Procedurally generated duo part 2

Type – Magic, Magic Object  

Appearance – Medium, athletic 

Disposition – Laconic, fatalistic 

Age – 40s 

Origin – Europe, non-English speaking, countryside 

Background – Military 

Powers manifested – Early adulthood 

Other – World traveler

Abilities – Animal abilities (insect) 

Doc already did the work on this for me, thanks Doc!  The randomness lines up pretty well.  I’ll call this guy Amerigo Vespucci.  Do they still name people Amerigo in Italy?  I don’t know, but they do in my pretend world. 

At a young age, Amerigo decided that the country life was not for him and ran away from home, stowing away on a ship bound for Italian Libya.  With no marketable skills and a hostile populace, Amerigo was facing a grim and short life on the streets when he was swept up as labor by one of the many Italian government-funded excavations of Roman cities – which were used as propaganda to justify their claim to the area. 

Barely literate and with no education to speak of, Amerigo nevertheless was fascinated by archaeology.  Ignorant to the political nature of their missions, he looked up to the “scientists” leading these expeditions as brilliant men of knowledge.   At night, he would lie in his tent and marvel over the artifacts he had pilfered and dream of what the world had once been.

Amerigo resolved to become an archaeologist himself, but with no money and no real interest in “book learning” this was a pipe dream.  Amerigo did discover two talents on these trips though – an ear for languages, within a few years he could speak passably in several native tongues and enough to get by in several others.  His other talent was for getting into and out of places very quietly, especially places people didn’t want him.

One of those places was a temple with a bird motif in the deep desert.  Exploring the temple, Amerigo found a jewel-scarab of malachite and garnet – which he felt the overwhelming urge to swallow.  Upon doing so, he was mystically granted beetle-strength and beetle-agility!  Some old god with a beetle-head showed up to tell him something about it, but Amerigo ditched him and ran away from the temple.  He couldn’t understand what the old codger was saying anyhow.

Amerigo figured the best way to cash in on his abilities was to travel south to join the fighting in Italian East Africa.  It wasn’t.  Being beetle-fast and beetle-strong is fine and all, but in a conflict with personnel armed with machine-guns and flamethrowers, not to mention copious amounts of airstrikes and heavy weaponry, it doesn’t mean much.

Amerigo lost his stomach for the conflict quickly, but found that he was able to make money as a scout – leave the killing the dying to others.  Beetle-agility is a lot more useful for avoiding a fight, Amerigo found. 

Once the fighting was over, Amerigo discovered there was even more money to be made as a mercenary.  There seemed to be all manner of conflicts up and down the east coast of Africa and plenty of demand for someone who knew the terrain and could speak the language. 

Amerigo could have made a lot more money if he wanted, but typically after a paying job, he would spend months traveling and exploring alone, only returning to “civilization” when he ran out of resources.  Eventually, this resulted in Amerigo getting a reputation as being “unreliable” even though he always did what he was paid to do. 

Amerigo and Dino ended up being a perfect match – no one would hire Amerigo anymore and no one wanted to work for a crazy old man looking for “magic”.   Amerigo never mentioned to Dino that he knew magic was real because he had already found it, but he did take the old man’s money and lead him all across Africa with forays into the Middle East and even India looking for some true magic. 

Once the old man’s money ran out, Amerigo wondered where he was going to find his next meal ticket. But shortly thereafter, Dino returned, looking 60 years younger and ready to cause some trouble.

November 27, 1973 – Singing in the rain

I love singing.  And I’m very good at it.  As I was belting out Ride Captain Ride, I got to wondering why you sound better singing in the shower.  Part of it is probably the freedom that comes from singing naked.  Makes you feel powerful.  You can’t generally do that on stage.  Part of it is probably the shower itself.  It’s like a little sound booth.  I’m no sound engineer, but I feel like the walls of the shower absorb no sound at all, which gives you a good power and resonance.  I have a pretty good ear for these things and I feel like somehow it evens out the pitch as well.  Which is not an issue for me because I’m pitch perfect, but still. 

