Brains

Installment Ten

2007-10-07T07:10:38Z

You point the Sig at Farmer’s chest and tell him to hand over his weapon.

“Whoa whoa whoa there, buddy . . . calm down,” Farmer says as he takes a step forward.

“I said, drop your gun, Farmer! I’m not going to have you arresting me while I try to figure out what the hell is going on around here.” You take a few steps back to keep the distance between the two of you constant. One of the million things you know about scenarios like this is that distance favors the gunman.

“What’s going on is you’re getting yourself in deep here, Cairo. Just give me the gun, and you won’t be in any trouble. You haven’t done anything wrong yet . . . just hand it over.” His hand strays to his gun belt. In the distance, you hear a woman scream.

The second of the million things you know about this scenario is that a walking penis like Farmer is never going to hand over his gun. Regardless of the fact that you’re being perfectly reasonable, there’s no chance that your words are going to get through that big fat cop ego – Farmer, like most cops, would probably rather die than hand over his piece to the likes of you. Better to go down in a blaze of gunfire than humiliate himself in that fashion.

Luckily, while you’re not particularly bright, resilient, charismatic, or connected, you do have some moderate skill in one area . . .

You slowly point your gun away from Farmer’s chest, and try to noticeably relax.

“Gee, I don’t know,” you say. “ . . . maybe you’re right . . .”

“FREEZE!” Farmer yells as he whips out his gun and points it at you.

“OWWWWWWWW!!!!
A millisecond later, he’s clutching his hand and shrieking.

If this were a scene in the movies, at this moment you’d be making a smart-ass comment about his being slow on the draw, while he shook his hand, stinging with pain. His gun would have flown through the air after you shot it out of his hand, and landed safely in the dirt about ten or fifteen feet away.

This is not the movies, however; no smart-ass comment comes to mind, and instead of shooting the gun out of his hand, you shot . . . his hand. His gun lands at his feet. Farmer stares at you with hate as he bleeds profusely. You point your gun at him and he scuttles back – even Farmer seems to realize there’s no hope left to win this battle.

“Um . . . sorry about that,” you say as you pick up his gun. Farmer backs up slowly, then backs up quickly, then turns around and runs.

Well, at least that crisis is over for the moment.

Yep, things are back to normal. What would you like to do next?

1) Shoot the Pasty-Foamy Girl hammering on the windows of the grey Cavalier about 50 feet away. It looks like there’s a blue-haired old lady in there -- you think that it was the old woman you heard scream.

2) Walk over to the bookstore – all the students that were hanging out there are gone, but the front window is smashed, and two students lie in front of it in a pool of blood.

3) A disheveled man in a suit is clutching his arm and running in your direction (but not at you) -- stop him and ask him what the hell is going on. And, in general, take a little time to take in the scene.

4) Check on Pete, who just started to groan. He’s twitching a little. I guess he survived that neck bite!

5) Get the hell out of there.

------

Sorry for the delay, folks. We're back on schedule. Another very close vote this week -- asking Farmer to relinquish his weapon wins by a nose, but Chuck almost ended up letting him leave, or even trying to team up with him!

Argh!

2007-10-02T05:23:59Z

Update coming soon.

Installment Nine

2007-09-25T08:17:39Z

You consider sliding the gun underneath the cop car, but the lure of the Sig is just too strong. You crane your head to make sure the coast is clear.

Farmer leans inside, probably to confirm Pasty-Foamy-Guy is no more, and holsters his gun. You reach out and slide the weapon underneath your belly.

So close . . . Farmer will be distracted by the screams nearby – giving me the chance to sneak off into the sunset . . .

”GET UP, MAGGOT!”

The screams are getting louder, and coming from multiple directions – from your vantage point on the ground, all you can tell is that Hell (of some form or another) is breaking loose. Farmer’s love for his fellow man is apparently not as strong as yours is. Instead of running off to Serve and Protect, he reaches down and yanks you up by your collar. Disinclined as you are to leave your new toy behind, you press it into your belly, beneath your jacket. Won’t be a problem as long as . . .

”Okay, hands above your head, Cairo.”

Ah, yes. That. There’s always . . . THAT. This isn’t going to work.

Time for Plan B.

A bit sheepishly, a bit cockily, you take a step back and produce the gun from beneath your jacket.

Farmer steps back himself, jaw agape.

Clearly, there's only one thing to do:
---
1) Wave the pistol at Farmer and say “Okay, Big Man. No sudden moves – I know how to use thing. Hand over your piece.”

2) Shoot Farmer in the leg (and then take his gun – because, well, why not?).

