Rip and Tide--Super Hero Surfers!!!!

Dear Story Analyst,

We’ve developed a concept that captures the heart of adventure and the liver of laughter. Rip and Tide—Super Hero Surfers.

Spending hours mesmerized by animated characters as kids—and now as fathers—we knew there was one medium that could adequately bring our stories to life…cartoons. The following will give you a small window into the fun and fantastic world of two geeks who, when summoned, transform into heroic bodies, battling evil throughout the universe, all the while thwarted with an even greater challenge—surviving middle school.

We are eager to discuss the endless possibilities of these characters. A feature length screenplay is ready for production.

Logline
The students of Central High Middle School know 12 year-old brothers Willie and Wayne Day as pencil necks, techies and geeks; but when trouble brews in the universe, these two nerds transform into, Rip and Tide—Super Hero Surfers!

Synopsis
A quest is just what is needed for 12-year-old brothers Willie and Wayne. Stuck in the lower reaches of futuristic downtown Los Angeles with their single mother and harassed by the school bully, the two hi-tech whiz kids seek escape in a virtual game world where they have created hero’s with the traits they long for: charismatic, muscular and carefree—Super Hero Surfers! Their sojourn begins when they respond to an S O S during a virtual battle and are transported into Quixotic—a world of magic and mayhem—to save the Universe.
Once Willie and Wayne realize the graphics and their virtual personas of Rip and Tide are no longer computer generated, but all too real, they must make some tough decisions. Under the guide of the mysterious Mage and the chatty white raven, Maverick, the boys housed in heroic bodies embark on an epic journey.
Armed with talismans—a staff for Rip and gauntlets for Tide—they make their way across the landscape of Quixotic in search of the magical Orgatron. Orgatron is a gravity defying living essence that was designed to work as a whole, harnessed by three persons, and responding instantly to telepathic commands. But alas, the evil HellPlank hoards three parts, giving him great power. The prophecies proclaim that The Two will come from another land to win back the orgatron, and bring the world back to balance.
The minions of Hellplank spread darkness across the land as Willie and Wayne walk a tight rope of death; facing the dreaded bantarays, surviving the murk swamps and saving an elfin princess from ogres. The Princess leads Rip and Tide to the King of the Elves who assigns the bald and pudgy Tubius Maximus to train them in the use of their amulets. After days of training, Willie, Wayne, and Tubby set off into the cavernous depths to find and battle Hellplank.
In Hellplank’s lair a battle ensues. Despite the transformation of the white raven from jabbering pest to mighty war-bird, and a duel to the death taking the life of Tubius, the dynamic duo lie defeated beneath the throne of Hellplank. Their attempt at controlling the orgatron failed, they can only watch as the tiny silvery orbs hanging above them float back toward their master.
In their final moments the brothers unite in heart and Willie reaches up to touch a glowing globule—it instantly settles across his skin. Suddenly, The Two realize, their discontent with each other has kept the orgatron at bay. Now united, the orgatron responds to their summons, instantly taking shape of their lost staff and gauntlets. Their tattered Quixotic garb is replaced with orgatron. The magical substance mimicks the image in their minds of their heroic personas, and they’re clothed in colorful super hero wetsuits. Their eyes twinkle with the possibilities.
Hellplank cries “No!”
The boy’s cry, “Air boards”—leaping into the air, landing on two silver, gravity-defying surfboards. Maverick and Mage join them and the three take down Hellplank, chasing him from his lair.
The boys are ready to give chase when Mage reveals their superhero personas can transport into Earth’s dimension and help their mother who is being pursued by drug warped Groundlings…or finish the job of defeating HellPlank. They make the only choice they can, and appear a mile above Los Angeles, two super hero surfers, racing to earth to save their mother—and the day.
Upon return from their Quixotic adventure, the boys save their mother from the Groundling gang of thugs, but quickly realize their lives have become more complicated, as they have to hide from their mother the fact that Rip and Tide, are actually her sons. They race home reaching their beds in the nick of time. As she walks the hall to open the door, the boys realize they are still in their Olympic bodies. Panic strikes as she reaches for the door, and suddenly they’re back in Quixotic.
Mage reminds them time is different in the dimensions, and they have an approximate 20:1 ratio for a window, of course, in one half a second their mom will be in their room. Ten seconds in Quixotic. “Use your mind boys. Here in Quixotic, you can transform anytime you wish.”
The boys learn fast, and with a thought are back in boy’s bodies, looking up at the tall wizard. The transformation is complete with orgatron created pajamas. “Sweet.”
The boys look to wrists where orgatron bracelets are bound.
“That’s how I’ll summon you. When there’s trouble in the world, I’ll summon you with the Orgatron, come to me quickly, transform, then return to save the day.”
The boys’ faces light up with questions.
“No time lads. But remember, only use your powers at my command, you’re too young to know when this awesome power is warranted.”
Instantly the two are back in their beds, tucked in, feigning sleep as their mother walks in. She kisses them both good night.
The boys look to one another as the door shuts, then at the bracelets. “It wasn’t a dream?”
The crow answers by popping out from under the bed. “Of course not fools, and you’ll need to come up with an excuse for me promptly, for I’ll not disgrace myself by hiding in that pigsty again.”
The boys laugh.

And thus, Earth gains another dynamic duo: Rip and Tide--Super Hero Surfers!

Don't forget to put on the stickers!

Legos…a wonderful creation, a splendid toy that sparks creativity over and over again. As a child, when I visited my Grandma Betty, I would play with a box full of the simple but brilliantly designed plastic pieces for hours. Red, yellow, blue, white connectable rectangles in different sizes became epic spacecraft, naval fleets, and Indy cars. The prized wheels and slanted blocks took my creations to new levels. It brought my young heart joy to see the fruits of my labor come together so quickly.

I enjoyed my Grandma Betty’s box of Legos so much because there were no instructions, no pictures to follow, no fine-tuning, no delicate finish pieces, no stickers to painstakingly place evenly before the project could be considered complete. When I said it was done, it was done. If half way through the magnificent Fort Apache I decided to start the Empire State Building, I could do it. Unlike those pesky car models that demanded each piece go where it belonged, and never seemed to get finished because I didn’t have the patience to attach decals or paint.

Nor were my Lego masterpieces like the chores around the house that were never done right because I couldn’t quite get to the final details of completing them. I’d sweep, but the dirt would stay in a pile. I’d mow, but the edges stayed high. I’d shovel the snow, but the powdery lines remained between shovel trails.

It’s the same today as an adult. It’s hard to finish a job. And it makes sense that this is where the struggle lies. When first starting a project, or a new adventure in life, the initial stages are exciting, fun, and you can see tremendous results. This is why some people are in constant seas of change; they are addicted to the fantastic results they gain when they start something new. Unfortunately, success almost always comes thanks to the finish work. In a move, the bulk of the furniture loads smooth, and the job seems to move quickly, but the move’s not complete without the little items, and these seem to be endless. The edges of a puzzle assembles with ease, and with highly visual results, but the final pieces of the puzzle, the ones you have to search for, wait for, sometimes agonize for, those pesky pieces in the center…those are what make the puzzle a success. The first week of working out creates sore, pumped muscles, but without consistency, the gains are minimal.
Starting new careers, changing jobs, finding new hobbies can all be good things. But if it is a pattern, we need to analyze ourselves, and ask? Do I seek constant change because I’m afraid of the hard work it takes to achieve true success? Am I addicted to the instant gratification of starting projects?
I know I’ve been guilty of this. I love the initial learning process. I’ve always picked up things pretty quickly, but rarely had the discipline for mastery. When I first started writing screenplays, I leapt into books on the subject, I banged out junk on my laptop, I sought feedback—and unfortunately got it. I reread and rewrote until I started to get the feedback I desired. Danny and I finished a great script. But then, the finish work.
Selling.
It was like the air was let out of my balloon. The temptation to start new things arose. “Another script is what we need, then we’ll start the selling process.”
Another script was completed.
“One more should do it.” We told ourselves.
And that script was completed.
“This story must be told. To the computer, the muse calls, we’ll hit the door to door sales when this masterpiece is done.”
And that script was completed.
“A novel would be easier to sell, let’s write one of those.”
A novel was completed…
And now here we sit, again. But this time we’re not taking the first “No.” as a sign we should write more. We’re going after it again. We’re going to keep writing, but we’re not stopping the selling until the job gets done. It could be today? It could be five years from now? But this time, we’re putting in the finish work.
Lego’s have become more advanced over the years. More than ever, the Lego products are more like models. You buy a box of an infinite variation of pieces, and to get it right, you must follow the directions carefully. And if you want it to look just like the picture on the box, you have to place every sticker in just the right place. Because when you do, that plastic model comes alive, the stickers are what make it worthy of the shelf.
My son has many of these neat little Lego models—which I’ve helped him build. Unfortunately, few have the stickers. It’s so much fun in the beginning, it takes shape so quickly, and it looks almost like the box when there still seems to be a hundred pieces left. It’s times like these when I miss that box of simple yet brilliant pieces at Grandma Betty’s place.
With Legos—and sometimes in life—it’s alright to enjoy the first fruits, to test the waters, to see if the endeavor is worth taking on, and if not? Move on…but sometimes, if we really want success, if we want to go to the next level, we have to stick to our guns, finish the job, stay the course, put in the 80% perspiration after the 20% inspiration, find the glory in the details…sometimes, if you want to get it right, you can’t forget about those stickers.

