Life As I Play It

I mentioned in the new home page that this blog reflects my journey to know myself. It was a preface for this entry.

Do you know how much you can glean from someone simply by shutting up and paying attention? If I’m good at my job (and I seem to be) then it’s not because I talk, because I don’t think I talk that well. It’s because I know how to listen.

So many people eagerly run off at mouth, wasting time and space by saying nothing. They may be spewing words, but it’s nothing intelligent. You’ve met them; the type of people who take small talk to the next level, the ones who have to dominate every conversation they’re in, who have to be the center of attention in anything they do. I’ve found that people who do this habitually either have a need for attention, or are trying to hide something. Not necessarily something malicious, just something they don’t want you to see. Shame, for example.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. But this is just my life experience.
A gift I inherited from my father is my ability to read people, mostly by looking into their eyes. Mouths lie; eyes don’t.

Through the years, the ability to read people has probably kept me alive. Stripping away the illusions of what I was dealing with (and what I was becoming) better prepared me to take it on when the time came. And while it undoubtedly saved my life, it destroyed my faith in the human race.

People are scum, for the most part; they may befriend you to your face and tear your down behind you, and that’s the least of it. In my time, I’ve come across a man who beat his own mother to death with a baseball bat simply because she wouldn’t give him drug money (true story), people who whore out their own children to pay debts or feed habits, other people who find pleasure in ruining children…the list goes on.

In the end, most people will do what they want, regardless of the consequences, and I think it’s repulsive. For the longest time, it’s why I wanted to be left alone.

It’s also why I prefer developing online relationships instead of real-life ones. People tend to reveal the best of themselves online, smoothing the transition to real-life if you ever take it that far. Also, I’ve met more like-minded people on the internet, especially since I went straight.

And, to be honest, I’m no different. I used to tell myself that I wasn’t a bad person because of who I was punishing. The fact is, I was a bigger monster than anyone I took on, and I didn’t want to face up to it. That life is long behind me now, and there’s no shame in admitting I was wrong.

My attitude used to be; the world can self-destruct for all I care, just leave me out of it. As long as my soul is assured, I don’t have anything to worry about, right?

Yeah, right.

My problem lately is that I have not seen malice when looking into people’s eyes. I have no idea how to deal with that. Mostly I seal up and push people away.
I look into the eyes of people now and I see beauty, I see passion, I see forgivable faults, I see innocence, I see love, I see genuineness, I see compassion…none of these things I’m used to. I find myself unable to maintain eye contact because I’m afraid these eyes will see right through me, and the monster I used to be.

Again, this may be why I’m good at my job; I’m great at short-term engagements with people I’ll never meet. We get on the phone, we shoot the breeze, we hang up, end of story. I’m not so good at the long-term thing. Ask anyone who’s been with me.

God did not intend for us to live in solitude, and on the other side, I have no idea how to reach out. I wonder now if everything I went through was meant to destroy my faith in humanity, only to see if I was strong enough to find it again.

I can’t run from who I used to be; if anyone chooses to get close to me, then I have to be honest and hope they can deal with it. But I am who I am.

So I present myself to the world, nervous as all hell but confident; this is who I am, now show me who you are.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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The tenderloin area of San Francisco is not a nice place to be, and for this, you don’t often hear about it unless you’ve experienced it, or you’re being warned to stay away.

It’s not a large area; a triangular-shaped piece of land that runs behind Market street to Leavenworth. It’s the dirtiest type of ghetto; not even the grime is fresh. An inescapable, sour odor is present throughout the entire district, like week-old garbage. Last week’s newspaper tumbles aimlessly down the road, caught in a California breeze. A man who has been homeless long enough to resemble the building he lays against slowly reaches for the paper, buying himself a few minutes of amusement. I feel no pity for him; I’ve been hustling here for a long time. If you’re homeless and starving in the City, then you’re doing something wrong.

Or you don’t want to get caught by the wrong people.

Adult stores are adjacent to dingy, pay-by-the-hour motels. I always imagined this made it easy for the prostitutes to make money. People would leave the adult stores looking for a quick fix, the prostitutes who looked the best and charged the least didn’t have far to take their customers. Yet, four blocks up the road, there’s a large, gated park that comes to life with the sounds of excited, happy children. If you focus on the children, you’re won’t see the crack-addicted single mothers who come here looking for a fix. Nor will you see the toothless homeless men who act as middlemen for the crackheads.

But if you focus on the children, and the four-story Virgin Megastore down the block at the corner of Powell Street, this can almost be a happy place. If you know everyone, you’re fine. I used to come up here once a month, pick up my monthly allotment of food stamps, and unload them just as quickly. Sometimes I would enforce for the homeless, collecting outstanding debts.