3) Wave the pistol at Farmer and say “Pete lent this to me. I’m sure you don’t mind, do you? Perhaps you should go over *there*, while I go *this way*, and that way we won’t end up bothering each other . . . ?”

4) Say “Look, something nasty is going on here. What happened to Pasty-Foamy-Guy is probably happening to other folks. I used to be in the military – let’s work together and help these people!”

5) Say “I’m sorry . . . um, this got stuck in my coat,” and politely hand the weapon over to the law enforcement official in front of you.

Installment Eight

2007-09-17T06:26:34Z

You reach out your hands to grab Pete’s, but instead of reaching out for aid, Pete’s hands fly up to fight off his attacker – his left hand to his chest, to break Pasty-Foamy-Guy’s embrace, and his right hand to behind his head, to try to push Pasty-Foamy-Guy back.

Not entirely sure how to best help Pete while keeping yourself safe, you lunge forward and grab one of Pasty-Foamy-Guy’s forearms. It is like iron. As you tug helplessly, Pete screams, and something warm splashes on your face.

Before you can look up, you feel a sharp pain in your back, and you fall to the ground. For the second time in less than ten minutes, you are on the ground, gravel pressed into your cheek, but this time, instead of a knee on your back, there’s a boot on your neck.

“YOU FUCKING SON OF A – WHAT THE HELL?!” Your buddy, Officer Farmer, has arrived on the scene, and from what you can tell from down here, he’s making Pasty-Foamy-Guy’s acquaintance.

The boot comes off of your neck. Farmer continues to shout expletives as he struggles with Pasty-Foamy-Guy, and as he struggles, Pete’s body slumps to the ground in front of you. Pete eyes are glazed and lifeless, and there is little doubt the gaping wound in his neck has something to do with it. You notice, however, that the last thing Pete did before being bitten was go for his gun – it is unholstered, and hangs loosely in his hand.

Ah, the Sig P226 . . . stainless steel frame, .40SW caliber, holds 12 rounds – the ultra-reliable sidearm of law enforcement everywhere. Including Officer Farmer, who has just unloaded a few rounds into Pasty-Foamy-Guy. As the shots echo in your ears, you hear a scream from perhaps fifty or a hundred feet behind you.

You’re on the ground, on your belly, and have only a few seconds to act before Farmer (potentially) turns his attention back to you.

-----
“Help Pete” won out over “Grab the gun!” by about a 2:1 margin. I continue to find intriguing the tension between the more powergamer, less roleplayer “We’re in a zombie story! We need a gun!” camp and the more roleplayer, less powergamer “Chuck doesn’t have any reason to think that the Zombie Apocalypse is coming – we should do what would be most realistic from Chuck’s point of view” camp.

Much to my amusement, two members of the former camp told me that members of the latter must be either clinically retarded or profoundly insane to not go for the gun. Obviously, the latter camp is currently in the majority, but I expect that there will be enough transpiring to keep both camps . . . well, I hesitate to say ‘happy’ – ‘engaged’ is probably a better word.

Installment Seven

2007-09-11T03:19:22Z

“So . . . come here often?” you ask Pasty-Foamy-Guy as you slowly inch away from him. Much to your dismay, ‘inch’ is about all the room that remains between yourself and the passenger door.

Pasty-Foamy-Guy responds with a low, guttural groan. His right hand twitches. His eyes, as empty as Karl Rove’s soul, begin to flicker a bit.

Well that’s . . . good?

You know – maybe not.

You take a quick look outside; the scene remains unchanged, except for the surprise absence of Officer Farmer. Perhaps he’s taken the student that was haranguing him somewhere to beat him to death. Officer Pete’s whereabouts remain a mystery.

A good a time as any. Plan A to break the window would be to lie across the seat on your back and kick the window with your feet. While this would no doubt be the optimal window-breakage strategy, it has the slight drawback of putting your head in Pasty-Foamy-Guy’s lap. You know . . . the one filling up with bloody foam.

You commence Plan B, putting your left fist into your right hand and smashing your left elbow into the passenger side window. The window explodes into X pieces, where X > the number you can take the time to count.

But it’s sufficient. You take a moment to brush some of the remaining shards of glass away from the top and bottom border of the window, lean back, grab the top of the window, and pull yourself out so smoothly that Bo and Luke Duke would be impressed.

Freedom! That’s what you’re thinking as you are tackled to the ground.

“You stupid shit. What in the FUCK do you think you’re doing?” As you suck pavement, a knee in your back, gravel embedded in your cheek, you recognize the voice – it’s your former buddy, Officer Pete. The man is clearly a professional – he had you in the optimal “Now I’m going to hogtie your ass” position in a matter of seconds.