TREV

Anxiety

Tears on the soul, rips the mind
Stimulates foul, defeats mankind

The antithesis of trust, it attacks from within
Creeping and clawing, the result of sin

Run to the roar, find what you miss
A psychological game, sure to be a twist

It kills, it maims, bring it to bare
Shame is its root, truth its corsair

One’s got it all, in Him no demise
Take heed the fool…the fool becomes wise.

FAITH

Trevor

"Yikes!"

"
Oh, oh. I wish I would have payed attention to my science teacher. Are shark's fins straight or curved?"
"Straight, surf on!...I think."

Surf, life, and getting spit out naked on a packed beach, part II

“Going over the falls,” “whitewater frenzy,” “tiger shark sightings.” If you’re not familiar with these terms, please scroll down a little and read “Surf, Life, and Getting Spit Out Naked on a Packed Beach, Part I.”

Learning to surf has taught me one of life’s most valuable lessons. It all happened on that fateful day upon the gnarly walled-up shore breakers just north of the Wedge. I stood there, butt naked, shorts in hand, allowing the full magnitude of dozens of people staring at me to sink in. I had just survived going over the falls, getting spun on supercrazy wash cycle, and then taking it on the head a couple of times. It felt good to be alive, despite the fact that people were pointing, laughing, and I think a few, possibly, taking pictures.

It wasn’t until several years later, while learning to surf, that I figured out that going over the falls and getting spun like a rag doll under water was something I was going to have to get used to. I was told, that when you enter the washing machine, that you need to relax, let the wave bend you into whatever shape it wishes. Relax? Are you kidding me? I felt like I was in the jaws of death every time it happened. When your life is on the line, you fight. You fight tooth and nail to get out of the life threatening situation. So I kept fighting, and I lost every time, hitting the surface pumped full with adrenaline and lungs deplete of oxygen.

One day, I was dropping in late on a wave, tried to pull back, but once again, I went over. It was a pretty good sized wave, and it threw me down hard, and far. I let my body relax. My instinct was to battle, but I forced myself to let the wave do its thing. I spun, twisted, and convulsed...but this time, I kinda’ liked it. Within seconds, the tremors faded, and I popped up to the surface. I did it. I let the wave take control (as if it ever wasn’t), and I experienced the joy in giving in to my fear.

Experiencing joy in the midst of fear. Sounds like a crazy paradox...and guess what? It is. Now let me make clear that joy is not necessarily happiness. Rather, it is a sense of peace, an understanding that we aren’t the ones in control. Life throws us curveballs, sinkers, and every once in a while, unhittable sliders. We will be confronted with stress, from without, and from within, that will cause fear. Our natural instinct is to fight or run. When we fight the fear, it often grows, and overwhelms us. When we run, we turn to alchohol, drugs, porn, blaming others, (fill in blank with any other addiction), to avoid the enormous pain of facing our fear. The last two years have brought me a tremendous amount of anxiety, most of which come from never dealing with growing up with an alcoholic father whø kicked me aside, never playing with me, or even talking with me. When he did talk, it often was abusive.

I’ve had to deal with border line panic attacks, generated from within. When they first began, when my obsessive fears first reared their ugly heads, I fought like a madman, pushing them away. But they overwhelmed me. The harder I fought, the stronger they became. When I finally began to give in to the fear, much like giving in to the twisting and turning when I go over the falls, I began to experience some peace.

I have a long way to go, as the fear is embedded deeply within, but “running to the roar” has been one of the best life lessons I have learned. It will definitely save you on the waves, and I guarantee it will bring you joy. Give in to your fears. Face your anxiety. Run to the roar. Its a paradox worth living.

Danny

If three--then me.

“Dang it! This is my third speeding ticket this week! Why is this happening to me?”
This statement summarizes my concept of “If three, then me.” If you read the above statement, it is ridiculous. The statement suggests that there is someone out to get you, that you’re unlucky and helpless in the situation. It suggests that God is mad, or some force is working against you. When in reality, you’re speeding, if you weren’t, you would not have received one ticket, let alone three.
This stands as a stark example of what some people do with their entire lives. They blame bad situations on bad luck, mean people or a rude staff member; a bogus piece of merchandise, a bad apple, wrong directions…

“There’s a glitch in this game!”
“The cards are fixed.”
“My boss is a jerk!”
“My wife’s a nag!”
“This house is falling apart—all at the same time!”
“I don’t have enough money!”

The list goes on.
So often when we feel like things just aren’t going our way, if we step back we can trace the negative events to something we have done. The “If three, then me” rule is a good thing to follow.
If you are feeling scorned three times a month by tellers, cashiers, Home Depot workers, etc. Then maybe it’s your attitude that’s the problem.
If you are getting reprimanded more that three times, then maybe the boss isn’t out to get you, maybe you’re doing a bad job.
If you have three different people cut you off, or zone out while you’re talking, maybe they aren’t all rude, maybe I—I mean you—talk too much!
If three people comment on your behavior, maybe their right.
If you think three different friends have wronged you in a short period of time, maybe you’re too sensitive, overreacting, or unsympathetic to others schedules.
If you get in a loud conversation often, then maybe you’re the one who needs to calm down.
If your wife is a nag, maybe you’re not giving her enough love.
If your house is falling apart, maybe you weren’t keeping up with the repairs.
If you’re out of money, maybe you spend too much.

The problem with putting the blame on outside forces, we lose control of the situation. If we find the blame in ourselves, it’s a chance to grow, and change. Don’t run from blame, look for it—and grow from it.

It’s all right to make mistakes; it doesn’t make you a bad person.

Sometimes, no matter what we do, bad things can happen, and it’s not our fault; but if three—then, maybe, just maybe…it’s me.
Something to think about this week, I know I need to.

Trev

Surf, life, and getting spit out naked on a packed beach, part I

Going over the falls...it happens when you miscalculate, or just chicken out dropping into a wave (look careful at pic for example). The sheer force of the movement of the wave closing out takes you up and over from the wave’s backside; hence the term, “going over the falls.” But that’s the best part of the wipeout. What scares a rational man senseless is what happens next. The wave shoves you down into the jaws of whitewater frenzy where you spin uncontrollably under the surface, not knowing which way to go for a gulp of life giving breath.

The first time I went “over the falls” and got a nasty taste of the washing machine effect was near the wedge at Newport Beach. I was body surfing with my cousin and his best buddy, who were visiting from Phoenix. They made the mistake of asking me about sharks, and I had no other choice but to do my best to freak them out with a good story. As I told them of a nearby tiger shark sighting, I felt something brush my foot. In a nanosecond, I was the one freaking, and started swimming for shore. I tried to catch a nasty wall of a wave, but realized I was too late, and the beast would spit me out on the shore. I pulled back, but the force of the wave threw my like a rag doll into whitewater mania. I twisted and turned under water, literally not knowing which way was up. I fought like a mad man, but it was like peeing into a tornado. The more I fought, the faster my heart pumped, the quicker the oxygen was sapped from my lungs. My chest began to convulse, the whitewater cleared, and I saw blue sky. I was psyched to have survived, but my celebration tapered as I realized my shorts and undies were ripped off in battle. They washed ashore in front of a Saturday afternoon crowd. As I conteplated my options, another shore breaking monster hit me from behind, and I was spinning again; this time with my bare white butt leading the way. I survived another washing machine cycle, but I was presented with a rough decision. Stay in the surf and die, or walk up butt naked on the beach and retrieve my shorts. Well, needless to say, I chose the later, and here I am writing the memoirs.