Ironically, across the street from an adult bookstore and equally adult movie theater is a police station. It may as well not even be there.

It’s morning, thirteen years ago. I’m staying at one of these hourly motels, courtesy of the City. I attend school once a week and work nights as a security officer at the local Carl’s Jr. (referred to as Hardees in the Midwest). This morning, I’ve been up all night; as the sun rises, I want is sleep. At this point, my parents and I are not on speaking terms.

These are Busterwolf’s humble beginnings; I’m untested, inexperienced, and only my associations with the right people keep the killers from coming after me. Although Daune, my friend and mentor, often tells me; I will be tested soon enough. At this point, I’m foolish enough to look forward to it.

I enter the Aranda motel. The Iranian immigrant who knows just enough English to collect rent nods, grunting as I pass the bulletproof glass he lives behind. This place has been robbed four times and three people have been killed in the very spot he stands. I don’t blame him, but secretly, I wonder if the glass is enough.

The elevator is one of those ancient ones, where you have to jerk open the heavy iron accordion-gate and then watch your surroundings as the elevator struggles to raise you, shaking and shuddering every step of the way. I take the stairs. It’s only three floors. I need the cardio.

I use the common bathroom at the end of the hall (these rooms don’t have bathrooms) and then ignore my loud, angry neighbors as I make my way to my room. Sleep comes quickly, but two hours later, I’m roused just as suddenly.

What happens next, I will never forget.
A girl is screaming. Not the playful, happy screaming that comes from being with ones friends or even the uncomfortable scream that comes only when one is unsure what else to do. No, this is a scream for help, echoing from the depths of her soul, without the slightest hint of playfulness. This girl is screaming for her life.

Instantaneously awake (you learn not to sleep hard in unfamiliar surroundings) I go to the window right of my bed and hoist it up. There is a young girl barreling around the corner, from the right. I remember thinking that she was way too young for me to think she was so pretty. She could’ve been Native American; tan with long black hair that went to about her elbows. She was dressed in tight pink pants, and it was hampering her ability to run. Still, that wasn’t stopping her from trying. She was fading fast; screaming and the too-tight pants were taking their toll. That’s the youngest hooker I’ve ever seen.

A gaudy pink Cadillac that could’ve been stolen from Prince’s lot also barrels audibly around the corner. It cuts her off, tearing up its underside as it plows its way onto the sidewalk and ramming into the dilapidated chain-link fence. A-Pimp-Named-Slickback’s dark side, looking like an extra from a seventies blaxploitation film, angrily gets out of the car even as the girl presses up against the fence, her hands raised with her elbows tucked to her ribs. The scream has become a squeal. I can’t understand what the pimp is saying, but I’m sure it’s about money. I can’t stop watching.

He grabs her by the hair, leaning in close, shaking firmly; he owns her. I can’t hear it, but I can read the body language. Her face is shining, she’s crying so hard. With her face raised to the sun, I finally see how young she is; can’t be older than twelve. What is this guy doing with her?

My arm hurts and I don’t know why. I realize that I’m clenching a fist, squeezing so tightly that my muscles are strained. Fuck this, I’m going down there—

He pulls something from his pocket, something black and reflective. He steps away from her, presses it to her head, and with a deafening boom the entire city can hear, something wet blows out of the back of the girls head, and she falls limp to the ground.

It’s as though I took a punch; I fall back to the floor and land hard, and I know I’m saying ohGodohGodohGod over and over again, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t know what I’m thinking, nor feeling. I’ve never seen anyone murdered before. She’s dead. She was there screaming just a minute ago and now she’s dead, it was a gun, he had a gun and he killed her—

I don’t know how long I sat there. When I returned to the window, she hadn’t moved. I was hoping she would. But she just lay there as if sleeping, feet outstretched onto the sidewalk, palms up,  head listed to the side, the chain link fence now a deep red.

Hours later, the Tenderloin has come to life. People walk past her as though she’s not even there. It’s not the first dead girl they’ve seen. It won’t be the last.

When I compose myself, I’m able to go down and look. I can’t take my eyes from her, and she would’ve been beautiful had she reached adulthood. I wonder if I should’ve done something. Could I have done anything? I thought I could. I know now that I couldn’t have.

I’m sorry.

Daune is the only person I tell this to. He advises me to keep my mouth shut. First rule of the street; mind your own business.

The tenderloin area of San Francisco is not a nice place to be, and for this, you don’t often hear about it unless you’ve experienced it, or you’re being warned to stay away.

