happen for quite some time, but had never been able to convince her to move.

“God will look out for us, my love”, she said every time he’d suggested leaving Kansas for somewhere safer.  Not wanting to offend her beliefs, and knowing he’d lose if he made it an argument, he’d always agreed to stay.

As he lost the feeling in his chest, and felt death finishing its work on him, he thought about the man who’d put him in this spot, and it both angered and saddened him.

Six months ago, a fellow by the name of Darren Night moved to Sutter’s Ridge.  He’d come from Missouri money, and brought that money with him, buying up most of the businesses in town and building his fortune quickly.  Night was a man who got what he wanted, either by buying it outright or eliminating his competition, and the rumors had it that more than one opponent to his purchasing property had been removed from the equation, permanently.

Night had quickly taken an interest in Sandy, but she’d made it clear she was only interested in Mark.  That hadn’t stopped Night from showering Sandy with gifts, which she’d promptly returned to him, usually unopened.  That had only caused Night to double his efforts, which included subtle threats to Mark about who would “take care of the lovely lady should something happen to you.”  Eventually, the threats became less subtle, and that was when Mark had first suggested to Sandy they leave town.

He was beginning to feel that he should have been more forceful about that, but knew she’d have never agreed to it.

The feud came to a head an hour earlier, when three men broke into the house, armed to the teeth.  They’d swapped off, with two men beating on him while the third beat and raped Sandy, then swapping out until all three had taken a turn with her.  At some point during the attack, Mark had managed to get his hands on a knife, and when he used it to slash the face of one of his attackers, their mood got much darker.  The man who’d just finished with Sandy grabbed a double-barrel shotgun and pumped a round into his chest. 

Somehow, Mark had managed to stay on his feet, staggering towards the man and still brandishing the knife.  When the second barrel discharged, he knew he was done.  So did the men, who quickly gathered their things and dragged Sandy out of the house, leaving him to die.

Which he was about to do.  Mark felt the last movements of cold going up his face, freezing his nose and eyes.  With his last ounce of energy, he thought out a final prayer.

“May God look out for you, my love, since I was unable to.  I’m sorry.”

With a sudden jerk, Mark sat bolt upright, eyes open in a look of complete surprise.  Looking down, he noticed that the hole from the shotgun slugs was gone, his shirt whole, clean, and as neat as when he’d put it on that morning.

He blinked several times in confusion, wondering to himself whether or not he’d dreamed the whole thing.

“That wasn’t a dream, friend.”

Frightened by the deep, bass voice that interrupted the silence, Mark turned slowly to face the source.  His gaze stopped on the well-dressed stranger sitting at his dinner table, cards laid out in what appeared to be a solitaire hand.  By the looks of his clothes-black suit pants, starched white shirt, tailored black vest, red and white polka-dotted bow tie—Mark took him for Northern, big city money.  The stranger’s face—smooth, with a white moustache and beard and glittering green eyes—had the look of authority, but the type of man accustomed to GIVING rather than RECEIVING orders.

As Mark took in the stranger, he spoke again.

“Your death wasn’t a dream.  Those men really DID break into your house, you really DID get shot, and you most certainly DID bleed to death.”

Mark was having difficulty processing what he’d been told.

“But….dead men don’t just sit up.”

The stranger laughed.  It was a deep, long laugh, like someone laughing for the first time in a long time.

“That’s true, son.  Dead men don’t just sit up.”

“But…you just said I’m dead, and I just sat up…”

The stranger nodded, taking a moment to make a play on his game.  He smiled as he moved several cards to the top of the table.  Finishing the move, he looked back up at Mark.

“Stand up, son.”

When Mark looked back at him, confused, he repeated his request with a bit firmer tone.

“Stand UP, son.”

Mark complied, slowly standing up.

“But, I don’t see what this has to do with…”

The stranger held up a hand, cutting off the remark.

“Open your shirt.”

Mark blinked twice, but did nothing.  The stranger smiled warmly back at him.

“Son, if you want answers, I can give them to you, but you’re going to have to start trusting me.”

Mark slowly nodded, then began unbuttoning his shirt.  After undoing several buttons, he gasped in horror as he noticed the hole in his chest.  It was covered crudely in skin that was scabbed and bloody, but it did appear to be healing itself in some way.

He looked up at the stranger, shocked.

“How…..?  Why?.....”

The words died in his throat.  The stranger nodded in response.

“You died, son.  You took two barrels of buckshot to the chest at darn near point-blank-range.  Ain’t no living through that.”

