Beer Testings and Approvals

I went out to Omaha’s local booze store, Spirit World, over in Mid Town last week, on a kick to scoop up some German beers. I ended up picking out a few different beers, along with a handful of Scotch ales. Here’s what I’ve thought about them so far. Note, I’m using my dog as a judge for taste, because while I think I’m an okay writer, I can’t describe how something tastes in words for shit.

Spaten Dunkel – great beer. Awesome, dark ruby red color, and as far as flavor goes, my dog lapped this one right up without hesitation. This one could easily become a go-to beer for me, as it isn’t too steep in price.

Spaten Optimator – I’ve had this one before, but it had been a while. Optimator is like an extra dark beer of sorts, and the flavor is a bit nutty. It’s very dark too. My dog, Indiana, took a bit to try this one. The smell caused her to back off about three times before she stuck her snout in and took a few laps. I still like Optimator and will continue to buy this one occasionally. The 1 pt 9 oz. version is somewhat pricey, so I’ll get a sixer next time.

Belhaven Wee Heavy – I was excited to try this scotch ale, but was very dismayed to find it had skunked. First, Brits, stop fucking bottling your shit in clear bottles. I have another bottle but I’m pretty anxious about trying it. I’ve had this problem only with UK-origin imports, for some seem to think it’s okay to package their beers in clear bottles. I don’t get it, as I’ve had ruined Speckled Hen and others because of it. Knock it off, Brittania!

Ayinger Hefeweizen – This is the beer that changed my mind about wheat beers. It was fruity, fizzy and sweet, just like hefe’s are supposed to be. Indy also got right into this one as well. I’ll be having more Ayinger in the future without a doubt. I have their Marzen (Oktoberfest for my fellow Americans) too, which I’ll try soon.

Dr. Fritz Briem 1809 – This is supposed to be the recreation of what Berliner-Weisse tasted like back in, well, 1809. It has the little floateys in it to show it wasn’t all filtered and cleaned up. The flavor is very lemony and tart, like if you stick a lemon slice in a hefeweizen. My dog liked this one after a few sniffs. I knew she would because of its apparent sweetness. I normally don’t comment on things like head, but 1809 has a thick, white foamy head that comes pretty naturally. I can pour well enough to limit head and this one still foamed quite a bit. Tasty, tart beer.

I’m still waiting to try another scotch ale, an eisbock, a marzen and to get through the rest of my dunkel. I’m a fan of German beers now, more than ever, and I can see why craft brewers work so hard to capture the essence of these styles.

 

Late Night Snack

This one is kind of long, but worth it. Think of it as Usual Suspects meets gothic horror.

I

Det. Sgt. Aaron Ramirez sat down at his desk, sighed and pulled up a document on his computer. Across his screen appeared the arrest report detailing an apprehension made at the city’s marina. Earlier in the evening, several officers were called by anonymous tip to a report of a shoot out. The marina where this incident took place was known for late night drug deals, under the table agreements and other such illegal chicanery. Every once in a while, something goes bad and the PD are summoned out. Tonight was one of those unlucky nights.

Six men, all with various ethnicities and styles of dress, were hauled in by the team dispatched to diffuse the situation. The apparent leader seemed to be a deep-set eyed, stone serious wraith of a man named Carson Ritter. Ritter, as Ramirez quickly learned, had done time for assault and larceny. He was on parole, so clearly being at the docks was a stupid way to earn a trip back to the penitentiary. A balding, burly man named Gordon “Gordo” Stewart, another name known to Ramirez’s precinct, was also apprehended, along with a Greek named Kosimos Pappas, a Puerto Rican with ties to street gangs named Efram Lopez, and known small timer Thomas Lees. Finally a meek looking fellow, whose name had no information tied to it, David Short, was brought in also. Ramirez, drawing on his experience, surmised Short was likely a pocket picker who thought it was time to move up in the criminal world. Short decided to make good on one of the marina’s bad nights.

Upon skimming the relevant details, Ramirez took a sip of tepid coffee, stood from his chair, and walked to the interrogation room. In the small, rectangular chamber with beige walls was a particle board desk and sets of chairs. Inside was Det. Waller, who had already begun the procedure. Unlike what people see on television, interrogations are not done with drama, mind games or malice. They often include long, drifting conversations that intend to relax a suspect, hoping to gradually spill forth an unforced confession. So far they had racked them up for Lopez, Pappas and Lees, who claimed they were aiding with a shipment they wouldn’t specify, but each determined was very valuable and of interest to multiple groups in the area. Stewart clammed up and demanded a lawyer. That left Ritter and Short. Ritter was in the room as Ramirez arrived.