Or you don’t want to get caught by the wrong people.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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These are some of the questions I’ve fielded about my former life;

“Why do it?”
“What do you get out of it?”
“Why did you do it for so long?”
“Why didn’t you do something else?”
“Why did you do something so violent?”

All these questions have come with a certain level of incredulousness and a look that questions my sanity. And I suppose, in hindsight, it would seem a little abnormal to do something so detrimental to one’s health for so long. I’ve never been able to articulate it myself, until now.

What does one gain from fighting?

We are a competitive people. We always have been, probably always will be. We compete instinctively, whether or not we’re even aware of it. It’s through competition that we weed out those who are not as good as others.

We reward competition, too; we give raises, better offices, better perks. We give medals, put them on TV, and make them stars. Like it or not, we are a society that rewards people for being the best.

Fighting, in this case, the act of two people physically beating upon one another until one falls, is competition at its purest. It is the very first method we used to determine who was better than the other; it was a contest of sheer strength that left no room for question. You either won or you lost.

Fighting in this era has so many meanings that it’s difficult to explain them all, so I’ll try to define the ones that make the most sense to me.

Fighting with someone is like being forced to look into a mirror. You can bullshit the entire world, but you’ll never bullshit the reflection. In the heat of a fight, when you can identify the parts of you that will hurt tomorrow, you learn who you really are. No illusions, no nothing. You either conquer that fear within you right then and there, or you let it overwhelm you. But either way, you face up to it.

It’s not for everyone.

As people, we have to put a lot of masks on in a given day (something I hope I never understand). Mostly, it comes down to pretending to like someone you’d really like to shove into a trash compactor. (For the record, I hate this, I’d rather just leave the person alone than put up an act).

Fighting strips away all the politics, all the drama. You know why you may end up being friends with someone after a fight, even if you were enemies before? Because you come away with a new respect for one another. Again, when you fight, you don’t just find out who you are, you find out who your opponent is. The best fights in my life were with people who plain and simply refused to back down. I had quite a few battles end where we just smiled, laughed, and just agreed to call it a day. I maintain some of those friendships to this day.

The best aspect of a fight is something I can only describe as transcendant. It just happens, and to me, honestly, it can be better than sex.
You leave rational thought behind. You stop planning your next move. Your senses heighten and you can feel every millisecond tick right by.You don’t know what you’re going to do next, but you have to trust that it is the right move for the occasion. This is where training kicks in; physical memory takes the place of rational thought and you quite literally live in the moment. In these moments, both combatants are capable of extremely devastating, yet simultaneously beautiful things.

Some people call it going with their gut. I actually took it a step further and applied my instincts to every day life. I’m still learning how to use logic and reason, but I have the sharpest instincts in the book. I can still glean a lot from people by looking into their eyes.

As with all things, there is a dark side to fighting, and I lived it for very long. Fighting is a great way to release anger. Nothing matches the sensation of connecting your knuckles to someone’s jaw and knocking them to the ground. It’s the most primal sense of dominance in the world, to physically knock someone to the ground. Even if it’s for a second, the next time they look at you, they’re scared. They wonder what will happen if they get up (but if they do, you better be ready for it. They won’t want to talk).

I no longer fight, but most of life’s lessons I learned from fighting. Now what I’m working on is the skill aspect; random sparring matches just to see how much better I’ve gotten. This is my last point; fighting allows you to see how much further you’ve progressed since your last encounter.

Like I said, it’s not for everyone, but it worked for me. Fighting is a chance to see both you and your opponent at their purest. It’s painful, brutal, potentially dangerous…and incredibly educational.

Attempt at your own risk.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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We have a tradition. It is not to be taken lightly, nor is it to be ignored. Refusing to honor what we have worked so hard to set up was disrespectful, and meant that we’d probably kick your ass later.

Today, I’m wondering if the ass-whopping might be the better option. I have to travel the furthest, coming all the way from San Leandro to meet the others. It is not a good day for traveling; the skies are a rumbling, gray, ticking time bomb threatening to burst at any moment, and there is no special unit to avert what’s coming. I peer at the rolling clouds from my second story window; thunder and sheet lightning mark the countdown to the inevitable. When it gets here, it’s going to be big.

But we have a tradition, and traditions cannot be ignored.
And so I gather my heavy black duffel bag, packed with a day’s worth of clothes–I’m going to need it–and rouse my son. It doesn’t take much, he’s been psyched about this all week. He’s only four, but every bit the little badass I was as a child. If I had left without him, he probably would’ve swam across the Bay to catch up. This is his first time on the train, and his first time taking part in the tradition.

