tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17969026710645272792024-02-20T13:15:34.124-05:00De-Domesticating the Modern MaleA blog following your standard issue modern male, and his journey to de-domesticate himself after growing up and being educated in a liberal environment.Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-83035189410927322702012-10-27T23:26:00.000-04:002012-10-27T23:27:24.248-04:00<a href="http://www.heinleinprize.com/rah/thisibelieve.htm">http://www.heinleinprize.com/rah/thisibelieve.htm</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Hilary says<br />
No.<br />
"I think everyone should be able to do everything. And part of that is learning to protect yourself from anything that may happen, in order to keep fighting the big battles on a larger, less personal scale. I care. I want to help you. And that means helping to teach you to help yourself."<br />
<br />
Finally! She has mastered what I am trying to say!<br />
<br />
Well, almost as much as the Heinleinist Credo:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.heinleinprize.com/rah/thisibelieve.htm">http://www.heinleinprize.com/rah/thisibelieve.htm</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Des<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-21760812089558435712012-07-22T23:00:00.002-04:002012-07-22T23:00:59.305-04:00ColoradoI was thinking about the Colorado shooting today. It's in the news up here, along with a spate of gang-relateds in Scarberia. There was also a typical block party shooting- 2 dead, 23 wounded. Everyone's shocked and whatnot, screaming to ban handguns. I simply tell them...the law only applies to the law abiding. Can you call someone and buy pot or coke at the drop of a hat? Is that illegal? Were the bombs in that asshole's apartment illegal? It doesn't matter what's legal and what's not, crazy people will act crazy.<br />
<br />
Like Scumfuck said, some people just want to watch the world burn.<br />
<br />
I feel better with my pocketknife and pen, but really? I can't shoot back. And it sucks. I've got a rotten shoulder that acts up every time it rains. Am I gonna charge some asshole with an AR15, or bail? I think about the people in the theater, what their reactions might have been. Did some of them charge the asshole? Some of them took slugs for others, that's for sure. But still...I don't get the anti-gun mindset from a logical point of view. It isn't working for drugs, why would it work for guns?<br />
<br />
DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-92036853900855002572012-05-31T03:28:00.001-04:002012-05-31T03:28:49.830-04:00Anvils? Of course, anvils!Well, it's been about six months since I've heard ANYTHING from the esteemed Halffast. I entered a piece of fiction into his <a href="http://zombiehunters.org/forum/viewtopic.php?f=11&t=80378">solicitation</a>. I figured since it's not going anywhere, I'd show everyone what I've written. Yeah, this blog is poorly written -usually when I've been drinking, often when I can't sleep, and sometimes both- so I thought this would be something nice and new. So I present...<b><u>Extraction.</u></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I sat on the hood of my car a long time, thinking. The Python was in its holster at my side, loaded with the best rounds in the self-defense game: 125 grain jacketed hollowpoints. Kicked like all hell, but they left a hole in a man you could throw a cat through. I thought about Jess as the sun seemed to stand still above me, hazed by low, dark clouds. It was havoc out there. I lived on the outskirts of town to boot, closer to Keith's new place than the city center- where Jess lived. I tried not to think of what might be happening to her. Happier times, like the last time I saw her.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was a couple of weeks ago. We thundered through the night, dubstep blaring from the speakers of her car, thumping and echoing behind us. I smiled as the wind whipped by, her little Mitsubishi flowing through the traffic as we closed on the theater. It hardly took any time, and I caught her smiling at me as I helped her buckle down the drop top. We got out, not sure of what movie we wanted to see. We decided on that horrible-looking remake of Fright Night, laughing and pointing. Jess snuck a couple of Rockstars + Vodka! drinks into the film. She pulled them out of her purse as soon as the theater went dark, offered me one. I smiled at her, and without provocation, she wrapped those thin arms around me. "Thanks for taking me out, Des. I really needed to blow off some steam. You mean a lot to me." I couldn't help but smile. I held her tight, and I dared to dream she actually meant it. We put the popcorn between us, and settled in like nothing had happened.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It seemed like ages ago. Everything was going up in flames. She was out there, somewhere. Sue was safe in the house, sure. But how could I leave Jess out there? The way she made me feel was just plain criminal. She made life simple. She made me happy just to be by her. To hear her voice. So there I was, sitting on the hood of my car, trying to work out in my mind how I could leave her there. Everyone but her was inside, behind bricks, with a half-dozen trigger pullers. I heard the screen door slam, saw Keith start crunching his way down the gravel towards me. He was frowning, thumbs hooked into his jeans.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keith stared at me evenly. I looked at the box of bullets, empty speedloaders, thought of Jess. Her alone, back there...<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I'm going to see if I can rescue Jess, homes."<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You sure you want to do this?" Keith asked me. I nodded, more to myself than to him.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Don't see any other way, to be honest."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He sighed, like an older brother watching his brother do something he didn't think was the brightest idea in the world. Leaning on the grill of his pickup, he stretched his broad shoulders a bit. My only gun and only holster were already hanging off my hip, and I was sitting on the hood of my idling Civic. My elbow rested on the carved wood grips of the Colt Python, and that kept me calm. It was like a safety blanket for me- I always felt like I had to be held to a higher standard when I picked it up. It's like a physical reminder of what I can be, y'know? Keith sighed again, and looked back at his big-ass house. The women were inside with a few other trusted friends, getting things ready for what looked like a long, rough haul. All those little things we put away for a rainy day got dusted off and dragged out of safes and closets.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You're going whether or not I come, aren't you?"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yep."<br />
<br />
He stared at me another moment as I loaded my last speedloader of .357 and dumped them in my left pocket. I could damn near hear the scales creak in his mind as he weighed everything out.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Suppose you want help, too."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Wouldn't mind it, homes," I said with a shrug. I had already made up my mind. I was going.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"She want to be rescued?"<br />
<br />
I answered with a shrug.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"She didn't exactly ask for help, per se..."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This is some Forty-Seven Ronin kinda bullshit, man.”<br />
<br />
Another sigh. He stared at the hood a moment. I flashed a cocky grin. I already knew the answer, before he reached for his Sig, made sure he had a round chambered.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright, let's go save the girl who isn't your girl."<br />
<br />
******************************************************************************<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The streets were choked with cars heading the other direction. We could see black pillars of smoke rising into the sky. The first day the dollar collapsed, nothing happened. The second, day, nothing. Third day, all hell had broken loose. Well, that's what happens when the credit card companies scramble to recover their money while it's possible, the power company starts threatening to turn off the lights because they can't afford to give out free electricity, and the money in your wallet becomes worth less than the same amount of toilet paper overnight. Suddenly, no one can keep up with the cost of anything, and all the savings you have are worth nothing. Prices spike and money value drops. And that's a problem if you want to eat, or not wipe your ass with the Sears catalog. So, understandably, people started freaking the fuck out. And, unsurprisingly, given the option between working unpaid to contain the utter insanity of people braining each other over a pack of diapers or can of soup and protecting their families, most cops were taking off.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The big Python dangled in my hand as we drove past people running, screaming. My fingers danced on the grip, and the nickel finish glinted in the grey light. The sky was sort of overcast, I think. The odd burst of sunlight, you know? Looks kind like columns made of sun holding up the sky. I glanced out the window, saw a coupla people who looked like they were sleeping, but it hardly seemed that they were napping in the middle of a suburb being looted. It all flashed by as we broke speed limits heading against the traffic. I felt a lot better about riding to the rescue with his truck compared to my little Civic.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Call her."<br />
<br />
I nodded, dialed her number. My thumb shook a little as I mashed the keys, not from heading towards what was at best rioting and chaos. I always got nervous talking to her. Jess's phone rung and rung, and I prayed my cell battery held out. One bar left.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"H-hullo?"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Hey Jess, you alright? Still at home?"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, I'm scared. They're lighting fires-"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I'll be there in twenty, pack your bags."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright, how-"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Cell's going, I'll see you in twenty, Jess."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I hung up on her. I needed the battery to last as long as it could. I looked at Keith, but he was unreadable behind his Oakleys. I looked down at the 870 leaning on the dash between my legs, holstered up my big wheelgun. Comfort wasn't what I needed anymore, it was firepower. That's why we were in Keith's F-150, the two-seater with the big grill and the huge bed he used for work. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What do you think, man?" I asked quietly.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"This is dumb. Your girlfriend would kill us if she had any idea what you were doing."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"So? Never stopped us before."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Yeah, yeah. I got the door, don't worry about it," he murmured, bitterness clear. Keith didn't like this at all.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He lapsed into a stern silence. He didn't like coming along for this adventure- I could understand that. A wife and kids makes a man rethink that nonsense. But I was young enough to believe in it yet. He flipped on a CD, and I heard the beats pound. I grinned, thumbed shells into the shotgun- his competition gun, on loan just in case things went bad. Fat red three-inchers, all 0000. I heard the lyrics, smiled. He didn't. Nope, he was pumping himself up, drawing out that bit of him that wanted to murder rapists. That wanted mayhem. That wanted to be the righteous, gauntleted fist of justice.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Oh, I was definitely nerved up. I could feel my heart beating faster, that seductive strength that adrenaline gives you flowing through my veins. Keith's loaner shotty was appreciated, I'll give him that. But the song was worth of a dozen of them. I felt my heart beat faster, head nodding to the lyrics.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Right at the lights," I said, seeing a familiar intersection.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Not that we have much choice. Look about two blocks down."<br />