I feel like four pounds of gunk slithered off me while I was in there.  I think I saw the slime form a face and look up at me forlornly before getting sucked town the drain.  So long Slime Ela, see you in hell!  As I was getting dressed, I had to take a moment to lament the shabby condition of the clothes that Maggie had given me.  It was some high-end stuff.  I’m sure I saw Goldie Hawn in a magazine wearing this same shirt.  I suppose it’s my own fault, I should find some clothes more suited to my high-octane super brawling lifestyle.  But as they say, beggars can’t be choosers.  Well they can, but it’s annoying.   

When I came out of the bathroom, Grumpy Gus was still in bed looking confused and kind of afraid. 

“Your place is clean, I’ll give you that, but this looks like the room of a mental patient.  Put a painting on the wall or something, man.” 

He looked around slowly “Yeah . . . .” 

I snorted “Good talk.  It’s like I’m playing tennis against a wall here.” I headed for the door “Well, don’t be a stranger.” 

He held out a hand “Wait.” 

I looked back “What?”  He just stared at me “What man?  What do you need?  I got places to be.” 

He looked weirdly vulnerable sitting there with his white scratchy sheets in a pile around his waist and legs “So . . . . you’re just . . . . going?” 

“Was there something else?” I looked around eagerly “Do you have any food around here?  I tell you, I am STARVING.  I would love to pound a cheeseburger right now.  Or you know, twenty or thirty cheeseburgers.  Do you get that?  I have to eat like fifty times what I did before just to feel like I’m not going to pass out.” 

He seemed taken aback “I have to eat more than I did before but not that much.” 

“Of course, I don’t get super toughness and I have to eat a ton, women always get the shaft.  So to speak.  Anyway, it’s been something, see you out there okay?”  I turned to the door again and I saw a hurt expression on his face and turned back “What is with you?  I know you were born in nineteen hundred but you’re not that old fashioned, are you?  It’s the seventies man, get with it.  Did you think we were going steady now?  Do you have a letter jacket I’m supposed to wear?  Do you have a promise ring around here somewhere?” 

He frowned slightly “I just . . .” he sighed “Forget it.” 

“You got it skipper.” I turned to leave once more but then turned back once more as well “Hey, are you bulletproof?  I hit you pretty hard and you didn’t die.  And I’m so strong.” 

“Uh, not bulletproof, more like bullet resistant.” 

“Jesus Christ, do you ever start a sentence without saying ‘uh’ or ‘um’?  Why are you so nervous?  Have you never talked to a girl before?  Surely there must have been a USO dance or something back in ‘22.  Did Sergeant Rock make fun of you so you were too afraid to ask anyone to dance?  Did he show you a nude playing card of Marlena Dietrich that made you feel funny?” 

“You have a real sharp tongue in your mouth, you know that?” 

I smiled sweetly “It’s been said a time or two.  Point is, you can stand up to a hail of bullets right?” 

“I wouldn’t say that, I have enhanced musculature and mass that protect me from small arms fire, but it still feels like getting hit with a baseball bat.  A short burst from an assault rifle makes me feel like how Patterson felt after the first Johansson fight.” 

I laughed “Had to go back a while didn’t you, to find a white heavyweight that could punch?” 

His face fell “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m not . . .” 

“Good god man, the super soldier process sure didn’t give you super eloquence, did it?  Anyway, you’re a big tough USA macho man, so I’m sure a few bullets won’t bother you.  Good news, you get to spend some more time with me.  Get your pants on and grab your nunchakus, Methuselah, because we’re going to fight some crime.” 

He looked dumbfounded “We are?” 

“Well you are anyway, I’ll probably hide around the corner.  I don’t have elephant hide like you, I’m quite easily penetrated.” 

November 27, 1973 – First we eat, then we do everything else

I’m honestly starting to believe I might be dying.  I think about food all the time.  I dream about it.  No matter what else is going on, part of my mind is wondering where I can get some food.  How do you know if you’re starving to death?  One of the signs is lethargy and lack of energy.  But what does that mean when you have super endurance?  I never feel fatigue.  Does that mean I’m not starving to death?  Probably not, right?  Mentally I feel exhausted, it’s like there’s a disconnect between my mind and body.  In my conscious thought, I feel like I can’t take a single step but I know that I could do push-ups all day and it wouldn’t bother me. 