I learned an amazing life lesson that day, and it wasn’t “make sure your shorts are tied on snuggly before entering the surf.” Stay tuned for part II.

Space Janitor--our newest novel...Ch. 1

...also a screenplay with a graphic novel in the works!
Concept Art by Bill Dely.


2100 A.D. DEEP SPACE: THE VOID – The small rock strewn planet floated in the midst of the seemingly endless domain of space. What classified this cragged rock void of atmosphere as a planet instead of an asteroid in the galactic charts was merely a whim of the scientific community.
The blackness was perfect until a silent explosion erupted driving the cobalt into retreat in an elliptic spectrum of energy. A silver bullet appeared from the quickly expanding saucer of light. The pearly mass slowed taking the form of a spacecraft and shattering the quiet with the 115 year-old hit song, Magic Carpet Ride, which blared into space from the ship's exterior speakers.
The long-range fighter approached the rocky surface quickly, wings folded away from fuselage and retracting wormhole shields revealed a cockpit. Intense light exploded into space from the small craft as navigation lights activated.
Inside the cockpit sat Sgt. C.T. McGregor, his black boots at rest atop switch filled control panel. He lounged in a high backed, black leather captain's chair. Muscled limbs draped loosely over large padded armrests. A charcoal tinted shirt hung open across his broad chest. Dark hair was cropped short and had the sheen of youth while the depth of his sleep left his bronzed skin without wrinkle.
The pounding music that thankfully emanated quieter inside than out seemed to have no effect on the Sergeant's sleep. It was quickly apparent that he snoozed unawares of the jagged cliffs that now filled his view screen, increasing in size at an alarming rate.
Looming large in the ship's screen, the rocky planet quickly blocked out the universe behind it. A red light flashed and beeped, quickening with the ship's approach to the planet.
Nary a twitch arose from the pilot's eyes until a very sensual female voice lyrically flowed through the large cockpit as the music faded to a whisper. "Perhaps it is time to consider the briefing?" The voice poised the question as near to a command as possible without it being one.
The switchboard lit up with light and sound as the planet rose up to reveal a crater and boulder-strewn surface. She continued. "And our eminent crash course into that large rock."
McGregor's eyes twitched, the corner of his lip almost curled, his eyes opened, his coarse hand rubbed coarser beard. "E.T.A?"
The voice responded politely, "Twenty two seconds…21, 20, 19…
McGregor yawned, and looked at the pocked surface casually. "Debrief."
"So soon Sir." The voice responded sarcastically. We're still thirteen and 3/4 seconds from impact and only two days late for a three-day assignment."
Blue eyes twinkled. "Well Aaia, if you'd kept my ship safe from those mutant tics, we'd have been here on time." McGregor smiled. He enjoyed poking fun at the computer whose personality he had programmed. Sometimes he wondered if he had not given her too much personality.
Aaia interrupted his thoughts. "Security is not in my programming. 11, 10, 9…"
"Just in case you ever decided to turn on me." He said, peering up to the ceiling. "I'm kidding. I'd give you all the power I had if I.U.S. would let me."
"Of course you would. Now, about the incinerary experience were about to have?"
The ship plummeted toward what could only result in a fiery explosion. The unforgiving surface took shape as it drew closer…closer…closer… The ship nearly shivered at the fate that was now inevitable when just before impact a large perfectly camouflaged portal on the planet's surface opened, revealing a tunnel, which lead straight into the planet's core. The fighter glided gracefully into the massive corridor as the portal closed seamlessly behind it.
McGregor smiled. "I guess I should have told you about that."
"Really?" Aaia said with the utmost human tone, expressing in the one word her annoyance and enjoyment at being a participant in her programmer's joke.
"I guess that didn't make it into the research program I gave you."
Aaia sighed and began her debriefing. "Space Hub lovingly referred to as Hell's Gate, one of the largest harbors in the known galaxy. Non I.U.S. controlled but vital to non-worm hole cross-galactic shipping. Until recently, controlled by a reasonable human crime lord...He's dead. The new lord is hiking prices, refuses to show at least the facade of respect for I.U.S. officers and had all the priests destroyed the first day. He's a grainite and mean as hell. Clean Up the mess using any means necessary with I.U.S. section 3 code 7 as protocol."
McGregor grunted. "Can't kill 'em unless he kills me first."
"Exactly".
"Dandy." McGregor flipped a coolant switch. "Wiped out all the grays, huh?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
The view screen revealed the pitch-black tunnel that soon sprouted lights as the ship sped through it. As the light sources increased, signs of life appeared along the shaft's surface. McGregor flipped a switch, dimming the exterior lights as every surface of the corridor filled with living quarters, shops, restaurants and taverns.
McGregor's craft darted from the tunnel exit and into the planet's core. Sailing deep along the radius, the sleek vehicle moved toward the core's center. The hollowed planet teemed with activity as shuttles and taxi's scurried about the interior.
Three miles separated the planet's walls. Every inch of surface was put to use, covered with minimally profiled intricate structures and warehouses; often it was difficult to establish where one ended and the other began. Metal intertwined with stone to create phantasmagoric architectural wonders that sprawled amongst the cragged interior. An orb that glowed moon-like at the planet's center illuminated the core, currently simulating night. McGregor maneuvered the ship through heavy traffic, banking around the silver orb and then guiding his ship toward a cliff wall with several large caves. Decreasing speed, the ship's landing gear dropped and it slipped into a hangar carved into the cliffs natural caves.
Bustling traders moved about the hangar in a furor. Ships of all shapes and sizes were loaded and unloaded with cargo. Exotic creatures bartered and exchanged goods as ships were serviced for the long flight to anywhere. The stone floor of the monstrous cave was polished to sheen. McGregor observed all this while buttoning his shirt, shutting down his systems and arming himself. He looked up to where a long broadsword hung, then reluctantly took down the two holstered blasters next to it and strapped them around his waist.
McGregor's craft gracefully settled into an open space between an I.U.S. trade vessel and a much smaller clepto ship. The cleptos were just one of the many genetic mutant creations that roamed the universe along side the native creatures of a more natural genesis. Cleptos were humans with the genes of mockingbirds engineered at the point of conception. Rarely did they exceed 1.5 M in height and hollow bones allowed them amazing leaping abilities. Small wings limited their aerial capabilities to gliding--their wings not strong enough to give them true flight. Elfish features, soft feathered hair, and wings that folded gracefully down their back made them beautiful creatures and one of the touted successes from the genetic engineering revolution. But they were not without fault, their abilities at collection and hawking wares made them excellent merchants--it also made them master thieves.
McGregor smiled politely through the windshield as he lowered blaster blinds, waving at the tiny man-bird as he set his alarms.
It didn't take long to make his way through the interior caves toward his destination. He walked briefly down an exterior bridge, a five-foot wide non-symmetrical path stretching across the monstrous cavern below. He was momentarily suspended in space as he stopped to scan the chasm's depths before turning his gaze to the massive airspace inside the hollowed planet. He took a deep breath, wanting to enjoy the experience more than he seemed to. He continued down the rock walk.
McGregor entered the thriving bar with confidence. After all, he was a Space Janitor--highly trained and well equipped. He was in his third year as a Janitor, and was given the best missions. It was a dangerous job, and he loved it for that. He had worked hard to gain the position, and made the elusive rank of Space Janitor in the fastest time possible, two years. Across the globe his position demanded respect. He looked about the tavern as he strutted through the crowds. Traders from all walks of life--both alien and engineered, organic and mechanical--mingled and partied. C.T. was out of uniform, yet many in the crowd noticed his genetic superiority, he was sure by the way they parted for him. He approached the counter where a sexy barkeep quickly took notice of this tall stranger.
"What's your pleasure, cowboy?" The barkeep whispered flirtatiously.
McGregor turned to his left where two green-skinned lizard men looked pathetically at empty mugs. With a questioning glance he asked them both, "Orange Whip? Orange Whip?"
The duo nodded in unison, a ray of hope filtering into their verdant reptilian eyes.
McGregor dipped his head in acknowledgement, and said without facing the Barkeep, "Three Orange whips." He smiled at his inner joke and ode to one of the greatest adventures of all time. As the barkeep moved to concoct the drinks, McGregor scanned the room, leaning back and resting his elbows on the bar. He took in the entire alcove, noticing who noticed him, and who purposefully kept their eyes away. He grew confident from his ability to observe human emotions--and intentions--at a glance and was emboldened by his effect on the people at the bar.
The Barkeep returned with the drinks and smiled. McGregor smiled back, truly seeing her for the first time. Dark silky hair flowed about her shoulders, and ample cleavage sprang from the girl's low cut, red, sleeveless shirt. Subtly brown skin glowed between the tapered top that hugged slender waist, and the low cut pants drew a perfectly curved line across her toned abdomen, two inches below the perfectly shaped bellybutton. She set the frothing drinks down. She saved McGregor's for last, and met his eyes boldly as she placed the drink before him.
He fought to maintain his casualness, as the blood in his body seemed to instantly heat, turning him to mush. Raising his eyes, he met her gaze--reminding himself she was probably just a non-gen, far his inferior--he hoped he faked his confidence well.
The twinkle in her eye told him he failed. "Where ya' from?" She asked, the words seemingly caressing his ears as they passed.
Her eyes blitzed his senses, ransacking any chance he had at a witty response. Electric in their coloration, they danced before him; depths of aquamarine mesmerized him. In all his days amidst the genetically designed eyes of the elite, he'd never seen their equal. It was too much, and he pulled his own eyes away from the sparkling pools. Reaching for the tangerine colored drink, he raised it to his lips with his right hand, hoping to sooth his countenance. He'd long ago made the habit of eating and drinking with his right hand so that his more dexterous appendage would be available for his gun if needed. Finally after setting the drink back to the bar, he answered. "Earth."
Delighted eyes lit up, and the beautiful girl couldn't hide her excitement at the answer she had hoped for. "Long way from home. Smuggler?"
He smiled internally, his confidence returning with the reminder of who he was. True confidence replaced false bravado now, knowing his answer would quickly win the girl; every woman longed to find a man of his genetic make-up. "Janitor." He didn't have time to wait expectantly for her dazzled and impressed stare; her disgust rocked him instantly. The very face that a moment ago stirred heat in his loins now sent daggers of ice through his heart.