“You weren’t under arrest you moron – Jesus Christ, I swear to God . . . ” You feel the flick of plastic straps as he pulls your arms behind your back. Then, suddenly . . . your arms are free; a second later, you feel the knee being lifted off your back.

"Yeeeeaaaaaarrrgghhhh!"

You turn around. Pasty-Foamy-Guy’s head is at the window, his arms locked in an embrace around Officer Pete’s chest. Pete’s been pulled up against the window, and blood spills from his ear – he struggles as your former car-mate tries to . . . bite him?

Pete’s eyes lock with yours.

“HELP ME!”

--------------------------------------------------------
Turns out that nine out of ten times, windows in cop cars aren't any different than windows in regular cars. Go figure! Interestingly, the cop I spoke with about this casually noted that if anyone tried to go after the window, he'd hogtie him in a second. So there you go.

I was going to put Farmer in the position where Pete is right now, but figured this would be a bit more interesting. Please, post in comments (you can do so without a Livejournal account) about whether you think Charles should do here.

Installment Six

2007-09-04T04:20:37Z

100 feet away

A million thoughts race through your head as the officer approaches. You turn to Amanda and try to make a semblance of an intelligible case for her help.

90 feet . . .

“Amandayou’vegottoletmecomewithyou . . . I mean . . . can I have a ride?”

Her eyebrows shoot up at your request, but you can tell the general vibe of weirdness has not gone away. If anything, it’s been exacerbated.

80 feet . . .

“I’m sorry, Charles, I don’t have time to give you a ride anywhere, I have to go get my sister. Goodbye.” She ducks down to get into her car.

70 feet . . .

“Wait, Amanda! Maybe I can help. I did some medical work when I was in Iraq, maybe I can lend a hand – I overheard your conversation, maybe she needs medical help.” You know that you’ve never been in Iraq, but that's not your story you tell others. They don't need to know that you’ve been on the street ever since that incident with those students and your guns and that night in the abandoned warehouse and the razor wire and those rusty pliers and . . .

60 feet . . .

“That’s very . . . generous of you, Charles, but I don’t know that there’s anything wrong. I hope there isn’t, but if there is, I’m sure there are ambulances there to help.”

50 feet . . .

“Pliers! I mean, okay, I understand – AMANDA YOU HAVE TO PROTECT ME! THEY’RE COMING AFTER ME!”

40 feet . . . you turn to look at the officer, and he’s still walking towards you – well, the two of you – his brow is furrowed, and he looks almost as confused as Amanda does.

“Protect you, Charles? From who? This isn’t like the woman and your cheese, is it?”

“No, of course not!” you shriek. You sense that your voice is a little high-pitched right now, but pausing to regain your composure is just not an option.

30 feet . . .

“Officer Farmer is chasing after me and now this officer wants to arrest me and I didn’t do anything wrong he said I was trespassing but I wasn’t I just wanted to check out the magazines but he tried to make me come with him and I know he’d hit me I know it Amanda so please please let me come with you don’t let them hurt me!”

20 feet . . .

“Officer Fascist is in there? God, I hate that asshole. But I can’t give you a ride right now, Charles, I have to get to my sister. Wait, let me talk to Pete about this. Hey, Pete, what’s up?” She turns and faces the officer.

10 feet . . . and he stops.

“Hiya, Amanda. How’s it going? I just wanted to let you know that we’re closing off the road back there for a bit – I don’t know what the heck is going on but we’ve got a lot of people wandering around with this blank look on their faces. Plus, there’s that huge accident – there was a meteor shower or something, a bunch of rocks came down from the sky and hit a schoolbus. Not pretty. Anyway, I gotta close down the road – if you’re going somewhere, you’ve got to get going now.”

“Sure thing, Petey. Oh -- you’re not going to mistreat Charles here, are you? Apparently Farmer’s got a hard-on for him again.”

Bwah? The light dawns, and, in the epitome of nonchalance, you begin to walk away.

Officer “Pete” shakes his head and holds up his left hand, while his right hand moves towards his baton. “Hold on. What’s this?”

You stop, and sigh.

“Um, nothing, Officer. I was just going . . .”

“Wait a sec.” Pete backs up a few feet, talks into his radio for a few moments. You can’t quite make out the other side of the conversation.

“I see,” Pete says into his radio, and then turns back to you. “Trespassing, eh?”

Amanda speaks up. “Charles wasn’t trespassing, we let him into the bookstore, Pete. So can’t you just let him go?”

Pete shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that just yet, Farmer would have my ass, after he ran from him like that. But I’ll see what I can do – don’t worry, Amanda, I’ll take good care of him.” He smiles a big fat fake cop smile.

