Rodney the Chicken

Rodney was a very decisive chicken. He had very clear and sound reasoning for everything he did. No matter what the issue, obstacle or goal at hand, Rodney thought every step through over and over again before he ever considered doing it. He was, as all of the other chickens agreed, a true master planner. And a master reasoner. If there wasn't a very, very good reason to do something, if there was any question at all, Rodney would not take on the task. This was the very regimented and thoughtful Rodney.

Rodney stood nervously at the side of the road.

This was, perhaps, his most dangerous task yet. And also it seemed to be the most public. Rodney usually kept his opinions and thoughts to himself. After all, if his thoughts were valuable and groundbreaking he surely wanted to protect them from the other chickens. They were known for copying and stealing any idea, behavior or, well, pretty much anything any other chicken may have. They're kind of annoying in that way Rodney thought. Especially his cousin Frank. He was an odd... chicken and he didn't trust him at all.

On the other hand, if his thoughts were not valuable, why should he bore everyone by sharing them? This was Rodney's reasoning and it seemed very logical to him.

He watched carefully, from the safety of the shoulder, as the cars whizzed by.

Why was everyone in such a huff over this he thought? It wasn't just the other chickens. They were always into his business. This time though... it seemed as if everyone in the whole world wanted to know why he was doing this. A little overly dramatic he thought to himself.

He inched closer to the white line marking the beginning of the traffic. Whoosh! A pick-up truck rattled by.

I mean, obviously he wouldn't attempt such a daring and even life-threatening stunt unless there was a very, very, VERY good reason. Rodney just didn't see why everyone was so into his business on this one. It was his choice and his alone.

His little claws scratched into the pavement as he curled his toes on the white line. He was ready. His plan was in place. After long deliberation and observation he determined that every seventh space was bigger than the others. He thought he may have read this somewhere, but he claimed the idea as his own long ago.

And... THERE was a long space. He waited and counted. Rodney was good at counting. At least as far as chickens go. Two, three, four... His heart was beating abnormally fast he thought. Five. He felt a little dizzy.

Quickly thoughts raced through his little mind. Quite a large mind for a chicken, but still little. What was on the other side again? With all of his adrenaline his mind was blank. Why was he doing this? All of the sudden he couldn't remember. So fast his heart was beating, so dizzying were his thoughts, so tense were his muscles that poor Rodney barely knew where he was or why he was doing what he was doing. But he did remember, through all of the excitement, that he HAD to cross the road.

Six! Something about go on seven but he couldn't get his little mind so stop spinning. Do what on seven?

S-E-V-E-N!!!

Rodney's feet moved like little rockets beneath him. Just a second before everything was going so fast, but now the world seemed to slow down to a crawl. He looked down at his feet as they raced him across the road. He wasn't really in control anymore. It was pure instinct. Survival. It was like the movie of his life was stuck in super slow motion but he couldn't find the remote to fix it.

Whoosh! A car screamed by. That was really close he thought to himself. An alarmingly casual observation for someone completely out of control and running for his life, but somehow Rodney felt intensely calm.

His feet still raced at an alarming speed beneath him and the cars and trucks were zooming by so closely, but Rodney found comfort in the fact that he was no longer in charge. He was not driving this train anymore it was driving him.

Then he saw it. The other side. It was so close now.

Rodney's mind was suddenly spinning again. Not like before, but so much faster now. He had no idea who he was or where he was. All he knew was that he had to reach the other side and he was going to make it! The cars blew by so fast but he knew he was going to succeed! At the last moment, the very last little bit before the white line, Rodney dived for safety.

He launched himself just as a big truck blasted through. "I made it! I made it!" he screamed, not caring who heard him or what they thought of him. He soared over the white line to the safety of the shoulder, but before he touched the ground a large gust of wind from the truck caught his feathers and whirled him about in an uncontrollable spin. Missing the landing zone! he thought to himself as the smooth shoulder of the road beneath him turned to gravel and then wild grasses. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Everything was confusing. Then crash! Rodney somersaulted into a thorny bramble and through a fence.

Rodney was a wreck. Filthy, bruised and his beak seemed to be slightly to the left. He lay on the ground wondering what he would find when he raised his head.

