On The Road Again

Some days a reputation can be more trouble than it's worth.

I bet you're wondering where I've been.

I got a visit from a government boy back near the end of May. It seems someone had just been in their office causing quite a stir about some fishy business in a seaside town not far from here, and demanded they investigate.

Well, I don't need to tell you that the government boys don't much like these little poverty stricken hovels, and if they can get someone else to check it out, they will. (Side note: Matthews once told me about how back in the mid-90s the Clinton administration contracted him to single-handedly get rid of a Likho that had somehow wandered out of the forests of Eastern Europe and set up camp in the Oval Office. For two whole weeks not a single government agent would go near the White House, he says, and they were keeping Clinton in a bunker somewhere. Though how far you're going to trust Matthews on that should be proportional to how far you can throw him.)

It just so happened this field agent of theirs had heard about my little golem stunt, and a bit about all the boneys I put in the hurt locker, and decided to pay ole Jonesy a visit.

Now you all know me as a calc hunter first and foremost, but business has been a little dry, (heh), rent was coming due, and I am also a licensed Adventurer.

I took the job.

Catch was, I had to keep it real hush-hush, not tell anyone about it. That's big government for you.

A day's journey by dirtbike saw me in the old dilapidated town, and I was none too impressed from the start. The buildings were falling down, many abandoned, the streets were shockingly empty and the few people I did see were downright ugly, and thanks to the local fishing trade, the whole town STANK.

These folk never blinked neither. Creepy.

So I found my way to The Gilman, the only hotel running in this dump, and unpacked my stuff. Let me tell you, this place was a wreck. No pool, no cable, no internet (looks like keeping quiet for Uncle Sam wouldn't be a problem), one dingy old electric light in the room, no running water, and a lot of scuffling around and muffled noise at night.

All I got out of the locals were stares and general avoidance, and I didn't even dare go near that god awful factory of theirs. Who knew smoke from a GOLD REFINERY would smell so damn disagreeable?

Anyhow, all these people were downright rude. Nearly two months there and the only words that pass between me and the hotel owner, for Pete's sake, is a "Good morning" on my part and and some kind of bubbly grunt on his part. An old drunk was the only company I found when he accosted me one day as I came out of the grocery with a newly purchased fifth of whiskey.

Now, recall that I'd been hanging around this forsaken place without so much as a lead for about a month. I mean, they have a GOLD REFINERY, remember, so if anything's going to attract the stick-body no-meats it's probably THAT. But so far there'd been nothing, no hint of calc or golem or what-have-you, just a quiet little fishing village with a population that didn't take too kindly to outsiders.

I was understandably starting to feel like a fish out of water, so you'll understand how I reluctantly gave the old drunk a belt of my whiskey with his promise of information. Not a sparkling gem of a plan, as it turns out. He spilled out a long and boring story in a terrible accent about only God knows what. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. At one point I thought I actually caught him talking about having sex with fishes. Wonderful.

Anyway, time went on, things stayed pretty boring, and the whole town stank of fish.

I never saw the bum again, but it's just as well, because after a while, even booze stopped being a distraction from the mind-numbing boredom.

Once my investigatory period was up, I gathered my belongings, went home with the paltry sum I got for my services rendered, and told the Feds in my written report the only problem with the town was the uppity people and the smell.

Their man on the inside didn't keep quiet, though. From what I understand, they went in and bombed some reef off the coast of the town just to shut the guy up. I guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but what do I care.

It's not all high adventure.

Some Q & A

Seeing as it's a Sunday, and I'm already awake, I figure I will take some time to answer some questions I have been getting from readers.

Q: Have you ever got any worthwhile loot from calc hunting?

A: Well, this depends on your definition of worthwhile. Have I found any caches of gold? No. Have I found anything worth keeping for myself? Once.

You see, when I first started hunting calcs, I carried a sledgehammer with me. In my youth I saw only how awesome it would look smashing through a Calc's skull, and reducing it to powder. And boy, did it! I hadn't, however, considered how heavy and inconvenient it would be.

Luckily for me, not far into my career, I happened upon a Calc dungeon.

After an hour or so of cleaning it out, I saw an old wooden treasure chest.

"Finally," I thought, "I have found one of these caches of gold the Calcs are said to horde."

I eagerly opened the chest and my excitement quickly turned to anger.

"What kind of asshole puts a baseball bat in a treasure chest?"

Well, I resolved that I would use this "treasure" of theirs to kill as many of them as I possibly could.

Needless to say, it quickly proved itself a worthy weapon, and replaced my hammer.

Looking back, it was the best treasure I have ever found.