Another sign of starvation is irritability and trouble concentrating.  But I have that anyway because of the god damn chronic headaches I have ALL THE TIME.  Even when I eat enough to feel full (which has happened maybe twice) my head is still pounding, which makes me angry all the time.  I swear I’m usually a very pleasant person but I admit that I’ve been a monster lately.  Immedicable throbbing will do that to a person is what I’ve found.   

Bottom line is that the same thing that’s making me need to eat so much is also making it so I don’t know if I’m slowly dying.  Which is a pretty shitty design if you ask me.  If I ever meet the people that did this to me, I’ll have a cross word with them.  Another symptom is supposed to be feeling cold all the time, which I don’t, but that could be because it’s two hundred degrees with one thousand percent humidity here all the god damn time.  I can tell you that my hair and nails are brittle and shitty.  And my skin is taking on a weird pallor.  Is that a sign that you’re not getting enough to eat?  It’s not good whatever it is. 

We don’t talk about it because it’s not the kind of thing you talk about, but Martialla and Blue spend time most days just trying to find me (sort of) enough food.  Totally honest, I eat garbage a lot of the time.  Usually we can get it before they literally throw it out, but not always.  There are a lot of other people after it.  Because this is a very impoverished place.  And they’re not going to get it over me or Blue or Martialla.  It’s probably set off a chain reaction in the world of people who depend on urban scavenging for food.  I don’t like to think about it.  You might assume that this experience would make me feel more sympathy for people in “food insecurity” (what a fucking cop out term that is) but mostly it just makes me feel ashamed of myself.  It’s hard to feel self-possessed when you’re eating noodles out of the trash because you’re so hungry you can’t even wait to take them somewhere else. 

The last thing I would’ve thought when I woke up chained in the hull of a ship nine thousand miles from home was “I better get a job soon” but here we are.  I need some way to make sure I get enough to eat.  I spent the morning going around to restaurants to beg them for work.  I even went to the place where Elvis used to wash dishes because I knew they had an opening since he’s fucking dead.  I felt like a ghoul and a monster.  But I did it anyway.  None of the local places want me because I’m a white girl who can’t speak the language and none of the tourist places want me because I look like crap.  I’ve had one bath in like six weeks and I have one set of clothes that are ripped and bloody.  Surprisingly, that doesn’t make a good impression in a job interview.

The only place that gave me any consideration was a German ex-pat dive bar that gave me some seriously bad vibes.  So clearly what I need to do is rob the place instead of work there.  I don’t know what’s going on with those crazy Krauts, but it’s something shady so they have it coming right?  After my weird interview with the sleazy manager, I sat down at the bar to case the joint.  I don’t really know how to do that, but I was looking around, what else is there to it? 

My casing efforts were hampered by one of the only other patrons at that hour, a loud-mouth statie who was clearly drunk and had a lot to say about the US president even though no one was listening.  He looked like one of those guys you’d see in a steelworkers guildhall in Pennsylvania – his face looked fifty but his body looked hard as concrete.  He didn’t look big, just heavy, you know – he was a stack.  I knew that anything I said would provoke him but I couldn’t help myself, I was having a bad time. 

“Would you take it down like fifty decibels there, partner?  I’ve got a headache working over here and your kibitzing isn’t helping anything.  Who are you even talking to?” 

He looked around for a moment and then back to me, incredulous. “Are you talking to me, little girl?” 

“I don’t see anyone else here so I must be talking to you.  Also, little?  I’m like three inches taller than you, tiger.” 

I saw that he was gathering himself to come over and try to intimidate me, so I beat him to the punch by standing up and kicking his stool out from underneath him.  He fell on his ass with the most surprised look I have ever seen on a human (or lizard or fish) face.  I think he would have been less shocked if I grew a second head. 