Before Mark could respond, the front door opened.  The man who stepped through was as dark-skinned as the older man was light; darker skinned, in fact, than anyone Mark had ever seen who wasn’t of African decent.  His tan hat matched his road-worn duster.  He set his Winchester rifle by the door as he entered, sliding out of his duster and hanging it on the coat rack.  He was dressed like a working man in denim jeans, a red-plaid work shirt, and had spurs clanging on his boots as he walked.  Mark also noticed the ivory-handled Colt Peacemakers on each hip.  His facial features, while darker, were similar to the older man as well.  His moustache and beard, as well as his hair, were dark black, and his long hair was pulled back, keeping it off his shoulders and out of his way.

The new entry headed for the fireplace, grabbing the coffee pot hanging over it and pouring a cup.  He addressed the older man as he did.

“The boys have everything secured, sir.”

The older man nodded.

“And John?”

“He’s headed into town to collect our friend.”

“Well done.  Thank you, son.”

Mark suddenly found himself unable to speak again, which the new arrival noticed.  Failing to hold back a smile, he broke out into laughter, a rich baritone laugh that contrasted with the older man’s, as well as being the laugh of a man accustomed to much laughter.

“I told you he’d have trouble with this, sir.”

The old man nodded.

“We were just getting around to discussing Mark’s present situation before you came in and stole the show.”

The younger man bowed his head, embarrassed.

“Sorry, sir.”

The older man smiled.

“No apologies needed, son.  Get comfortable while Mark and I finish our conversation.”

The younger man grabbed a chair and moved near the window, positioning himself so he could see his men outside.  The older man returned his attention to Mark, who was still staring at the younger man quizzically.

“Before we were interrupted, we were discussing how you could be standing here if you’d died.  The truth is that you shouldn’t be.”

Mark’s stare returned to the older man, though shock still held his voice in check.

“No one can survive what you went through.  Even if you’d been shot in a hospital, you’d have died from that.”

Mark staggered as the reality of the situation set in.  He managed to grab the chair opposite the white-haired stranger, sliding into it before he fell over.  The old man sat silently for several minutes, waiting for Mark to speak.  Finally, Mark found the words for his thought.

“So, why am I here?  Why am I sitting here talking to you?”

The old man nodded.

“To answer your first question, you’re here because this is your house and this is where you died.”

He smiled at his comment, though it was obvious to him that Mark didn’t get the joke.  He quickly shook his head.

“Your second question is a bit more difficult to answer.  You’re sitting here talking to me because I have something to offer you.”

Mark was still confused.  The older man picked up on it, smiled warmly, and continued.

“From time to time, those who die an unjustified death are given the opportunity to return in order to gain justice for their deaths.  They agree to perform a task, and in return are given the skills necessary to complete the mission.  Once that happens, that person can finally rest in peace.”

Mark seemed to take it all in, but it was obvious he had a question.  The old man nodded for him to speak.

“So, basically what you’re telling me is that somebody’s giving me the chance to get justice for my death, but I have to do something for them in return, and I go back to being dead afterwards?  No offense, but it sounds like a shit deal to me.”

The younger man spit coffee as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back a laugh.  The older man smiled, saying nothing.  He continued to stare at Mark as if he knew he had more to say.

“Besides, who in the hell has that kind of power?  Sounds like selling your soul to the Devil from where I come from.”

The old man finally spoke up.

“The Devil isn’t the only one who can offer that sort of bargain, son.  There is someone else who could make that deal.”

“Who?  GOD?  Right.  Where was God when those bastards beat and raped Sandy?  Where was he when they took her away?”

Mark angrily stood up, leaning across the table and poking the older man in the shoulder as he continued.

“Where was God when those bastards shot me to death?”

The older man’s face shifted to a mask of neutrality, but he said nothing.  The younger man, however, replied in a calm but firm tone.

“In spite of what you’ve heard about God, he can’t be everywhere at once.  He can’t see everything at once.  And, contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t control everything.  He just nudges certain things here and there to help things happen.”

Mark was back to looking confused.

“How the hell would you know that?”

Both men smiled back at him.  Mark laughed, certain he was being played for a sucker.

“Okay, boys, I think we’ve had enough of the little joke.  Unless you two want to tell me what’s really going on here, I suggest you both leave right now.”

The old man nodded.

“If you want us to leave, we will.  However, your death wound will re-open, and you’ll die minutes after we leave.  I can only assure you that what we’ve told you so far is indeed the truth.”

Mark’s anger was swept away by not only the sincerity of the man’s words, but also the tone he used.  He felt a calm pour over him as the truth settled in.  He stared at the older man in amazement.

“You mean…..you’re…..?”

The older man smiled again.

“I go by many names, son, depending on where I am.  My associates call me ‘sir’, or, for some of the less reverent, ‘old man’.  You may use either.”