<br />
I squinted, trying to see past the bumper to bumper cars. Just barely above the roof of a Windstar I saw the first lick of flame rising, then a puff of oily black smoke. A Third World roadblock. Great. He made the turn, dodging a stalled Prius. The windows were broken.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We pulled up in the parking lot of Jess's building. It was one of those apartments above a set of stores, overlooking the street. There were actually five or six apartments in the building, none of them particularly nice but particularly affordable to young folk who didn't mind the odd shady customer, the odd loud noise in the dead of night. Semi-gentrified, she called it. Better than the barrio, worse than your average place. There were only a couple of other cars in the lot, all smashed except two. The door was closed, didn't look to be damaged. We both scanned the lot as we picked a spot close to the door. He turned off the engine, took a deep breath.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Destiny has brought us together, I wonder where fate will lead us?" Keith finally said, after a pause.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Way to gay up some thrilling heroics, yo," I responded, my voice a little choked. We bumped fists, coming out of the car on the bounce. I scanned the area behind the strip, Keith the area we came from.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Hey," he said, still watching his zone with his gun at the low ready, "get the kit out of the bed."<br />
<br />
I dropped the gate, saw what he meant. There was an AR and two H-harnesses, along with a pile of full mags. I dragged the webbing close to us, tapped him on the shoulder.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Nice," I said as he turned away from the street, "Expecting a small war?"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He turned around, grabbed the rifle and the webbing with the mag pouches, slinging it on with practiced ease as I stood watch. Then, he charged the bolt, and let me struggle into my rig. Well, his rig. I had worn it shooting a couple of times, felt the familiar weight settle onto my hips.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alright," he said, "Let's do this."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We took up positions on either side of the door, backs to the wall. It didn't seem like anyone was paying attention to us, which was nice. Two armed men was a lot to ignore, but I suppose people had their own problems. I took a deep breath as soon as he put his hand on the knob, looking at me for the cue for him to open it. I nodded, and he carefully and quietly opened it. It was dark in there, with the power out. The only light came from a window up two flights of stairs, filtering down an off-yellow dimness we could just barely see by. As soon as we crept in, I hear a door next to us slam shut. Keith flicked his muzzle towards it, but we heard the bolt slam home before he got there. We heard something else, too.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Open up, bitch!” someone called mockingly from above. We started up the stairs quietly, listening. I flinched when I heard the first thump of impact, flesh on wood. Muffled female voice.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We're gonna get in sometime, Jess!”<br />
<br />
And after that, I don't remember much of what happened. Looking back in the car, I broke into a run. I came up, and saw two guys, big tattooed white guys with an axe and a baseball bat. The axe was up to the eye in Jess's door, the bearded idiot grinning with malicious glee. It was simple, just like the drills. I lined them up over the bright green front sight, and squeezed the trigger mechanically. One, rack, two, rack, three, rack, four, rack, scan. They didn't stand a chance. Didn't deserve to. There was a ringing sound, and I heard Keith shout behind me.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Room clear!”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Numbly, I got into position on the far side of Jess's door.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Jess, it's Des!”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ringing.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Jess!”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I heard the clink of the chain, a little dragging noise, and then the deadbolt. The door opened a crack, and there she was. Long purple hair pulled back into a ponytail, pale skin stained with smeared mascara. Brown eyes, tears, beauty silhouetted between the door and the axe handle. Keith glanced at her, then at me. A smile ghosted across his face, and he turned to cover the hall. I smiled at her, and she opened the door some more. I walked in, shaking a little. I had never been in her new apartment- it was all thick paint, small pictures, bright and cheery. I smiled at her awkwardly, stepping carefully in blood-spattered boots. She reached to hug me, stopped mid-way. I smiled and shrugged, letting go of the shotty and letting it hang from the sling. She didn't come any closer, hugging herself.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I scanned the apartment, saw a tuft of black hair sticking up from behind her kitchen island. The shotgun came up again, and Jess yelped.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hands on your head! Come out where I can see you!”<br />
<br />
A raggedy man...boy...thing emerged from the kitchen, black bangs obscuring half his face. At first, I wasn't even sure he was actually a male. He trembled as he stood where he was, hands in the air.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Des! That's Aaron!” she said to me, like I should know who he is. I imagine I looked pretty weird- a high school friend in a Team Realtree hat, World of Warcraft t-shirt, gleaming combat boots and H-rig holding her boyfriend or whatever at gunpoint and rapidly turning red. I lowered the shotgun, tried to look busy pulling shells from the rig and topping up the tube. I didn't look up.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Keith's outside, ready to go. Got your stuff, Jess?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“But Aaron...”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He can come with.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“But...”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“But we need to get moving.”<br />
<br />
She sighed, rolled her eyes, went around back. I saw her cross my line of sight, and looked up. Aaron was leaning on her counter, looking at the floor. He started speaking to me, shifting his feet awkwardly.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I don't have much...”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shut up.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I walked over and halfheartedly covered the door for a few minutes while Jess grabbed her bag. Aaron stood there a moment more before he walked off and grabbed his stuff.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ready,” she announced, clearly a little unhappy with the situation. I looked back over my shoulder at her. She had an old knapsack over one shoulder, tight jeans and a baggy Misfits shirt on. Hardly what you're call practical, but I gave her half a smile anyways. Aaron stood off to the side, head down and hands jammed in pockets. A small cloth satchel was slung over his shoulder, a toothbrush poking out of it.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Three comin' down.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Gotcha, come on down.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was just like drills, like I said. I didn't look down, just stepped over the bodies, covered the hall. Aaron apparently turned pale and ran down the stairs, while Jess retched. Not just retched, threw up violently at the sight of the two men who had probably wanted to rob and rape her. Buckshot does nasty stuff to a man, yeah. But it wasn't anything they didn't deserve. She still didn't need to see it.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“C'mon, keep moving!” Keith called from the bottom of the stairs, never taking his eyes off of his irons. I didn't even have to look. Me and Keith go way back, seen a lot of combat classes and competitive shooting together. Hell, you might as well say he's the one who got me into shooting, especially three-gun. I pulled back down the stairs in good order, looked at him briefly as he stood at the corner. Jess and Aaron were walking towards the truck.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Alright, let's go home.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You're gonna have a hell of a time 'splaining this one, man. I mean, I can see why you did it, she's gorgeous...”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don't I know it. Take Jess in the cab, I'm playing trunk monkey with Captain Douchebag there.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He nodded, and I covered the street as he walked back over to his truck, swung into the driver's seat and opened the door for her.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So...like Brooks and Dunn?” I heard him rumble as I slung myself into the bed. I sat there a moment, fishing around before finding what I was looking for. The Wiley X sunglasses slid on easily. I turned to see Aaron just standing there, hands in pockets, not moving.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Comin' or not?” I barked, with probably a little too much anger. I hate being embarrassed.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Is that safe?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hey, if you want to take your chances explaining those two bodies to the cops, or better yet, their hombres, be my guest.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>His eyes widened, and he scrambled inside, sitting close to the cab. I laid the shotgun across my lap, muzzle to the aft. I slapped the side of the truck twice, and wondered what in the hell I had been thinking riding the rescue of a girl who didn't see me as more than a passing acquaintance. I kept my eyes on the road behind us the rest of the way home, and tried not to think about it, or the girl in the cab. <br />