It takes him less than fifteen minutes to dutifully make his bed, which consists of a sheet and a worn, thin comforter adorned with race cars. He has a little, brightly-colored backpack of his own that holds two days worth of clothes. I expect him to get much dirtier than I will.

It’s about a mile between our house to the train station, and we have to walk. In his zeal, he barely adheres to the rules of the road, haphazardly crossing the street. I struggle to keep my eyes on him while cautiously watching the sky. Thunder and lightning burst with more frequency, the clouds tumble over each other and illuminate with nature’s madness. We don’t have much time.

Blessedly, we get to the train station dryly. He insists, jumping and reaching for my wallet, that he buys his own ticket, like a big boy. I relent. I’m more concerned with his catching cold anyways. Why did I think it was a good idea to dress him in short sleeves?
He spots the hot dog vendor at the entrance to the gates, and the immigrant looks as though he has better things to do. I explain to my son why hot dogs are bad at seven in the morning. I’m a hypocrite; if he wasn’t there, I would’ve ordered two.

He will not sit down on the train, and luckily, the car is vacant enough to allow him to run around freely. When the train starts and stops suddenly, he loses his balance suddenly, and I have to stifle a laugh. It must happen twenty times between San Leandro and San Francisco. It never fazes him. He may as well be at a toy store, going through the empty seats like a maze and trying to identify evey location on the map, which is bright enough to glow in the dark.

Only when we depart from 12th Street, and descend underwater, does he finally settle down. We’ve descended into the tunnel that runs beneath the Bay, only the tubes along the wall provide any illumination. It’s unsettling to him, and suddenly, he wants to get off the train now.

Luckily, the darkness doesn’t last long. By the time we arrive at Powell Street, I’m only ten minutes late. Not enough to warrant a violation of our tradition.
The station rumbles as though caught in the grip of an Earthquake, and I hear what sounds like Heaven’s army speed-marching on the ground above us as thunder heralds their arrival. The storm is here.

We have a tradition, and it cannot be ignored.
I take a brief moment to secure my young son’s raincoat while wishing I had brought one. We make our way up the stairs where Fernando, who is also bound to this tradition, awaits. Large, muscular, and light-skinned for a Latino, he looks as though he was growing impatient. “Nando” was never late to anything in his life. We joke that he set an appointment for his own birth.

My son and I pile into his Escalade, which is pristine white and two months old. We make small talk, filling each other in on the details of our work week and talking about the upcoming event. My son takes to him immediately. I become the bad guy when I refuse to let my son sit in Nando’s lap and take control of the Escalade.

At twenty-three years, I have never seen rain like this. It moves horizontally, pressed by the wind. Nando’s windshield wipers squeak annoyingly as they fly back and forth across the windshield, doing their job and keeping us alive. The only way we know someone’s head of us is by watching the red of their rear-lights. Nando has a pretty good sense of direction; he’ll get us to where we need to go, even if the Armageddon hits. Considering the storm we’re in, that may have been a bad analogy. But I don’t say antyhing.

We arrive at Golden Gate Park right on time. Jake, the smallest of us, awaits with Mike, the most wiry. Of all of us, Mike had the best shot of going pro. A knee injury had killed any aspirations of a pro career, and although I didn’t know it at the time, a much road lay ahead of me. But that’s for another day.

Neither the soft-spoken, pale Jake nor the dark-skinned, comical Mike have ever met my son, who wastes no time introducing himself. My son is perpetually happy; he’s immediately a hit. But enough talk; he wants to play. Luckily, Mike’s girlfriend came with him, and she brought her godson with her. Poor Travis has no idea what he’s in for.

In the meantime, the tradition must be honored.
Nando and I partner up. Mike gets Jake. It’s strength vs. speed.
Nando produces the well-worn football, the one that is slowly coming apart at the seams. It will be put to the test today.
Jake and Mike win the coin toss. Surprisingly, Nando and I will start with the ball.

The game is unimportant (but we won, I feel a need to say that). We discovered quickly that passing was impossible; the ball was barely visible through the rain. Limited to running plays, the game was more of a fistfight, and not one of us left the game intact. Best friends inflicted bruises, hard knocks, cheap shots, and low blows in their quest to win the weekend game. In the end, strength won out.

My son was unrecognizable, caked in mud by the time we were done. As always, we went back to Nando’s house, where we cleaned up, ordered pizza, and watched the Niner’s game. As the night went on, more people showed up, and one person made the mistake of disparaging the niners with my son present. My son proceeded to promptly step on his foot before storming off to the bathroom. We all got a kick out of it.