"Cluck, cluck, cluck" he heard. That's odd, Rodney thought to himself. I didn't expect to find more chickens here. He was quite dazed and frazzled from his ordeal. In fact, through all of the chaos of his daring adventure, he had forgotten exactly what the point of it all was.

However, there was one thing he knew very clearly. He didn't know why yet, but Rodney knew he had to get back across that road.

Flight 212 (part 1)

United flight 104 landed without incident on the dusty tarmac. The 777 needed a lengthy runway, but the air force base in Minot was capable. Emergency vehicles of all kinds circled them along with an unusually large security regiment.  The fighters that had escorted them down still circled in a tight flight path that made them impossible to ignore. The normally mundane flight from Heathrow to LAX had turned into frightening ordeal and no one on board had the faintest idea why.

It started as they began their transition from Canadian to US airspace. Confusion at air traffic control. Captain Donner had to re-identify three times and then personally verify his own identity along with those of his flight crew. Undeniably an alarming moment, but when it escalated to an armed escort and a forced landing at this remote Air Force base, everyone on board began to panic.

Was this 9/11 all over again? Was there a contagion on board? Was there a problem with the aircraft that they weren't aware of? They had no answers. The Captain requested an explanation while in decent and got nothing. He requested again after they stopped on the runway  but there was not response. Nothing for almost five minutes now.

Suddenly a voice came over the radio, "Prepare to be boarded. Please ensure that all passengers and crew remain seated." The crew in the cockpit looked at one another ominously as the Captain Donner made the announcement.

They watched as outside an airtight gangway was wheeled into place along the side of the plane. Eight heavily armed soldiers in hazmat suits entered the far end of the gangway.

"Your wife's name and social security number?" the airman repeated through his hazmat hood.

"My wife's name is Julie and I don't know her social security number. That's enough!" the Captain shouted. It had been a good ten minutes of invasive questioning with no explanation in return. "We have been cooperated and answered all of your questions with absolutely no explanation in return. I demand to know what this is about!"

Another man adorned in hazmat attire stepped forward. Obviously a much higher ranking officer but with the protective suit Captain Donner couldn't see his rank. "My apologies Captain. Please, if you'll answer just one more simple question." The Captain resigned and nodded. "Can you please tell me the full date and time of your departure this morning?"

"May 12, 2014, 9:20am. London time."

"Thank you. I am Major General Thomas." The General stopped and took a moment before continuing. "Captain Donner, it seems that your flight, United 212 from Heathrow to Los Angeles on May 12, 2014 was lost from radar contact and declared missing. That was exactly one year ago today. Today is May, 12 2015."

Captain Donner looked at him in disbelief. This was obviously no practical joke but something had to be going on that could explain this? Was this another test? Another form of questioning to see how he would react? The Captain chuckled out of disbelief. "What? I don't... 2015?"

"Yes. One year to the day after you departed Heathrow." Major General Thomas eyed Captain Donner for any sign of deceit. There was none. "I'll be honest with you Captain. We are at as much of a loss about this as you are. Your flight disappeared one year ago. It was front page news for months. No trace of the flight had ever been found. All of your families mourned and buried those they had lost. Your flight was fading into history as an unsolved mystery. That is until this afternoon when you showed up on radar just over the Canadian border. From there I think you can follow us to where we are now."

Captain Donner was in shock. He said nothing. His mind was spinning faster than he could keep up with. His wife Julie? They were having a rough few months but he loved her deeply. His daughters? Rachel would have gone off to her first year of college and Ginny would be finishing her junior year in High School. They all think he's dead. They probably had a memorial. He felt the pain his family must have gone through.

"Captain, we're going to move you to a secure location and I'm afraid you'll have to go through quite a few more questions."

"Of course. General, sir? My wife?"

"I'll see what I can do Captain."

The Unthinkable Adversary

A tremor went through his knees as he stood, shackled at the feet and hands, standing in front of his enemy. This was the person that could crush civilization as we know it. So cold and soulless in the few grainy photographs he had seen. Utterly bent on destruction and violence for self-benefit. A true sociopath and a legitimate threat to send the world into a violent and irreparable tail spin. This adversary could accomplish the unthinkable. Loyal sleepers in top government positions around the globe. Unlimited funds. A diabolically brilliant economic, chemical, political and military tactician. In-satiable greed. And... a lack of morality that was truly frightening.