<br />
Chapter 2<br />
<br />
“So, uh, where'd you guys come from?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I ignored Aaron as we weaved through through traffic. I felt like an ass, to be honest. I had dragged my best buddy out to a warzone to help me rescue a girl who had no desire to be saved. The sky was darkening, low clouds rolling in. Everything was cast in a grey light. The grip of the shotgun was sweaty as we hit the residential side streets trying to get around the traffic. Aaron fidgeted while I turned my head side to side almost mechanically. I watched the streets slowly glide past. Here, a smashed-in storefront. There, a chunky splatter on a wall. A man with a brick in hand, face contorted. I could hear the steel-string distantly trough the glass of the cab. Glancing, I saw Keith and Jess talking enthusiastically. I turned back to watching the city behind us, leaning up against the glass. I sighed. I didn't know this guy, why was I being an ass?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Listen, we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Desmond. I've known Jess a long, long time. I'm real protective of her,” I managed through grit teeth. I continued to scan as we wound our way through suburbia. There were a lot of open doors, and a lot of empty driveways. A stray droplet of rain struck me on the neck, and I flinched a little.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So...umm...what do you do? Military or something?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Radiology student.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So what's with the guns?” he asked, pointing at the .357. I took my eyes off the semi-deserted subdivision and looked at him. He seemed confused and a little scared; pretty typical stuff.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I've been shooting for fun for about three years now. Keith got me into it.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“For fun?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He nodded and looked away. I turned back to scanning as the truck slowed. He turned and stopped hard, rocking Aaron's head against the glass hard enough to rattle it. I turned to look over the cab, saw the problem. Three men stood behind parked cars piled high with junk. Two had hunting rifles, one had a shotgun. They stared silently, one with a buttstock against his thigh as he pointed to a particleboard sign. The spray paint was pretty clear:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>HIGH PARK CLOSED- GO AROUND<br />
<br />
Keith waved, and one man nodded at him. We swung into reverse.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What's going on?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nothing. Keep your head down.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I sat my ass back down as we started up again, driving past another roadblock. We took the next turn, and found ourselves stopped. I could hear cursing as we advanced a carlength at a time. It didn't take long for a couple of other cars to end up behind us. Before long, some other vehicles in a small convoy came in behind us. It was bumper to bumper, but I couldn't tell why. I poked my head over the cab, and saw more parked vehicles, with a little gap between them. Just enough to let a truck pass, actually. I shrugged, sat back down. Looking around, I saw more of the same- deserted houses, open doors, trash all over. Well, at least until the four guys came out of the townhouse near the corner. There was a shout, and a few more stood on a car hood, brandishing a baseball bat, a couple with guns. Keith looked back at me, then past. There wasn't enough room to go anywhere. The first one saw me, and gestured at me with a kitchen knife.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nice shades, man.”<br />
<br />
The shotgun was on my legs, out of view to him.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Give 'em here. I want a look.”<br />
<br />
I started to haul the shotgun up, and there was a moment of shock before I leveled it at him. He stopped dead in his tracks, and put his hands up.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Whoawhoawhoa...calm down buds,” he stuttered, stepping back. He didn't let go of the knife. His buddies stopped, looked at me warily as they started to circle.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Back off. Back off now!” I yelled, voice cracking. They didn't. They glanced at each other. Aaron got as low as he could, and I swept the muzzle back and forth, trying to keep them at bay. It wasn't working. I chanced a glance back at Jess. She was low, out of the way. The instant I took my eyes off of 'em, they rushed me. I pulled the trigger, and Knifey took a full load of buck at point blank to the face. I heard Keith open up with his Sig, Jess start screaming. I racked the shotgun. That's when Baseball Bat clocked me with a glancing blow.<br />
<br />
They rung my bell pretty good, I'll be the first to admit that.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My mind rewound for a second while I spat blood. I remembered hanging out with Jess once. We were blasting along in Jess's car at three in the morning, beats pounding. The top was down, and the highway was empty. We must have been flying a buck twenty. The warm summer air rushed past us as we laughed after a night at the movies. Some people, you find your center with. She does that to me. Something cold came over me, and I shivered. I opened my swelling eyes, and saw the grey sky pelting me with ice-cold rain. I groaned and rolled, seeing droplets of blood running from my mouth and nose hit the bed. I tried to shake my head, rolled over. I could hear gunshots, not just the sound of Keith's Sig.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had dropped the shotty, and Aaron was trying to hold off another bad guy with a length of threaded rod left in Keith's truck bed. He swung it wildly, trading missed blows with Baseball Bat. My head felt fuzzy, and there was blood in my mouth. I didn't know quite where I was. I pulled my revolver, and extended it at him as I heard the AR start to bark. I pulled the trigger, and there was a jet of white flame a foot long as I blew the back of the guy's head off. Steam sizzled from the Python's barrel as the downpour cooled it. Aaron screamed, holding his ears. Fuck 'em. I stood, and looked around, staggering. Keith was shooting at a couple more of them. I couple hear someone leaning on the horn, and looked around. Someone was creeping around off to my left. Between my concussion, the sheets of rain, and the dim grey light, I could hardly see them. It was a monumental effort to get the .357 up, but I dropped it into my sights and cranked off a shot. Keith was still shooting, so I turned and fired two more rounds towards his target. The big gun bucked in my hand as I saw him turn to me.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You okay, Des?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Been bettuh.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Covering?”<br />
<br />
Aaron helpfully held the shotgun up to me by the stock. He shivered as he did, and I could feel the vibrations up the gun's stock. The rain was miserable and frigid, but it kept me awake. I racked the shotgun, and a bright red shell thunked against the bed. I leveled it in the direction we had been shooting. I shook my head once, rain rolling off of me.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Covering!”<br />
<br />
He dumped the rest of his mag, reloaded and hopped back in the car. There's a blank spot in my memory about there, but Jess tells me we plowed through the roadblock, I fell on my ass and hit my head a little. I was conscious, but I don't quite remember. We drove another three miles through the pouring rain before stopping at a laundromat. Keith jumped out, rifle slung. Jess was crying in the passenger. He looked at me, frowned.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shirt's a mess.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nose's broke. Both eyes are black. They got you good, man. You'll never be pretty again,” he managed, smirking as he slapped my shoulder. He opened the door to the laundromat, and pushed me inside. I sat down on a bench, reeling. He looked me over quickly, bouncing back out to the truck. I saw him talk to Jess as the rain started to let up. I felt half-drunk, not all there. He returned with four green cans, still in the rings of a six-pack. He took one, and pushed one at me. He left the cans in my lap.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Get some of that medicine up in ya,” he grunted. “You're concussed in for sure. Don't sleep until I get Vick to look you over.”<br />
<br />
I nodded along dumbly. The energy drink was tasteless as I gulped half of it down.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Almost home, man. Half an hour,” he managed. He turned away, getting back in the car. I stood, and more or less climbed into the bed of the truck. I turned to Aaron. One ear was leaking. I extended a hand through the drizzle to the shaking, almost fetal man.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks. You did good.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“WHAT?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“YOU DID...nevermind,” I trailed off. I regretted firing my gun so close to his head, but that was the situation. He shook my hand with a limp grip and I called it even. I looked down, and saw there was blood down to my belly button. The shirt was ruined. I tried to snort, ended up coughing instead. Shaking my head, I struggled to keep my head on a swivel for the rest of the ride.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We got back to the ranch, and everyone got out of the truck except me. The rain had stopped fifteen minutes ago. Jess didn't look at me, just headed for the house. I crawled to the lowered gate of the truck bed, and Keith put a hand on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You did good, man. How you feeling?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shitty. My head is pounding.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, you're all fucked up. But we rescued the girl. I'll send Vick out. I take it you don't want to come inside?”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Just grab me a Goddamn Miller and some Kleenex, mang.”<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure if my words were slurred because of the concussion or the scabs. But Keith frowned. I grinned lopsidedly at him.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sorry man. I'm hurtin' right now. A fresh shirt would go a long way too.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It's fine, man. Just...stay awake, awright?” Keith said, looking into my eyes. I was all over the place.<br />
<br />