He started to get up, huffing and puffing to blow my house down, and while he was doing so, I slapped him across the face.  Hard.  Not as hard as I can, but too hard.  I knew that immediately.  A pretty hard slap from me is going to kill most people, or at least seriously mess them up.  Remember, I’m as strong as twenty strong men.  I gasped involuntarily because I thought I had just murdered a guy. 

But he was fine.  Not fine-fine, but his neck wasn’t broken nor his face caved in.  He was like a boxer who just got bopped on the nose.  He needed a standing eight count but his manager didn’t need to throw in the towel.  He wobbled to his feet, turned his stool back over, and sat back down – giving me side eye.

“You’re lucky I don’t have my nunchakus, I’d beat your ass.”

I sat back down as well “Ooh, kinky.  Also, nunchakus?  What are you, twelve?”

He looked me up and down several times and then hocked something up “This is what the world’s coming to huh?  This is what a super-solider looks like now?  I wish they had never discovered that damn gene.  Now you have all types in the military.” He shook his head “All types.”

“Sorry buddy, I’m no super-soldier, I’m just a normal girl from the heartland – we’re tough out there, not like your weedy US women.”

He laughed mirthlessly “Ah, the Coalition, I should have known from the bong stink.”

I laughed in return “And you must be the reason why no one ever talks about the US super-soldier program, if you’re what it turns out.”

He grunted “No one talks about us because we’re out doing the real work while those two (DELETED) wonks of yours glad-hand and sell insurance.  The Warmasters.  Give me a fucking break.  They don’t know shit about war.”

“They are pretty annoying.  The blonde one is like that kid who wore his boy scout uniform to school, and the one with the scar?  That guy looks like a damn psycho.  He looks like the kid who drilled a hole in the wall to the girl’s locker room.”

He started at me for a minute and then laughed legitimately “Still, I have to give it to your Angel, she was the real deal, even if she was Coalition.  I would have been proud to have served with her.  God rest her soul.”

“God rest her soul.  So, do you want to have sex?”

He did an actual spit take, I thought that was just in movies, and looked over at me suspiciously “What?”

“It’s pretty simple, do you want to have sex with me or do you not want to have sex with me?”

“Uh . . . yes, I do.”

“Do you have a place?  And is it not a roach-infested shithole?  Are you the super anal spit and polish kind of military guy or the other kind who just throws their garbage in the corner?”

“Umm . . . I have a place.  It’s clean . . . ish.” His face took on an expression like a rabbit caught in a trap “Why is this happening?”

I finished the crappy German beer I was drinking “You’re ugly, you’re unpleasant in demeanor, I dislike you, and I bet you’re a lousy lay.  But I’ve had like sixty bad days in a row so I want to do something stupid.  I want to feel the embarrassment, self-loathing, and regret that will come afterwards.  You’re from the US, you like baseball right?  Think of yourself as a slumpbuster.”

I could see the wheels turning in his head “That’s . . . . hurtful.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to take me home anyway, aren’t you?”

Tremble before my procedurally generated terror!

I don’t really have anything for background this week so I’ll roll some random tables for a new character and build them.  That should be interesting?

Type – Magic, Mystically Bestowed 

Appearance – Tall, overweight 

Disposition – Self-reliant, tough 

Age – Elderly 

Origin – Europe, non-English speaking, large city 

Background – Wealthy 

Powers manifested – Recently 

Other – Physical limitations 

Abilities – Spellcasting 

In this context, mystically bestowed is a power source like Shazam, you speak the magic word or drink your magic tea and you’re transformed from whatever, in this case an old man with physical ailments, to a young strong alternate self.  Who in this case also knows magic.  Which is a little weird, seems like if you knew magic, you’d just know it no matter what. 

I’ll say this guy is from Italy.  The only big city that I know of in Italy is Rome, but that seems too on the nose.  Internet says Milan is the second biggest city in Italy, so we’ll go with that.  So we have a wealthy old man in Milan.   