“I told you already, this runaround of yours is a waste of my time,” Ritter was saying as Ramirez sat down. “I came there looking for a shipment from Montenegro. I got a call from Stewart, that fat stalwart back there in the jail, who said it was something of huge value. The Russian mob was handling the transport, they were looking to shop it out to extra hands. I don’t know what was in the container, alright? If you want that info, go after the Karimovs, and good luck to you.”

“So you don’t know if it was drugs, weapons, possibly people?” asked Det. Waller.

“People? You think were moving around people? What the hell kind of question was that?” snorted Ritter.

“The Russians have been big on human trafficking lately. Prostitutes, mail order brides, girls who sold their souls to come to the US,” retorted Waller. “What reason do we have not to think that’s what this package was? You yourself said it was supposed to be ultra fragile and carefully handled.”

“You keep fishing in the wrong waters, and you ain’t getting a bite,” snapped Ritter. “I don’t know what they had. Sure it could’ve been girls, but how the fuck was I supposed to know? It could also have been a guy’s stereo equipment or something. Just because it was valuable doesn’t mean it was stolen or contraband.”

“I doubt something legal would have resulted in two people shot in the face and three others bobbing in the bay,” Waller said dryly. “I also doubt you are totally ignorant on what that shipment contained. We’re going to keep working here as long as it takes. You started talking, and as far as I’m concerned that means the fish are biting just fine.”

Ritter sneered. “Fuck this. I want a lawyer.” He crossed his arms, sat back in his chair, and stared daggers at Waller.

Waller threw his hands up lazily. “Fine with me, bud.”

Ramirez tapped Waller on the shoulder, and motioned him out of the room.

“We got enough. Even if the DA doesn’t charge him with anything, they’ll take all he and those others said and build a nice case towards the Russians. Plus I doubt his parole officer is going to be cool with his charge being down at the marina and pulling odd jobs for the mob. Lay off him, and let’s talk to this Short guy,” Ramirez said.

As Ritter was led away by a pair of officers, another trio of men arrived, one of whom being David Short. Short seemed to live up to his namesake. A meek, wiry man with wispy blonde hair, he could almost be an albino if not for his icy blue eyes. Ramirez scanned him, wondering if there were needle tracks hiding underneath Short’s long-sleeved shirt, or if he was a tweaker. His gangliness bespoke something sickly, and Short’s temperament looked that of a beaten puppy. Waller shot Ramirez a look that said, “Too easy.”

The detectives entered the room and sat across from Short. Short’s eyes darted about the room, refusing to make direct contact with the policemen. He ignored his coffee. Short’s shoulders hunched forward, his hands clasped between his knees.

Det. Waller tried to start, when Short gazed toward him. “You want to know what was in the box, don’t you?” he asked flatly.

Waller smirked and answered, “Actually, we didn’t even know it was a box until now. But you seem to have that information.

How about you help us, and we can then help you, Mr. Short?”

“It’s a box alright,” Short said, “A box from Montenegro.”

Waller looked at Ramirez and snorted. “And what, pray tell, is in the box?”

“Dirt.”

“Dirt?”

“Dirt.”

“You mean to tell me that you and your five friends were caught at the marina, are looking at smuggling, murder and assault charges – not to mention what else the DA will pin on you for mixing up with the Russians – over a box of soil? What, are the Russians going to plant a garden?” Waller said incredulously.

Short’s gaze grew a touch more confident and his shoulders relaxed some. Then he said, “It’s some very important dirt. A very important man wanted it.”

Ramirez chimed in with, “Who is this man?”

“Ion Berlescu.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Ramirez said, “So who is this Ion Berlescu and what does he have to do with a box of dirt, and the Russian mafia?”

“Well,” exhaled Short, staring off into space, “You know about those criminals with their own legends? Those ones so fucked up other crooks make up tall tales about them? Berlescu is one of those. A regular, ‘We can’t prove he exists but he’s super badass,’ criminals. Berlescu is the boogie man others tell each other about. He’s always been in Eastern Europe but now he’s here, and he brought that box of dirt with him.”

“Why dirt?” asked Ramirez.

“To sleep in, of course,” replied Short.