“Thanks, Pete,” Amanda says. She hops into her car and drives off.

Pete moves forward and grabs you by the elbow. You consider running for it, but realize that unlike that fat-ass Farmer, this officer is a young guy, and in shape. You’ve never seen him before but you’re pretty damn sure if you ran, you’d be toast.

“C’mon, old-timer. I’m going to take you into custody for a little bit, at least until I can clear the scene here. Then I’ve got to write you a citation for Disorderly, and I can let you go.”

Okay, maybe big fat fake cop smile was overdoing it. Maybe.

Officer Pete leads you to his car, unlocks one of the rear doors, and coaxes you inside.

“There you go, old-timer. Just wait there for a few minutes, I have to coordinate a few things. I’ve even got someone in there to keep you company.”

As Pete shuts the door, you look to your right at your fellow passenger. He appears to be a middle-aged businessman -- doughy, balding, pasty, and heavyset. A good Republican body. Like most Republicans, he’s white – but upon closer examination, he’s not just Paris Hilton/Mitt Romney white, he’s Powder white.

“Um . . . hello.”

Pasty-Guy stares at you as though you’d just asked him to butter his mother’s giraffe.

“Hello?!” You wave your hand in front of his face.

No response.

You sight, and look outside. The officer was right – the scene is a madhouse. He’s running back and forth corralling Pasty-Guy clones as a horde of students watch from the sidelines. You hear an ambulance in the distance, its siren at full blast, approaching from somewhere behind you. You look around for that schoolbus Pete was talking about, without success, though through the window to your right, past blank-eyed Pasty-Guy, a woman sits on the curb, crying into her blood-covered hands. To your left, you see Pete run past, followed by Officer Farmer. Farmer?

Pete keeps going, but Farmer stops about twenty feet away. A student stands there, pounding his fist into his hand, and Farmer is clearly getting agitated with him. He puts his hand on his baton.

You duck down, trying to hide in case Farmer should look this way, when you hear a bubbling sound from Pasty-Guy. You swivel your head to the right and find that Pasty-Guy is foaming at the mouth. He’s not writhing, he’s not shaking, he’s not even moving his head. There’s just a huge, huge stream of white – no, now it’s red – foam streaming from his mouth.

You test the door, as you tested it when Pete first left you here. It’s still locked.

----------------------------------------------------------
This was a tough one to write, as I was torn between what was best for the story, what you, the Reader, wanted and/or expected, and what would be realistic given Chuck is a homeless man with no social skills of note (though, in his defense, he's not been living on the street for very long.) I think in the end I struck a reasonable balance between all three – Story is King, of course, but I had to keep in mind the other points as well.

Installment Five

2007-08-27T07:05:02Z

Fleeing to the back of the store won by a smidge . . . but it was another close one, with all choices getting some votes.

You're not sure whether it's post-traumatic stress from your cold-blood murder of the four thugs that were threatening your life and killed your dogs, or the gallon or so of three-buck chuck you've been downing each day, but your mind has been a little cloudy lately. And so when Officer Fascist pointed his baton and you and ordered you to fall in line, your brain seized with all of the possible choices. Do I tell him to fuck off? Grab that silly baton and beat him with it? Or do I do something that actually has a chance of allowing me to avoid spending a month in the hospital, and just go with the bastard?

It isn't until you're a good five or ten seconds into weighing the possibilities when you find yourself crouching here:

Luckily (?), your feet made the decision for you, and you hightailed it the millisecond the officer commanded you to follow him outside.

"You -- and you -- ALL OF YOU -- NOBODY leaves here, you got it? Stay inside, stay away from the door," Officer Farmer shouts as you make your getaway. He hasn't given you much of a head start, but it's enough to weave your way into the shelves as he begins his pursuit.

You duck down behind row upon row of self-help books and begin creeping toward the back of the store. You pause as the thud of your jackbooted nemesis nears, stops, and then recedes.

”This isn’t going to end well for you, CAIRO,” he says, and you die a little inside. ”You know,” he says, his voice dropping low, ”I’ll admit it. I’m glad you chose to run for it. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me. Because when I get my hands around your little chicken-neck . . .” Whatever -- fuck him, you think as you scoot away, past African Studies, stopping in front of what must no doubt be a hilarious compendium of Garfield comic strips . . . I can do this.

You pause again, taking advantage of Farmer’s propensity for prattling on about the beating you’re going to get, and determine that he’s at least a good three aisles away, on the east end of the store. You imagine yourself as Keenu Reeves in The Matrix as you duck, dodge, and weave through the stacks towards the back (and block out the fact that in that scene, Keenu wimps out at the end and gets caught by the Agents).