The following morning, injuries and all, we said our goodbyes. My son and I returned to the West Bay Area and better weather than when we had left; blue skies had returned to California.  My son had barely gotten in before he let loose with his new memories, embellishing and treating them as a new toy as he relayed the weekend to his mother. That following week, I returned to work.

The weekend would be there soon enough. We would soon be back in Golden Gate park.

Although we had all agreed to never stray from the tradition, we had never said that it couldn’t be added to. My son had become apart of our tradition, and never again would I travel across the Bay without him again.

For now, more than ever, this tradition could not be ignored.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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I just wrapped up a two-hour conversation with a very good friend back on the west coast, and felt a need to share what I’d taken from it.

I am very proudly a nerd. In fact, I’m listening to the soundtrack to “Shinobi 3″ right now. Marvel and Halo 3 posters adorn my wall, along with a shrine of old, well-worn lightsabers and NERF guns. I enjoy reading, video games, japanese animation, inane humor, speaking in multisyllabic words, and writing. I enjoy learning and expose myself to as much as I can in hopes of coming away with something new.

In addition to what’s above, I also pay all of my own bills, I do my own cooking, cleaning, and food shopping, I love my children very much, and I put my responsibilities ahead of my desires (which is why a part of this blog is called ‘The Last Opinion’. Having responsibilities often means that I won’t be first in line for the new movie or game). This, I learned tonight, is the new kind of nerd; the ones who put their responsibilities first and have achieved the maturity that comes with sacrifice.

The nerds have grown up, even if the rest of the world can’t (refuses to) see it.

A great source of my anger comes from people’s pre-judging me just because of this. It’s not entirely their fault; when you think of the word “nerd” what comes to mind? Someone overly intelligent with an annoying voice? Some short, skinny guy who flaunts how smart he is? Someone you can beat up?

It makes me angry that people automatically make presumptions of me and then outcast me. I’ve learned to run with it; I won’t change who I am to please someone. But I’ll admit that it stings just a bit, knowing that I can be the best friend you could ever have…a lot of us can, if people can see past the prejudices because our interests don’t align with what’s (supposedly) popular.

Then again, there are the old nerds–we all know at least one. The one who makes the rest of us look bad. The one who refused to grow up. The one who has to have everything they want right now, the one who thinks they know everything about everything when in fact they know nothing. You want to punch them in the nose, except you feel bad for them…because you were there once. We may have outgrown it, but we were all the lonely, desperate outcast once.

What I’ve found with the new nerds is that we all have high ambitions. Mine, particularly, brought sharply into focus by tonight’s conversation, are a lot to hope for.

I want a family. I want a wife, I want my kids (maybe even one more), I want to be a full-time writer, and I want to own my own home. And I want all of this by the time I’m forty.

Nerds can be ruthlessly ambitious–we have to be, we have to work harder for it–and I’m no exception. After so many years of trial and error, I know what I can and cannot do…and I won’t stop chasing my dreams until I achieve them.

Yes, a lot of us want a lot.
But we tend to reach our goals, too. Years of adversity have taught us how to fight.
My name is Avery K. Tingle, and I am a nerd in the new millenium. Thank you for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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BOOM!
As though God had turned the world into a snow-globe, the world shook violently as a deafening explosion rocked the juvenile detention facility. Immediately forced from sleep, Sean was sent hurtling from his bed, flying through the air before crashing onto the cement floor a few feet away. His funny bone absorbed the impact, sending a shocking jolt through the underside of his arm and numbing his last two fingers. A dull roar manifested in his head as he rolled onto his back, grunting, squinting as he forced himself to focus. He had been right along. This was really happening. Whatever had hit, it had hit his cell block.
“You’re not hurt.” The omnipresent, firm, yet always pleasant voice spoke. “There isn’t much time. You have to hurry.”

As if on cue, a loud, electronic buzz went off, and the heavy bolt inside of his door released, allowing the orange steel to open. Slowly, the pain receded in his head as feeling returned to his arm. A rapid-fire, high-pitched, warbling alarm resonated throughout the jail even as the other inmates stampeded towards freedom or death, whichever found them first.
Pain gave way to fear as Sean slowly got to his feet. “Not hurt, my ass.” He grumbled, “When was the last time you had a body?”

The voice chuckled as Sean peered out of his cell. The drab gray hallway was now flooded by orange jumpsuits, their wearers frantically trying to escape.

“Are you sure about this?” Sean asked cautiously, silently so that no one heard him. He had already been branded as a rich-kid screw up, making him an easy target. He didn’t need the ‘insane’ moniker too. “Maybe we could just…I dunno, call the cops or something.”