Mark nodded, addressing the younger man as he did.

“That means you’re….?

The younger man chuckled.

“Call me Jay.  That’s what the rest of the guys call me.”

Mark nodded somberly.

“I’m sorry, sir, that I questioned you.”

The old man shook his head.

“None needed, son.  You’ve been through a heck of an ordeal today.  I don’t blame you for being a little suspicious.  Besides, despite what you might have heard, I appreciate those who aren’t afraid to question me.  Keeps me on my toes.”

Mark nodded appreciably.

“So, you’re offering me the opportunity to get revenge on the men who killed me and did those things to Sandy, but I have to do something for you.  Plus, I die afterwards?”

The old man shook his head.

“Make one thing very clear, son.  I’m NOT offering you revenge.  We don’t DO revenge here.  What you’re being offered is the opportunity to get justice for your death.”

“But I’ll still owe you a favor, and I’ll die anyway once that’s done.”

“Yes and no.  Yes, I will ask you to perform a task for me.  However, this task is of a more….ongoing nature.  So, as long as you perform the task, you will live.”

Mark eyed the old man suspiciously.

“What’s the catch?”

Jay’s face lit up.

“He’s starting to sound like the guy we’ve been looking for, don’t you think?”

The old man smiled.

“The ‘catch’, as you put it, is that the task I’m asking of you is a permanent post.  I am in need of a new ‘associate’ to handle certain jobs for me, and I’d like you to take the position.

Mark took a second to consider what he’d been told, then laughed.

“An ‘associate to handle certain jobs’?  Sounds like the Angel of Vengeance to me.  I thought you said ‘we don’t do revenge here’?”

As Jay spit coffee again, the old man replied.

“I can see why you’d think the two are related, and, to humans, they are.  To me, vengeance is a bit different than revenge.  You see, there are beings walking this earth that have been sent from below, their only mission being to undo the words the faithful live by.  They tempt, steal, make hellish bargains, and do whatever they can to undermine me at every turn.  The Angel of Vengeance is the soldier I have tasked throughout time to deal with the situation, and the position currently stands open.”

“And, so long as I do the job, I get to live?”

“Yes.”

Mark smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand.  The older man accepted it, returning Mark’s handshake with one of equal force.

“I’m please you’ve chosen to accept the position.”

Mark nodded.

“I don’t know if I believe everything you said, but if it gives me the chance to get the bastards that took Sandy, I’m in.”

The men broke away, spending several long seconds sizing each other up.  The sound of approaching horses outside filtered in, and Jay rose from his chair, nodding to the men.

“I believe that’s our friend now.”

He headed out the door as he finished, grabbing his coat and leaving Mark’s question directed at the older man.

“I’m sorry.  ‘Our friend’?”

The old man smiled.

“The man who will be handling your training.”

“Training?”

Mark seemed confused again, though the old man had expected nothing less.

“Of course.  If you’re going to be my valued soldier, then I owe it to you to provide you with the best possible training.”

“And this…’friend’….is the best one to do it?”

The old man nodded.

“He’s the only one I can trust to do it properly, I’m afraid.”

As he finished, the door opened again, and Jay stepped through, followed by a short, thin, sickly looking man dressed in hand-me-down clothes.  His hair was matted and unkempt, as was his beard.  He wore no hat, and his sole possession was a tattered carpet bag he clutched as if it were gold.

The smile on Jay’s face told Mark there was something more to the new arrival than met the eye, so he chose to withhold his negative comments until they’d been properly introduced. 

The old man stepped over and shook hands with the new arrival, clapping him on the shoulder as he did.

“My apologies for the difficulties you’ve been put through recently, old friend.  However, your workload will lessen once you get our new friend here trained.”

The new man didn’t reply.  Instead, he stepped forward and eyeballed Mark, apparently checking to see if the old man had sold him a bill of goods.  After several minutes, he nodded approvingly at the old man, who smiled, relieved.

“I’m pleased he meets with your approval.”

The new man snorted before replying.

“He’ll do.”

His voice was, to Mark, a very annoying combination of high pitch and Southern drawl.  While the sound hurt his ears, Mark quickly realized he was being tested, relaxed, and extended his hand.

“I guess you know I’m Mark.  You are?”

The new man took the offered hand in a grip that belied his size, burned a hole through Mark with his steely blue eyes, and replied in a tone that had changed from high-pitched and annoying to deep and damned-near scary.

“Not that it’s gonna matter much, friend, but you can call me Mike.”

About freedoms and responsibilities......

Let me begin this entry with an admission.....

I don't hunt.  It's not that I don't like it, it's just that I don't have the patience to sit in the woods and wait for something to come to me in order to shoot it.  I have friends and family members who hunt and do it well, as well as responsibly, and I have nothing but respect for their ability to do so.