The girl was obviously surprised by this unexpected piece of information. She recovered quickly, leaned in toward him, looked deep into his eyes and made no attempt to hide her contempt. "You sure? I can usually tell a gen-freak…I mean, gen-man--they do nothing for me."
If her initial reaction shocked him, this statement broke him. Suddenly every fear of inadequacy swelled up from the past, taking the form of beads of sweat surfacing on the back of his neck and the muscles of his legs turning to jelly. He quickly fought the irrational fears back; he'd dealt with this issue years ago, when faced with a newborn younger brother, a brother designed to perfection by his parents. A brother--who unlike himself--was not adopted. For six years before his brother's untimely death, the boy roused fear of inadequacy in McGregor's adopted heart. It only worsened after his brother's sickness, he became near deity after that, and McGregor felt ever more his inferior in the shadow of the perfect memories his mother had of her womb born son.
McGregor shook off the doubts, so he was adopted, and without papers, his parents said he came from genetically pure stock, and he made Janitor in record time--a non-gen couldn't do that! He was who they said he was. He had nothing to fear he told himself. He forced himself to stand taller; he was Sgt. C.T. McGregor, Space Janitor--gen-man! He matched her stare, waiting for her to make the next move. Her coldness held, and she stared at him with unflinching eyes of steel.
Stepping back from the bar, he pulled credits from the front pocket of his dark brown flight jacket. He forced himself to meet her gaze then tossed them on the bar. "For the clean up." The titanium chips clinked on the bar and finally drew her gaze from his. He felt released and took the opportunity to escape.
McGregor was up and moving before her eyes rose from the money. She watched him glide purposefully through the crowd toward the rear of the large tavern. Once again, he would quell his own doubts of his genetic make-up the only way he knew how--with action, and with a vengeance.
A large double door sat well protected by two heavily armed eight-foot angular faced kragors. The sentries bred for war frowned at the approaching intruder. One of them stepped forward, extending a six-fingered hand. "Halt."
McGregor ignored the command, quickening his pace. Blasters drew as one and without hesitation the kragars unleashed a barrage of laser blasts.
McGregor's hand casually brushed by his belt as the blasts reached him, a shimmering light flickered where the shots should be destroying flesh. An invisible force field absorbed the blasts with ease. McGregor's left hand was a blur as were the two darts that entered jugulars with deadly silence--the kragars crumbled--a dart protruding from each of their crimson stained necks.
McGregor stepped over the fallen mutants and pushed through the doors, his hands snagging them at their apex and flinging them shut behind him without missing a beat. He continued toward a gigantic desk centered in the elaborate, foliage filled room.
The thing that sat behind the large desk smiled, its seemingly rigid rock face curved upwards. The thing's tangerine hide covered a massively muscled nine-foot frame--he was a Grainite--a genetic mutation bred for mining the mineral planets.
McGregor stopped, glancing toward an eagle sized winged lizard that perched perceptively in an iron cage. It's emerald skin shone like fine polished leather carved to resemble scaled skin. The dragon's tongue licked the air expectantly. McGregor turned his gaze back to the brute behind the desk, coolly meeting the Grainite's smile. "Lord Grimm, I presume."
The genetically created beast ground out a laugh. "I must have done something right, for them to send one of you."
It took an act of will not to acknowledge the complement as pride surged within him, but McGregor held the beast's gaze and said casually. "You worked quickly, unfortunately for you not quietly."
The two warriors analyzed one another carefully, waiting for the other to make a mistake.
"Why'd you kill the grays?" McGregor asked, hiding his interest.
Grimm paused, then began to chuckle, then to laugh--the laughter grew to a near deafening level before he stopped cold. "Because they kill people." Grimm used the nano-second McGregor's mind strayed to go for his guns.
Pistols slid from McGregor's holsters with lightening speed, firing simultaneously with Grimm.
Two mutated thirty inch shoeless feet that rested casually on the desk became launchers, sending literally a ton of tangerine marble hurling toward McGregor who was already diving through the air, hitting the ground rolling as he fired.
McGregor's blasters ignited again and again, lasers ricocheting off the granite's hide.
Rock chips flew from Grimm as he sprinted for the door, firing a large armor piercing photon blaster at the now up and ready McGregor.
McGregor's force field took the brunt of the first blast but it didn't keep him from being knocked back, he fought to keep his balance when a second shot slammed into his chest, propelling him forcefully onto his backside. Breath purged from his lungs and then the third blast connected, slamming the Janitor's head back against stone floor and sending a ripple through his force field…it fizzled away in an electrical light melt down.
McGregor struggled to sit, gasping at the air that was still denied him, then finally finding it and expelling it again with the words. "Oh, shit!"
A massive hand grasped him by the shirtfront; jerking him from the floor and hurling him like a rag doll into the back wall. Grimm laughed again as McGregor slid down the stone to the floor.
A twenty-inch tongue lashed out from the lizard's fanged snout and McGregor heard in his mind, Better move. McGregor listened to the thought and painfully dove from the path of another photon blast. The dragon was obviously enjoying the show.
Grimm continued his march toward the doors, he turned and smiled, firing one last shot at the scrambling McGregor who--hearing the word, Move, in his mind--threw himself behind a hutch full of multi-colored roses, landing hard on already cracked ribs. Grimm laughed at the cry of pain from McGregor and he turned away.
Just as the grotesque hand reached for the double doors, McGregor grimaced with the agony of the effort, but pulled himself up from behind the hutch and shouted, "Hey Rock Face!"
Grimm turned to see a four-inch metallic disc spiraling toward him.
McGregor disappeared behind the hutch as the disc embedded into the center of the grainite's forehead. Grimm's eyes crossed upwards as cumbersome fingers reached frantically for the tiny device. Fours quick ticks later the bomb detonated and the ensuing explosion thundered through the room like a canon.
Kneeling behind the slate desk turned bomb shelter, McGregor covered his head. The concussion blast sent rocks, pebbles and grains of sand raining down upon the room and McGregor. Shortly thereafter, as McGregor allowed his eyes to rise, the leaves and pedals of a hundred roses and a plethora of herbage settled gently around him.
He rose with an aching snarl, laser blasters still in hand, pointing at the double doors--nobody entered. Breathing deeply, he stretched out his bruised and battered body. He inhaled slowly--agonizingly--testing his ribs. Sniffing, he drew in another breath, suddenly aware of the avid aroma now filling the room, enjoying the fragrance of a hundred annihilated roses. Two pistols twirled into holsters and he said wryly, "I love the smell of roses in the morning."
A snicker drew McGregor's attention to the cage, which now lay on its side. The shaken up dragon ruffled out its leathery wings then peered at McGregor.
McGregor's mind once again filled with thoughts not his as the words, Three, two, one, zero, floated through his mind. On zero the doors of the office burst open and a half a dozen kragars charged through firing upon the Space Janitor. Without his force field he was mandated to defy physics and out maneuver the blasts. His own guns reached his hands in a blur and he miraculously escaped the initial onslaught with only flesh wounds. But he only managed to bring two of the warriors down as he somersaulted his way over a table and across the room; attempting to find cover behind the large upturned desk as he unloaded on the remaining four kragars. The well-trained soldiers spread out, attempting to put their adversary in a position of crossfire. McGregor knew too well his fate if he allowed them to succeed--he would be dead.
He didn't give them a chance to think, and kept on the move. He sprang forward, guns exploding in blue rays of death, purposefully charging in the direction of the two still in the proximity of each other. They leapt apart, as did McGregor's guns, and both kragors fell from precision shots to the head.
Blood sprayed from McGregor's shoulder as a blast from one of the remaining kragars ripped across deltoid. "ARRGH!" He dropped with the hit, forcing himself to ignore the pain of landing on the very shoulder that now burned, blasting away at the attacking soldier. The leathery skinned creature crumbled to the floor across the room from him and silence stilled the air. He scanned the room from where he laid. The last kragor had gone into stealth mode. He dared not to make a sound as he slowly slid himself into a defensive position between a carved stone pedestal and the wall. His eyes darted about the room and his ears tuned to the slightest sound.
Silence.
Free Me.
Not exactly a good time for that. McGregor thought back at the dragon.
Obviously. After you win.
If I win?
You will if I help you.
I was going to free you anyway.
Thanks. Here he comes. With that thought sent, the dragon sprang to the side of his tipped cage, causing it to roll. The kragar turned toward the noise as McGregor stood up to face him. When the kragor turned back, he was looking down the barrels of McGregor's guns.
McGregor smirked. "Always good to have back-up."
The kragor nodded, glancing at McGregor's weapons.
Two titanium barrels nodded back, as McGregor quipped. "Don't even think about."
The kragor dropped his weapon.
McGregor maneuvered around him to the cage, gun and eyes on him constantly, then reached down gingerly, opening the iron door of the cage. "Stay out of my mind." He needn't have spoken, for the telekinetic lizard had already read the thought.
The dragon's snout curled in what could only be described as a snarling smile, revealing a tiny row of fangs designed for gnashing. Taking flight, it circled the room then landed on McGregor's shoulder.
"Are you kidding me?" McGregor flinched at the talons digging into his shoulder. "To the nearest planet with meat is as far as you're going." He then thought instead of said, And stay out of my mind.
Impossible.
McGregor ignored him. "Enter the dragon."
The dragon snickered despite having no way to understand the subtext.
"I'll call you Bruce."
And you…Seeker.
In a flash, McGregor holstered his pistol and pulled a dart. He squeezed its base, causing several drops of venom to disperse. "A warrior shouldn't have to die for protecting his master." Nearly impossible to see, the movement was so quick, McGregor's hand sent the dart into the kragar's jugular and the giant crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Like a pirate's prized parrot, the dragon rode McGregor's broad shoulder as he walked back into the cantina. The clientele of this establishment were used to violence, and purposefully kept their eyes and glances at bay as the Space Janitor sauntered past them and toward the bar. He threw down another wad of cash on the countertop. It didn't escape his notice that it wasn't the girl from earlier who took up the money. He quickly shoved the disappointment from his mind--he'd never see her again anyway.