Ramirez’s brow furrowed. “Don’t waste our fucking time, Short. We know you must be small time, because you haven’t got a record, but you’ve managed to become a delivery boy for the Karimovs. I usually don’t say this, but just exercise your right to remain silent or ask your lawyer if you are going to pull a Verbal Kint type of act.”

Waller had his eyebrows raised in amusement. “A box of fucking dirt for Keyser Soze. Got it, bud,” he said with a chuckle.

II

Meanwhile the other five suspects sat in a holding cell. Ritter stared at Stewart.

“The smartest guy in the room,” Ritter said.

“Damn straight,” replied Stewart, “I set you up with this job. Told you it was as simple as working for UPS. Then you had to get greedy and stupid once you learned what was in the box. Dumbass.”

“What are we supposed to do with that shit anyway?” asked Lopez. “You saw what happened there. The Russians are just waiting for us to spring bail. Hell they might not wait that long. You fucked us, Ritter.”

Ritter hissed at the two men. “Fuck you both! The Karimovs know who they’re bringing in! You know what happens when you work for someone like him! You don’t get touched, not by the cops, not the Feds, no one! We had to get it out of there. We would’ve owned those fucking vodka-sucking cunts if we got that box!”

Pappas forlornly stared at Ritter. “You do not know what you were trying to steal, Ritter,” he said. “We should’ve taken the box, moved it off the boat, got our money, and left. No reason for what happened. No reason at all. You have fucked us, just like Efram said. You fucked us. Trust me I will fuck you back.”

At that moment, Lees jumped into the argument. He asked, “So tell me this: if we had gotten the box, then what? The Karimovs wouldn’t have just let us have it. They would’ve been on us in a matter of hours.”

“Hours were plenty enough!” Ritter asserted. “I’ve heard how it works with him. Ion has methods. I learned about them from the Russians. You do things the right way, and he backs you, no matter what, no matter if you were just a low man on the totem pole. You just gotta do things his way, is all.”

“His way is something you don’t want any part of,” Stewart interjected.

“Should’ve just moved the fucking box,” Pappas said, shaking his head.

“Where is the box anyway?” Lopez asked.

“Before we were picked up, it was still on the boat,” replied Stewart. “The Karimovs probably know what happened by now, and likely got it. Nobody told anybody what were moving – I assume – so it should still be there.”

“You sure nobody told? asked Lopez.

“No,” said Ritter. Negatives were echoed by the others.

“What about the short guy?” Lopez then asked.

Stewart responded, “You mean Short?”

“Yeah the short guy.”

“Short’s his name. He is in there now. I don’t know what he said. He’s a weird one though, real quiet.”

“And probably a squealer,” Ritter said grimly.

“I don’t know.”

“Fucked us,” Lees said towards Ritter.

III

“It’s not an act, not a riff on a movie, nothing like that,” said Short calmly. “Ion Berlescu is real, and he does have that kind of stature. The Karimovs wanted him here. They promised service and loyalty to him. See, he’s not here to be a hit man or run drugs, or do that prostitute stuff for them. Berlescu is here to run them.”

Ramirez asked skeptically, “And part of his welcoming committee involves a box of dirt?”

“Yes, and he sleeps in it. Just like Count Dracula.”

Waller played with his half full coffee cup. Smiling he said, “So if we go and ask the FBI to query Interpol, they’ll have actually heard of this ‘Ion Berlescu’ and all his glory?”

“I don’t know who Interpol tracks. I don’t really care. But you wanted to know what we were moving, and it was a box of dirt.”

“So why would people blast each other over dirt?” Ramirez asked.

Short relaxed some more, and made eye contact with Ramirez. He said, “Berlescu has certain conditions to his leadership that he’s offered. One of those is that box of dirt. The others involve ah, I guess you’d call them rituals. It’s kind of arcane but Berlescu is really good at what he does, and loyalty goes a long way with him.”

“Who told you about this Berlescu guy?” asked Waller.

“Nobody had to tell me. I just paid attention. Those five guys you have, they wanted the box. They learned what was in it. The shifty-eyed one, the one that kind of looks like a rat? He wanted it and tried to get me and the others to help.”

Ramirez’ eyes perked up. “Ritter?”

“Yes, him. He put us up to stealing the box. Thing is Ritter’s an idiot. He thought he could take the Russians by surprise.

He was actually kind of right. That’s why five of them are dead now.”

Waller looked at Ramirez with his “too easy” look again. Short looked directly at Waller.