And to those who wonder why I continue despite the fact that Calc hunting barely produces enough loot to pay the rent, I will just say killing Calcs is its own reward.

I may answer some more questions soon. For now, I am going to have some breakfast and give the ol' dirtbike a well-deserved oil change and tune-up.

Stupid dream.

I had a dream about the mess in Boulder last night. It was exactly the way it was seven years ago: I was a bright-eyed young Adventurer, the ink not even dry on my degree, and I was giving my first-year thesis presentation to a PACKED auditorium. Like in real life, I was giving a revised theory of the Olstermann Hypothesis (for those of you not of the Life, the theory that instead of our bodies being supported by "skeletons" that become Calcs on death, our muscles and organs etc are in fact supported and protected by a BONE-LIKE structure of hyper-condensed meat). Since this was a dream I'd come up with some startling new conclusion that made sense at the time, but I can't recall for the life of me what it was.

Anyway, everything is going along just as it should. It's like when I take the dirtbike over a hill and soar through the air, time just seems to slow down and my moment of glory will last forever. Or whatever.

And then, just as I start in on my synthesis of Aquinas and Olstermann, it starts.

TOE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- FOOT BONE
FOOT BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- SHIN BONE
SHIN BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- KNEE BONE

Soft at first, and I think someone's pranking me. Maybe it's Matthews or Thompson... but no. It gets LOUDER. I realize it's coming from EVERYWHERE, a chorus of people standing up from their seats, singing in unison.

Young people, my age or not much older. Everyone is just dead silent, watching as these jerkoffs march out to the center aisle and proceed to dance toward the stage. There's about two-dozen of them in all. Are they CRAZY? Who would be ballsy enough to make a mockery of the National Adventurers' Conference?

KNEE BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- THIGH BONE
THIGH BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- HIP BONE
HIP BONE CONNECTED TO THE -- BACK BONE

They march right up onto the stage and start ripping off their clothes. (It's not what you think, trust me.) Underneath their regular clothes they've got some kind of black Lycra or Spandex painted with Calc-pieces, as if they were a PART of their OWN BODIES. It's disgusting. Even remembering it makes me feel like I'm gonna spew a bit. Hell, I'm surprised I didn't upchuck right there on the stage back in 2001. I know there are even some Calc hunters raised Protestant that would've lost their lunch at this grotesque... well, whatever it was. The jerks keep singing:

DEM BONES DEM BONES DEM DRYYYYY BONES
NOW THERE'S THE WORKING OF THE LORD

And as I'm standing there, dumbfounded, one of them steps forward and GRABS my MIC like I wasn't just giving a presentation. He starts rambling on and on about civil rights and the decomposition of flesh and some crap like that. I realize what this is. A God-damned DEMONSTRATION. Here, of all places, and DURING MY THESIS.

Even now I can still see him, burned into my mind like he was seven years ago. Short, shorter than most. Thinning brown hair. Stubble. Wire-rimmed glasses. Southern accent. Southern accent? Ha! A damned DRAWL is what it is.

Calaveras, he says his name is. Calaveras.

And in the dream, just like on the stage seven years ago, I can't hold it in anymore. I take a running jump at him, make contact with his lower chest, and we both go flying off into the aisle. I'm punching the everloving crap out of this guy, showing him what's what, and I know if I had The Bat with me then Calaveras wouldn't be the thorn in my side he is today.

But this was a dream so of course Calaveras basically folded in my hands like wet construction paper. Then I got hungry and went looking for a sandwich, but a bridge was in the way so I jumped over it. Don't remember any more.

Yeah, it got stupid there at the end but for a good while it was pretty vivid. I wish I could remember what sort of discovery I'd made in my dream, maybe it was something that would get Calaveras off my case once and for all.

News and a Hangover

So last night, after the crap haul, Matthews and me went out for some drinks to wind down. He tells me about this Anti-Calc Coalition that's been talking to Calc hunters in some sponsorship thing. What I want to know is when these people are gonna talk to me about it.

EVERYONE knows when you want some boneys cleared out and done right you call up ol' Jonesy. I suppose they're too busy issuing cease and desist edicts to Hollywood fatcats who like making picture shows that tell goddamn lies about the clinky fuckers. Well, fellas, when you get SERIOUS about getting rid of those Calcs, you just ring me up.

Till then, I've got to check my couch for change to try and get enough cash to buy some hair of the dog and a liter of juice for my dirtbike. Then I'm off to clean out some crappy hole in the ground.

Literally.