What was going on in Italy in this alternate timeline?  The Great War (aka WW1) was pretty much the same.  If this guy is old in 1973, he was probably the right age to be in the mix in 1914.  As a rich man who fancies himself a tough guy, he was likely an officer in the Italian army.  I don’t know a ton about WW1, but I think Italy fought a bunch of battles against Austria and lots of people died and it was all kind of pointless.  Which is more or less WW1 in a nutshell.   

I should probably give this guy a name, I’ll go with Dino Fossella, which I think is the name of one of the kidnappers in Man on Fire.  The novel. The movie was in Mexico instead of Italy.  Sidenote – I love that movie and I don’t care what anyone says about it.   

Dino was embittered by his experience in the war, he expected to come home and be a big hero and get a parade but instead, no really cared because they didn’t get all the sweet Austrian booty they were after. (note to self, register domain name sweetAustrianbooty) But old Dino wasn’t going to be denied his fame so easily.  Let’s say he was a big-time piano man and after the war, his goal was to become a celebrated concert pianist. 

He was good, but he wasn’t that good.  But, as a pretty good pianist with a boatload of cash, he managed to get his name out there at the expense of other, better pianists.  So he spends a good decade being a man about town and having concerts that are really just parties for his rich pals.   

I’ve established that there was no WW2 as we know it, just “another war in Europe”.  Without an expansionist Germany and a more laid-back USSR, what was going on?  I’m no historian, so I don’t know the roots of Italian fascism – but let’s say the march on Rome in ‘22 still happened.  So we have France and Britain fighting the Empire of Japan in the east while Germany and Russia are playing it cool.  That probably leaves Italy free to attack the Balkans like they always wanted. 

So we have Italy at war again.  Dino once again wants to be an officer but they say he’s too old – go back to your piano, old man.  Dino doesn’t like that.  He likes it even less when his villa is bombed by Greek and Yugoslavian operatives.  Dino survives but his legs and hands are damaged, no more piano for him, also now he can’t get around so well.   

If you thought Dino was embittered before, oh man, watch out now.  But what sparks Dino’s interest in the occult?  Perhaps one of the operatives was mystically inclined.  One of the bombers supernaturally clouded the minds of Dino’s men and walked right in with the bomb.  Dino saw his guards standing there like statues while a dude just rolls up and plants a bomb.  He becomes obsessed with finding out more about it. 

He spends the next thirty years or so frittering away all his money on raiding Egyptian tombs and whatnot looking for magic.  I don’t know much about Italian folklore, but google told me there’s a tale of a 7-headed dragon that was causing a ruckus in Bergamo province and a big army went to fight it.  The battle was a draw and the dragon retreated into the river.  Folklorists say there was a “maga” – a sorceress – involved somehow but that part of the story is lost.  Here’s the deal, the sorceress was the dragon, transformation style. 

And check this shit out, Milan is in Bergamo!  So old lady 7-heads is injured and she goes into the river to sleep it off for a couple centuries and when she wakes up and looks around she’s like “da fuck? Where’s all the old timey shit I know?”  She goes to the first place she sees, the now empty villa of Dino, where he sits alone and broke being old and bitter.  Probably it would be hard for them to communicate, the Italian language surely changed some in a thousand years, but she’s magic so she figures it out. 

She asks Dino what’s up.  He says give me the magic power and I’ll tell you.  She’s all like “sure” and he wigs out because he’s been after magic forever and now it just falls into his lap.  Dino speaks the word of magic power she bestows upon him, “Drago” and suddenly he’s a young strong able-bodied man that has a little magic of his own. 

But why can he only do magic when transformed?  Let’s say that this form of magic is physically taxing and in his old broken body he can’t manage it.  Dino says “thanks, old time Italian sorceress! Now I shall have the fame and coolness I deserve, by being a supervillain!”  And she’s like, whatever floats your boat man.    

I like duos (of people, not the gum, although the gum is okay) so he’ll probably have a partner but this post is already long so maybe I’ll do that next week.   

November 26, 1973 – A war on some drugs

Since we didn’t have a great way of scouting out the location of Camila’s rival drug gang, I floated the idea of stiffing her to Martialla and Blue, but they weren’t into it.  “Don’t you have enough enemies already?” was the gist of their argument.  I suppose, to be fair, Camila didn’t do anything to me really, she doesn’t deserve to be ripped off.  Although I didn’t deserve to be blown up and turned into a remorseless eating machine either and no one is apologizing to me about that. 