“Before I continue this statement, which I’m sure will become part of my future testimony and plea bargain, I’d like some fresh coffee.”

The detective nodded and left the room. The door closed.

“Go on,” implored Ramirez.

Short settled back into his chair, shoulders straightening. “That camera doesn’t really need to be on,” he said.

Ramirez began to respond in disagreement, but he felt his words falter. He looked at Short, who stared at him with a calm certainty. His icy blue eyes looked like tiny, iridescent jewels. Ramirez relented. He left the room.Moments later Det. Ramirez returned. “It’s off.”

“Good. Those guys behind your two-way mirror are all that’s necessary. In fact, I think they can sit at ease as well.

Hello, fellas!” Short waved to the mirror.

Ramirez was put off slightly by Short’s sudden playfulness. “So, you were talking about Ritter and the others. They shot those men?”

“Oh yes, but really that doesn’t interest me anymore. It’s late and I’m hungry. I think it’s about time for me to leave.”

“You are a suspect in this crime too. You aren’t leaving. But that’s cute. You were saying?”

“I was saying it is late and I am hungry,” Short retorted.

“We can get you a bagel or something. You’ll have a nice place to sleep soon. The room’s on us. Continue with what happened at the marina.”

Short rolled his eyes and smirked. Then he fixed his stare on Ramirez. “Have a look at your friends.”

Ramirez felt his mind smooth out, his thoughts scattered like dust. Short’s eyes peered through him, and he willingly turned towards the two-way mirror. All he saw was himself, the room, the furniture, the camera in the corner, and the closed door. He spun back around, and Short was sitting across from him, still staring.

“Look back,” Short said.

Again Ramirez thoughtlessly complied. Behind the mirror was silence, and he did not see Short sitting or standing behind him.

“Funny, no?”

“That you keep ducking under the desk when I turn? No, not really,” Ramirez said.

“Ah too bad. Well look, it’s late like I said, and I’m hungry. And I really need to get my box back.”

“Your what?”

Ramirez’s body thudded onto the ground.

IV

As Det. Waller left the coffeemaker, he stopped to briefly chat with Officer Cora Parks. Their conversation about Parks’ recent bust of a naked crack addict, holding up a sixty-two year old grandmother for her VCR was taking up their time, when they heard a loud crash from the interrogation room. Two officers from the adjacent viewing room dashed out, shouting, “Officer down! Officer down!” before heading into the interrogation room. Parks, Waller and others sprung to action, firearms being drawn and calls being made for possible back-up.

The two officers who went into the interrogation room were heard shouting orders, threatening to discharge their weapons, but in a moment they were silent. The most that was heard after was a gurgling noise, at least according to another officer who was positioned just outside the room. Waller and the others burst into the chamber. Two officers vomited. One was a sympathy puking.

Inside the room was a pool of blood about one and a half inches deep. Three bodies, one of those being Det. Sgt. Craig Ramirez, lay lifeless, their skin white and fresh blood drying on their clothing. The window to the two-way mirror was shattered. The furniture was not overturned though. Immediately questions arose about the whereabouts of Short. He was not in the room. The station was put on lockdown as the search commenced. The five suspects in holding were intensely questioned. Det. Waller had to make the awful call to Ramirez’s wife.

Outside the station though, a cloud of mist gathered, passing through tiny gaps in a window. It collected, making a hazy, greenish white cloud. Slowly it became a form, ghostly and ectoplasmic. Then a pair of ice blue eyes and a grimace bore forth from the mist as a thin, tall, figure with a light gait strode away into the darkness.

 

A Missouri Campfire Story

A long time ago when I was a child, my grandparents used to own land up in Calwood, Mo. It was adjacent to a dairy farm. A few times each year, my relatives would all head up to the property to hunt, fish and camp. The property itself was rather large, about sixty five acres, and most of it was forest. Where we usually camped was a meadow surrounded by columns of trees.

The main structure was a mobile home converted to act like a one-room cabin. This trailer home faced the meadow, and from its wide, tall deck you could get a very good view of the surrounding woods, which looked like a tall, green army ready to advance at any moment. At night the field was often bathed in the pale glow of the moon and stars, and though I didn’t know it at that age, the night was so clear you could look up and just make out the spiral arm of the galaxy, arcing across the sky. There was no shortage of peace at night, and the woods gave nothing but the clackity-clack of squirrels and chirps of birds. At dusk if you were quiet enough, the deer would come out to eat the beans my grandfather had planted there, a mere fifty or sixty yards from the deck attached to the mobile home.