Too late for Cheung!

Paddling out with your buddies is a great thing, as you take that first hit to the head from a mountain of cold white water, you look over to see if your surf pals are making it, it gives you comfort to know they are there to feel the pain with you, and experience the joy after a sweet ride. For Danny, Jeff, Keith and I, if we see a brother’s ride, a fist up in the air and a wide smile gives the props--especially if we survived a big close-out.

Today was one of those days as Jeff and I surfed Seal pier. In photo: Jeff is in black shirt, green cap, standing next to Rich Harbour, who’s standing next to me with that sweeeeet yellow 7’4, the Spherical Revolver. The waves were 3-4 ft. and consistently holding up. But throughout the session, I had one little negative weighing me down—a court appearance at 1:20 that afternoon. Try as I might to block out stressful situations that loom on the horizon of life, I can’t help but let it seep into my mind on occasion. It’s been that way for the three months since the showdown with Officer Cheung was set. My mantra of “Don’t worry about it, enjoy this day, enjoy this moment; what will happen, will happen.” Works most the time, but occasionally the mind starts to live that uknown future over and over again. Luckily, on this day, as the hours counted down to face-off, the surf kept my mind at bay, with only the occasional thought creeping in, “Oh yeah, I’ve got a trial in a couple of hours.”
My epic battle against Officer Cheung started when I was pulled over several months ago for crossing the double line into the carpool lane, and I decided to fight it. The court date was yesterday, and it’s been a slight nagging in my mind for months. After the fun morning of surfing with Jeff and two of my daughters, Jordyn and Dakotah, it was off to the courts. I arrived early, signed in and took a seat. I didn’t know the procedure and about 16 minutes went by before I asked the receptionist how long she thought it would be.
“You have to wait twenty minutes for the officer to arrive.” She said with a smile.
I had thought I was just waiting for the court to start, I didn’t know the process had already begun, so I asked, “Are we doing that right now?”
“Yes.” She said, again with a smile.
I took a seat and quickly looked to the clock, then checked my court time. Sure enough, my official appointment read 1:30 pm, and the clock now read 1:46 pm. My eyes grew wide with the realization; I only had 4 minutes until my ticket—seemingly—would be dropped.
I watched agonizingly from my seat as the second hand moved slowly around the dial. I couldn’t take it, and stood up, moving to the door where I could watch for Officer Cheung amidst the slow flow of people checking in through the metal detector.
I glanced back at the clock. Only a minute had gone by.
I paced the hall and then made my way back to my seat, aching out the next two minutes. At 1:50 pm, by my account, the twenty minutes should be up, but I wanted to play my cards right and I didn’t know if this was a legal time limit, or just something they went by. I began to stalk the counter, pretending to read the miscellaneous family law posters—don’t hit your wife, very bad things happen to you, and they have a lot of power—and finally, after about a minute, the nice middle aged lady who seemed to be in charge, looked at me questioningly. I had found my opportunity.
“I was wondering?” I said in my nicest voice. “What happens after you’ve waited 22 minutes?”
She looked at the clock, then to her paper work. “Well, Officer Cheung never misses an appointment, so…”
I held my breath as I saw her eyes reflect inner musings.
A friendly officer behind her joked, “I’ll testify for him.”
I chuckled nervously.
She looked out the window to the darkening skies and wet streets. “It’s a crappy day out, I’ll let you go.”
In hopeful shock I asked, “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
I smiled, laughed a little, “Thanks, I wasn’t really sure--”
She cut me off. “But you better get out of here.”
Being the babbler that I am, I laughed, and continued with my story. “—I wasn’t sure that my digitalized witness would hold-up in court, and…”
She cut me off again. “I’m serious. You better get out of here.”
This time I took the hint, if Officer Cheung showed; she would reverse the dismissal if I was still there. I bolted for the door with a wave and a smile, and walked the short distance to the glass doors set in glass walls.
That’s when I saw him.
The youthful Asian cop walked briskly, tinkering with his blue tie. I crossed his path perfectly as I exited. Recognition read in Officer Cheung’s eyes as I gave a brief nod and walked away.
Now I considered pushing it by saying, “Hi, Officer Cheung, sorry I missed you, have a great day.” Or something to that effect, but I was just thankful to be running for the hills. I’m not afraid of a showdown, but like Eastwood says, “Every man’s got to know his limitations.”
I walked briskly to the corner of the brick building, rounding it casually, but as I escaped the view from glass, I took off running!

And of course, I called my pals; Danny, Jeff, and Keith to give the verbal fist in the air and big smile...I escaped the close-out.

Lord, thank you for causing Officer Cheung to be late, and putting charity in the heart of those lovely ladies working the counter. God always takes care of his children, but sometimes it’s more obvious than others.

Oh yeah!!!!!

Want a Navigator and free lunch?

Join the poverty stricken of an inner city public school.