For them, it's about more than just the hunt.  It's about the peace and calm of being in the outdoors, which is why they can keep dragging themselves out there time and time again, regardless of whether or not they succeed in their mission to bring home the game.

So, I just want to make it very clear that I am PRO hunting.

Let me also throw out a second admission....

I do NOT watch reality television, and I don't for the very simple reason that most reality television isn't real.  If it's not scripted in the truest sense, then it's "organized" into some way to get the shots that will garner maximum ratings.  That's not reality, and that's why I'm not a fan.

Okay, now that I've got that out of the way, let's jump into the discussion of the 800 pound gorilla in the room and talk about the much-embattled Phil Robertson.

By this point, I shouldn't have to give you any background on him, but I will anyway for those who might not be aware.  Phil and his family are the owners of the Duck Commander line of duck calls and other hunting gear.  They are also the subject of the show Duck Dynasty on the A&E network.

As you know, Phil's come under fire for his comments in the January issue of GQ magazine.  Those comments are considered by many to be extremely homophobic and hateful, and have led A&E to suspend Phil from taping of the upcoming season of the show "indefinitely".  That suspension has led to an outcry from those who believe he's being wrongfully persecuted for speaking his opinion, and put A&E into a very unenviable position.

There's something controversial out there?  Guess we better break it down and screw up the outrage by injecting some logic into the argument.  Sounds just like the pot of shit I like to keep stirring up.

First things first:  If you have an opinion about this situation and HAVEN'T read the GQ article, shut the fuck up until you have.  It's available online at gq.com, and I read it twice before I wrote this.

I'll wait for you while you go back and give it a gander.

(insert music from Metallica's S&M album here while we wait)

Okay.  Now that we've done that, let me start by pointing out the contradiction of having someone like Phil, who has a "no swearing" policy for his business and his show, doing an interview with a reporter who repeatedly uses the words "shit" and "fuck" in his article.  Smells a bit like a set-up to me, but maybe I'm just reading too much into it.

Phil is quoted, in no uncertain terms, about his beliefs concerning what is considered sin, and his comments are definitely, to someone like myself, very homophobic and borderline hateful.

That being said, I completely agree with those who are pissed off that Phil's being dumped on for speaking his opinion.  Phil and the rest of his family are paid a good sum of money to travel around the country and help spread the gospel to those who want to hear what they have to say, and if you've read or viewed many interviews with Phil, you can see why.  He has an ability to distill the Bible into a form that's easily understood by all.  On top of that, there can be no doubt that he believes whole-heartedly in the Bible as the word of God, and that we should follow it in order to have a more perfect society.

I have no problem with Phil speaking his mind.  I don't AGREE with a lot of what he says, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have the right to say it.  That's the beauty of living in America:  we have the freedom of speech that allows for us to say things that other people may not like.

Hell, I know I've written shit on this blog that others haven't liked or agreed with, but I keep writing because I know I can.  Plus, I take the opportunity to listen to my critics, because understanding where they're coming from helps me in understanding my own position.

Now, in this case, I think the reporter from GQ tried to have it both ways.  I really feel like he tried to allow Phil to speak his point AND frame it in a way that made his (the reporter's) own opinions have the same level of merit.  Normally, I wouldn't have a problem with this.  In this case, however, I get the feeling the reporter sort of set Phil up to take a hit, and I don't like that at all.

That's not to say I believe people who don't agree with Phil shouldn't have the right to be pissed at him.  Of course they do.  After all, when you're in the public eye, which Phil and his family are, you open yourself up to that, and if you can't handle what gets thrown at you then you should consider getting OUT of the public eye.

Okay, since I've spent time talking about Phil, let's look at the folks from A&E, who seem to be trying to brace for the full impact of the backlash that's been washing over them.

My thoughts on them aren't going to be popular with many, but here they are:

I completely support A&E in their decision to suspend Phil Robertson over the article.

Why?  It's simple, really.

A&E, as a company, has the right to discipline any of their employees (Phil in this case) for actions taken that go against the philosophy of the company.

In other words, even though Phil was speaking his own opinion, the company has the right to defend itself against speech that goes against its own beliefs.

It happens all the time in the "normal" business world.  Why the hell should Phil Robertson get a pass just because he's a celebrity?  And, honestly, how can Paula Deen be vilified for the things she said that people didn't agree with and Phil NOT be?

He can't, and that's why they did it.

Now, before you start coming at me with the torches, understand something.....

When you sign on to work in radio, television, movies, or ANY entertainment business, you sign a contract.  And, as my friends who've spent any time in the entertainment business can attest to, these contracts usually contain a clause that holds you to a certain standard.  In other words, the clause states that you won't say or do anything that could potentially make your employer look bad.