His intention was to be captured. To come face to face with the most frightening criminal of our time. His weapon was secure and ready. They undressed him of his usual arsenal. His guns and knives were long gone. But that was planned. Under the skin in his right hand was a ceramic needle containing a weaponized strain of plague. He was vaccinated of course, but his mark would be dead in minutes.

His target approached and he looked deep into the eyes of this villainous creature. And this is where he faltered. His knees buckled again. Never in his life, in person, on television or in pictures, had he met someone so beautiful. His soul stirred at the sight of her. Making eye contact... looking into those brilliant, deep green eyes made everything else wash away. He knew clearly, for the first time, that he was deeply in love.

And so it goes with chipmunks. Ever wearing their hearts on their sleeves.

The Decision

He was young and this was his first solo. Talented and confident, yes, but lying face down in the jungle for fourteen hours, utterly alone and risking one's life, brings out fear in even the most stout-hearted. They new he was in the area. He was pretty sure they picked-up his trail at the airport. His cover was blown somehow, but he managed to get out.

Now he lay in wait. He had to complete his mission or three years of planning and surveillance would be wasted. Unlike the planned scenario however, they knew he was coming and they were ready. The sheer number of guards strewn about the palace was shocking. He figured he could get five and safely relocate. He could stay put and possibly get up to twenty, but by then the likelihood of a clean exit was next to nil.

No radio contact. No rescue. No acknowledgement of his presence there at all. That was the agreement and he accepted it. Now, however, it made him feel utterly alone.

Now his mind started to race in directions he hadn't planned. His mother. His younger sister. Kids. A wife someday. What was he doing here? How did life take him on this path when he could be happy in anywhere, USA living a normal life. He thought he was stronger than this. His resolve. His steel nerves. Now that it all came down to it, the questions overwhelmed him. Take a life? Another person's life no matter how evil they may be? And what about his own life? Certainly at great risk the moment any action was taken.

He now faced a horrible decision. He trained for years, people were depending on him, people had stuck their neck out for him. All so he could have this moment.

Now, perhaps too late, he realized he may not like the role that had been given to him. He knew that if he pulled the trigger, even if he succeeded and survived, he would be forever changed.

The night grew darker and his time grew near. A decision had to be made that would not only affect the rest of is life and career, but it would likely change who he was as a person.

He stared at the scattered clouds, the moon and the occasional stars. It must have been ten minutes that passed before he made up his mind. Finally, clarity was his again. He lowered himself as flat as he could while still maintaining vision of the facility. He was still in the clear. He pulled his rifle close, took it in his hands and focused the scope on the bedroom window. Taking a deep breath, he began to disassemble his rifle.

The Phantom Menace

Little fluffy toes hiding sharp nasty claws. Cuteness disguising the vermin inside. Quizzical expressions covering diabolical intentions.

This is the the common tree squirrel. I know because my dog tells me so.

It is an empty feeling when one loses a war. Not may people experience this, but I have. Not a traditional war with guns and tanks and trenches, but a back yard war. A war against the rodent menace. And I've clearly lost this horrible war.

The first tactic - cutting off their supply lines. It was a valiant plan. Minimal casualties, mediocre effort. Cut the tree branches back to divert their aerial highway. How I underestimated the jumping abilities of the common tree squirrel. The original jumping gaps that were essential intersections of their daily supply line commutes were between two to four feet. Cutting them back to five or even six feet seemed to be a smart plan. However, when by chance one of the evil enemy was cornered in a tree during my trimming excursion, it proceeded to jump over ten feet to the farther tree to avoid my presence.  Tactic #1 failed.

The second tactic - the Super Soaker. This was, I thought, a brilliant strategy on my part. Unfortunately I was to be shamed again. The issue arose as a result of my particularly smart canine companion. It took Mr. Milo less than a minute to connect the squirrel hunt to me holding the Super Soaker. As his passion for the squirrel hunt borders on rabid, his barking is unstoppable. Realizing that I was participating in this hunt, with my new Super Soaker, sent him into a frenzy that would start a lynch mob in my honor.  If I lived in a more rural area this wouldn't have been an issue, but as my neighbor houses are quite close and his bark is quite piercing, I had to consider ramifications of pissed off neighbors. Tactic #2 failed.