Sometimes though storms would gather and rage through the area, as they are wont to do in a temperate climate zone, and this serenity would be smashed to bits. To a child’s eyes the lightning was tremendous, bringing flashes so bright it seemed like day would briefly return between the thunder cracks. It was during these tempests where it seemed at any moment, the woods surrounding our field was aching to uproot itself and finally march on us, bringing in tow unseen things that normally lurk in the backs of superstitious minds.

One such night, a storm rolled through well after dark. All of us, from my grandparents to parents, to aunts and uncles to me, were laid down for the night. Beds, couches, tents, even cars acted as sleeping places. I was in a bed two down from my grandparents, in the one we called the “hot dog bed,” for the middle was so worn in, you sank down in the middle like a link in a giant bun. Sunk down into this, from a child’s perspective, gully of a mattress, I could see straight out a window into the pitch black night. Though rain battered the roof like a snare drum, and thunder rolled across the air, my grandparents’ snoring unceased. No one was awake but me.

Transfixed by the rain and the flashing, white flickers of lightning, I was beginning to drift to slumber when I heard a loud rumble near the mobile home. Too close to be thunder, and too distinct to be part of the weather, what I realized was someone was rummaging on the deck. There was simply no reason for someone to be on the deck at that hour and in those conditions, but I simply assumed it had to be one of my uncles doing God knows what. Then the bumping began again, a loud plodding across the deck that sounded like heavy, clumsy steps. I was not alarmed, but definitely intrigued. I imagined it might actually be a deer up on the deck, or possibly even a few of the coyotes I had been told lived in the woods, but had never seen before.

I continued to muse upon what could be bumbling across our deck when it happened: a fearsome crash that banged against the exterior wall of the trailer. It was loud enough to jar me fully, so much though I sat up in bed. My family members didn’t stir a bit, but I began to feel the sensation of alarm. Carefully and quietly, I climbed out of my bed bowl and lowered my little feet to the floor. I crept to the window, hoping to see a deer, coyote, or maybe just one of my uncles puttering around. It was so dark though I couldn’t see a thing, but then again – CRASH! Something that was clearly large and heavy thudded into the wall. Now I was scared, but curiosity still drove me onward. I got closer to the wall, where I could make out the faint scraping sounds of what I was beginning to believe were claws, feeling along the wall, making its way towards the door.

I followed the noises, staying behind whatever made the sounds as it reached the door. BANG! The door rattled as the claws scraped against it, as something was trying to open it. Frightened but dying to know, I sneaked to the door, keeping low and watching the window. The struggling, scraping and jarring continued, and I swore I could hear grunts that were definitely nonhuman. The lightning continued, and in a flash I made out a hulking form, clearly massive and not possessed of coyote ears or antlers, and much taller than anyone in my family.

I hid near the stove, keeping my eyes aimed on the door, peering at the window as the hulking thing continued to make attempts at the entrance. Seconds seemed like centuries as the soundtrack of thunder amplified my fright. No one else woke to this thrashing, and it maddened me to not know why. I reasoned this had to be planned, and what I saw was in fact either my dad or one of my uncles, and I was simply being fooled. My fear subsided, and I decided to get the better of them. The “thing” was quiet for the moment, so I walked confidently to the door, and slowly turned the knob. The doorway opened.

Before me was something that was simply so monstrous and unreal, I nearly fainted on the spot. Devoid of the power of speech, I could only stare in that millisecond. Lightning struck the sky again, and in that tiny moment of white radiance I saw its eyes peer right at me, its mouth agape, and hand reaching right toward me. It lurched forward with menace and I barely regained composure enough to slam the door. I fumbled with the lock as the primitive thing banged harder, trying to tear its way through.

With exasperation I screamed for anyone to wake up and help. This at last stirred my folks, who got up and came to see what was wrong. My dad was barely coherent enough to register, but my mom looked at me and then peered up to see what was behind me. I have never forgotten the look on her face, and I still struggle to describe in few words the expression of someone both so confused and frightened at the same time, it’s as though their brain has flatlined. Her eyes widened to full aperture, she dared not take them away as she shook my father violently, pointing at the door with her other hand.