I nodded and started to slowly struggle out of the H-harness, and clear the shotgun. I stood up on the soggy ground, and jacked the slide of the shotgun until nothing came out. Red shells went everywhere. I lost track of time, but I heard a gentle cough behind me. I turned, and Jess had two cans of Miller. No shirt, though.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hey.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hay.”<br />
<br />
She walked up, and lifted herself up onto the truck bed. Her face was worn, drawn. Mascara ran down the sides of her face. I tossed the shotgun in, and eased myself up beside her.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I just wanted to say thanks. Keith said you wanted a drink, and his wife jumped right on him. I went to the fridge, and then bailed.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks.”<br />
<br />
She kicked her feet a minute, and I reached over and opened my beer. Easing myself onto the bed of the Ford with her, I smiled. The sunset caught her, made her glow despite everything.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Des, I just wanted to say...I appreciate you coming out for me.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I couldn't do anything else, Jess."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Why?"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You know why."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> She looked at me, and I looked at her. She shook her head. I shrugged, took a gulp. She stared at the ground. Thunder rolled in the distance, along with the pops of gunfire. Neither of us spoke, looking away from each other, trying to ignore what was going through our heads. The whole day seemed like something far off. Another life. I looked at my hand, my knuckle as I opened the cylinder of my gun, started plucking out the empty brass. My knuckle hair was scorched away. I suddenly felt wet and cold and so very tired.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are you and...and Aaron alright?”<br />
<br />
She shrugged slight shoulders. I plucked the fired brass out, flicked them into the grass. Another silence filled by far-off gunfire.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Vicky's looking at him.”<br />
<br />
She winced a little, and turned to me. Her mouth opened, danced as she tripped over her words. My heart was in my mouth.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“How...how many...” she managed. Tears ran down her face as she struggled. I held up a fired brass and she nodded.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Enough. I killed enough of them. Jess.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“For me?”<br />
<br />
I nodded. I didn't look at her, didn't say anything. I pocketed the live rounds, took the last swig of beer. Jess put a hand on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Desmond,” she said, shaking me. I looked at her, and she pointed. Storming down the gravel path, I could see Susanna. Her fists were balled, red hair a mess. I looked back to Jess, gave her half a grin as she sat there, pale and haunted.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It was worth it,” I told her quietly, holstering the Python. She didn't say anything.<br />
<br />
Sitting there, I watched Jess stand and walk off, going at a right angle to my charging girlfriend. In an instant, Susanna was an inch from her face, a silent challenge. Jess stepped around her, walking back to the house. My girlfriend turned to me, and glared.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You didn't tell me you were going. You didn't tell anyone. I was worried as fuck about you, Desmond. I was freaking out so bad,” she managed through grit teeth. “I love you, and I've always done right by you, and you turn around and do this.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I couldn't let her die, Sue.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So you abandon me for some other girl? Come back all messed up, and not a word to me? You don't come back inside and tell me anything, don't even see me after everything. I come outside hearing you're hurt, and you're having beers with that skeletal slut? You did all of this for that whore?” she yelled at me. “We're through. Done. Fuck you, Desmond.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She spun on her heel as the last of light of the day slipped out of the sky. I watched her storm back to the house.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No matter the cost, it was worth it,” I told myself as I sat alone in the dark.Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-82920434466414817832012-05-28T02:43:00.000-04:002012-05-28T04:49:51.896-04:00On protestingI had a rather frustrating encounter with one of the stoner buddies the other day. He was ranting and raving about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Quebec_student_protests">student protests in Quebec</a>. He was upset about tuition rises in another province, about 'civil rights infringements and police brutality', and 'protests', of which he seemed to display particular ignorance.<br />
<br />
Firstly, the month of protests and rioting are over...325$ a year in tuition hikes. Yeah, it seems like a lot- except their university tuition is 2168$ a year in Quebec. Yeah, that much. It's going up to -get this- $3793. Yeah. That's just over half the tuition anywhere else in the country. There have now been a month of riots over that. It's like the concentration of entitlement right there. He claims it's a 75% rise in prices and that's "inexcusable". If there's a 75% raise in price of an item that you're getting for less than half of retail, is that really serious enough to riot over? It's actually 43%.<br />
<br />
Now the bill<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_78"> C-78</a>? Different kettle of fish. That's pretty bullshit. There's no way to tell angry mobs to not assemble on the part of student federations, nor is it particularly conducive to peaceful protesting or civil liberties and whatnot. I'm not dealing with it.<br />
<br />
Regarding police brutality, police in Quebec have a particularly bad reputation for it. Part of it is recent history- the PLQ Crisis, the Oka Crisis, etc. The police forces have been battered by bad press, low pay, high corruption, and abnormally dangerous situations. The siege mentality is kind of astounding. And after 100+ days of riots and protests, you can be some nerves are worn pretty thin. There's plenty of footage of police doing things they shouldn't on youtube, and plenty of questionable stuff where all you see is someone getting pepper sprayed. My buddy always gives the protesters the benefit of the doubt, as they are clearly people coming from drinking milk and studying their Bibles by the university in silent protest. I remain a little skeptical...but then again, he has trouble that's almost pathological. He by default rejects all default wisdom, labeling anyone who fights any authority as a 'freedom fighter', and basically rejecting modern science in exchange for conspiracy theory, geomancy, and other absurd concepts. Fine. Whatever. Where it starts to cross the line is where everything is the work of the mysterious New World Order, from the rise of Britney Spears to protesters heaving molotovs- oh, they're agents of the police making the protesters look bad! Quite frankly, it's starting to make me a little uncomfortable. He's starting to go off the rails, constantly accusing me of being sheeple and whatnot.<br />
<br />
However, the most baffling thing is that he doesn't understand the idea of protesting. There's three kinds of protests: peaceful, civil disobedience, and rioting. Peaceful protests are largely ineffective. No one cares. Civil dissidence is a deliberate provocation of the authorities, in the hope you'll get your asses kicked to show how bad and awful the authorities are. No one cares if you wave a placard most days. People care when peaceful protesters end up bloodied on camera for walking along a bridge. And rioting? Violent protests basically justify the acts of the police. He doesn't understand that in crowds, there are assholes instead of agent provocatuers, espouses violence (especially against cops), etc. He actually believes that by fighting the cops, he'll accomplish goals and get vengeance for a fight that isn't even his.<br />
<br />
I've come to a conclusion about him- I want him nowhere near a firearm. Not to say I want his rights stripped, but rather his mental state leaves me a touch uncomfortable. The whole lack of...well, objective reality in some of his beliefs leads me to believe that he'd be about as safe as your token 'THAT ASSHOLE' on a range. You know, the one who sweeps everyone, ignores the rules? I want him nowhere near me during a disaster that involves no rule of law, doubly so because his stated plan is looting. It's a sad realization, but true. Suddenly, his road-raging threats of 'if I had a gun' or 'I wish I had a gun' seem a little more real. It's been this weird slipping action over the last year.Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-92029585335662632492012-05-24T05:53:00.001-04:002012-05-24T05:53:36.138-04:00In The WindIt's not just us getting worried, friends. It's scary, but it's true. There's something in the air out there. Something that's hard to pin down. If you're looking hard, you can see it. People seem more frenzied out there, a touch more desperate. They want to burn off the anxiety in the clubs, or online in Call of Duty. Even my stoner buddies (yeah, I know, don't have druggie friends, bad influences, etc... but hey, eight years of friendship is kinda important) seem to have caught the bug. They talk about alien invasions and Niburu and the NWO, whatever fits into their addled world view. But it's there. Something is making people worried and nervous. Not too many people are actually doing something about it, but at least they know something's wrong. I've been trying to steer the guys away from idiocy and towards sweet, glorious science. Stuff like pandemic information, and the head of the Hayden Planetarium telling them why Planet X can't exist. It's not quite taking yet, though. They always come back with 'you're just brainwashed, Des!'.
No, I have science. You have excuses and ad hominem attacks.
