The House of the Hooded Falcon

Ten Years Ago:

Numair crept swiftly across the Stygian desert; a low wind covered his shallow footprints. He headed silently towards a distant keep whose high walls were shrouded by the towering cliffs. No moonlight would give him away that eve as a pall of clouds rolled slowly through the night sky. Numair was tired, his muscles ached from the long journey; quietly, he cursed his horse who had died many miles back.
“No bother,” he then thought, “I would have had to leave that bastard animal by now, regardless,” he then finished the last drops of water from his skin and tucked it back into his bag. At this pace he would reach the keep well before dawn.
After a short while clouds broke in the night sky illuminating the road leading towards the small desert keep. Numair froze watching the soldiers armor glisten in the moonlight; suddenly his keen eyes noticed something else, an inky figure against the black horizon. “Another fiendish rogue?” He grinned, “those Turanian dogs have more enemies than I.” With only a few more paces he was upon the side walls of the Turanian outpost, the guards at the gate still none the wiser.
Silence loomed behind the high stone walls as Numair climbed noiselessly up the side. With a quick push of his sinewed arm he flung himself over the wall on to the parapet landing as softy as a panther stalking through Kush jungle. The guard ahead was still oblivious to his presence. Quickly Numair moved plunging his dagger deep within the man's throat. There was no struggle, only a low choking cough and a slight creak as the body hit the wooden walkway. The soldiers in the outpost were fast asleep in their beds as he made his way to the second parapet guard. Again, the guard fell swiftly to his gleaming blade, but something was amiss. As Numair looked down over the stone wall he spied an unsettling sight. The guards at the gate were slain, too quietly for even his pantherine senses.
Then, feeling a presence behind him he wheeled around readying his twin blades, but the man before him was different, a bronze-skinned westerner with blue lupine eyes. A large blade was gripped comfortably in the stranger's right hand, and in the left a curious glistening necklace bearing an enormous stone.
“You are not a Turanian,” said the stranger in a low growl.
“Neither are you,” smiled Numair lowering his weapons thankful this iron-thewed man showed no intention of killing him. “Why are you here?”
“I should ask you the same,” he grinned, “Who are you?”
“I am Numair, from the House of the Hooded Falcon.” Numair eyed him questioningly.
“I am Conan,” he said as he sheathed his great blade, “Captain Aran Kazadh stole this necklace from a friend of mine. Tonight I took it back.” With that he leapt over the rail landing silently on the outside of the wall. The dead guards took no notice.
Chuckling to himself Numair let loose a strange call; soon after a falcon could be seen distant in the sky. Numair finished writing his note as the bird landed keenly upon his shoulder.
“Take this my friend,” he whispered and the falcon quietly soared away. With the guards dead, he hopped down to the gate and unfastened the bolt. “We will drive those Turanian jackals out yet.” As the keep lay unguarded and open Numair slunk silently back into the desert.

I, The Incubus Will Strike Someday

A remarkably cold penis.

That's all I remembered as I awoke clutching my genitals. Fluttering thoughts swarmed me as I knew I had to sink lower into my mental cesspool. I grinned while considering the innocent pig-tailed young girls and train-playing-boys in overalls who I could persuade to spread my evil message filled with syphilitic insanities.
Quickly I reached for the phone and wrung my hands waiting for my accomplices to answer. Phone-call after phone-call I leaked my plan into their ear drums as they chuckled in agreement. I made every surface motion to be sinister and penetrate the unwitting populous with my infectious jism. I paced around my room yelling terrible rhetoric and illogical machinations for world conquest.
Then suddenly my alarm went off. I sighed, grabbed my work clothes, and headed for the shower. Perhaps a few of the other employees at Costco could help me flesh out my hideous schemata.

A Must Read

I'll Keep this short and sweet you unscrupulous bastards: READ George Saunders latest collection of short stories "In Persuasion Nation."

Do it, or I'll send the literary hounds after you!

And, check out George Saunders' Land!!!

The Most Amazing Statue

Incredible. This and other amazing statues can be found at:

http://saoma.com/central/node/6
Thanks, Pete.

The Process of My Bowels

I've received no comments on my writing process(this does not surprise me)so, I shall discuss it anyway.

First: I masturbate, I have found it calming and that all of the fist pumping puts me in "the zone". The pornography I choose is standard fare, and I have referred to it as the oral/vaginal/anal/extravaganza! Lately, I've been perusing blowjobninjas.com; it is not as awesome as the name leads us to believe.

Second: I usually go find something to snack on and generally waste more time.

Third: This is the important step: I find something that makes me laugh and then I steal it.

Fourth: Repeat step one and step three.