To my dad’s credit, it’s though he knew what to do. He slunk over to the dining area, picked up a gun, and went to the door. He darted right out and though I could scarcely make out his words, he sounded angry and threatening. A shot echoed in the night sky, awaking the rest of the family. The beast was gone, and soon my relatives were all gathered inside the mobile home. My father came back in, sopping wet. He looked at me and simply told me to go back to bed. My mother looked like she had no idea what to make of what happened.

I could hear murmurs among my relatives as I lost a meek struggle to go to sleep. How I finally drifted off I’ll never know. The next morning though, my uncle confronted me about the night before. He had a knowing sneer and patted me on the head, mussing my hair. My uncle explained that last night, I got my first sighting of Mo Mo. The Missouri Bigfoot. He said this one in particular had the reputation of being very nasty.

Never again when I visited the property at Calwood did I feel serene or safe. That night the woods had advanced on us, and nearly took me back with it. It wasn’t long before I stopped going there altogether, and I am still sure I never will return.

 

Zombies: an FAQ

For informational use. Okay, more for entertainment. Feel free to forward, but please give credit to the actual writer. Consider this a companion of sorts to Dillon’s Blog.

Q1. Why do zombies come back from the dead?

A. Voodoo. A powerful, chemical concoction is ingested by a living victim. When they die, their bodies reanimate. Under the power of the right witch doctor, the zombie is controllable and able to perform repetitive tasks with minimal suggestion. Sometimes this formula is put into aerosol form, often with disastrous effects (See: Trioxin).

Q2. Okay smart guy, then why do other people say it’s a virus?

A. It’s not a virus. Viruses need living tissue to survive and propagate. A zombie is a terrible vector for a neurological virus. Its brain is dead. In fact when you think about it, a virus is even less probable than magic.

Q3. Alright so what about bacteria or fungi?

A. There are examples in nature of bacteria and fungi rendering victims into “zombies,” but those victims did not die first before achieving their dronelike state. Human zombies must die first before transforming.

Q4. So how does a voodoo curse get spread from one victim to another?

A. Because the zombie formula has been spread through the air or ingested another way by the greater population. The living are not affected by the potion until they die. Zombie bites can be lethal due to contamination and severity of the wound.

Q5. Why do zombies want brains and human flesh?

A. To ease the pain of decomposition, which is ongoing and quite horrid.

Q6. How long does a zombie typically “live?”

A. A zombie can last anywhere from two weeks to a few months, depending on the temperature, climate, environment and condition the corpse was in prior to reanimation.

Q7. How long do the zombies which are walking around trying to chomp on people last, usually?

A. Roaming zombies have a “life” span of about two-four weeks. This is due to being exposed to open air, which causes the fastest rate of decay. In a warm, humid environment (Ex. the tropics, the Southern United States), decay is rapid, as fly larvae are able to munch on the zombie quickly, causing its insides to liquify and the body to fall apart. In cold climates (Ex. the Northern Midwest, Canada) decay is slower, where the zombie can freeze and last longer.

Q8. If a zombie can fall to pieces in a few weeks, why do infestations drag on for several months, even years?

A. Variables such as temperature, weather, and conditions of the zombies’ bodies can lengthen or shorten an infestation. If there is a large population that is turned, then there will be a large volume of zombies. If that volume is in a colder area, the zombies decay slower and last longer. This means they have time to make more zombies in the process.

Q9. Why does shooting the head or decapitation work the best on zombies?

A. The voodoo potion affects the brain most directly, because that is what is needed to understand and obey the commands of voodoo magicians.

Q10. Why do zombies move so slowly?

A. Rigor mortis and decomposition make muscles rigid, and there is no cell replacement to repair damaged tissue. Gradually limbs will break and fall off, rendering a zombie less mobile over time.

Q11. Is being bitten the greatest danger posed by zombies?

A. Strangely, no. Bites can be avoided by deflecting the zombie and wearing protective clothing. Remember the zombie itself isn’t very strong, except in great numbers. It’s the numerous bacteria, insects, parasites and vermin ridden throughout the zombie, and the diseases which follow them, that are the most hazardous. A walking zombie is basically a walking biological weapon.

Q12. How strong is a zombie?

A. Very weak due to its condition. Its power lies in numbers and our fear.

Q13. Can a zombie be trained to do the bidding of the living?

A. A voodoo magician can, if properly trained in the dark arts, but most laypeople cannot. Some individuals have had minor success through feeding a zombie, attempting to keep it docile while giving it repetitious instructions.

Q14. Do zombies have any memories of their past lives?