I signed contracts with that clause in it when I worked in radio, and it was made very clear when I'd crossed the line.  Trust me, it doesn't take too many drunken karaoke nights in a college town to get you called on the carpet for behavior that goes against the clause in your contract, and I paid the price a couple of times before I finally just admitted that it was easier to obey the contract than to lose the cash. 

Now, I can't say for sure that Phil HAD a clause like that for Duck Dynasty, but I'd have to believe that the network put SOMETHING in there that was close.  And, Phil can't claim he didn't know how the network felt, as there's been issues before with certain things being edited out of the shows that A&E didn't want said, usually of a religious nature.  So, if he tries to claim ignorance of where A&E stands, he's only fooling himself.

So, what we have here, in my opinion, is a cluster fuck that doesn't seem to have any chance of clearing up in the near future.

However, if you've read the article like I did, you should have noticed something else, and I'll mention it here just because I want to keep the shit stirred up a bit.....

In the article, Phil talks about the end of the show, specifically mentioning that he knows it can't last forever.  This has led some to speculate, and I think they may have a point, that Phil made the comments he made in the interview intentionally, KNOWING A&E would be pissed off and assuming they'd take some sort of action against him that would allow he and his family to get out of the deal with the network and get the show off the air.  Don't think for a second that he isn't smart enough to think of it.  He, like his children, is a college educated man and is very sharp on the uptake.  It's also been revealed in other interviews that he's tired of the pressure and attention the show has placed on him, and he's mentioned in the past that he's looking forward to the end of it.

I'm not saying he did it INTENTIONALLY, but it would make sense if he did.  I mean, this gives him a way to get off the show without having to catch hell from the fans, since A&E would take the blame.

Pretty smart, if that's the plan.

Oh, and I wouldn't feel sorry for them if they lose/leave the show.  They've made a fortune off their Duck Commander empire and will continue to do so with or without the show.

Trust me.  They'll be just fine.

But, hey....it's just one man's opinion, and it's always open to debate.

The Fat Guy

An admission of total Whovian geekdom.....

Okay, I've admitted a thousand times since I started this blog that I am, without apology, a big friggin' geek.  I love Star Wars, Star Trek, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.  I play Dungeons and Dragons and other role playing games.  I own an Xbox 360 and a Wii, and love playing video games.

Don't like it?  Don't care.

For all of my geekdom loves, one of the largest sci-fi/fantasy franchises in history had managed to NOT be a part of my viewing habits for a very long time.

See, up until about a month ago, I'd never really gotten into Doctor Who. 

*Gasp*

Let me explain.  As a kid, I didn't get the subtleties of British television.  Too dry.  And, when I'd tried as a kid to watch Doctor Who when it played on our PBS station, it didn't ring with the same excitement as Star Wars or Star Trek.

So, I let it go.

However, when I heard about all the festivities around Doctor Who selecting a new Doctor and preparing for the 50th anniversary special, I decided that I needed to check this show out.

And.....

I like it. 

Now, I've gone back and watched some of the shows from the "classic" era and STILL feel the way I did before.  BUT, starting with the first series of the "new" era (which star Christopher Eccleston as the Doctor), I found myself enthralled.  So much so that I made it a point to record all of the episodes from BBC America as they showed.

Then I realized that, as an Amazon Prime customer, I can watch the first 6 seasons for free.

Nice.

For those of you who are fans, I don't have to convince you that the show's worth watching.

For those who aren't, might I suggest you watch the upcoming Christmas special.  You'll be a bit behind, as the episode will wrap up four years worth of storylines as the series shifts from one lead to a new one, but the excitement level should be enough to get you intrigued.

And that, my friends, is how an obsession is born.

The Fat Guy

Why ARE there so many different versions of the Bible????

I've been studying religion a bit lately.  Mostly because the Vatican and the Catholic faith play a part in the book I recently finished and will continue to play a part as I write more books in the series, but also because I am fascinated by the beliefs of various cultures, my own included.

In addition to reading the Bible for the umpteenth time (and, yes, I DO own a Bible.  It was a gift from my Aunt Mary many years ago, and I will treasure it for the rest of my life), I've taken to watching shows where varying theories about the writing and translating of the Bible are debated.  From all of that, I had a question:

If the Bible is the word of God, why are there so many different versions of it?

If you think this is some sort of sick joke by the fat guy, open another browser tab, go to Amazon, and search for Bibles.

Go ahead.  I'll wait for a minute...........

See what I mean?  There's literally dozens of different versions of the Bible out there.  And while they all tell the same basic story, if you break them down, you'll notice differences between all of them.