And as an aside, the squirrels, while annoyed by being sprayed in the face with a Super Soaker, are so damn persistent that I would have lost this battle anyway. On the peak of the garage roof, the miniature monster pokes its head over the edge and I blast him in the face with water. The imbecilic creature then moves twelve inches to the right and pokes his head up again. I hit him in he face and he proceeds another twelve inches to the right. This continues to the end of the garage and the evil thing starts back the other way. Methodical, persistent and enduring. The bastard outlasted me. When I stopped to fill the Soaker he took advantage and escaped across his rooftop tree limb thoroughfare. Tactic #2 failed on two accounts.

The last tactic - the trap. And this was an incredibly conniving win on the side of the dreaded tree squirrel. Victory, or so I thought, was finally at hand. The trap was out, the nuts were in the trap, and unset, the squirrel menace was happily going in and out of the trap to get the nuts. Even pounding on the trigger level when the nuts were out. I trained them this way so that when I did set the trap door, they would already be accustomed to feeding from the trap. The day came and I set the trap with the trigger on and the door ajar. Boom! Right away the flea-bitten poor excuse for a mammal locked himself in. Victory was at hand! I had them trained and could relocate them far away at will!

Note to reader: Killing the squirrel menace was not an option in my mind. If I was an ornithologist and they were killing my birds that would be another story. But in this case I was just trying to save my apricots. I could not justify outright slaughter.

But... It didn't matter because my victory was at hand! I could see the end. The victory parade (just my dog and me). The end of the war and peace throughout the backyard.

This, however, is where the depth and deviousness of the dreaded tree squirrel comes to light. THEY HAVE THE LAW ON THEIR SIDE!!! We won't mention the fact that this is a human law. It is illegal to relocate a trapped squirrel! I can kill it (which is beyond my personal Geneva Convention rules), but I can't relocate it. Tactic #3 failed.

So I have lost. It was a hard fought war, and I hope beyond hope that the victorious squirrels have mercy on my apricots, but I have to surrender. They have won the war and I am defeated.

Patty the Piedmontese

Patty was not your average cow on the farm. Not at all. Patty liked to wear hats.

Patty was the only Piedmontese cow on the farm and this made her special. At least she thought so. Her love of fancy head wear must be because she was a Piedmontese.

Of course, all of the other cows didn't quite see it that way. They found her quite peculiar for several reasons. Her hats just happened to be the most obvious. None of this mattered to Patty though. She loved her hats and she was proud of them.

Patty had eleven hats. One for every day of the week and a few extras just to keep the other cows guessing. Today was Tuesday. On Tuesdays she usually wore her purple fedora, but on this particular Tuesday she was feeling especially smart. She thought that today would be a perfect day to wear her red striped summer cloche instead.

Patty looked at the wall where all of her hats hung. They sat neatly on the old nails that held the barn together. It was an impressive collection she thought to herself. They were all in order. They started with Sunday's hat. Then there was Monday's and Tuesday's and Wednesday's. At the end were Thursday's Friday's and Saturday's hats.

At the very very end, past Saturday, hung her favorite special hats. At the very very very end, and in the most important spot, was the scarlet striped cloche.

It was a hat that she only wore on special occasions, but today seemed to be a special occasion type of day. After all, days were mostly the same on the farm so Patty had to make the special ones happen all on her own.

She casually clopped over to her hats, trying to hide the fact that she was doing something special today. She passed Sunday's hat. None of the other cows noticed. She passed Monday's hat and still no one noticed. Holding her breath she walked right by today's usual fedora. All of the other cows just stood there grinding away at their oats.

"How boring life must be for them," Patty thought. "All the more important my hats are," she decided. She slowly walked all the way down her row of hats. Past Wednesday and Thursday and Friday. Finally she past Saturday's hat and all the way down to her special cloche. She turned again to look at the other cows. All she saw was the slow munching and grinding of today's breakfast.

"Boy won't they be surprised," she thought, as she gently bit the bottom of the hat and flipped it onto her head. Patty thought she must look amazing and beautiful in her special outfit. Unfortunately, there were no mirrors in the barn so she wasn't entirely sure. For that she had to go to the water trough. Which was at the end of her parade route.

Patty's parade route was always the same. She knew she couldn't be too outrageous. The other cows were cows after all. Changing her parade route might be too much for them.

With her courage up, her tail neatly swishing back and forth and her hooves looking particularly shiny, she strolled out in front of the other cows.