At any rate, it's something I noticed. Maybe people can't articulate it. Maybe they don't know what to do about it. But between the state of the economy, an upcoming flu season, elections, and a host of other problems, something has to give. I think people are actually starting to figure that out.Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-3961847815086996352012-02-11T04:14:00.002-05:002012-02-11T04:16:53.315-05:00NatashaAlright, I know I've been gone awhile. But I'd like to introduce someone...say hello, Natasha.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEp3OTu7r8MHp5qq3tqjIGls-lAjZalcEIxeu7VU9_ZX4DR7jKAGp-RW2MRzOSWYwUcqGLjWMkuEGyWW0GfEeqEmv4UttXKSuO7yEEeNkyJhQF0dD33a_Eo5ixfYqiJXcOlA_klO2CjZOq/s1600/2012-02-03+12.28.46.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEp3OTu7r8MHp5qq3tqjIGls-lAjZalcEIxeu7VU9_ZX4DR7jKAGp-RW2MRzOSWYwUcqGLjWMkuEGyWW0GfEeqEmv4UttXKSuO7yEEeNkyJhQF0dD33a_Eo5ixfYqiJXcOlA_klO2CjZOq/s400/2012-02-03+12.28.46.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707804414153924354" /></a><br /><br />Natasha is a Remington 870 in ATACs I got for 570 at LeBaron this winter. I grabbed a cheapo flashlight and mount off of Amazon, same with a Bushnell Trophy red dot. I snagged a Mesa Tactical side saddle and some dummy rounds online to go with it. So, now that introductions are out of the way, I'd like to explain my choice of very first firearm. <br /><br />1. Why get a shotgun?<br /><br />Well, it's reliable, and inside my budget. The ammunition is readily available, and it's multipurpose. It'll always be legal in my jurisdiction. <br /><br />2. Why get it in ATACS?<br /><br />It's pretty. <br /><br />3. Why tart it up like that? <br /><br />Well, I like having more rounds. And I like an easily-usable aiming device. And I like having a light so I can see what I'm shooting at. <br /><br />What do you think?Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-70030274745798047612012-01-03T10:20:00.001-05:002012-01-03T10:22:24.290-05:00Happy New Year's, everyone. I'm in the mountains with the woman, enjoying the snow and the company. It's a skiing town, and I've been looking around. The first thing I noticed was how many people are dressed inappropriately. No headgear, no gloves even on the slopes. Sure, it's not terribly cold yet, but it is brisk, and night's coming. Honestly, I'm just baffled. There's snow coming down, the blowers are going full tilt to try and get a good layer on before the next warm snap (global warming is killing this town). When it's winter, do you walk around without headgear and a set of gloves in your pocket, people? I sure as hell don't. But that's the way I think. I've been out without both for long periods, and I know how stupid that is. I've done frostbite, and it sucks the big one. <br /><br />The next big thing I noticed is all the purpose-driven, high end civvie gear. A fair amount of people are wearing a high-end North Face or Columbia jackets, pants, and have neoprene gloves on. Well, not neoprene, but nice gloves at any rate. My experience with civvie kit is that while nice, it tends not to hold up well to prolonged abuse. Innovative, yes. Effective for its purpose, yes. But wearing a ski jacket hiking is not the best idea. Sure, it'll be comfortable and regulate your temperature well, it will be lightweight...but should you catch a thorn or branch the wrong way, it can rip. Likewise, the North Face backpack my girlfriend loaned me for the day is well designed and quite comfortable, but I wouldn't fill it with rocks and AR mags and take it for a spin. One of my main kit requirements is its ability to be abused- I may not need it all the time, but when I do need it, I need it in the absolute worst way. For instance, my hydration bag has a drag handle, and it stood up to my buddy using it on me during a simulation in the summer. Awesome. Would I drag someone using a civvie bag's straps? No, that's asking for trouble. <br /><br />And I just saw someone walking through two inches of snow in flip flops. The stupidity of others never fails to amaze me.<br /><br /><br />Anyways, the point of all this is to bring the subject up for civvie kit. I'd like to hear some opinions. I'm definitely picking up a smartwool underlayer, and I've scored an MSR Reactor. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41p907B-zvL._SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41p907B-zvL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />It's not that I don't have love for the canteen cup, but sometimes it just isn't suited to he task at hand. Now, of course, you're asking yourselves, why have such a big kit? Well, one of the thing I've been thinking about more and more is the idea of 'strays'. People who, while good, didn't prepare. Now, some of you are probably thinking to yourselves 'Fuck 'em, and everyone who looks like 'em'. I say you're dead wrong. Are you gonna turn away some kid? Friends? Family members? Might as well build some give into your preparedness plans for unexpected, because you never know who's going to show up. That's another post, of course, but it's still one of those things I feel everyone should prepare for. Well, unless you're some variety of hermetic, friendless orphan born of orphans.<br /><br />Not that I hold that against you.Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-87694001673510456102011-12-28T13:25:00.002-05:002011-12-28T14:08:16.772-05:00PerceptionsI keep thinking...a lot of prepping is perception. In my last post, one person commented on stockpiling versus preparation. Well, what does it look like when we stockpile cases and cases of MREs? It looks like stockpiling to the average person. We know it's not because hey, the government isn't coming to save us. You would think that Katrina's response would have shown them that they are monstrously incompetent, but here we are. Maybe it's the perception that nothing bad can ever happen to them that makes it worse. Why prepare if it won't happen, and even if it does, the government will save us?<br /><br />I remember at school, it was the worst. I actually confronted a teacher about whether he walked the walk and prepared, and he turned it around on me. I said yeah, I have my month or two or supplies, water, and plans if something happens goes sideways. He said his plan was to visit me, and I didn't take kindly to that. I suggested that I had plans for that, a whole case of them. I bluffed, sure, but it really got to me. The attitude in the class, the indoctrination is <span style="font-style:italic;">'if someone has something you need, take it. We call it seconding'</span>. So hey, if I have the food you need because you, as a professional in the emergency management field didn't prepare, you will try to take it by force? <br /><br />I think that's when I got much more serious about preparing. <br /><br />Trying to get people past the perception is like pulling nails. Some can't legitimately afford it. I mean, they live hand to mouth. Alright, cool, do your best even if it's a can of spam or some ramen noodles in the closet. But the rest? I mean, even Costco sells a bucket of food-like substances you can jam into a closet. And I know there are other priorities, like car payments and bills, but still. It's not hard to budget a little here or there. <br /><br />Now, why is that important?<br /><br />I believe that in a WROL situation, most people will be driven by hunger, entitlement, or malice. If you can get most people to not be hungry, then that's one less element on the street. And, come to think of it, one of the more dangerous. What would you do to feed your kids during an extended period of WROL if you didn't prepare or stockpile?Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-81934714776166583392011-12-26T14:10:00.002-05:002011-12-26T14:48:32.030-05:00My Random Thoughts on Preppers, Part OneI've been thinking a lot about this lately, and as such this is sort of a train of thought experiment than something well-constructed.<br /><br />Firstly, why are some people preparing, and others not? <br /><br />I'm going to make a broad statement here: We are almost all A+ personalities. We are independent minded people who when presented with a problem, they confront it. When there may be a problem, we try to prevent it. I have yet to hear a prepper say 'it won't/can't happen to me'. That, I think, is our greatest strength. We are stubborn, we have foresight, and we act. That's the important one, we act. We don't just let things happen. <br /><br />This also a list of our greatest weaknesses. We're independent and stubborn, which means we don't exactly get along too often. We think we can go it alone, and we tend not to listen to others unless provoked. This is really prevalent in the less desirable elements of survivalism and prepping. The odds of a Red Dawn survival situation are limited, and even then, what would retreating to the mountains do? Why stockpile firearms and not food? <br /><br />The more I think about it, the more I tend to reject retreat-based ideology. Having a retreat won't make things better if the economy collapses. In fact, that is the number one thing we should be preparing for. A global economic collapse will definitely mean riots and shortages, but more so, a period of scarcity. Your everyday problems will involve feeding your family and friends, keeping them out of trouble, not Soviets in the street. Preppers need to go back to their roots and figure out what they should be worried about all over. For me, I'm worried about economic collapse and flu pandemics, and the problems stemming from that.Deschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-4379703167283598482011-12-22T14:17:00.005-05:002011-12-22T15:13:53.214-05:00EDC and Man PurseAlright, let me preface this by saying I'm in a Canadian suburb. There's two glaring omissions from my kit- a lighter, and a knife. The lighter is easy in my AO: if I need fire for a reason other than light or making sure some hot girl can have a smoke, what I actually need is a full assault rig and a flak. I'm in the burbs. I travel to more densely urban areas. When I head towards the woods, I bring it, sure. But there's no reason to start fires in an urban area. <br /><br />The second is a knife. Quite frankly, the Canadian laws regarding carrying a knife are so vaguely, poorly written that it's largely up to the officer who catches you with one as to whether your folding knife is a weapon or a tool. I don't feel comfortable carrying one, and the public reaction is almost the same as brandishing a handgun. <br /><br />I've broken my EDC down to two levels: All day, every day, and daytrip. And I'm going to skip the picture of my wallet and cell, and just show the interesting stuff: <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk8zZk60b4rvxBb4KmX74w2baXClGNjcnnezGM7U4hHANbWaWB4Tnm6qJ3_yGmhUFaUp3XTN1vU67aQoH6gXYNaf6MK4nN3R6QHkupf7DxldlpHJvYWAiPGItsbSQDYDfFCZESn9j7FOQG/s1600/Keys.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk8zZk60b4rvxBb4KmX74w2baXClGNjcnnezGM7U4hHANbWaWB4Tnm6qJ3_yGmhUFaUp3XTN1vU67aQoH6gXYNaf6MK4nN3R6QHkupf7DxldlpHJvYWAiPGItsbSQDYDfFCZESn9j7FOQG/s400/Keys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689042819991963330" /></a><br /><br />Sorry for the poor quality, it was taken using my cell. Anyways, that is one nightmarish keychain. It has a pen, a flathead and Phillips screwdriver, bottle opener, the original key fob from a Corvair, and all of my keys. Beside it, there's a stainless steel Embassy Pen. In addition to being an absolutely excellent and elegant writing tool that makes me look more stylish, it definitely has some weight. Getting wonked in the head with it would certainly be unpleasant, and it can be used ot load a punch. In either case, it's a non-obvious self defense tool with other uses, so it rides where my knife used to. <br /><br />As it stands, when I know I'm going to be out for the day, I'm trying to get back in the habit of bringing the Man Purse. People snicker and laugh periodically, but they stop considering it has all of this in it with room to spare:<br /><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfGyoz4XhBYdOA2duF80bhZuXg-ZeFoGc7W23aE8egwSYXSeO_zGSECwrhMYFgEM5TZXitZ2vlMixGahRSFar5UHLI7S8n7iQcxYhbS1rBrk0nkrjKk3Uw2VMQRUL1f-c1P5PrBblgI_j/s1600/Alldat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfGyoz4XhBYdOA2duF80bhZuXg-ZeFoGc7W23aE8egwSYXSeO_zGSECwrhMYFgEM5TZXitZ2vlMixGahRSFar5UHLI7S8n7iQcxYhbS1rBrk0nkrjKk3Uw2VMQRUL1f-c1P5PrBblgI_j/s400/Alldat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689045256896123970" /></a><br /><br />So, let's start with tools. It has my multitool, duct tape, paracord, battered notebook, fine point screwdriver, medical shears, two flashlights (the little orange LED fob and the 6P LED), and a sharpie. Everything you need to fix most problems are breakdowns you encounter day to day.