In other words, they don't tell the story the same way.

Worse still, some versions leave out events that other versions have kept in.

So, I'll ask again....

If the Bible is the word of God, why are there so many different versions of it?

The only answer that I can come up with, and I know some of you will disagree with it, is that the Bible ISN'T the word of God.  Instead, it's the word of man trying to interpret what God intended for us to know.

For me, it's not really much of a stretch to believe that.  The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls showed us that there were passages in the earliest versions of the Bible that haven't been used in centuries.  If that's the case, then why do we, as the faithful, hold tightly to the belief that the Bible is truly the word of God?  How could an editor just cut out the sacred words of the creator?

The fact of the matter, to me, is that they couldn't, which only proves my point.

I mean, look at it like this:  there wasn't a human being present at the creation.  We know this.  So, how do we have such a descriptive account of what happened?  There's no film we can go back and look at for it.  No newspaper accounts.  No hieroglyphics on a pyramid.  Nothing.

The creation is something believers take on faith.  And, by the way, I'm not arguing with having faith.  In and of itself, I believe faith to be a very good and very positive thing.

I take issue with those who would choose to beat me over the head with their Bible and tell me that it is the ultimate word, and if I don't believe wholeheartedly in it, I'm going directly to Hell.

Why am I such a killjoy when it comes to this most holy of texts?  Because if you look at some of the history concerning it, Catholic officials made me that way.

How so?

Well, let's look at the very beginnings of the Catholic church.  We know of the existence of verses that are believed to be the "banned" verses of the Bible, which would be verses that either were written at the same time and weren't utilized, or were purged from the text at the very creation of the church.  Either way, one has to wonder why those verses weren't allowed to see the light of day while those that did made the cut.  In my opinion, it's the first instance of the church editing the word to suit their own needs.

"Right", you're thinking.  "The church just picks and chooses what it wants us to know."

Okay, here's something else.

The final book of the New Testament, in the oldest Codex version known, only had eight verses.  If you look at it now, it has way more than that.  How's that possible?  To answer that, you have to first understand that Catholics were the first group to write their scripture into books, known as codexes, to read.  For the longest time, that's how you knew the difference between Christian and Jewish texts:  Christian texts were in a Codex, Jewish texts were on scrolls.  Anyway, the Codex in question ends after the women go to the tomb of Christ and realize he's not there.  It specifically ends after stating they returned to town and said nothing, for they were scared.

That's it.  Nothing more.

So, how did more verses get written?  According to religious scholars, at some point, someone who was doing a translation of the text apparently didn't like the ending, and wrote several more verses to "finish" the New Testament.

Hey, I can't make this stuff up.  I've researched that Codex myself, and what I've reported seems kosher.

You want another example?

As we know, the earliest versions of the Bible were written in a combination of Hebrew and Aramaic, and were translated into Greek.  The problem is that when translating from Hebrew and Aramaic to Greek, some words got altered in the translation.  A prime example of that is the Virgin birth.  In the original Aramaic, it merely states that Mary was of child bearing age.  Somehow, that got translated to her being a Virgin, and therefore a Virgin birth.  Controversial, I know, but knowing how often texts get messed up when translating, it's not hard to believe.  When you take into account that a virgin birth feeds directly into the mythos that the Catholic church of the time wanted, there's no need to go back and make changes, and by this point in time, it's such an accepted part of the faith, it's considered heretical to even THINK about changing it.  And, I don't think I would anyway.  It's a much more interesting story the way it is.

One more thing, while I'm setting up my own burn pile for Hell.....

The Catholic church once burned individuals as heretics for translating the Bible into English.

I'm serious.

Why would they do that?

Think about it.....After Greek, the texts were then translated into the Latin that so many Catholics have come to love and loathe.  Latin was, for a very long time, the language of the educated, and in most cases that meant the clergy.  So, if you have the religious texts in a language that only the clergy can read, there can be no questioning of what they're saying.  Translate it into the language of the masses, however, and you now leave the church in a position to be questioned concerning its interpretation of the text.

Oh...and who can we thank for having the Bible translated into English?

Henry VIII.  He did it when he broke away from the Catholic church to form the Church of England.  We can also thank the Protestants, because they believed from the very beginning that the Bible MUST be made available to ALL, not just a select few.

So, what does that mean for you?

Honestly, if you're a true believer, it shouldn't mean a thing.  At it's core, Christianity is the belief that God is the creator who created us in His image, and gave us his only Son to die for our sins.  For me, it really translates into this:

Spend your time being the best possible person you can.  Treat others the way you want to be treated, and don't worry about your shortcomings.  Learn from them.  Better yourself.  Pay it forward. 