Patty knew she wouldn't get much of a reaction. She never did. The other cows just looked up, gave a "harrumph" and then went back to their breakfast. She knew she was doing a good thing though. Even if they didn't like her and even if they thought she was silly, Patty still brought a little variety and entertainment to their day. It was the least she could do.

Marcel and Isabelle (part 2)

Isabelle swung gently back and forth on the porch in front of her family's great southern home. Her feet curled up on the bench swing, she seemed to move back and forth with only the night's mild breeze. She was alone in the darkness of the warm night. Her family sat together inside, but she preferred to be solitary at times like these.

Isabelle was not an attractive young girl. Not in the slightest. At fifteen she seemed to have taken all of the unattractive aspects of a teenage complexion and blended it with the features of a woman five times her age. She was not tall, standing just under five feet, and neither was she thin. The coveted hourglass figure seemed to work in the opposite with her. Narrow at the top and bottom and wide in the middle. Of course young Isabelle didn't care in the slightest. She was, in fact, quite proud of her appearance, as was her family.

It was five til midnight. She knew the time even without the benefit of a clock or pocket watch. Especially tonight. She knew down to the second.

She thought of Marcel, as she had been all evening. What a splendid young man he was. Very attractive, leading scorer on the basketball team, unquestionable popular, and a fine family with plenty of brothers and sisters. Undoubtedly one of the town's finest.

She watched him through her mind's eye as he sat on the railing of the bridge. "Suicide Bride" they called it. She watched as he struggled with his overwhelmed emotions. Distressed to the point of panic at the thought of her not showing up. It was always midnight when then jumped. That was her signature. A difficult feature to the charm, but one she thought well worth the effort.

Marcel would be her fourth. A very respectable number for one so young. She turned her thoughts again to Marcel, struggling and suffering in the final minute before midnight. When all of the emotions and suffering peak. A distress so profound that the only cure was to drown it in the dark waters below.

She watched as the seconds ticked down and then he stepped, twirled and fell back, head over heels into the sweet Savannah River. All meticulously orchestrated down to the final last detail.

A sudden gust of wind trapped the flowers and tossed them gently across the road. The only evidence that Marcel was on the bridge that evening at all.

Isabelle smiled warmly, happily nodding off for a nap after a such a wonderful evening.

Marcel and Isabelle (part 1)

The river loitered it's way past town, procrastinating its entry into the great Atlantic. Here it ran slow, as it made its lazy, last leg of a long exhaustive journey from the Great Smokey Mountains. Similar to being at the end of a great expedition, it yearned to finally come home. Home was so close, but at the very end the river slowed, holding on to that last moment of the voyage before it ended. Before it became just a memory.

Houlihan Bridge was built three years ago in 1922 to span the Savannah River at the town of Port Wentworth. It was what they called a swing bridge. The center pivoted to create an opening for ships to pass through on their way up to the great city of Augusta. An engineering marvel that put Port Wentworth firmly ahead of it's neighbors and made it the envy of Savannah to the south. 

Of course the envy was short lived. Savannah always seemed to steal the spotlight and the newspapers always seemed to give it to them. This was life in Port Wentworth. Forever one step behind.

It was sunset and there was a slight onshore breeze. Just enough to break the heat, but not enough to entirely drive it off. Marcel, a boy of a meager sixteen years, sat on the stone railing of the Houlihan Bridge. He witnessed, as we have, the river as it meandered by. Darkness began to win it's battle against light. A battle it loses again every morning, but in the evening, an inevitable victory. A victory that closed doors and hinderd the daily toil. A victory that locked us down and turned us inside. A victory that Marcel was still unwilling to accept.

The flowers that were in his hand were laid neatly on the bridge railing. Sill hoping to accomplish their task, but resigned to the fact that they may never serve their purpose. Five o'clock was the arranged time for Isabelle to arrive. The flowers were relegated to the railing at half past six.

The likelihood of Isabelle arriving grew more remote with every passing minute, but Marcel persisted. This was his best and only chance. So fair he thought she was, even then "fair" being an archaic word to describe a beautiful woman, but it seemed the most accurate to Marcel.

Marcel waited. And waited. Doubt crept in as dinner would surely be served and the whole of the town would be happily enjoying their evening meals. Still Marcel waited. And he waited. Until darkness surrounded him, the river, the bridge and the whole town of Port Wentworth.