Fifth: Repeat step one.

Thank you.

Torchlit Fights of Dwarves and Women

Two steps into being a block away I knew it was a bad idea,
but I just kept going. And, why the hell not? I had a clean pair of pants on;
I looked as sharp as I could. Everything seemed: kosher.
Thoughts of Schwarzenegger and Eastwood rang through my head while I assumed
that I fit somewhere in the middle. (Delusional.)
The homeless woman I asked for directions had more in common with me,
though I hadn't asked for change. Stagnant
air and a puddle-ridden sidewalk accompanied me along the walk. Still,
it's supposed to be a happy occasion, moreover a joyous one. Why
then do I see a tall spear-wielding Amazon -the sun to her back-
facing a bearded, brawny hulk-of-a-half-man? That's a larger than life struggle
right there.

I come upon an old church; cars and trucks
have filled the parking lot. I must have been the only one
who walked, definitely the only one
who had to ask for directions on the way there. Honestly, what
was I thinking. The doors are open and any table or open space has been filled
with candles and flowers, a museum of pastels. Laughing, I thought: It would seem
so peaceful if it wasn't a wedding. Then I felt guilty, immediately justifying the thought
by tacking on the idea that weddings are controlled chaos
and cannot be peaceful in the truest sense.
The marriage would be wonderful. It wouldn't be
a battle wrought with clanging armor held together with frail straps
of leather; both bride and groom should make it
out alive. There may be some scar tissue, but
that is to be expected. Modern times haven't changed
much. Besides,
science has the ability to save even the most hopeless case.
Again, the wedding was to be a shining example
of unity; two people sharing a beautiful tropical honeymoon: an oasis.
(A fine idea.)

King Persisenes ruled a small independent kingdom in Northern Persia around 424 B.C. The land was centered around an incredibly fertile intersection between tributaries. His palace was built around a particularly beautiful lagoon where the palm trees bowed together to form a natural building secluded within the palace itself. The most important ceremonies and rituals were performed in this oasis, Persisenes himself was married in that spot several times. The lagoon had also become the place Persisenes retreated to while he made some of his most important decisions.

The kingdom was small and went relatively unnoticed but Sogdianus, Persia's emperor (for the year), had heard tales of the oasis' unimaginable beauty. Quickly, a sizable mass of troops was organized and sent to claim the land for Sogdianus. Persisenes, however, was not an unintelligent ruler and had eyes and ears across the bulk of Persia. When he heard of the oncoming forces sent by Sogdianus he retreated to his oasis and thought.

It would come to be the most important decision of his life. After a few days of deliberation, Persisenes decided to march three quarters of his army out to the desert to lay an ambush for Sogdianus' troops. Persisenes' generals concocted a brazen plan and then the his army set out. Because it was the law of the kingdom for all men to be in service of the kingdom's military the small nation-state was left full only of cripples, dwarves and women. After a week of travel Persisnes' generals realized they had made a fatal mistake. The river bed they had marched towards (near the southwest of modern day Iran) had dried up. They all perished in the desert.

Soon Sogdianus's troops could be seen upon the horizon and Persisenes had to make a final decision. He armed the dwarves and women and under the cover of night sent them headlong into the Persian troops.

It had been a success,
the wedding went off without a hitch and the entire party was to be moved
across town to the reception hall. I bummed a ride -I had no intention of passing
up an open bar- from a fellow that sat beside me in the back of the church. The entire wedding party
armed themselves with bottles of beer and glasses full of gin, vodka, scotch
and bourbon. Toasts were raised high into the air. Stories
were flung across the great hall with speed and all directed at the groom shrinking him
and his confidence till his wife seemed
insurmountable.
The bride gave no disapproving looks or even raised an eyebrow
in concern of these wanton tales. I remembered a few of those fabled nights:
sweat on my brow while the stench of beer clung to my beard. Watching
the three of us booze, scream, fail
and sometimes succeeding in coercing a young thing back to our slovenly kept apartment. The groom, looking worried, caught me grinning while reminiscing. Though, all I was thinking was
how to do it again?
I looked at the women while planning my path of conquest.
The groom just looked at the women in the room.

Well, Shit, I Guess I'm Back

It's been an ass-long time since I've posted, not that any of you fuck-pigs read this, but it's about time I get back to writing inane shit and posting it on my block of internet reality. So, here you go.