I got the mayor over in New Springburg calling me up every half hour complaining about all the rattling sounds coming out of his drain. I swear, I miss the days when these dicks were taking over towns in the Midwest, at least you didn't have to get waist deep in human sewage to crack some skulls.

But, well, my landlord has been yelling at me this week that he's not gonna take 20 dull, rusty knives for rent this month, so I gotta pony up some cash or I'll be living in my van for a while again.

Keep it fleshy.

The Golem Fight

A golem. I think I'm spelling that right. I'm not really trained to take on these things, having majored in Calc Studies, so I'm not even really sure what the hell they are. All I know is that it was like 3 storeys tall, built like the Michelin Man but made out of rock, and pissed off.

It was walking down the strip, well, THROUGH the strip, destroying everything it touched. I had only one plan and it wasn't a great one, as Matthews repeatedly let me know. The Bat was useless, of course, so it stayed behind. But I still had my dirtbike and several sticks of dynamite that I'd hauled up from some Calc-ridden crypt. And Matthews had the set-up for the ramp in my van. It was a perfect idea, but it also had to be executed perfectly.

And the plan was to ramp off with the lit dynamite strapped to the bike and hit the golem right in the throat, while I backflipped off the bike to safety. I've been practicing the backflip for a while now (ok, ATTEMPTING the backflip, it's hard to do) so I thought I was ready. I didn't know the timing on the fuses so I just eyeballed it.

Before I jumped, I gave my wallet to Matthews; I'm not sure why. There's not a lot in there but maybe it'd make it easier to identify me afterwards. We set up the ramp ahead of the thing's trail of destruction, so I just had to wait until I got a clear shot. And soon enough, that stony bastard's head was right in my sights. I only lit one stick of dynamite, thinking that the rest would go easy enough. I counted to 5 and then revved the engine.

I was airborne before I knew it and aimed right on the neck. It was perfect. But as I tried to dismount, my pant leg got caught up on the kickstand, so I was fighting that in free fall. I managed to get free but now I was just flying straight at the rock monster's crotch. I curled up into a little ball but still hit it pretty hard. And the bike was right behind me as I fell to the ground. I'd aimed it up dead on, apparently, but mis-timed the fuses. They were still lit and ready to blow as the bike landed right next to me.

I'm not sure exactly what happened next but I woke up in the sewer. I guess I rolled into a grate. Afterwards, I learned that the blast took out the bastard's legs and he fell over, so part of my plan worked. But then it just kept on crawling through the city until some other Adventurers finished it off with backhoes and bulldozers. Should've thought of that.

Live and learn. Earned enough from the city to finish paying off that old bike and start paying off a new one.

Dirtbike Jumps

I've been doing lots of dirtbike jumps lately, since there ain't been a lot of clanky activity. Matthews declares them "badass" and I can't deny it. They are definitely badass dirtbike jumps. There's an art to it, and it helps with business. Like they call up an Adventurer and he comes flying into town off of a conveniently placed ramp. You have to place those ramps yourself, though, so you try not to let the clientile see you setting them up.

It's hell on the dirtbike though, I've gone through like three. Cost of business.

Not 'Blogging' for a awhile, guys

The dirtbike sped along the winding lane.
I saw the ledge and knew what must be done.
I took fierce flight but it was all in vain.
Jonesy Sawbones, zero. Gravity, one.

My leg was splintered right above the knee.
The bike burned bright, flames rising to the sky.
I was prepared to let my soul fly free
And go fight Calcs in the Great By-And-By.

But look! An ambulance! Oh, welcome sight!
I knew that I would die another day.
But doctors said I could not ride or fight
Or do anything awesome. What dismay!

Not being able to do what you love
is like a Calc hoarding a precious Glove.

-

Not gonna update because I think I'm accidentally writing poetry on account of the meds. I'll have to make sure later.

I know who you are

That stupid son of a bitch went too far this time.

I was leaping down the stairs after I got a call from the DA who said he had Calcs in his closet, and the rest of his house.  I had The Bat strapped to my back, I hopped on my dirtbike and I was ready to go. Then I noticed my tires were flat.  Slashed, actually.  And the engine had a spray-painted Calc face on it.

Only one asshole would pull this kind of shit and it's not a fucking Calc.   Calaveras. That Calc-loving son of a bitch would do anything to slow me down.  He's all about getting the Calcs full rights and putting restrictions on killing those assholes.  Like we're gonna run out of Calcs. I swear that asshole is like one step ahead of me.  He's probably a Half-Calc, like that bitch from "Psycho."

And yeah, I just wheeled the bike to the service station, grinding the rims. It was too heavy to carry.