Now I don't know about you, but I have to pay for my lunches and I drive economy cars. Now I never expected to get rich teaching (I was and still am hoping that is a product of our scripts and some feature movie roles) and I am more than happy to pay for my lunch, drive a Saturn, and help out the poor. But when you work in a school where over 90% of the kids get free breakfast, lunch, after school snack, corrective eye-wear, medical, and a plethora of other amenities; while arriving in the luxury of a black Navigator with alloy rims, low profile tires, and dealer tags blowing in the wind? Not to mention the kids are loaded down with gameboys, cellphones, i-pods and pockets full of cash to purchase french fries, cokes and Hot Cheetos while their tax paid lunch/breakfast tickets end up in the trash...you can get a bit cynical.
But I'm ahead of myself, let's get back to Mom in the Navigator, sitting in plush leather and pretending to ignore little old me in my grey Saturn, stained $8 school pride t-shirt, two year old jeans and discount shoes. I put on the signal, and I wonder, "Is she going to let me through?"
She keeps eyes straight--but I see the flicker that says she knows I'm waiting--and the guzzling $50K beast rolls right in front of me, cutting me off as I try to park my car so I can teach her kids (who've been brought up by her to defy authority) some Math and Science...
...well then, I'm thankful for my job, and I love those kids, but let me tell you, that bothers me a bit, and I think the government ought to be a little more careful where they spend my money, instead of throwing our tax payer dollars to people who can afford a heck of alot more than we can. Remember this the next time you hear someone with a sob story about how we need more money for those poor schools.
So, until the government wises up, check into your local Title one school--who knows, before long you too can be driving a Navigator and eating for free.
Have a great day!

Go CATS!

Lute and the boys could go all the way. They're the most under rated big name school in the tourney. If anyone
can beat Illinois, it's the Cats!

Ozark Beauty Queen

Played in the key of "G," sing it with a twang!
(Inspired by true events, yet not written about anyone in particular)

(Verse 1)
Walked outta' the trailer
Just the other day
I saw you kickin' Old Yeller
Right over by the hay
I said, "Come on honey, that pup ain't done you no harm!"
So I picked up my guitar, and wrote this love song

(Verse 2)
Opened the mail
It was straight from Bank One
The creditors tell me, you're having too much fun
I mean, come on darlin'
My credit can't take that hit
It's gonna take me fifty years to climb outta' this financial pit

(Chorus)
Cause if it ain't what it seems
Then tell me what it is
Cause I've been seeing things
A multitude of sins
And I've been on my knees
For far too long
You kicked me once, you kicked me twice
Third time, baby, I'm gone

(Verse 3)
When we were first married
Babe, you were a beauty queen
Now fifty-five pounds later
You're just fat, ugly and mean
I mean, come on darlin'
I didn't sign up for double wide
Now I gotta' walk twenty steps behind
To salvage a little piece of my pride

(Verse 4)
Walked out to the parking lot
Right front of K-Mart
Caught you walkin' hand in hand
With my second cousin Art
You said, "Come on, darlin', I promise it'll end"
I heard that crap before
When I caught you making out with Uncle Fred

Repeat Chorus

Space Janitor--art by Bill Dely

C.T. McGregor is a Space Janitor, cleaning up space from rogues, genetic mutants, and outlaw aliens. Read the action packed excerpt (in archives) from our newest novel and screenplay, Space Janitor.

What a great day!

Living in the mountains, it's so wonderful to walk out my driveway at dawn as I wait for Danny to pick me up. I look up to those pristine, hills, green from the rains; I smell the fresh mountain air (at least in winter) and thank God I'm alive. Then I remember, only two days until I'll be riding the waves! Gotta' love Southern Cal. Have a great day!

We love to Surf!

Off shores blast spray into your face as you commit to the blind take-off, instincts take over and your weight shifts, tucking in you grab the rail, find the line, and as your vision clears...emerald glass rises up to form the perfect crescent before you, the peddle's down and you shoot the curl--you're smiling!

3x3x3 your way to finding love.

I thought I'd write a short note on my "rule of 3" in new relationships.

Basically, if you want to save hardships caused by staying in a relationship too long, or reengaging with an ex several times before finally making a clean break, follow the rule of three.

Three dates: If you first meet someone, unless totally turned off, give it three dates before you call it off. Sometimes they may grow on you, the first date isn't always the best. After three, if no sparks, bail!

Three months: If after the third date, you decide to pursue; reevaluate after 3 months. If at this point, you're already seeing problems, don't rationalize them away! Cut and run, save time, go find the next one. Ask anybody when they first had doubts about a past failed relationship, and most can trace it back to within the first three months, but often times, years go by before they end the relationship.

Three week break: If you've decided to stay in the relationship, enjoy the next three months before reevaluating again. At the sixth month mark, take a forced three week break. This gives you room to breath, no contact means the emotions can settle and you can view the relationship rationally. If you had doubts before this break, make it a 6 week break. So many people, who know they want out of a relationship, grow weak in the first couple of weeks after a break up, their lonely, they only see the positives of their other half...and many times they go back, only to repeat the process again and again...Be strong, your life is on hold if you're dating someone you don't really want to marry. The break gives you this strength.

This is the short version, much more can be said, many comical stories can be told, but for now...remember the rule of three.

P.S. If someone is having doubts about you in the relationship, and hinting or trying to break-up, LET THEM GO! More than likely you'll lose them in the future anyway, let them go and find someone you don't have to talk into loving you! If you call them while their lonely, they might take you back, but for how long? MOVE ON!