A. No. They do sometimes mimic actions performed by the living, but they display no awareness of what they are doing or why.

Q15. What do I do if zombies show up in my area?

A.

1) Do not go to a big city or crowded, urban area.

2) Do go somewhere rural and isolated.

3) Do not attempt to use a firearm if you are not trained.

4) Do learn how to safely use a firearm, preferably a rifle first before a handgun.

5) Do stock up on food and water.

6) Do hole up in a defensible area.

7) Do use a short wave radio to monitor for information.

8) Do not loot, but if you must loot, do take only necessities like food, water, fuel and clothing.

9) Do engage in a rigorous exercise regimen (Rule 1: Cardio, remember?)

10) Wait – nature will do most of the zombie killing work for you, causing all the zombies to gradually skeletonize or mummify.

 

Ideas I Can’t Execute

A story told through a fictional newspaper’s website. For example, the Eldon Caller. It would report on the strange occurrences and unexplained incidents happening around the Ozarks. As articles were published, pieces of the narrative would appear, for the reader to decipher and assemble into the story itself.

 

2nd Batch of Cider, RIP Dec 2010-May 2011

This is a sad occasion. Back in December my friend John and I attempted our second batch of hard cider. This past weekend he told me that it had come out ultra-carbonated (Like champagne shooting out the bottle) and it lacked sweetness and had an overpowering coriander flavor. He was disheartened at the fact and ended up throwing his part of the batch out.

Today I tried my own share, and he was completely correct. The cider had way too much coriander in it, and we learned the hard way that you simply do not put your seasoning ingredients in the primary. We also made the error of adding pectin enzyme to the secondary when it should go into the primary. Other errors were adding brown sugar to the racking phase for carbonation (Possible impurities possibly affected this batch and this probably blew up the fizz) when we ran out of cane sugar, not taking any gravity measurements (That would’ve helped tracking the fermentation process and the ABV), and not keeping better account of our measurements of ingredients – especially the cinnamon and coriander.

The third batch will be a much more basic affair. This time since some of the harder beginner lessons out of the way, this one will be carefully measured and tracked, along with keeping the extras to a minimum. I really want to get filtration down so that yucky stuff stays out of the bottles. I’m also doing this one solo, because I know have my own brewing stuff at my house.

Kay Sara Sara though, lessons learned, time to learn some new ones….

 

Working Out

How I feel when I work out:

How I feel when I don’t:

So the question is, why the hell do I get lazy and lose all my tyrannoness?

 

Zombie Lit

This exercise with Dillon’s Blog has been pretty fun for me. Usually when I begin any creative writing, I get an idea that provides the big picture, but sometimes it gets so big I don’t know how to populate the setting with intriguing characters. Often this causes the idea to go to my memory bank, or one of many Google Docs or docs on my hard drive.

With Dillon’s Blog it was interesting to narrow a story’s scope down to one character, whom told everything through his point of view. I deliberately structured this to be like somebody’s personal blog, one whom is writing for an audience that includes his friends and any strangers that happen by. Thus the writing is non-chalant and candid, and there’s a lot of focus on Dillon’s thoughts rather than the external action in his world. Each entry has a small set of objectives. One is to further the story, one guy’s blog as he witnesses a zombie infestation unfold. The next is to broaden some portion of Dillon’s life in a small way. The third is to inject the background information of Dillon’s world.

Zombie literature is to me a well-worn path these days, and the tropes involved are firmly established. Hence I’m trying to broaden and stretch the convention without taking this so far out that it falls under its own weight. So if you have been reading Dillon’s Blog, you likely recognize some familiar features of a zombie story. What I hope you’ll pick up on are my personal touches and my own take on this kind of tale. Also I hope to achieve the goal of creating a character readers want to know and follow through his story, and feel for him as new events befall him.

If you haven’t read Dillon’s Blog yet, now’s a good time to get up to speed – there are only 14, very short entries so far. If you have been reading, then thank you and I hope you’ve been entertained. There’s much more to come, I promise.

 

The Raging Dead – Short Story

I was up late and started writing this out. Think of it as an arcane prophesy out of some old, worm-eaten book. 

The horde grew and spread like fire that had sprouted wings, so was the rate of the infection. Unliving horrors, each of them, bleeding from their pustular wounds and festering gashes, rising from their death throes and returning to haunt those they once knew and loved. And these fiends so insatiable, their desire for living blood knowing know fullness, consumed all around in a storm of guts. Humankind became as mongrelized and terrible as they, in their accursed, vain struggle to beg off the onslaught. Bursting blows ripped lacerations into the Earth, and burning clouds of horror scorched the living and undead from the surface, yet the horde would rise with new recruits and continue.