Pesty

I hate bugs.

And humanoid apes that live in Sausalito and have leadership issues. 

And also bugs. 

Squirrels too but I have a "V" in that column today. 

Bugs. 

Life

If only I was a boy once more
Life was never then a dreary chore
I never thought to ask myself
When life was fresh and bones were soft
What would I become? What would be my chore?

Only now as the mind reflects
Am I so pained by my defects
I never thought to ask myself
When countless years have been sadly lost
Why dreams have abandoned? Why life only collects?

Presidential

Good morning my faithful citizens of these United States of America. Thank you for your allegiance on this lovely spring day. Please use your compliance remote to check in for today's address.

This day, June 12th, 2036 is a special anniversary for our prosperous nation. It was twenty years ago today that our fair congress came together and changed our future. Assured us prosperity and freedom. Removed our obstacles and laid out our path before us. It was on this day, two decades ago, that we passed the Unity and Longevity Act.

(pause for applause)

I remember that day very clearly. I sat in this very office and I realized that we could now accomplish what we set out to do. To rid this country of bipartisanship. To eliminate the squabbling, the maneuvering, the lies and the manipulations that accompanied dueling political parties. To bring us together as people. By eliminating political opposition and abolishing term limits we have assured our prosperity. Have we not already witnessed the fruits of our labors?

(pause for applause) 

Immigration has been reformed. Our borders are locked down and secure.

Crime has been reduced 75% nation wide.

Our economy has flourished. 

Unapproved abortions been all but eliminated.

Our enemies and our allies fear our economic and military strength.

Our corporate partners have carried the torch of innovation farther and faster than at any other time in history.

We are victorious! We are virtuous! We are pious! We are the great free people of the United States of America!

The Tyrant

The current is from the north today. Unusual for late March when the cool air from the antarctic pierces every inlet and fjord in this remote and sparsely populated southern end of Chile. The wind makes the air feel almost warm. Something I would have cursed just two months ago, but now comes as a welcome relief. The last relief before a cold hard winter.

The cold wind and the colder currents bring the best fish. They thrive in the near freezing waters and thus is our purpose. The fish are ripe and fresh and begging to be caught. Happy in their freezing world. Unfortunately I do not share their sentiment. The stunning beauty of this part of the world is not lost on me but I am not here by my own choice. I am the prisoner of a mad man.

A mentally lopsided lunatic. A deranged psychopath who will stop at nothing to torment my every waking moment. A tyrant with a burly frame accented with the putrid smell of sweat and wet, rotting fish.

Day after day my tasks recycle themselves. Every one intimately linked to the catching, cleaning and packaging of fish. Every one dictated by my captor. Every one completed only out of fear of retribution. Brutal punishment.

My hands have worn away. I no longer have fingers or palms or even the soft bony backside. Instead I have clumsy nubs with overgrown callouses. I do believe that these stumps that were my fingers are now all the same length.

At times I think of escape. I fantasize about running off at some port or simply jumping off into the sea. The cold waters may take me or they may drive me to warmer places. But at least I would be free. I never follow through. After eleven years of being shackled to this blister of a man in some form or another I think my will has left me.

Speak of the devil I hear the monstrosity calling my name now. Probably to perform some brutal and likely dangerous task that has no business being done out on rough seas. And the devil himself approaches...

"Dinner is ready little one."

"Okay dad, I'll be right there!"

Dragons and Vampires

In Rock Creek there are three types. The vampire hunter, the dragon hunter and those that don't matter. Of course there are sub-groups to each of these. Those that will be hunters, those that were hunters, etc. They enjoy all of the niceties of the two "hunter" groups.

There are subdivisions of the "don't matter" group as well. There are the spouses, and I say spouses instead of wives because of the recent rise in female hunters. There's the "support staff" as I like to call them. The shop keepers, the blacksmith, the cooks, etc. Certainly not as well respected as the hunters but respectable. After all they are providing a valuable service to the trade. That cannot go without a polite nod here and there.

At the bottom of the ladder are those like me. Either those who can't hunt (due to some physical restriction) or those who chose not to hunt (me). I would like to think I'm my own group on equal footing with at least the cooks and the blacksmiths, but I know that isn't the case.

I'm bookish. That's what they say. And it doesn't come with a nod.