Ch. 1 of our newest novel/screenplay...Space Janitor

Space Janitor--Chapter 1


By Trevor Downs and Danny Ray

2100 A.D. DEEP SPACE: THE VOID – The small rock strewn planet floated in the midst of the seemingly endless domain of space. What classified this cragged rock void of atmosphere as a planet instead of an asteroid in the galactic charts was merely a whim of the scientific community.
The blackness was perfect until a silent explosion erupted driving the cobalt into retreat in an elliptic spectrum of energy. A silver bullet appeared from the quickly expanding saucer of light. The pearly mass slowed taking the form of a spacecraft and shattering the quiet with the 115 year-old hit song, Magic Carpet Ride, which blared into space from the ship's exterior speakers.
The long-range fighter approached the rocky surface quickly, wings folded away from fuselage and retracting wormhole shields revealed a cockpit. Intense light exploded into space from the small craft as navigation lights activated.
Inside the cockpit sat Sgt. C.T. McGregor, his black boots at rest atop switch filled control panel. He lounged in a high backed, black leather captain's chair. Muscled limbs draped loosely over large padded armrests. A charcoal tinted shirt hung open across his broad chest. Dark hair was cropped short and had the sheen of youth while the depth of his sleep left his bronzed skin without wrinkle.
The pounding music that thankfully emanated quieter inside than out seemed to have no effect on the Sergeant's sleep. It was quickly apparent that he snoozed unawares of the jagged cliffs that now filled his view screen, increasing in size at an alarming rate.
Looming large in the ship's screen, the rocky planet quickly blocked out the universe behind it. A red light flashed and beeped, quickening with the ship's approach to the planet.
Nary a twitch arose from the pilot's eyes until a very sensual female voice lyrically flowed through the large cockpit as the music faded to a whisper. "Perhaps it is time to consider the briefing?" The voice poised the question as near to a command as possible without it being one.
The switchboard lit up with light and sound as the planet rose up to reveal a crater and boulder-strewn surface. She continued. "And our eminent crash course into that large rock."
McGregor's eyes twitched, the corner of his lip almost curled, his eyes opened, his coarse hand rubbed coarser beard. "E.T.A?"
The voice responded politely, "Twenty two seconds…21, 20, 19…
McGregor yawned, and looked at the pocked surface casually. "Debrief."
"So soon Sir." The voice responded sarcastically. We're still thirteen and 3/4 seconds from impact and only two days late for a three-day assignment."
Blue eyes twinkled. "Well Aaia, if you'd kept my ship safe from those mutant tics, we'd have been here on time." McGregor smiled. He enjoyed poking fun at the computer whose personality he had programmed. Sometimes he wondered if he had not given her too much personality.
Aaia interrupted his thoughts. "Security is not in my programming. 11, 10, 9…"
"Just in case you ever decided to turn on me." He said, peering up to the ceiling. "I'm kidding. I'd give you all the power I had if I.U.S. would let me."
"Of course you would. Now, about the incinerary experience were about to have?"
The ship plummeted toward what could only result in a fiery explosion. The unforgiving surface took shape as it drew closer…closer…closer… The ship nearly shivered at the fate that was now inevitable when just before impact a large perfectly camouflaged portal on the planet's surface opened, revealing a tunnel, which lead straight into the planet's core. The fighter glided gracefully into the massive corridor as the portal closed seamlessly behind it.
McGregor smiled. "I guess I should have told you about that."
"Really?" Aaia said with the utmost human tone, expressing in the one word her annoyance and enjoyment at being a participant in her programmer's joke.
"I guess that didn't make it into the research program I gave you."
Aaia sighed and began her debriefing. "Space Hub lovingly referred to as Hell's Gate, one of the largest harbors in the known galaxy. Non I.U.S. controlled but vital to non-worm hole cross-galactic shipping. Until recently, controlled by a reasonable human crime lord...He's dead. The new lord is hiking prices, refuses to show at least the facade of respect for I.U.S. officers and had all the priests destroyed the first day. He's a grainite and mean as hell. Clean Up the mess using any means necessary with I.U.S. section 3 code 7 as protocol."
McGregor grunted. "Can't kill 'em unless he kills me first."
"Exactly".
"Dandy." McGregor flipped a coolant switch. "Wiped out all the grays, huh?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
The view screen revealed the pitch-black tunnel that soon sprouted lights as the ship sped through it. As the light sources increased, signs of life appeared along the shaft's surface. McGregor flipped a switch, dimming the exterior lights as every surface of the corridor filled with living quarters, shops, restaurants and taverns.
McGregor's craft darted from the tunnel exit and into the planet's core. Sailing deep along the radius, the sleek vehicle moved toward the core's center. The hollowed planet teemed with activity as shuttles and taxi's scurried about the interior.
Three miles separated the planet's walls. Every inch of surface was put to use, covered with minimally profiled intricate structures and warehouses; often it was difficult to establish where one ended and the other began. Metal intertwined with stone to create phantasmagoric architectural wonders that sprawled amongst the cragged interior. An orb that glowed moon-like at the planet's center illuminated the core, currently simulating night. McGregor maneuvered the ship through heavy traffic, banking around the silver orb and then guiding his ship toward a cliff wall with several large caves. Decreasing speed, the ship's landing gear dropped and it slipped into a hangar carved into the cliffs natural caves.
Bustling traders moved about the hangar in a furor. Ships of all shapes and sizes were loaded and unloaded with cargo. Exotic creatures bartered and exchanged goods as ships were serviced for the long flight to anywhere. The stone floor of the monstrous cave was polished to sheen. McGregor observed all this while buttoning his shirt, shutting down his systems and arming himself. He looked up to where a long broadsword hung, then reluctantly took down the two holstered blasters next to it and strapped them around his waist.
McGregor's craft gracefully settled into an open space between an I.U.S. trade vessel and a much smaller clepto ship. The cleptos were just one of the many genetic mutant creations that roamed the universe along side the native creatures of a more natural genesis. Cleptos were humans with the genes of mockingbirds engineered at the point of conception. Rarely did they exceed 1.5 M in height and hollow bones allowed them amazing leaping abilities. Small wings limited their aerial capabilities to gliding--their wings not strong enough to give them true flight. Elfish features, soft feathered hair, and wings that folded gracefully down their back made them beautiful creatures and one of the touted successes from the genetic engineering revolution. But they were not without fault, their abilities at collection and hawking wares made them excellent merchants--it also made them master thieves.
McGregor smiled politely through the windshield as he lowered blaster blinds, waving at the tiny man-bird as he set his alarms.
It didn't take long to make his way through the interior caves toward his destination. He walked briefly down an exterior bridge, a five-foot wide non-symmetrical path stretching across the monstrous cavern below. He was momentarily suspended in space as he stopped to scan the chasm's depths before turning his gaze to the massive airspace inside the hollowed planet. He took a deep breath, wanting to enjoy the experience more than he seemed to. He continued down the rock walk.
McGregor entered the thriving bar with confidence. After all, he was a Space Janitor--highly trained and well equipped. He was in his third year as a Janitor, and was given the best missions. It was a dangerous job, and he loved it for that. He had worked hard to gain the position, and made the elusive rank of Space Janitor in the fastest time possible, two years. Across the globe his position demanded respect. He looked about the tavern as he strutted through the crowds. Traders from all walks of life--both alien and engineered, organic and mechanical--mingled and partied. C.T. was out of uniform, yet many in the crowd noticed his genetic superiority, he was sure by the way they parted for him. He approached the counter where a sexy barkeep quickly took notice of this tall stranger.
"What's your pleasure, cowboy?" The barkeep whispered flirtatiously.
McGregor turned to his left where two green-skinned lizard men looked pathetically at empty mugs. With a questioning glance he asked them both, "Orange Whip? Orange Whip?"
The duo nodded in unison, a ray of hope filtering into their verdant reptilian eyes.
McGregor dipped his head in acknowledgement, and said without facing the Barkeep, "Three Orange whips." He smiled at his inner joke and ode to one of the greatest adventures of all time. As the barkeep moved to concoct the drinks, McGregor scanned the room, leaning back and resting his elbows on the bar. He took in the entire alcove, noticing who noticed him, and who purposefully kept their eyes away. He grew confident from his ability to observe human emotions--and intentions--at a glance and was emboldened by his effect on the people at the bar.
The Barkeep returned with the drinks and smiled. McGregor smiled back, truly seeing her for the first time. Dark silky hair flowed about her shoulders, and ample cleavage sprang from the girl's low cut, red, sleeveless shirt. Subtly brown skin glowed between the tapered top that hugged slender waist, and the low cut pants drew a perfectly curved line across her toned abdomen, two inches below the perfectly shaped bellybutton. She set the frothing drinks down. She saved McGregor's for last, and met his eyes boldly as she placed the drink before him.
He fought to maintain his casualness, as the blood in his body seemed to instantly heat, turning him to mush. Raising his eyes, he met her gaze--reminding himself she was probably just a non-gen, far his inferior--he hoped he faked his confidence well.
The twinkle in her eye told him he failed. "Where ya' from?" She asked, the words seemingly caressing his ears as they passed.
Her eyes blitzed his senses, ransacking any chance he had at a witty response. Electric in their coloration, they danced before him; depths of aquamarine mesmerized him. In all his days amidst the genetically designed eyes of the elite, he'd never seen their equal. It was too much, and he pulled his own eyes away from the sparkling pools. Reaching for the tangerine colored drink, he raised it to his lips with his right hand, hoping to sooth his countenance. He'd long ago made the habit of eating and drinking with his right hand so that his more dexterous appendage would be available for his gun if needed. Finally after setting the drink back to the bar, he answered. "Earth."
Delighted eyes lit up, and the beautiful girl couldn't hide her excitement at the answer she had hoped for. "Long way from home. Smuggler?"
He smiled internally, his confidence returning with the reminder of who he was. True confidence replaced false bravado now, knowing his answer would quickly win the girl; every woman longed to find a man of his genetic make-up. "Janitor." He didn't have time to wait expectantly for her dazzled and impressed stare; her disgust rocked him instantly. The very face that a moment ago stirred heat in his loins now sent daggers of ice through his heart.