To me, that's what it's all about.  The rest are words.  Good words, I'll grant you, but words none the less.

And faith, for me, is about what's in your heart, not what's on the written page.  That's why I've made it a hobby study different religions and try to understand what others believe.  And, you know what I've found?  This might shock you.......

Pretty much every human being on the planet with faith believes in basically the same thing:

There is a creator who made us and guides our lives, albeit in a subtle way.  We are tasked with being the best we can possibly be, and those who do so will have their lives enriched in wonderful ways, while those who do not will be unhappy and live unfulfilled lives.

Not a bad way to live your life, if you ask me.

The Fat Guy

Bullying and the Professional Athlete....

Okay, let me set this up by stating the obvious:  I've never been a professional athlete.  Hell, other than intramurals at CMSU, I haven't participated in any sort of organized sports since I was a Sophomore in high school....all those years ago.

That being said, I'm going to weigh in on the recent "hot topic" issue of bullying in professional sports that came to light because of the issues with Jonathan Martin and Ritchie Incognito of the Miami Dolphins.  I intentionally waited to write something about it until now because I knew when this broke and still believe now that we do NOT know everything that happened in this situation, and I still think something's going to come to light that will shift the direction of the entire story.

For those who don't know, Jonathan Martin, a second year offensive lineman for the Dolphins, walked out of the team facility and left the team about a month ago after an incident in the lunch room.  He later claimed that he'd been bullied relentlessly for a year and a half by the offensive linemen on the team, and provided texts and a voicemail from Ritchie Incognito that support his case.  The evidence, by the way, reads as very racist, bullying language on the part of Incognito, and he's been punished by the team by being suspended indefinitely without pay.

The responses from the Dolphins have been as interesting as they are confusing, while the rest of organized sports have responded pretty much in the way I would have expected them to, which was to say that while hazing is in and of itself okay, they would have NEVER let it get to the level the Dolphins apparently did.  The Dolphins players, on the other hand, seem to be supporting Incognito, and have made it known, albeit in a veiled way, that Martin will not be welcomed back to the team after this incident.

What the hell happened here?  These are grown men who get paid lots of money to play a game.  I'll grant you that it's a violent game with a short career expectancy, but it's still a game these dudes play for money.  How did it get to this point?

Let me start with the beginning of the issue, then work my way out.

Hazing is a long practiced expectation of the professional locker room.  Hell, if you've ever watched a season of the long-running program Inside Training Camp that follows an NFL team through it's preseason, you've seen rookies get taped to goal posts, taped up and thrown into ice baths, and expected to pay for and deliver food to the veterans.  These incidents are presented in a very matter-of-fact way, and the rookies in question, for the most part, don't protest the treatment.  They understand that there's a certain expectation made of rookies, and they understand that they're expected to take what comes, roll with it, and move on to being a valued member of the team.

Now, if you think it only happens in locker rooms, let me hip you to something:  Hazing Happens Everywhere.

I'm serious.

You think I'm kidding?  Think back to when you were the new guy on your job.  Did you wind up getting the bulk of the "shit jobs"?  Did your co-workers tell you it was because you were the "new guy", and they reminded you they'd had to do them when THEY were new?

Guess what?  You've been hazed.

Now, I'll grant you that typing reports for the senior members of your staff or being the designated errand runner isn't quite the same as having yourself taped to a goal post and having sports drink dumped over your body, but it has the same effect:  you're put through the fire to test how you react, and those who can roll with it are the ones who eventually succeed and earn the respect of the veterans.

I've heard stories of members of our military who've hazed and been hazed, as well as those in the trades.  Hell, I remember when I was a Boy Scout, we'd have the new kids go Snipe hunting on our first campout.  The guys who'd try to call us out on it would be the ones who got the most abuse, while the ones who actually went looking for a Snipe would just get laughed at.

It's the same thing, gang.  It's just a different environment.

And let me tell you something else:  Hazing is okay. 

It is, when it's doesn't go too far.  Hazing, when it's done in fun, can be a team building exercise all its own.  The strength of character and bonding that occurs from it happens faster than almost any other team building exercises I've ever studied or been involved in, and I've been through a lot of them.

So, where the hell did this one go wrong?  And, more to the point, who's to blame?

While we don't know the whole story yet, the first question can be answered pretty simply:

Jonathan Martin, in his mind, believed someone was going too far for too long, and decided to blow the whistle on everything.

The second question, while easier to answer, is a bit more complicated.

Everybody's to blame on this one.  Even Jonathan Martin.

"How can that be?", you ask.  "He's the one who got abused.  How can he be at fault?"