<br /><br />There's the emergency stuff: a set of nitrile gloves, a CPR mask, a SOF-TQ, and an Oales bandage. Basically, everything you need in an OH SHIT scenario to save a life, yours or another's. <br /><br />There's the boo boo kit: Bandaids, Asprin, Pepto, Reactine, alcohol swabs and a warrior wipe.<br /><br />Finally, there's my Android tablet. It mostly fits in pant pockets, but sometimes it prints real bad. Anyways, it fits in there like a dream.<br /><br />Finally, what it needs is a Cliff bar or something, and one of those Gatorade Accel Gels. Something to make your body work. So basically, everything you'd need during an average day. That was the aim here, a really nondescript bag to get you through most inconveniences and some pretty serious situations. Where does it need improvement? I'm not sure. It works pretty well most days, and I have a lot of bases covered from heart attack to serious injury. I mean, in an active shooter scenario, I'll have to make do, but concealed carry is illegal here (functionally, at any rate). Here's what it looks like all packed up: <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5qZjB1l2rHHaPQI1Bl-u71Y92Fj9M7mI7Zyn-3Czy_0k202nvgmEommrXPkKBjJ_ida4uKhOvYlneu6S8-wbSTboyXJj_4VO6-NLj1TteoJpRrtuYC1Lz8aRe9xP0uTpS8sJBu3WFxB6/s1600/manpurse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5qZjB1l2rHHaPQI1Bl-u71Y92Fj9M7mI7Zyn-3Czy_0k202nvgmEommrXPkKBjJ_ida4uKhOvYlneu6S8-wbSTboyXJj_4VO6-NLj1TteoJpRrtuYC1Lz8aRe9xP0uTpS8sJBu3WFxB6/s400/manpurse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689048335794458498" /></a><br /><br />Anyways, opinions? <br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-30096641869472316392011-12-21T06:09:00.002-05:002011-12-21T06:22:10.713-05:00From the Ashes...Had a long downtime. I'm sorry, folks. One part, I've become embittered with the survivalist movement, even the preppers. It's largely a part of the whole A+ personality aspect. There's no co-operation. Or, rather, between sane ones, there isn't much. And I'm not talking insane like By The Sword, he's just odd. I'm talking the guys who if you ever got pneumonia and laid up in camp, they found it and you, they'd stand over you fixing bayonets and asking "Y'all love Jesus, don'tcha?"<br /><br />I've slacked. I went from bearing the Man Purse of Utility to just what's on my keychain, not so much as a multitool and lighter. I've gotten fat and lazy, and I've been stupid. So be it. Well, I'm starting over, re-approaching things. Thinking about disasters again beyond the large-scale. Back to basics. What do I need every time I walk out the door? What do I need if I'm out all day? What do I need for an overnight, three nights at the woman's? <br /><br />I bought my first gun. <br /><br />That should be big news. It's an 870 Tactical in ATACs, all tarted up with a sidesaddle, red dot, single point sling, flashlight. Got some buck for it. It's a start, I suppose. I've been re-examining the idea of prepping as a whole, but the idea of this post is I'm back. Like Volrath said...I stepped out. I did not step down.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-14566276947771601922011-04-13T00:48:00.002-04:002011-04-13T01:01:05.075-04:00In Case of Emergency...Pound your smartphone button.<br /><br />I've been cruising the internet lately, and I came across this:<br /><br />http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif<br /><a href="http://techcrunch.com/2011/04/02/state-department-builds-a-panic-button-app/">Panic Button!</a><br /><br />I like the idea. Set the options up. "Are you sure you want to wipe your phone? Send mass text/email? I like it as a concept- I can send out a text to all the people in my life if things go truly sideways, wipe my contacts if I need to, etc. <br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-13088551950371721762011-04-04T01:57:00.003-04:002011-04-04T02:15:55.002-04:00A Pop Culture MomentSo, I was tooling across Youtube, and I saw this video:<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QnbvOi4SpSk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />Now, I kind of like Rise Against's sound. Their politics can eat my ass, but they are entitled to their opinions just like everyone else. They lionize 'revolutionaries', violent fanatics bent on a vague leftist uprising. And they paint them as the young, the everyday. The tattooed hot girl who usually serves you coffee at Starbucks is brewing and packing pipebombs. The douchebag with the funny hat who you see at HMV is putting bombs into backpacks. Everyday people rising up against...what?<br /><br />They lionize revolutionaries of every stripe, but they omit the important parts.<br /><br />They omit that a lot of them get caught, and instead of being working-class heroes, they die with a pistol screwed into the base of their skull in an alley. <br /><br />They omit the interrogations. The late nights. The constant fear.<br /><br />And for what? Vaguely anti-Bush, pro PETA, and globalization ideals? They make heroes out of the people who busted up my Goddamn downtown last year, and burnt up my Goddamn tax dollars by the barrel and the bowlful with frivolous lawsuits against the police. I really hope that these kids grow out of the Che-worshipping asshattery someday soon. This protester culture fad has got to die.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-36693832420729513692011-03-31T14:04:00.002-04:002011-03-31T14:33:45.340-04:00Another Election YearI suppose it happens often enough...Canada has had federal elections every other year for almost the last decade. It's hardly a surprise that a country this size is divided. Different regions have different needs. On the East Coast, the collapse of the fisheries and traditionally strong unions have made it the traditional grounds of the far-left NDP. Quebec's distinct society-within-society have created the basis of a party based solely on looking out for number one, the Bloc Quebecois. The hyper-left Green party has its stronghold in BC, and the Conservatives the West. It's all a patchwork. Mostly, it's Liberals and Conservatives as the big dogs.<br /><br />The Liberals have never really been anything but a 'I guess it's better than nothing' choice since Trudeau left them. And lately, the Conservatives have been doing very little, trying to toe the line as the inevitable upsurge of leftist new voters (produced by left-leaning educational institutions) start to stop throwing rocks and use their votes. I wonder how much longer it will take for the idiots who were smashing up downtown last summer to realize that it's easier to change the country using a ballot than a ball-peen hammer. <br /><br />At any rate, I've been thinking about the election. Will it be more of the same? Another minority government constantly doing nothing for fear of an inevitable no-confidence motion? I'm still voting Conservative, because frankly there's no other party which even vaguely lines up with my ideals. <br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-50722705729327050382011-01-29T03:10:00.004-05:002011-01-31T14:27:23.887-05:00On Horror: Lessons from Dead Space 2Well, sorry I've been gone so long. I recently got Dead Space 2, the sequel to the game that really got me started on writing horror. More than being a fun, scary-as-hell game, I find that dissecting the game is actually very worthwhile for understanding it works. Well, why it scares, and applying that to writing. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1. Force People to Pay Attention to Detail</span><br /><br />Dead Space isn't an especially easy game, which is where we get the 'survival' part of survival-horror. You're an engineer with a motley assembly of mining equipment taking on hordes of mutant zombies that require dismemberment due to the their distributed nervous system. Since this series is set on space stations/ships, there's a lot of fans and ductwork around so people can breathe and whatnot. Of course, this is also a popular avenue for the smaller zombies (children, babies, skinnier ones) to travel in. It doesn't take long before you start regarding every fan and ceiling duct with suspicion on principle. This isn't helped by the spectacular audio, which features everything from muffled speech to skittering sounds and taps that could be either an off-time fan, or a monstrosity lying in wait. Any sound could be a warning- there are plenty of enemies, some who sneak, some who flank, some who howl to summon others. At least two kinds actively communicate with other zombies.<br /><br />Speaking of dismemberment, the game also punishes you for not paying attention to detail by having some of the wounded monsters lie doggo once wounded, or simply when you arrive. Other humans have been fighting them as well, so you never know if a dead one you roll up up on is REALLY dead. You learn to check carefully, since there isn't exactly a dearth of supplies around. You learn to be careful, so I'm going to try to figure out a way to work that into my story.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />2. Familiarity Breeds Horror</span><br /><br />Necromorphs (the primary antagonists in Dead Space) aren't scary because they have claws or teeth or are particularly murderous. They're scary because they're familiar. You can tell that they were human at some point. Their heads are largely intact, minus lower jaws. vestigial arms hang from their fronts. They wear clothing. The smaller ones look like deformed children. Some look like skeletonized dogs. You can tell what they were by looking at them. <br /><br />Likewise, even on a starship, an elementary school and hospital look like they do today. Washbasins. Beds. Flowers. There's one particular scene where you walk into the lobby of the doctor's office, and it looks just like one. There are balloons. A gift shop soaked in blood. Discarded magazines and cards. An abandoned wheelchair. It could be any doctor's office anywhere, minus the body parts and blood.<br /><br />Those are the two big lessons I took away so far. Suspect everything, and the more familiar and comforting something seems, the easier it is to subvert that feeling.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-71526091964627066552010-10-27T16:38:00.002-04:002010-10-27T16:40:38.694-04:00Memejack!Alright, jacked from Sigboy's blog: What song would you be, if you could be a song? <br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/dVpWcyy_dBM?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/dVpWcyy_dBM?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Fire and Fury, from the Starcraft soundtrack. Ohhhhhhhh yeah.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-16707839297441188922010-10-19T21:48:00.002-04:002010-10-19T21:59:30.422-04:00CrateringI've been writing a lot more recently, but instead of writing in a straight line, I've been using a technique called 'cratering'. You pick a major plot point, or series of them. Expand them a bit, then fill in the space. It's turning out to be much easier to write something that you've had a recent idea about than try to force it. <br /><br /><br />Well, it's working for me. I hope m story doesn't come out, for a lack of a better word, soupy.