One final turn and you’re at the back of the bookstore – you sneak through the unlocked “Employees Only” door, and then through the employee entrance/exit behind it. Freedom! Or . . . not.

Amanda stands about ten feet away, twirling her keys in her hand as she walks up to her car. She looks up at you as you exit.

“Chuck?” she says, clearly a little weirded out. “What are you doing?”

As you trot forward mumbling something about getting lost, you see a police officer about 100 feet away, at the intersection of the road that dead-ends behind the store (Green), and Broadway. (This Border’s is at the corner of Broadway and Everest; the main entrance was on Everest.) Behind the officer there’s some sort of commotion, and you see at least a half dozen people stumbling around aimlessly.

The officer looks in your (and Amanda’s) general direction, after which you see him talk into the radio on his shoulder. He starts walking toward you.

--

A plethora of bad choices flash through your brain. You could try to convince Amanda to let you hitch a ride, and/or tell the cop that you’re traveling with her – or maybe run back inside the store, and sneak past Farmer and exit out the main entrance – or wait until this new officer gets close, and then make a run for it past him.

On the other hand . . . maybe you should just say to hell with it. The “cup is half empty” side of your brain tells you the chance Amanda lets your smelly ass hitch a ride is about nil, the likelihood you make it past Farmer (who probably saw you leave and even now may be about to exit the same way you did) is zilch, and that there’s zero chance that, even if you make it past this new guy, that you make it past all of those officers that Farmer said were now on the street.

On the other, other hand, that’s what Stuart Smalley used to call Stinkin’ Thinkin’. You can do this, Chuck. Er, possibly. What will it be?

Installment Four

2007-08-20T07:31:11Z

Once again, a close vote . . . two choices were never picked (listening to the radio, or listening in on Steve), but the other two were neck-and-neck the whole week. In the end, going to the window won -- perhaps it was just a little too unbelievable for some that you would approach Amanda and ask to hitch a ride, no matter how unhinged you might be. I saw this in Robin Law’s play-by-blog; there’s often a tension between what seems the most reasonable choice and what some consider the most wild or dangerous or “out-there” choice. Nothing wrong with that!

Finally, I should point out a friend of mine is running a play-by-blog as well, and he’s always looking for more participants.
------------------------------------------

You turn away from Amanda and Steve as they walk to the back of the store; as their voices fade, you hear Steve chastise Amanda about her “poor communication skills”.

Amanda and Steve's little spat was interesting, but Steve hates your guts, and you really doubt you could talk Amanda into letting you tag along. Amanda's generally been very nice to you -- she was the one that came to your rescue that time you chewed out the mother and her kids for stealing your shoes. Alas, there's probably a difference between tolerating your presence/calming down an angry customer, and voluntarily putting herself next to your (let’s be honest) stinky, unkempt, occasionally deranged self.

Your attention is drawn back to the window, what with the freakish way all of the students backed up simultaneously. There’s a rapping at the window, and as you approach it you see some of the students start to trot away. Crap . . . you recognize that trot, but before you can scurry away, Officer Farmer enters the store, waving his baton.

Officer Farmer – or Officer Fascist, as he is commonly known in the local community, is a royal pain in the ass. He’s rousted you and your homeless compadres more than once, and the number of tickets this bastard has given to the locals for disturbing the peace, public urination, and aggravated mopery numbers in the thousands. He’s also locked you up a few times on trumped up, exaggerated, or completely fictional charges.

“Okay, boys and girls, stand away from the window. There’s nothing to see here,” Farmer drones. “Just a little car accident, there’s been a meteor shower and it looks like some meteorites hit a car or two. This is now a disaster scene and I need to clear a perimeter.”

“A little car accident?!” shouts one of the students. “I saw a woman with an arm barely hanging from its socket! And what’s with all the people wandering around aimlessly? There’s at least thirty of them stumbling around shock, or something! Shouldn’t you be helping them?” A few other students nod, as do you.

Farmer grimaces as he taps his baton on the ground.

“We’ve got people taking care of it. Now, if you want to cause trouble, you just let me know. And what are YOU doing here? he says, his voice rising, as he points his baton in your direction.

“YOU. CAIRO. What are you doing in here? Bettering yourself?” Farmer laughs. “You know loitering in here isn’t allowed, Cairo, but I can’t just let you outside unaccompanied. Come with me.

The officer gestures for you to approach.