Simple.  According to everything we know about the situation, he NEVER told any of the coaches or members of management about what was going on or about his feelings towards it.  Nothing that has been revealed to this point indicates that he even tried to.

To me, that's what puts him at fault in this situation.  I'm not saying he had to be a tattle-tale, running to the coaches for every perceived slight, but if he truly felt like he was being pushed to the breaking point, he owed it to himself and his teammates to go to SOMEONE on the team in a position of authority and report what the issue was.

Now, it may very well be that he didn't do it because he didn't believe he could trust any of them, and if that's the case, heads should be rolling throughout the organization.  That's where I think the coaching staff and management of the Dolphins is to blame.

According to several published reports, the Dolphins coaching staff instructed Incognito to "toughen up" Martin.  Okay, let's break that down a little bit, shall we?  We're talking about a six-foot plus, three hundred pound plus, professional offensive lineman here.  It's pretty obvious to me they didn't mean for Incognito to toughen him up physically, so it tells me they believed he was "soft" mentally.

Now, exactly what the hell does THAT mean?  My guess is that they (the coaches) didn't believe he had enough of the "killer instinct" needed to, in their eyes, succeed in the NFL.  That's about the only thing I believe Incognito would be capable of even attempting to help Martin with, since I'm surprised the guy's smart enough to tie his own shoes. (Incognito, not Martin.  Martin's a pretty damned smart cookie.)

If that's the case, it speaks to the savage mentality still present in the professional game.  It's been believed for a very long time that if you don't have the killer instinct, you're dead meat.  Now, like I said, I never played in college or the pros, so I don't have a clue as to whether or not that's the case.  What I DO know is that if you don't love your sport and place it above everything else in your life, there's no way in Hell you'll make it to that higher level.  That, besides an obvious lack of any sort of athletic talent, is why I was a football manager my junior and senior years of high school instead of a player.  While I LOVED the game, I didn't love it with the intensity needed to make it the primary focus of my life.  And, honestly, I have no regrets about that.  My knees and back are bad enough as it is.  I can't imaging how jacked up they'd be if I'd kept playing any longer than I did. 

On top of the "toughening up" order to Incognito, the fact that Martin didn't go to management with his concerns opens up another possibility:  he didn't believe they would help him.  That's another problem.  If you've got players on your team who don't believe they can come to you with their problems, you're in danger of possibly losing your team.  Think about it like this:  who were the best bosses you've ever had?  Weren't they the ones who cared about YOU, the individual, instead of YOU, the number?  Of course they were.  Same principle in the locker room.  You have to believe that there's SOMEONE there you can trust.  If you don't have that, the situation's screwed, and there's no coming back from it.

Like I said at the top:  we're nowhere NEAR the end of this story yet.  In my gut, I know something's coming that will finally, hopefully, shed a little more light on just what the hell went wrong.

Until then, I blame everybody, because everybody's to blame. 

The Fat Guy

It's Been Two Months???? AGAIN????

Shit.

Well, sorry.  I figured once Jen and I got over having the most adorable little baby I've ever laid eyes taken out of our home (we were fostering and she was returned to her biological father), I'd be updating ye olde blog a bit more often.

For whatever reason, that just hasn't been happening.

But, I'm here (and so are you, obviously), so let's see what's been going on lately, shall we?  By the way, I've got two more big posts coming today, so there will be a couple of things that don't make this list because I'm gonna gab about them some more later.

1.  (and it pains me to say this) Big time congrats to the Boston Red Sox for taking out my beloved Cardinals.  They did what the Birds had done all year long:  timely hitting, great pitching, no mistakes.  Give them credit:  they WON the damn thing.

2.  However, I get to say for the gazillianth fucking time how much I HATED those damned beards.  I just wanted to run out on the field with a straight razor and a bottle of friggin' Nair.  No shit.

3.  Been playing Assassin's Creed IV:  Black Flag.  Not a bad game, but I think they're starting to get a little lazy.  Not to ruin it, but while it's cool to be a pirate the way they've got it set up, part of me feels like they were just going through the motions, and those motions mimicked jerking off.

4.  I hear on the old interwebs that Lawrence Kasdan has been recruited (read:  Shanghaied) into coming aboard to do a rewrite of Star Wars:  Episode 7.  Don't know how I feel about that yet, but I was stoked when I heard J.J. Abrams was directing.  If you don't think he can do wonders for the old franchise, just look at the two Star Trek movies he's directed.

5.  On that note, I JUST got around to watching Star Trek Into Darkness yesterday.  Good flick.  A bit predictable, but what the hell.  I just hope Abrams loses the lens flares for Star Wars.

Know what?  I'm stopping at five because I've got two more posts to write.  Catch you then.

The Fat Guy