“Did you really just say that?” The voice replied, filling the entire hallway and making Sean wonder how no one else heard him. “You’ve grown up, Sean.”
“I just don’t want to die like this.” Sean confessed, leaning back into his doorjamb. Amazing; no intercom, no nothing. It’s like the guards just left us.
“One day, we all die.” The voice said, the pride in its voice replaced with a hint of sadness. “But this is not your day. Now go.”
Sean hesitated. Stepping out of this cell would make him an escaped fugitive. Following through with the Voice’s plan would soon make him the most wanted criminal in America, maybe the world. Hell of a jump from petty theft…
An air-to-ground missile just hit the jail. Who do you think they were aiming at?

“GO!” The voice bellowed, echoing through the hallway.

Sean sprinted, leaving rational thought behind. He moved against the sea of inmates, who all but ignored him. At the end of the hallway was a staircase to the left that led down, a sign above the door read “LAUNDRY”. A moment of fear passed through him before he bound down the steps, three at a time. He turned to the right after three leaps and continued downward, the corridor growing darker and more claustrophobic before entering the poorly-kept laundry facility. The room was large, gray, and industrial sounding with four large, army-green washer/dryers. This room had a much darker purpose normally, and the dried blood stains on the floor told the story, even if inmates didn’t.

Sean took a deep breath as he entered. He never came down here. He was given a year for his first offense, and minimal security because he wasn’t a violent offender. He didn’t pull laundry duty. Sweeping and dishwashing had been his chores. He caught flak from the other inmates because of his skinny frame and reluctance to fight, but all that had gone out the window now. Once he believed the Voice was real, and not a figment of his imagination, he had followed its instructions. A month later, thanks to the weights, he had begun to bulk up…but nothing took the place of experience, and Sean had never been in a fight in his life. Now he had to win the only one that mattered.

The alarm could still be heard, but the sound had faded. There was nowhere to hide in the laundry room; the washer/dryers were flat against the wall and each other. The only other items in the room were two old wooden tables, both of which sported large blotches of dried blood on their edges, and the floor beneath them. Serial killer’s paradise…

“He’s in here.” The Voice came, anticipating Sean’s thoughts. Again, Sean wondered how no one else could hear it. The Voice seemed to take up the entire jail. “Where?” Sean replied silently.

“There.” The Voice replied. “Beyond the washer…”

Even as the Voice said it, Sean saw him; squatted to the right of the last washer/dryer, setting the device that would kill them all.  Sean never knew his real name, didn’t want to know his real name, but everyone called him “Blood”. He was a lifer; as soon as he turned eighteen, he was transferring to one of the state’s adult, maximum security prisons. That’s what you got when you mowed down fifteen people.
Blood wasn’t much to look at. He was short, skinny, jet-black hair, long hands. He didn’t look like the kind of person who enjoyed killing people. Nor had he indicated enjoyment at his trial. Instead, he had only spoken cryptically when asked why; “Because she told me to.”

“Are you ready?” The voice asked, one last time. Sean nodded. “I’m never going to hear from you again, am I?” Sean asked hesitantly, mesmerized as he watched Blood meticulously set what could only be a bomb, about the size of a shoebox. “You will.” The Voice replied reassuringly, “When you need me again.”

As though a wind pressed around him, Sean distinctly felt something leave him.

He took a deep breath. “Blood.” He stated. The black-haired boy looked up at him, his eyes almost innocent. “Sean.” He smiled. “I wondered when you were going to get here.”

Blood rose and moved away from the shoebox, which was now ticking. Sean frowned. “Were you expecting me?”
Blood shrugged, as though the answer was obvious. “Of course. You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?”
Sean slowly shook his head; the depth of this boy’s insanity was unfathomable. Just what the hell had made him this way? “I’m not here to kill you.” Sean exhaled, finding the very thought repulsive, “But I…” He gestured to the bomb, “I can’t let you do this! Why do you want to do this?”

“She told me to.” Blood replied. The casual coldness in his voice chilled Sean, as Blood continued, “it’s time, don’t you see? The war’s begun, and my mistress needs soldiers–”

Sean suddenly sprang forward, using reflexes that he didn’t know he had, and caught Blood cleanly with a front hand jab. Blood’s head snapped back and then fell forward, like some hideous jack-in-the-box. Again, Sean came forward, catching Blood cleanly with another jab. Again, the head bounced back and forth, but when Blood recovered, his teeth were bare, his eyes bloodshot. With a horrifyingly inhuman shriek, he lunged towards Sean, hands extended for his throat.