The girl was obviously surprised by this unexpected piece of information. She recovered quickly, leaned in toward him, looked deep into his eyes and made no attempt to hide her contempt. "You sure? I can usually tell a gen-freak…I mean, gen-man--they do nothing for me."
If her initial reaction shocked him, this statement broke him. Suddenly every fear of inadequacy swelled up from the past, taking the form of beads of sweat surfacing on the back of his neck and the muscles of his legs turning to jelly. He quickly fought the irrational fears back; he'd dealt with this issue years ago, when faced with a newborn younger brother, a brother designed to perfection by his parents. A brother--who unlike himself--was not adopted. For six years before his brother's untimely death, the boy roused fear of inadequacy in McGregor's adopted heart. It only worsened after his brother's sickness, he became near deity after that, and McGregor felt ever more his inferior in the shadow of the perfect memories his mother had of her womb born son.
McGregor shook off the doubts, so he was adopted, and without papers, his parents said he came from genetically pure stock, and he made Janitor in record time--a non-gen couldn't do that! He was who they said he was. He had nothing to fear he told himself. He forced himself to stand taller; he was Sgt. C.T. McGregor, Space Janitor--gen-man! He matched her stare, waiting for her to make the next move. Her coldness held, and she stared at him with unflinching eyes of steel.
Stepping back from the bar, he pulled credits from the front pocket of his dark brown flight jacket. He forced himself to meet her gaze then tossed them on the bar. "For the clean up." The titanium chips clinked on the bar and finally drew her gaze from his. He felt released and took the opportunity to escape.
McGregor was up and moving before her eyes rose from the money. She watched him glide purposefully through the crowd toward the rear of the large tavern. Once again, he would quell his own doubts of his genetic make-up the only way he knew how--with action, and with a vengeance.
A large double door sat well protected by two heavily armed eight-foot angular faced kragors. The sentries bred for war frowned at the approaching intruder. One of them stepped forward, extending a six-fingered hand. "Halt."
McGregor ignored the command, quickening his pace. Blasters drew as one and without hesitation the kragars unleashed a barrage of laser blasts.
McGregor's hand casually brushed by his belt as the blasts reached him, a shimmering light flickered where the shots should be destroying flesh. An invisible force field absorbed the blasts with ease. McGregor's left hand was a blur as were the two darts that entered jugulars with deadly silence--the kragars crumbled--a dart protruding from each of their crimson stained necks.
McGregor stepped over the fallen mutants and pushed through the doors, his hands snagging them at their apex and flinging them shut behind him without missing a beat. He continued toward a gigantic desk centered in the elaborate, foliage filled room.
The thing that sat behind the large desk smiled, its seemingly rigid rock face curved upwards. The thing's tangerine hide covered a massively muscled nine-foot frame--he was a Grainite--a genetic mutation bred for mining the mineral planets.
McGregor stopped, glancing toward an eagle sized winged lizard that perched perceptively in an iron cage. It's emerald skin shone like fine polished leather carved to resemble scaled skin. The dragon's tongue licked the air expectantly. McGregor turned his gaze back to the brute behind the desk, coolly meeting the Grainite's smile. "Lord Grimm, I presume."
The genetically created beast ground out a laugh. "I must have done something right, for them to send one of you."
It took an act of will not to acknowledge the complement as pride surged within him, but McGregor held the beast's gaze and said casually. "You worked quickly, unfortunately for you not quietly."
The two warriors analyzed one another carefully, waiting for the other to make a mistake.
"Why'd you kill the grays?" McGregor asked, hiding his interest.
Grimm paused, then began to chuckle, then to laugh--the laughter grew to a near deafening level before he stopped cold. "Because they kill people." Grimm used the nano-second McGregor's mind strayed to go for his guns.
Pistols slid from McGregor's holsters with lightening speed, firing simultaneously with Grimm.
Two mutated thirty inch shoeless feet that rested casually on the desk became launchers, sending literally a ton of tangerine marble hurling toward McGregor who was already diving through the air, hitting the ground rolling as he fired.
McGregor's blasters ignited again and again, lasers ricocheting off the granite's hide.
Rock chips flew from Grimm as he sprinted for the door, firing a large armor piercing photon blaster at the now up and ready McGregor.
McGregor's force field took the brunt of the first blast but it didn't keep him from being knocked back, he fought to keep his balance when a second shot slammed into his chest, propelling him forcefully onto his backside. Breath purged from his lungs and then the third blast connected, slamming the Janitor's head back against stone floor and sending a ripple through his force field…it fizzled away in an electrical light melt down.
McGregor struggled to sit, gasping at the air that was still denied him, then finally finding it and expelling it again with the words. "Oh, shit!"
A massive hand grasped him by the shirtfront; jerking him from the floor and hurling him like a rag doll into the back wall. Grimm laughed again as McGregor slid down the stone to the floor.
A twenty-inch tongue lashed out from the lizard's fanged snout and McGregor heard in his mind, Better move. McGregor listened to the thought and painfully dove from the path of another photon blast. The dragon was obviously enjoying the show.
Grimm continued his march toward the doors, he turned and smiled, firing one last shot at the scrambling McGregor who--hearing the word, Move, in his mind--threw himself behind a hutch full of multi-colored roses, landing hard on already cracked ribs. Grimm laughed at the cry of pain from McGregor and he turned away.
Just as the grotesque hand reached for the double doors, McGregor grimaced with the agony of the effort, but pulled himself up from behind the hutch and shouted, "Hey Rock Face!"
Grimm turned to see a four-inch metallic disc spiraling toward him.
McGregor disappeared behind the hutch as the disc embedded into the center of the grainite's forehead. Grimm's eyes crossed upwards as cumbersome fingers reached frantically for the tiny device. Fours quick ticks later the bomb detonated and the ensuing explosion thundered through the room like a canon.
Kneeling behind the slate desk turned bomb shelter, McGregor covered his head. The concussion blast sent rocks, pebbles and grains of sand raining down upon the room and McGregor. Shortly thereafter, as McGregor allowed his eyes to rise, the leaves and pedals of a hundred roses and a plethora of herbage settled gently around him.
He rose with an aching snarl, laser blasters still in hand, pointing at the double doors--nobody entered. Breathing deeply, he stretched out his bruised and battered body. He inhaled slowly--agonizingly--testing his ribs. Sniffing, he drew in another breath, suddenly aware of the avid aroma now filling the room, enjoying the fragrance of a hundred annihilated roses. Two pistols twirled into holsters and he said wryly, "I love the smell of roses in the morning."
A snicker drew McGregor's attention to the cage, which now lay on its side. The shaken up dragon ruffled out its leathery wings then peered at McGregor.
McGregor's mind once again filled with thoughts not his as the words, Three, two, one, zero, floated through his mind. On zero the doors of the office burst open and a half a dozen kragars charged through firing upon the Space Janitor. Without his force field he was mandated to defy physics and out maneuver the blasts. His own guns reached his hands in a blur and he miraculously escaped the initial onslaught with only flesh wounds. But he only managed to bring two of the warriors down as he somersaulted his way over a table and across the room; attempting to find cover behind the large upturned desk as he unloaded on the remaining four kragars. The well-trained soldiers spread out, attempting to put their adversary in a position of crossfire. McGregor knew too well his fate if he allowed them to succeed--he would be dead.
He didn't give them a chance to think, and kept on the move. He sprang forward, guns exploding in blue rays of death, purposefully charging in the direction of the two still in the proximity of each other. They leapt apart, as did McGregor's guns, and both kragors fell from precision shots to the head.
Blood sprayed from McGregor's shoulder as a blast from one of the remaining kragars ripped across deltoid. "ARRGH!" He dropped with the hit, forcing himself to ignore the pain of landing on the very shoulder that now burned, blasting away at the attacking soldier. The leathery skinned creature crumbled to the floor across the room from him and silence stilled the air. He scanned the room from where he laid. The last kragor had gone into stealth mode. He dared not to make a sound as he slowly slid himself into a defensive position between a carved stone pedestal and the wall. His eyes darted about the room and his ears tuned to the slightest sound.
Silence.
Free Me.
Not exactly a good time for that. McGregor thought back at the dragon.
Obviously. After you win.
If I win?
You will if I help you.
I was going to free you anyway.
Thanks. Here he comes. With that thought sent, the dragon sprang to the side of his tipped cage, causing it to roll. The kragar turned toward the noise as McGregor stood up to face him. When the kragor turned back, he was looking down the barrels of McGregor's guns.
McGregor smirked. "Always good to have back-up."
The kragor nodded, glancing at McGregor's weapons.
Two titanium barrels nodded back, as McGregor quipped. "Don't even think about."
The kragor dropped his weapon.
McGregor maneuvered around him to the cage, gun and eyes on him constantly, then reached down gingerly, opening the iron door of the cage. "Stay out of my mind." He needn't have spoken, for the telekinetic lizard had already read the thought.
The dragon's snout curled in what could only be described as a snarling smile, revealing a tiny row of fangs designed for gnashing. Taking flight, it circled the room then landed on McGregor's shoulder.
"Are you kidding me?" McGregor flinched at the talons digging into his shoulder. "To the nearest planet with meat is as far as you're going." He then thought instead of said, And stay out of my mind.
Impossible.
McGregor ignored him. "Enter the dragon."
The dragon snickered despite having no way to understand the subtext.
"I'll call you Bruce."
And you…Seeker.
In a flash, McGregor holstered his pistol and pulled a dart. He squeezed its base, causing several drops of venom to disperse. "A warrior shouldn't have to die for protecting his master." Nearly impossible to see, the movement was so quick, McGregor's hand sent the dart into the kragar's jugular and the giant crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Like a pirate's prized parrot, the dragon rode McGregor's broad shoulder as he walked back into the cantina. The clientele of this establishment were used to violence, and purposefully kept their eyes and glances at bay as the Space Janitor sauntered past them and toward the bar. He threw down another wad of cash on the countertop. It didn't escape his notice that it wasn't the girl from earlier who took up the money. He quickly shoved the disappointment from his mind--he'd never see her again anyway.