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-1888922820468829222010-10-01T14:59:00.002-04:002010-10-01T16:08:05.941-04:00To License, or Not to License?So, I know I've been absent. I did a brief foray into the world of security work again, and it sucked. So, there I was, catching up on my blogs, when I saw Lawdog's series of gun control posts. I looked over the suggestions in his <a href="http://thelawdogfiles.blogspot.com/2010/09/background-checks.html">Background Checks post.</a> As I did so, I thought to myself...this sounds a lot like a basic licensing program. It functions to separate those who can and can't own a firearm. Of course, it shouldn't tell you what kind you should have, but that's a different subject. So, back to the licensing idea, the people the state declares unfit fall into roughly two categories:<br /><br />1. Criminals who have committed crimes sufficient for them to be barred the basic human right of self defense.<br /><br />2. Those deemed mentally deficient by the state. <br /><br />Some people wonder why those in category one are still alive or out of prison. What happens if they were simply deemed 'negligent with a firearm' or something similar? I mean, not like 'popping off rounds in suburbia for teh lulz', but how about something like 'I accidentally carried into a post office'. That might be grounds for other sanctions, but is it the sort of thing that should remove a person's right to firearms forever? I endorse it in cases of 'terminal stupidity', such as the case of people shooting friends while they wear bulletproof vests. That kind of idiocy should merit the penalty for both parties, should they survive. <br /><br />Now, the second part is where things get tricky. People will scream bloody murder about suicide rates among gun owners, as if they couldn't be trusted. I read somewhere that almost everyone goes through a 'severe depressive episode' at least once in life. Really, it's understandable. Heartbreak, loss of a parent...but if you seek help for it, does this mean you should have your guns taken away? I don't think so. I mean, I had a real rough time in August once I got dumped. Spending ten days with Sigboy and getting my recoil therapy on was something that helped me a lot. But, back to the question, does being depressed at some point mean that you no longer have the right to self-defense? I definitely think people on the Mental Health Express (schizophrenics, etc who do the six months out of the hospital, six months in) shouldn't have access to firearms. But where do you draw the line? Does someone with a long term, chronic depression problem not have the right to self-defense? <br /><br />In Canada, the recent dealbreaker on the death of the long gun registry was the fact that the brother of one of the MP's voting killed himself with a rifle two days before the vote. How do people expect to use a licensing system or the registry to prevent that? Sometimes, it just happens. Even if you roundly violate someone's right to medical privacy, sometimes you just can't prevent it. Case in point- a couple of years ago, a buddy of mine from the army got a medical discharge from the army. He's living free, fat stack from the government. Two weeks later, word comes back that one day, he walked into the back yard, and blew his brains out with his shotgun. No warning. No history of substance abuse or depression. Just walked outside and offed himself. No note, nothing. I'm not sure how common that is, but still. How in the name of God would this have been prevented by even the most invasive legislature? <br /><br />Since I've mostly come up with a fistful of questions, I'm going to propose something of a solution that will, no doubt, be attacked as unconstitutional. Do a basic license, a lot like a driver's license. Hell, attach it to the driver's license, as a little 'G for gun-safe!' symbol on the back. You renew it whenever you renew your driver's license. Basic check: Violent criminal or deemed mentally unfit? No? Alright, go buy some guns! Declared unfit? Turn over your driver's license, because if I don't want you to have something that makes little pieces of metal go fast, I certainly don't want you to have something that makes a tonne of metal go fast. As far as faking a driver's license goes, have potential purchasers show two pieces of ID. <br /><br />How's that for a slice of fried gold?<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-32828868908820474032010-09-03T01:16:00.003-04:002010-09-03T01:40:58.498-04:00On Cop Hate, or Des Shits on Some Douche in a Systematic Manner<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJB8qXa0EjU&feature=popular">Why Some Douche Hates Cops</a><br /><br />Let us break this shit down henceforth:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1. I hate cops because they don't do anything for me, and have a slim chance of doing so!</span><br /><br />Well, that nice, Fat Douchebag Hipster. It's likely that most crimes against you wil be minor, or that you will be one of the lucky few who go their lives without being victimized by the criminal element. It's also likely you're not poor, so you don't live in a high crime area, so your crib don't get broke into every other month. You lack a vagina, so your likelihood outside of jail of being raped is almost nil. You are, in fact, one of the least likely persons to be victimized in society. What about everyone else? Or can you not comprehend the concept of 'good for people who aren't you'?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2. Cops jacked my weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed! I done bought it fair and square!</span><br /><br />It's weed. Your misuse of your money is not their concern. Two points: <span style="font-style:italic;">Caveat Emptor</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Play stupid games, win stupid prizes</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3. Ignorance is no excuse for criminal activity!</span><br /><br />That's right, it's not. Be a responsible citizen, how's about?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />4. The cops are the private army of the Establishment, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!</span><br /><br />Firstly, the Establishment is not out to get you. Secondly, it is not the police's job to be your personal advocate in whatever opinion you happen to hold. They aren't the arbiter of your personal beliefs. If you have a bone to pick with the Establishment...well, welcome to humanity. No one likes the way things are. Get your cope on. And another thing! Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Don't bust up yo hood, and your protest won't get cracked down on.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />5. The Poh works for the government, which is corrupt, which means THEY'RE corrupt!</span><br /><br />Welcome to the real world, douche fag. There's graft in everything you do. Nothing's fair. Time to look beyond yourself and to the greater good. You don't like it? Then vote. Vote with your wallet and the ballot. Don't bitch on youtube because the cops jacked yo weed. Suck it up like a man, and carry on. Or, don't do stupid shit. Police are a fact of life, they're not going away. So limit the stupid shit you do, you self-entitled asshat.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-31733799498999960252010-08-31T17:42:00.002-04:002010-08-31T18:19:26.103-04:00Why the Ground Zero Mosque is a Bad IdeaHow did anyone ever think this was a good idea? Seriously, I wonder about the soft heart (and headed) liberals some days. Let's go over this once again:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1) You are building a soft target in what some can arguably call an insulting place.</span><br /><br />While everyone loves tolerance, I don't see a huge rush to put up a Serb embassy in Srebrenica. Or a statue of Stalin in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katyn_massacre">Katyn</a>. People are understandably upset about the murder of their loved ones. So, can someone please explain to me how putting up a symbol of the cause that butchered them next to the site of the massacre can be construed as anything but insulting or submissive? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2. You are building a soft target in a nest of very angry people.</span><br /><br />As previously mentioned, this mosque is not only an affront to the memory of the people who died, but placed in the middle full of their friends and family. Do you really think that's a bright idea? Don't you get the concept that your parishioners and property will likely be subject to daily harassment and abuse?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3. You have made your mosque a very clear target for extremists.</span><br /><br />Every Cletus, Jim Bob and Billy Bob Thorton in the continental US will want to see this mosque destroyed. It will be under constant threat. This may, of course, be what higher leadership wants, but the fact remains that peaceful Muslim Americans are still both civilians and Americans. Lack of sense aside, they deserve the same protections everyone else is afforded. <br /><br />All in all, I oppose the mosque based on common sense- it'll be a punching bag for the city, will worsen relations between Muslims and New Yorkers, and quite frankly the downtown doesn't really need another crater.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-91903688839759743922010-08-30T15:50:00.002-04:002010-08-30T16:39:53.442-04:00Long Gun Registry Madness<a href="http://www.thestar.com/news/canada/gunregistry/article/852802--tories-hiding-facts-on-census-gun-registry-liberals-charge">The Tories are, apparently, hiding the 'facts' on the gun registry.</a> Well, not really. The Liberals are claiming that the Conservatives aren't releasing any 'positive' reports on the Long Gun Registry. This is a horrible symptom of mind poisoning- they assume that such reports exist. They are taking their opinions, and trying to make the facts fit them. <br /><br />A major House of Commons vote to scrap the long gun registry is coming up close, and the Liberal Media is attempting to whip the legions of douchebag hipsters, bleeding hearts and greens in and effort to stop it. For instance, the Liberal Party recently secured the endorsement of the Canadian Association of Emergency Physicians <a href="http://www.winnipegfreepress.com/canada/breakingnews/emergency-room-doctors-urge-mps-to-keep-long-gun-registry-101494309.html">to keep the registry,</a> claiming that "As front-line physicians in emergency departments, we regularly witness the horrific injuries and deaths that result from firearms." So, is there an epidemic of rifle fights across the country? Did I miss something? Did Winnipeg suddenly become Fallujah Far North? Perhaps, while I wasn't looking, these physicians have become professionals in justice and common sense as well as medicine. They claim that "We treat patients on a regular basis who are suicidal and who are victims of domestic assault. We know that a long gun in the home puts both types of patients at a significantly higher risk of being killed" and that three quarters of spousal murders were committed with rifles and shotguns. <br /><br />We'll pause a second and look at this before I continue. I'll put the obvious point out there: if you have a domestic violence charge, you are unable to obtain a firearms license. You get a domestic violence charge, your license should be revoked in theory. Apparently, this doesn't always happen. Point the second: if you are sufficiently enraged with your spouse that you go, unlock your gun cabinet, unlock your ammo cabinet, load and make ready your weapon and go shoot him/her/it to death, odds are you were sufficiently enraged to grab a knife from the kitchen, a bat from the den, or simply use your fists to get your murder on. Hell, grabbing the knife or bat would take about half the time. The tool used for murder should be immaterial. Which brings me to point the third: how can a doctor tell the difference between a shot fired from a non-restricted rifle from a restricted rifle? There are restricted rifles, like what few ARs we're allowed, and restricted shotguns. Do these ER docs have some sort of magic ray which determines which is which? And even if it does, how does a registry prevent some asshole from the criminal use of a legitimately owned and obtained firearm?