Installment Three

2007-08-14T08:04:34Z

The voting was close on this one, requiring another day o' voting, but in the end, listening to the Border's employees won narrowly over running to the window to look outside; nobody wanted to run back to the car, while a couple of folks wanted to ignore everything entirely and check out Border's fine selection of books.

The voting was similarly close on your history -- all the votes were split between the Iraq vet and the disgruntled, harassed schoolteacher, but in the end vigilante justice won out.

-------------------------

You've never had much stomach for violence. It seems like an odd thing for someone to say -- that is, someone responsible for the deaths of four young boys/murderous hoodlums -- but it's true. You were pushed over the brink by those students, and they paid for their crimes, but that doesn't mean you enjoyed doing what you did. (Well, you PROBABLY didn't enjoy it . . . you blocked out the details of that long, long night a few months ago. Most of them, at least . . . )

These days, you'd prefer to avoid seeing someone writhing in pain or covered in blood -- been there, done that, so to speak. Besides, whatever's going on outside isn't going anywhere soon. However, you usually don't get a chance to be close enough to people to eavesdrop - something about not showering more than once every couple of weeks, perhaps, combined with the crazed look in your eyes and your occasional rants about the threat of Communist cheese.

You pick a book off the bargain-60%-off table near the front counter and pretend to page through it as you listen in on the conversation . . .

"Oh. My. GOD. Steve, you will not be-LIIEEEVE what I just heard. The guy on the news just said that about a half-hour ago this meteorite crashed in Cambridge! RIGHT through the ceiling of the Cambridgeside Galleria! You know, the one in Cambridge?!"

Steve shakes his head and closes his eyes.

"Thank you, Amanda -- oh, you mean the one in Cambridge. You mean the Cambridgeside Galleria that's on Cambridgeside Place? Or that other one?"

Pleased with his smarminess, Steve turns away from Amanda and goes back to fiddling with his computer.

"This isn't funny, Steve," Amanda says as she grabs his shoulder. "The news report says that people are hurt."

"Well, that's to be expected when a large piece of rock falls from, you know, a really really really really really . . ." Steve pauses, takes a sip of his latte macchiato, and continues . . .

". . . really really really really really big height." Steve smirks, as if daring Amanda to continue her little rant.

Amanda smacks him in the face. "You retard! My SISTER works at the Border's in Cambridge! What if she's hurt? Nobody's picking up at the store, and she's not answering her cell."

Steve shakes his head, puts his hand to his reddened cheek, and sighs.

"Well, why didn't you say so? You come up to me whispering, asking me to play some little guessing game, Christ . . . why not just tell me you what's going on and that we need to find someone else there to call? I'll try Dave, okay?"

"Sorry. I mean, the radio said that nobody seems to have died, but a lot of people are dazed . . . hey, do you mind if I take off and go pick her up? Maybe she's still there and I can get her."

"Sure, go ahead," Steve says. "I'll try to get Dave on his cell."

Amanda and Steve start to walk to the back of the store; Amanda has her keys out, while Steve grabs his cell out of his pocket. They have left the radio on, at the front counter, and it sounds like some sort of news update is in progress.

You look to the left to check on the students with their faces pressed to the glass; one or two have exited to the street for a closer look (or perhaps to lend a hand).

Suddenly, they all back up.

A Tie Vote? Crap!

2007-08-13T03:36:39Z

We've got a tie on knocking aside students as we run to the window vs eavesdropping on the Border's employees . . .

The update will be posted for one more day, while I wait for ONE more person to vote on the first option. As I grew up right outside of Chicago, I have little problem with the vote early/vote often theory, and encourage all of you to vote again should you feel like it. Anything that will help break the tie :).

Voting note . . .

2007-08-09T01:18:53Z

At the moment there are nine votes for the first poll, but only five for the second. I'm not sure whether people are having difficulty voting in the second poll, or that they're failing to continue reading after the first question.

If it's the former, please post in comments here and I'll look into it.

Installment Two

2007-08-08T07:19:27Z

As you jump off the bus and scuttle across the street, you wonder where it all went wrong.

It’s not that you never imagined yourself getting off of a bus. Specifically, you never imagined yourself hopping onto a bus, asking someone for loose change so that you can pay the fare, stuffing the bills or change into your pocket, and tearing off into a crowd hoping that your victim will be too befuddled or too lazy or too weirded out to come chasing after you.

You turn the corner and slow down, walk briskly for a block, and then turn into a Border’s Books. They don’t like you in here – last week you went off on a rant, berating a woman and her two small children. You accused them of stealing your shoes. Sure, it was kind of a stretch . . . but on the other hand, she couldn’t prove she didn’t steal your shoes, could she? Or her kids, who were clearly in on it from the beginning.