Sean was able to catch Blood’s wrists, but his weight threw Sean off balance, and the two went to the ground. Sean screamed as he took the brunt of the impact on his back, releasing Blood’s right arm. As they fell, Blood screamed manically as he slashed violently across Sean’s face once, twice, three times. Sean tasted copper as it felt as though he was being hit by a bat with nails. Stay focused. Stay together.

As the voice had told him, Sean curled his knee to his chest, planting his heel against Blood’s abdomen and then thrust outwards. Blood was sent flying backwards, and Sean hurriedly scrambled to his feet even as the real thing ran down his face. Sean attacked quickly; a right punch, right across the jaw, a left punch, across his eye, making the brain bounce around in the  skull, and then with everything he had, he stepped back into him and drove a final right punch cleanly across Blood’s jaw. Sean watched Blood’s eyes glass over as the final punch sent him helplessly to the floor, completely unconscious.

The ticking. Breathing quickly, trying to compose himself, Sean looked to the bomb. Just do as the voice told you…
Sean squatted, taking the device in. There was no readout; no telling how much time was left. The entire device was explosive, and it was enough to level the jail. There were two curled wires that ran from the soft block to the digital clock on top that didn’t seem to be working. Sean gently pulled the blue wire loose from the small square clock, and the ticking stopped.

“It’s time to go.”
Sean didn’t think he’d hear the voice again so soon, but he didn’t ask questions. Time slowed to a crawl. He rushed  to all fours, clutching the blue wire, as again God shook the world and a tremendous explosion destroyed the outer wall of the laundry room. As huge chunks of debris flew horizontally into the room, Sean frantically scrambled to the opposite side of the washer/dryers, even as huge rocks impacted the machines, resonating like thundering cymbals. It was the longest fifteen seconds in history.

Sean’s ears rang; his hearing would return shortly. Sunlight greeted him as he peered around the machines; the missile had provided him with the way out. Freedom lay beyond, even the electrified, barbed-wire fence now lay on the ground in ruins. The city beyond appeared to be burning.

Sean slowly stood up, catching Blood in his peripheral vision. The boy had been blown onto his back by the explosion, blood running from his ear, his eyes and mouth open, staring at, and saying, nothing. Half of his body lay under the rubble.

Sean didn’t know what to do with all of the emotions running through him, but one thing rang true; the Voice had been right, about everything. The war it had spoken of was now upon them, and he was indeed a target. He was a target because he was intimately familiar with those who had brought this about, and he had been given such a hefty sentence because they wanted him out of the way. When they didn’t think incarceration was enough, they had tried to kill him. They failed.
Although he never thought they were capable of such heinous acts, Sean was now living proof; those who had done this would stop at nothing to achieve their aims. And now he was left to stop them.

To compound matters, Sean had learned that he was not the only one; the other side also spoke to them, leading and plotting as they saw fit. Sean wasn’t alone. Now, he had to find the others like him, so they could stop those who worked against them.

The voice was right; they all die one day, but this was not his day. Today, amongst the ruins of a once vibrant world, there was work to be done. And so, leaving his doubts behind, Sean stepped out into the sunlight, sirens, and screams, both eager and fearful of what the new world would bring.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Recently, my father and I made peace. This brought more than two decades of animosity between me and my father to a close.

Up until now, this was the most defining element of my life. I’m glad I was able to tell my father that I loved him while I still had the chance, and while I feel that something has been lifted, I’m at a loss, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do now.

Michigan may have been where everything peaked out; dodging lengthy prison sentences and nearly being killed a couple of times made me realize that I wasn’t going to live forever. But in my self-destructive anger, I pushed away a lot of people whose only mistake was trying to love me.

I’m tired of shoving people away. My problem is that I like people just fine, but I don’t trust them at all.

Not everyone is bad, and I’m blessed to know some very good people. But if you want to find out who your friends are, see them in a life-or-death situation…or put them in a position of power. Both allow you to see people as they really are, with no inhibitions or deceptions. You’d be surprised (horrified) by what you’d learn.

My problem is this; I’m inclined to believe the worst in people, and so I keep them away, and the good ones I find I’m terrified of losing, so I keep them away.

Hell of a way to live, I know, but it makes me good at my job; I’m at my best with people who will never know who I really am.

This is why I rarely try to write towards other people.

Lately, as the anger subsides, something else has come to light; people have tried to reach out to me, and being my usual self, I’ve resisted at most opportunities. I turn down rides to and from work despite hard rain or blistering heat. I had no idea how to react when referred to as someone’s friend.