Blowing up notwithstanding, I caved in to their demands, as I always do, because I’m a people pleaser at heart.  I’m the leader, but I’m what’s known as a servant leader – I’m here for my people, not myself.  Empathy, listening, conceptualizing, I’m great at all that bullshit.  Martialla and Blue are probably taking advantage of my easy-going nature somewhat, but what can you do you know? 

When she was telling us who to attack, Camila spent a lot of time explaining to me about how the drugs she and her boys grow are natural and organic from plants and therefore are superior to the garbage that her rival, Gwai the Butcher, mixes up in his labs.  She’s awfully morally superior for a drug dealer.  Sorry, I mean drug manufacturer.  I guess she was trying to get me on her side beyond the part where I’m indebted to her.  I don’t understand why people think natural things are good.  Arsenic is natural.  So is getting eaten by a python.  And on the other hand, lots of unnatural things are great.  Cheese.  Music.  Condoms.  Vodka.

I turned to News Dan as a source of information but he was offended by the very notion.  He said that he was a reporter, not an informant.  He was also very high and mighty about not getting involved in my “criminal dealings”.  This from a man who claims that alien reptile psi-vampires control the United Nations.  The good news is his assistant Yiyang blabbed the whole thing after a couple of beers, or some kind of alcohol in a can anyway, it’s hard to know sometimes around here.  It may have been paint thinner.  Hmm, is there paint thickener?  I’ll have to check on that.   

Y tattled to me about the warehouse where (heh warehouse where) Gwai stashes his fishgut drugs and I told Martialla and Blue.  They began planning the assault with Canadian military precision.  It’s too bad our broom closet isn’t big enough for maps and little miniature tanks – military people love that stuff.  I interrupted their warmongering with a practical concern.   

“And then what?”  They both looked at me with their dull inhuman eyeballs “After you commando murder all these guys guarding the place, what do we do then?  How do we destroy all the drugs?” 

Blue glanced at Martialla “How about a fire?” 

“Sounds like a good way to burn the entire city down.  Somehow I have a feeling that the Madripoor fire department isn’t a crack squad.  If there even is one.  In the poor part of town anyway, the rich areas would probably be fine.” 

Martialla shrugged her weird skinny fish-shoulders “We can just toss the drugs in the bay.” 

“How are we going to do that?  We don’t even have a car.  Aren’t we talking about a warehouse full of drugs?  How can we carry all that down to the shore?” 

She fish-snorted “You’re always bragging about how strong you are, can’t you lift it all?”

“How would I do that?  Are you going to wrap it all up like a Christmas present with a bow?” 

Martialla looked confused and Blue piped up “She means Boxing Day.” 

“What?  No I don’t.  Boxing Day is the day after Christmas, if you know what Boxing Day is, how can you not know what Christmas is?” 

Martialla’s gross fish-lips frowned further “I thought that Boxing Day was when the Boxer Rebellion happened.  I think you meant to say Saint Swithin’s Day.” 

“I don’t even know what Saint Swilling’s Day is!” 

Blue flicked his tongue pedantically (I’ve been around him long enough to know) “Swith-IN.” 

“Shut up you.” 

They suggested that we could blow the place up, but we can’t because we don’t have any explosives or the money to buy them.  Which is an important component in blowing things up.  They proposed in the alternative that we could steal some money.  The whole thing unraveled quickly.  Why does being a superhero always end up with robbing something to get money for bombs to blow up drugs?  It’s uncanny how often you need to commit seven or eight crimes to stop one.  Is there a lesson in there somewhere about something?  No.

Since we were going nowhere with that line of questioning, I asked them if they had any leads on the kind of people that I thought might have grabbed Martialla’s niece.  All they could find out is that if you want a gene splicer, you head to the Shipyard (which remember, is not a shipyard, but a soccer stadium turned into criminal bazaar – uhg, I hate this place) because that’s where you can find anything.  So that’s where we’re going.  After we have some kind of deadly confrontation with a drug gang.  You know how it is.