Illness the World Over

Dane Von Leper's girlfriend had terrible diarrhea. At the age of 18 he considered himself a man and to be with your loved ones in their times of need was the 'right' thing to do. He also wondered if he could get laid, possibly.
Slowly he walked in the room checking to see if Jessica was still asleep. She turned her head and smiled. Walking towards her he patted her on the head. Then Dane shit his pants.
"I'll be right back." With clenched cheeks he hobbled out of the room. The shit was everywhere and formed a pool in the back of his knees. He felt ill. Seriously ill and not just embarrassed. Dane excused himself and headed home. During the walk he continued to soil himself. Jessica no longer felt ill.
Dane recovered in just a few weeks and in turn had several visits from Jessica.
It was the night of his cousin's birthday, but unfortunately little Timothy had chicken pox. Dane left that party with a bad case of chicken pox. Timothy recovered the next day.
Events similar to this continued through the beginning of his college years. Then he met Max.
Maxine Steelseat had multiple sclerosis until she was 22 when she was assigned Dane to be her partner in a biology lab. Dane was rushed to a hospital.
Racked with pain he understood what had happened. Though the doctors did not believe him.
Wheeling him to his room he grabbed the arm of a girl suffering from bronchitis. He began to wheeze. Her coughing ceased. Medical curiosity was piqued.
Late one night as Dane lie sleeping a nurse wheeled in another patient. Her husband. He had contracted spinal meningitis. As he touched Dane's face Dane woke screaming as she wheeled her husband hastily out of the room.
The next day he was moved, secretly to another hospital. Two of the doctors attending him changed his name on the medical records.
The clandestine activities were ineffective and people had lined up at the next hospital.
Dane had regained his ability to speak. A woman brought her son to him. He had down syndrome.
"Oh fuck me." sighed Dane. Nothing happened. Her son was still handicapped. "Thank Christ!" This exclamation sent him into a coughing fit.
The police were called to keep away visitors, and though a few managed to sneak by many of the less permanent diseases had been cured. Dean felt better. He was now talking and discussing plans with a few old friends. Thsoe few who didn't feel awkward about him being in a wheelchair. Nonetheless a plan was set.
Dr. Goodheart had a ranch outside of Kirby, Wyoming. They were due to leave at 2 am on Saturday. It was a 17 hour car ride.
They had packed the necessary medical supplies. The trip was uneventful.
No one was waiting for them when they arrived and they all breathed a sigh of relief. Except for Dane, he was sleeping. He dreamt of running; from a horde of disease ridden pit-bulls.
The months rolled by uneventfully.
Until Thurday: Dane was out in the garden enjoying the fresh air. A caravan of busses were parked on the front lawn. 400 care takers and 600 terminally ill patients were waiting outside.
They rushed for Dane. Diseased fingers clamored to grasp his skin. The Dr. had called the police, but they were still another 20 minutes away.
"Leave me alone you selfish bastards!" Dane choked. Blood spouted from every orifice. The last waves of the sick only touched his dead skin. They remained ill and turned on those who were cured. The farm was littered with the recently deceased.

Quotes From Times I Do Not Remember

It's said that dogs can't look up. And, somewhere it's said
around 16 million earths could fit inside the sun. Marbles
have crags deeper than the Mariana's Trench. While
Thelma Pickles cries
for her long departed love: John Lennon. Those trivial moments
that will never leave our minds. They are just wrinkles,
in a brain that is made of fats. A fish

at the bottom of the sea
will change its sex two weeks before it dies. By twenty-fifteen
the average life span will be one hundred. Gregorian months
are not as accurate as the Aztec's
calender. It's the only way
you have too keep track of when you have loved
whomever. As the University of New Mexico measures
sexual ornaments growing rapidly out of proportion. Scientist
James Brown stares down peacock cock. Too see
if it has the goods to wave those females over. Everyone inches
towards their next orgasm. It's said
absence makes the heart grow fonder, but don't ever
marry the first girl you lay. Pigs
are some of the cleanest animals. The human mouth
is filthier than piss. So don't kiss. Piss
on each other. One day we will live forever.

The Road Marked: Horrible Things

Early on in the educational process a teacher states that Iceland
has a warmer climate than Greenland. After the educational process
is completed, foreign beer has usurped domestic. Hell bubbles up
in the form of civil arguments. The road I walk
has not forked, and is filled with trust falls. Team building
exercises only cause dissonance.
I hate all of them.
That's Theodore for you. He sits in a dark corner. Having moved
the barstool to accommodate his welling desire to connect
through solitude. Theodore was an accountant, he wasn't
a team player. He is ignored.

Theodore wants Anne. Her body
is pressed against the bar. She needs tending to,
but the bartender is busy and has his hands full of domestic beer.
I went to school with Anne and occasionally see her
at the record store she works at.
She studied accounting and drinks foreign beer. While
on a sunny day in Iceland a man enjoys a cold Bud Lite.