They began dumb, almost blind, nearly deaf and shambling unawares as they reached out and tried to consume any thing that resembled them in life. That first wave was knocked back and at first the glimmer of hope sparkled for those with vitality, but that proved to be a cruel, teasing spark. The second wave that rose from the graves learned and adapted, their knowledge of old life coming back to them and warping in their fiendish, horrible minds. They adapted knew tactics, and developed a demonic speed to their tactics, and began to use the power of their numbers to section into specified packs. Wolves they were, the ghoulish baying dogs of Hades, powered by forces incomprehensible. The battle was turned back to stalemate, for their cunning was still undercut by their dessicated feebleness. The living among them could still split their brains and burn their wretched flesh.

It was the third wave which brought forth the others, those whom through their corporeal appearance alone were enough to induce insanity in the warm-bodied masses, dwindling though they were by this stage. They possessed rude, primitive speech, and it was they who rose as commanders of the undead, rasping and vomiting orders, stalking by night and coming for the living in their very beds. Blood was their demand, and they coveted it with a lustful hunger. Flesh was split up for the dead, but these strigoi would always have their blood first. The battle turned against those still with life, and they began to wall up in compounds, their makeshift castles beating back the horde. 

The battles going to the undead one after another, the procession of disgusting creatures roaming streets once walked by humans, buildings now home to the night-borne terrors, all was but a procession for the parade that brought in tow their kings. These were more horrible still, and with wordless command they did make all these hellbeasts do their will. They who had slept for eons now woke, and their tempers rumbled and shook the skies. The rage of the dead marched for those who could not live nor die, and struck from the Earth its former, living rulers. So it was described unto me, so it was promised to come to pass.

 

Strigoi – the OG Vampire

Way back before vampires became sex symbols and boyfriend material, they sure were all kinds of spooky. The myths themselves as Westerners know them grew from tales told over gypsy campfires across what is now Hungary, Romania, Greece and Bulgaria. Their vampire tales are often intertwined and at times confusing, for they were based on oral tradition for hundreds (thousands?) of years. Thus vampires have many various terms applied to them, and because of pop culture the roots and traits of vampire tales muddied and mixed further. What we know of vampires today is still rooted in these ancient fiends of legend though.

Case in point the Romanian version of the tale, the strigoi. Strigois were complicated creatures of the night, in that stories really varied on how a person became one, and whether they were living or dead. The term itself is rooted in Latin, ancient Romanian and early Italian, and is sort of a portmenteau of “witch” and “owl.” Strigois could be alive (strigoi viu) or dead (strigoi mort). The common traits of strigois is they possess two hearts, have red hair and piercing, blue eyes, grow bloated and ruddy through blood drinking, and can shapeshift into multiple varieties of nocturnal creatures.

The living strigoi is something like a witch or warlock, a person living an unholy life associated with the occult. These living vampires are that way because of having a caul, or membrane, on their faces when they were born. In literature of course one could exchange this folklorish device with something more intricate and/or sinister, such as their births being foretold by bad omens, undead influence over the live strigoi’s conception or birth, or magic.

Dead strigoi become that way for various reasons, and all are rooted in numerous superstitions about sanctified deaths and taboos about handling the dead. A cat walking over a corpse could make it a strigoi, for instance. In dealing with strigoi, everything from pinning it with a metal spike, to staking its hearts, chopping its head off, reburying it at crossroads (A motif of many legends on its own, crossroads), to giving it whiskey can stop or destroy it.

Like modern vampires strigoi are open to wide interpretation due to their mixed origins and roots in superstition. Count Dracula himself is an amalgam of these many Romanian vampire myths. Perhaps what makes the strigoi interesting vice our Hollywood vampires is they are fully, magically endowed, while our usual TV vamps lack powers like shapeshifting. The key here is the strigoi is a predatory creature, a threat to the living, and is not ashamed of it – something the Bills, Louies and Edmunds can’t claim. The bonus is there can be living strigoi in stories, and strigois can reproduce or even cease to be vampiric after a number of years – though their offspring are doomed to become one of the undead. What a way to give vampires their fangs back, by turning back the pages and digging up the old legends, making them new all over again.