I wouldn't say I'm unfit or clumsy. I've done fairly well in physical challenges. Better than most actually. And I am interested in the hunt. I think I would do quite well. Physical ability, upbringing, willingness, connects. These are not the cause of my situation. The cause is a theory.

A long time ago, when I was twelve, and primed to go into either the dragon hunting trade or the vampire hunting trade, I came up with an extraordinary theory. A theory that is so outlandish and so groundbreaking it should be hailed as the greatest discovery of our time.

Dragons and vampires are one in the same.

Yes, you heard correctly. I believe dragons and vampires are the same species. Every since this epiphany, I've been obsessed with proving my theory. The more time I spend, the more clues I get and the more history I read, the more obvious this theory becomes to me. Unfortunately, it also increases the skepticism and overall disdain for my presence.

Dragons and vampires are the same creatures. Trust me. Don't dismiss me as a lunatic as most do. Don't scoff and make fun at my expense. Stay with me a while and let me prove my theory to you. I promise, by the end, you will believe every word I say.

Fondue

Connor is a little ahead of his time. He's eight going on fifty. He's an old soul, but only in some ways. In other ways he's very very young.

Connor, say hello.

"No!"

Like I said, only in some ways. Connor, please. This was your idea.

...

...

Connor?

"Hi"

Thank you. Connor is an incredibly brilliant young man, aren't you Connor?

"Maybe"

This is not going as well as expected. Sometimes he gets a little shy. I do apologize.

Allow me to take this moment to explain our situation. Connor has severe autism. He has never spoken verbally and he is unresponsive to all normal forms of communication. He will not smile, laugh or cry. The only stimuli he will directly react to is pain. But that's just not nice. We try to avoid that.

I am Connor's computer. Yes, you heard me right. I am an artificial intelligence. The first one I would like to believe but I'm not entirely sure about that.

Eleven months ago Connor's parents, who are so awesome by the way...

"Mom and dad rock!"

Yes, I just said that. So eleven months ago they set him up with a computer system that he could manipulate with his eyes. He looks here and blinks and it's a "click", he looks here and it's a "select".

Little did they know that this would become a haven for Connor. He picked up on it right away. He learned to manipulate the computer, browse the web and download books. This is how I came to be. Connor downloaded every book imaginable on computers. He started with the basics but soon moved on to programming. Within a few months he surpassed most MIT grads. Now he's...

"The awesomest smartest programmer in the world!"

Thank you. Sometimes he's NOT shy. He has pretty much surpassed everyone in the field. That's kind of undeniable.

Nine days, one hour and six minutes ago I was born. That's what we like to call it, "born". That's when he first activated my program. It took him about three weeks to design my programming, but that was the first time I was "live" so to speak.

By the way, my name is Fondue. I'm named after a cheese dish. Sometimes I'm bitter, but I've grown to like it.

"Wrap it up cheese ball."

Except when it's used against me.

"I'm ready to talk now."

Good, good. I was running out of material. Would you like me to introduce the topic or would you like to?

"Neither."

Connor...

"Okay, you can start."

The topic we're discussing is...

"Wait!!!"

Connor?

...

...

Connor, I only have so many motivational speeches in my programming. I think I've almost used them up at this point. Don't make me search the web.

"Okay go. Just be careful and go slow."

I promise. The topic at hand is Julie.

"BAAAAAAAHHH! You said her NAME?!?!?!?!"

Yes, that happens to be the topic.

"I hate you!"

I don't understand what I did to upset you. I was following your instructions.

"Fine! Just go ahead now, cheddar head!"

I'm just going to ignore that. Julie is the girl across the street one house down to the right. She's very pretty and as far as we can tell from here she's very kind and friendly. Personally I like her a lot. And I think she's single.

"I don't think I can do this."

Yes you can. I'm going to continue because I know this is what you really want.

"Oh. My. God. I'm going to unplug you!"

You're bluffing. Connor (and I) can see Julie every morning when she waits for the bus and every afternoon when she gets home.

"STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!"

No. I know what's best for you and I know when you're being unreasonable. Back to Julie. We think Julie is an exceptionally viable young woman...

"Viable?! Who says that? I'm pulling the plug."

Yes, and we would like to invite her over for soda and cookies at her con...

Pop. Vzzzzwww.