You’re not happy with that outburst – in fact, it scares you. You’ve been having more than your share of those lately, and you’re not quite sure why.

Your name is Charles Cairo, and you are 27 years old. You have been living out of your car for the last fourteen months; your car has not actually functioned for the last eight of those months. It would not matter if it did, as you have no money for gas, and nowhere to go.

Anyway, Chuck -- as you breeze past the central counter in the Border’s, you hear a loud CRASH back on the street, followed by the sound of metal grinding against metal. There are screams of the loud I've never seen so much blood and Merciful lord, grant me quick release from this horrible agonizing pain variety.

A dozen or so customers, mostly students, race to the window. The middle-aged man at the counter moves to follow them, but is stopped by a young blonde woman (also a Border's employee) holding a portable radio.

“You’re not going to believe this, Steve!” she whispers loudly.

Man of action that you are, a number of options present themselves.

1) Take advantage of the blonde’s (seemingly counterproductive) loud whispering, and find out what it is that Steve simply will not believe.
2) Run to the window, push the students aside, and look at what all the fuss is about re the crashing and the screaming and the grinding of metal.
3) Leave the bookstore and walk back to your car, which is hidden in an abandoned lot about a mile away.
4) Yawn. Use this distraction as an opportunity to browse through Border's fine selection of quality merchandise without fear of being kicked out by surly bookstore employees.

As you close your eyes to center yourself and consider your next move, you think back to the good ole days . . .

1) . . . when you were a sniper in Iraq in 2002 during the beginning of Operation What-The-Fuck? In a Tom-Hanksian Saving Private Ryan bit of foolishness you quit your job as a schoolteacher to Fight the Good Fight in Iraq. And you were damned good at picking off young Iraqi soldiers from 1000 yards away. Maybe you could have kicked the heroin addiction, if that had been your only problem upon your return . . . but the nightmares of scattered brainpans of young, foolish Iraqi men were just a little too nasty, and catching your wife in bed with your two best friends wasn’t helpful either.

Especially not in those positions . . . and was it really necessary to have the dwarf filming the damned thing?

2) . . . when you were a schoolteacher in central Boston. Your kids weren’t too fond of you. First, they threw spitballs at you. Then, they threw rocks at your house. Then, they threw some M80s into your car. All they while, you grinned and bore it. And went here.

You did what you needed to do, fast enough to save your own life but not fast enough to save the life of your beloved dogs, Zaphod and Trillian.

After it happened, they were never able to prove anything, but they suspected enough that you thought it might be wisest to leave your position in the Boston school system. They found the bodies of those four boys about a year later, but by that time you had been living on the street for two months.

3) . . . when you were a kid in North Carolina hunting with your father. If it walks on four legs and lives in the wild, you’ve put a bullet in its heart from more than 50 yards. Life was pretty damned good back then. In the last few years you’ve learned that most folks that end up on the street are there because of particularly shitty childhoods, full of physical and emotional abuse, but you have no such complaints. Your genesis as a bum stems from events far more recent.

At least, it must, because you don’t remember anything bad happening back then. Of course, you don’t remember anything bad happening in the recent past, either. How did you end up homeless, anyway? Your mind stretches, strains up against a barrier, and recoils.

You know what? It’s not really important right now.

4) None of these work – post an idea in comments. (If this option gets the most votes, I’ll pick the most intriguing idea given.)

-----------
Sorry for the long delay, folks. I'm back on a regular schedule, and will update each Sunday night/Monday morning.

The voting was close on both your protagonist's profession and strength. "Homeless Guy" took an early lead, and while interest in a Soccer Mom was noticeable, especially late, it was not enough to overcome the appeal of playing someone smelly and mentally disturbed. (Sorry, Sheila & Jeff!)

The voting on your greatest strength was similarly close. Practically speaking I think that being a good shot with a gun was appealing, hence the reason this choice got the plurality of votes -- being super-smart came a very close second, again with a last-second rush that didn't quite get there. Ironically, I don't think it's realistic that a homeless man would have a gun, at least not on his person, but it's possible that you have one back in your car. If you manage to return there at some point, I'll roll a die to determine if you do, putting the chance at 1-in-3 or so.

Update Incoming . . .

2007-07-09T22:13:55Z

Thank you for your patience, all. I just wanted to make sure that all votes were in before I updated. After the first update, the journal will update every Monday, in a scarily almost clockwork-like fashion.

Welcome Welcome . . .

2007-06-25T06:21:37Z

Anyone here remember Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books?

Well, welcome to your own little zombie-oriented Choose Your Own Adventure story, the idea for which I shamefully stole from a gaming designer by the name of Robin Laws.