<br /><br />Fact is, it doesn't.<br /><br />This is all straight up bullshit. As it is, we don't see too many bolt-action drive-bies. Registering a firearm does not magically prevent it from being used in crime. A registry doesn't affect the fact that we share the biggest unprotected border in the world with the country with one of (if not the highest) percentage of privately owned firearms in the world. No, I am not blaming America for being awesome. What I am saying is that illegal firearms are basically impossible to stop from getting into the country. Illegal firearms are available, and quite a cash cow for criminal groups. <br /><br />If a criminal will act in a criminal manner, no registry will stop this. <br /><br />DeschainDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-46466515225591712872010-08-04T23:46:00.002-04:002010-08-05T00:14:46.594-04:00Family HistoryAlas, brigands to a man, I am decended from. It's not quite surprising, though. My father's generation on both sides of teh family has made gret efforts to unravel the secrets, and here is what we know so far:<br /><br />The Polish side of my family, through my dad's father, left Poland rather abruptly midway through the Russian Civil War. Apparently, they had made quite a profit helping smuggle Jews, intelligensia, and anyone else targetted by the NKVD or its predesessor from their side of the Russian border into Poland proper, and on to Europe proper. Obviously, this was not looked kindly upon by some of the worst torturers and butchers that the world has ever known. So, when a neighbor knocked in a panic one night, they rushed to the door. He explained as quickly as he could that said parties has politely questioned him at gunpoint as to his whereabouts. He had sent them two farms in the wrong direction, but they didn't have much time. They grabbed their ill gotten gains, the children, and loaded up the car. They dashed to the nearest port, and took off for the first place they saw: America. Now, between the ruination the Great Patriotic War brought and whatever means my great-grandfather used to dodge the secret police, the facts are shrouded in time. My dad grew up in Long Beach, CA, speaking Polish as a second language. <br /><br />The French side of my family, through my mother's mother, was kicking it in the New World since the 1760's, maybe earlier. Parish records indicate that the first member of my family we can trace our lineage back to came over as a soldier in the service of the monarch. Essentially, from then up to the 1920s, my family was dirt-poor. As in, literally barely owning the dirt they lived in. However, all this rather abruptly changed in 1920s. My great-aunts and uncles recall tales of a 'Forbidden Barn' that smelt funny. My great-grandfather suddenly received a job in the local automobile licensing bureau, run by the local Liberal party member. Now, this may not seem odd...but it should, knowing the town numbered 200 odd souls. Suddenly, of a family of seventeen, all the girls under thirteen could afford to go to school. A few others were married off to an Irish family that shall remain nameless...and also basically runs the Montreal underground. My great-uncle Florian and a few others still repeat a a phrase that makes no sense without context whenever someone loses a game of <em>cinq cent</em> , the local version of bridge: "Awh, t'en va tu a CHICAGO!" For those of us who don't speak French, 'Looks like you're going to Chicago!'. Now, why would a hick from a place you can't find on a map say something like that? I mean, sure, they made regular trips down the St Lawrence weekly. And the year that Prohibition ended, somehow the local licensing place closed down. <br /><br />Interesting the little facts that add up, isn't it?<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-83394592128373126932010-07-31T21:29:00.002-04:002010-07-31T21:39:43.491-04:00In ExileAfter having my heart broken again, I find myself in self-imposed exile in Northern Quebec. Hard labour around the ancient family estate brings perspective, I find. It helps. I am, of course, headed to Texas in eleven days. Texas is my home away from home, filled with persons attempting to lure me to settle in such a place. It may, insh'Allah, one day become my home. I'm trying to track down jobs in Corrections there, and I hope I can get a work visa to turn into a green card there.<br /><br />DesDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-46283861914739377902010-07-10T19:23:00.002-04:002010-07-10T19:58:14.825-04:00Finally, a G20 AftermathAfter everything is said and done, I have only the following words to describe it: play stupid games, win stupid prizes.<br /><br />And now, MTV is making heroes of these idiots. People bitching that they were marked as 'medics' and got arrested. Really? So, which organization were you with, Anarchists United Against Everything? Maybe EcoTerrorists Against Human Existence? Everyone on the show is either a scapegoat or professional protester. Hell, I have no problem with peaceful protesters. I have problems with people who support the violent ones. <br /><br />People are complaining that they got arrested for 'nothing'. Really? Why were you at a riot? <br /><br />One person actually said that staying home and having no one show up, or having a lot less lookey-lous, would prove that the massive police protest would be pointless. It's true. And then she got booed offstage, because people seem to thin that standing around waving signs that say 'shame' or yelling at police is a better way to get their message across. <br /><br />Before I repost some of my forum spiels, I'm going to give people a piece of wage advice: If you don't want an ass kicking and an arrest on your jacket, DON'T GO TO A RIOT. Don't go to a G-series summit or any other places where there is a reasonable expectation of a riot. Don't go where people are being arrested with cars full of Molotov cocktails. <br /><br />And here we go:<br /><br />"It started out that the majority of police on the protests were actually 52, 31, Halton and Durham cops. For those outside the area, Halton and Durham are smaller suburbs of Toronto, 31 Division is the Finch Corridor, and 52 is Metro Toronto. It's pretty rare to hear anything besides the usual 'all cops are pigs and need to die' shit that you hear at most protests about them. They were the bike cops you saw early on, guiding the peaceful protesters along and stuff.<br /><br />However, there were a number of rather hardline shops in town as well. Montreal PD, Surete de Quebec, Peel Region and the Mounties have a well-deserved reputation for getting rough when people don't listen. The SQ in particular has a bad habit of asking only once before they drop the hammer. They ask you disperse, and you don't, they won't ask again. And they're the ones who came out at Queen's Park and down Bloor.<br /><br />I'm some limited way, I feel bad for the legitimate, peaceful protesters. I know that the majority of them didn't cause trouble. Onlookers and opportunists mixed into legitimate and peaceful gatherings soured a lot of them. A lot of people got upset when people got arrested for not obeying the police, and that soured more crowds, too.<br /><br />You know there's going to be riot cops, riot cavalry, plainclothes, etc. When the police tell you to move, Goddamn well move!. Straight up, argue the legality of your protest in court. If you try to argue it to a nice cop, you're going to get arrested. If you argue with an SQ cop, you're going to be savagely beaten, then arrested. Once the Riot Act is on the table, GTFO. Hell, any sane person would book it in the opposite direction once you even sighted riot cavalry."<br /><br />I'm not impressed with the media for portraying the professional protesters as heroes and great philanthropists, instead of zealots who use the media and the law to push their personal crusades. There's a civilian inquiry being pushed... but are they going to be told about proper riot tactics? People are complaining that the police didn't act fast enough, but then again, if they did swoop down and quash the window-smashers, it would have incited people with accusations of 'police brutality'. <br /><br />Christ, they stocked the audience with more of those hyper-activist people who hate reason. Watching this is just getting me riled up.<br /><br />DeschainDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1796902671064527279.post-5913918248473415942010-06-23T22:52:00.004-04:002010-06-23T23:15:27.957-04:00Day 2, first impressions and such.Alright, so the local media is all up ins this, so I have some pretty fancy links for you now:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.torontosun.com/news/g20/2010/06/18/14442406.html">Organizations in Attendance.</a> Note the wide variety of groups, from hardcore Marxists to unions to environmentalists to lunatics like the Zeitgeist Movement. hell, even Palestinian support groups are out there for some reason. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.globaltoronto.com/story.html?id=3082782">Global News Interactive Map.</a> Shows the downtown zone. Look at how close the Eaton's Center (one of the largest malls in Canada) is to the security zone. If anything happens, police will have to fight their way there. As well, note that the area in front of Provincial Legislature (Queen's Park) is a protest zone. Not bright, folks.<br /><br />Watching the news, I'm getting the impression that a lot of the protesters are young, impressionable kids. All they know is G20 R BAD, and when the bike police ride past, they scream about a <span style="font-style:italic;">police state</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">intimidation</span> . I'm going to refer everyone back to my <a href="http://dedomestication.blogspot.com/2010/01/whiff-of-grapeshot.html">post on the subject of protesters.</a> However, after the Battle of Seattle and the riots during the Summit of the Americas in Quebec City, I am concerned. We have a lot of angry people and a bunch of colossal strategic fuckups. I really hope the riot cavalry is ready.<br /><br />DeschainDeschainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07919538885716737890noreply@blogger.com2