Stolen writing advice from someone better

Being a soulless Gen X mutant, normally I don’t try to help people or do anything, I just sit in my flannel shirt in my dimly lit basement listening to Alice in Chains and reveling in the fact that I don’t care about anything and only being happy when it rains.  And also not even then.  As a Xer I spend my time normally not caring about money or success or anything but Bikini Kill. 

Normally I wouldn’t post twice in a day either, but if I wait I’ll forget.  Sometimes I write myself notes of things to write about later and then I never remember what they mean later.  This has been going on for 30 years.

There’s a pretty common piece of writing advice which is “write a lot”.  If you feel blocked it’s because you’re thinking too much.  Just write something, anything.  Write every day all the time.  The theory is that you get better at something by doing it.  A basketball player doesn’t get better by thinking about shooting, they get better by shooting baskets in an empty gym. 

Part of the idea is that most of what everyone writes, except for a few geniuses, sucks.  So if ten percent of what you write is going to be good, you need to write tons and tons to make that ten percent pile as big as possible. 

For me, this advice was one of those things where I said “That sounds right” but didn’t really take it to heart.  Today though I heard something that really made it land for me. 

This information is coming to me 5th hand so the details are probably wrong but the gist is correct I think.  There’s a book called Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking.  According to a different book that referenced that book that was referenced on a YouTube video that was referenced on a TV show that was referenced on a podcast I listen to, in Art &Fear they talk about an art teacher.

This art teacher decided to play a cruel joke on their class in the name of the social sciences.  They divided the class into two groups.  Group one was told their grade would be based on the number of pots they made.  Group two was told that their grade would be based on their best pot.  But hold onto your butts folks, because the first group was lied to, everyone was judged on their best pot. 

The gag is at the end of the semester (or whatever) the first group had made better pots.  The theory is that while group two spent all their time trying to make one or a few good pots, group one was cranking out pots right and left; ergo they got good at making pots, ergo they made a lot of crappy pots but the good ones they made were better than the people who were trying to make good ones. 

This may not even be a true story, but it made the “write a lot” advice sink in for me. 

I already write almost every day but nevertheless in order to write more, I will be starting a 5th blog with a new fiction narrative,  working title – Blood Orgy in The House of Pain.

The best writers use pictures instead of words

The other day my random Microsoft screensaver showed me this – Guatapé in Colombia. It looks like what I imagine the part of Madripoor where the rich people have their villas looks like. I share it because I am a terrible writer and can’t describe things. If you look closely you can see Mr. X waving!


In other news, SPOILER ALERT, Madripoor was on the latest episode of Falcon & the Winter Soldier so now this entire blog is ruined because it seems like I was ripping off a TV show when I wasn’t at all, I was ripping off a comic book. Since Madripoor is already an expy of Singapore, I’ll have to re-write everything and make the place Ela is stuck in currently Thirteenapour.

BONUS MAILBAG – Since Ela is occasionally referencing Superman and other DC comic people, someone asked me if Marvel comics exist in this part of the Elaverse. They’re not supposed to. Since I already ripped off Madripoor, some very minor Marvel characters might turn up from time to time. Is that fair usage? I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer. Yet.

November 24, 1973 – Pillow talk, sorry, I mean closet talk

Blue and Martialla have managed to find the worst apartment in Madripoor.  It’s literally just an empty cleaning supply closet.  It’s the kind of thing you’d see in a movie and roll your eyes.  Because people don’t live in empty cleaning supply closets.  But here we are.  So.  I guess I’m Margaret Dumont now.  Except Margaret Dumont married a sugar baron and inherited a fortune when he died of the Spanish flu, and I live in a closet. 

I’d like to really give them the business about this living arrangement but two things hold me back.  One, this is a nicer place to stay than a good number of people in Madripoor have.  Which is depressing.  And B, even though this place sucks, they managed to get it with zero money – which is the amount of money we have.  Which is impressive.  And depressing.  Getting something that should be cheap for nothing is actually harder than getting something expensive for cheap.  Trust me, I know.  I don’t know why, but it’s easier to get someone to give you something worth three hundred dollars for a hundred than it is for get them to give you something worth a hundred for free.  People are odd ducks.   