Here's how this works . . . we're going to start you folks out with a character that you all share. After we get some details on that character, we'll throw him into a nasty situation that will, shockingly, involve the Walking Dead. There'll be a little write-up (a paragraph or three) describing what's happened to your protagonist, along with a poll or two indicating possible courses of action to take or decisions to make. Whatever choice gets the most votes is the action that your character will take -- and you all should feel welcome to try to influence your fellow voters in the Comments section re which course of action is the best.

Pretty simple -- all *you* have to do is stop by once or twice a week to find out what's happening and decide what happens next, and all *I* have to do is write something creative and entertaining that follows whatever your decision is.

Let's start by figuring out exactly who you want to be:

Go ahead and vote, folks -- as you know by now, no office voting is possible because of the networked computers, but you shouldn't have any problem voting from home. Feel free to give everyone a shout-out in Comments after you've voted, let us all know you're a geek at heart :).

Who are you, exactly?
	A beleaguered soccer mom, complete with SUV, boring husband, and 3 little rugrats.
	A bad-ass biker chick complete with leather jacket, flaming skull tattoo, and enough piercings to set off a metal detector at 20 feet.
	An exceptionally bored UBC research assistant well-versed in appearing to be clicking around EvidenceHub while actually snoozing the afternoon away.
	An odiferous old homeless guy with a tenous grasp on reality. But you used to be a schoolteacher, back in the day.
	A snotty sorority chick currently attending Hah-vahd looking for that MRS degree.
	A bouncer at a local dive bar. You're a poet at heart, but, alas, you find yourself busting heads at least three times a week. Damn drunks . . .
	You know, none of these work at all . . . (post a different idea in Comments)

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Ah. Regardless of your wondrously interesting personality, the sad fact is that you are completely and totally average except in one non-trivial way. What way is it?

Let's see how this goes . . . if you have any friends who you think might be intrigued with this and want to try it out, let them know about it . . .

Now that you've got a gun, what's next, Chuck?
	Shoot Pasty-Foamy Girl.
	Walk to the bookstore.
	Talk to the man in the suit (and pause to take in the scene).
	Check on Pete.
	Get the hell out of there!

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Gun in your hand, you:
	Tell Farmer to give you his weapon
	Shoot Farmer
	Tell Farmer to go away
	Offer to team up with Farmer
	Hand Farmer the gun

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What's your next move, Chuck?
	Sneakily slide the gun underneath the car.
	Sneakily slide the gun underneath your body.
	Non-sneakily grab the gun and point it at Farmer.
	Lay on the ground and wait.
	Run away and hide from Farmer.

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So, Chuck. What now?
	Run, as fast as you can.
	Wait for a few seconds, see what happens to Pete (and take a look around).
	Help Pete.
	Try to grab Pete's gun while he's distracted by the thing trying to chew on him.

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What do you do?
	Hammer on the window and yell, try to get someone's attention.
	Try to smash the window with whatever you can find.
	Shake Pasty-Guy, try to get him to snap out of it.
	Crouch down and remain perfectly still.

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Clearly, the best option is to
	Cajole or beg Amanda to let you hitch a ride and/or protect you from the cops
	Retreat back inside the Border's and weave your way to the main entrance
	Run past the approaching officer at the most opportune time
	Cut your losses, stand next to Amanda and await your fate, whatever it might be.

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What do you do now?
	Rant, rave, scream, and yell at the officer, but don't physically resist.
	Attack the officer in good Crazy Homeless Guy fashion.
	Run to the back of the store.
	Go quietly with the officer.

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What would you like to do next, Chuck?
	Follow Steve, listen in on his conversation with Dave.
	Follow Amanda to her car, and ask whether you can tag along.
	Figure out what's going on at the window.
	Listen in on the newscast on the radio.

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What action will you take?
	Eavesdrop on the Border's employees
	Rush to the window and look outside
	Run 'home' to your car
	Ignore the commotion and start browsing

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Thinking back to those days when you had a gun in your hand . . .
	You used to be an army sniper.
	You went '187' on some students that were terrorizing you.
	You went hunting a lot with your dear old dad.
	I'm far more creative than you, Mr. Play-By-Blog person. I'll post something in Comments.

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In what way are you well above average?
	I'm amazingly good looking, and people just tend to like me.
	I'm exceptionally strong.
	I know a LOT of people, and they're all smart or rich.
	I'm very resilient.
	I've got an IQ over 150 and have a decent amount of practical knowledge as well.
	I can shoot out a bird's eye at 100 yards. Not that I'd ever do it for kicks, but . . .

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