I know why I’m broke, and Martialla probably thinks shells are money or something stupid like that, but why doesn’t Blue have any money?  Before I kicked his ass and we became best friends, he was hired muscle.  HIRED muscle.  That implies payment of some kind.  What happened to all his money?  Shouldn’t he have a wicked cool criminal enforcer penthouse or something?  Maybe he has a gambling problem that he’s keeping secret.  I should keep an eye on him.  I mean, I’ll take his money if that’s what he’s into.

On the plus side, at least I have somewhere to keep my smokes now.  They keep getting ruined in my pockets on account of all the superheroing I do all the time.  It’s really annoying when your cigarettes get smashed or drenched in blood.  I sat in my corner while Blue sat in the other three with Martialla perched on his back like a dirty seagull.  Turning to the matter at hand, Martialla and Blue said they would scout the location where Camila wanted us to make our move but I told them no – they stick out too much. 

“Send LBK, he can blend in better than any of us.”

Martialla shook her head “I don’t think he’s going to be interested.  He was pretty shaken up by what happened on Callisto.”

Blue looked mournful, which isn’t easy for a lizard “Yes, that battle extracted a heavy toll on us all.  You see Ela, there was an alien with us that used the highly advanced technologies, found in our headquarters, powered by immense energies from the ferocious alien storm outside to . . .”

“Jesus Christ, I knew it, I knew you were going to bring up this moon stuff all the damn time!”

Blue’s tongue flicked out low and to the right – hurt feelings “You asked!”

“I asked about LBK not to hear the dumb story of your supposed space adventure again.  What really happened?  Did someone bomp Martialla over the head and try and sell her at the fish market for two dollars a pound?”

Martialla sneered with her fish-lips “Aren’t you the one who usually sells herself?”

I shook my head “Really Martialla?  You’re going to go there?  What about the international cause of woman’s rights?  Words have power Martialla.  We need to build each other up, not cut each other down.”

“But you’re the one who . . .”

I waved my hand “Shush, the point is no more moon talk alright?  No one wants to hear it.  Before I forget, when I was laid up in the very expensive fake hospital because you two abandoned me to die, a thought occurred to me about your niece.  Why would someone travel all the way to the CS to kidnap a kid?  Your sister’s not rich right?  And even the most particular pedo surely has access to someone closer.  The only reason I can think that she was grabbed was because she’s related to you.”

“I can’t pay a ransom either.”

“No, but you do have the super-soldier gene.”

“Actually I don’t, I was tested many times.” She gestured to her revolting body “This experiment they did on me was something else.”

“Regardless it worked.  Either they don’t know you’re a negative or they do and they want to know what’s up with your genes so they can try and replicate it.  Nothing else makes sense to me.”

Martialla considered for a moment “If that was true, why wouldn’t they grab my sister?”

I shrugged “I don’t know, but I think this is a better lead than anything else we have.  Instead of tipping off the drug guy you should ask around, I have to believe that Madripoor has some kind of local Dr. Moreau mad geneticist freak-maker, probably several, and they seem like the most likely culprit to me.”

Blue piped in “Speaking of intel gathering, you need to be careful out on the street, the Crimson Cardinal and Patron Patriot are both looking for you.”

I snorted “They can get in line.  Since I broke all their technology, what threat could they be really?  That reminds me though, the USA guy’s stuff was all alieny with the symbols like you draw sometimes, Lucien.  Maybe we should grab him and see what he knows about it.”

Blue was too stunned to respond but Martialla jumped in “Or we could just talk to him.”

“Yeah maybe, but he didn’t seem like the helpful sort to me, you know how staties are.  Do you have to perch up there like a gargoyle?  You’re making me nervous.” 

Martialla held out her webbed hands “Where else do you want me to go?  We’re packed in here like . . . ” I grinned “. . . don’t you say it Ela, don’t you dare.”