Still, what I’m facing now is easier than what I just came from.
I’m free from the rage that stayed with me for so long. I’m free from hating my father, from the past I held onto for so long. My head’s a holy mess right now, but I’ll figure it out, I always do.

I have good people seeing me through it. I’ll meet more along the way.

This was my Independence Day.
I hope you enjoyed yours.

Maybe next time, I’ll accept that ride home.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Michael Bay’s TransFormers 2: Revenge of the Fallen is shining example of what happens when a sequel is done right. The first movie was excellent, but spent a long time building up to an amazing climax (the final scene with Sam carrying the cube down the boulevard, with Ratchet and Ironhide providing cover fire, is likable to ultimate football). In the first film, we had to go through the setup, for the two or three people that may have never heard of TransFormers; we went through the Cybertronian wars. We went through their arrival on Earth. We saw them take their forms. Basically, we were treated to a few good appetizers while Mike prepared the main course.

With nothing to set up, the sequel wastes no time getting right to it, sticking to the heart of what the Transformers are about. It’s been two years since Sam heroically destroyed Megatron, and the Autobots are now teamed with an elite human military unit as they wage their battle to destroy the evil forces of the Decepticons. Literally. You get this within the first ten minutes of the film.

The writing isn’t spectacular (in fact, it’s barely passable) but we don’t see this film for the scripting, which seems set aside for mind-numbing, extraordinarily intense (and violent) action sequences. The autobots and decepticons are locked in full-on combat, Earth is luckily/unfortunately the battlefield. Most of the human cast has been relegated to extras (especially Tyrese, who may have the most predictable lines in the film) with the exception of Megan Fox and Shia LeBouf (you know, the guy from the first one?). You get more of Megan Fox with less of her clothes and a lot more close ups. Fox fiends will be satisfied.

Michael Bay’s ADD style of direction is perfectly suited to this film, which is home to some of the most epic action sequences seen on the big screen in a long time. Optimus Prime again proves his heroism by making a valiant stand against six Decepticons.  The CGI that must’ve gone into creating Devestator (the constructicons united) must’ve been the most expensive shot in the film, but man, is it worth it.  Roughly half of the two and a half hours you’ll spend in the theater will be spent on Michael Bay’s brilliant action sequences.

Despite the film’s stereotypically offensive twins, Mudflap and Skids (see the film, you’ll get it), most of it’s comedy comes from the welcome return of John Turturro, who has, shall we say, fallen from grace. Also helping with a healthy dose of physical comedy is Leo, aptly played by Ramon Rodriguez. Judy White gets a lot more screen time and uses every minute of it hilariously playing the well-meaning mother from hell.

We also get to see a lot more interaction between the TransFormers, and a stellar addition is the animosity between Megatron and the would-be usurper, Starscream. This is one of the film’s highlights.

It has it’s flaws (most of which revolve around Mudflap and Skids), but overall, TransFormers 2: Revenge of the Fallen is the best movie I’ve seen in a long time. Gratuitously, unapologetically violent with new additions to both sides, this will appeal to both hardcore and casual fans. Stop reading this review and go see it.

8.5 of 10.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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June 25, 2009.
It hit me while I was at work, in mid-conversation with a customer, as a matter of fact. Of all the texts Molly could’ve sent me, this was the last one I expected. It was three simple words that shook me to my very core.

“Michael Jackson died!”

I stammered, trying to maintain my composure on the phone, but I was rattled. I simultaneously try to salvage the call while frantically googling what Molly has just told me, looking for confirmation. Some sources say he’s in a coma, others say he’s dead. Within an hour, the boom is lowered; the King of Pop is gone.

Days later, I believe that I join the rest of the world in numb shock. To be honest, I took Michael Jackson for granted. His music and scandals elevated him to immortality in the media, and news of his passing was a very sobering reminder that no one lives forever.

Not even Michael Jackson.
He was the defining entertainer of my generation, and perhaps the greatest entertainer on the planet in one point.

For me, he was the very first musician I ever got into. “Thriller” was a Christmas gift from my parents, and like many other kids, I spent as much time in front of MTV as I could, mimicking the electric, physics-defying dance moves the man came up with. I still have the choreography to the last half of “Beat It” memorized, but you’ll never see me do it publicly.

In fact, what little dancing I do now is greatly inspired by MJ, and as a gamer, I’d be loathe to leave out Michael Jackson’s Moonwalker, which actually allowed us to play the King of Pop in a fairly decent action game. The man was omnipresent at one point.

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t into Michael Jackson’s music. He became a part of the status quo for me; I saw his name in a song and I immediately had to own it.

His decline was saddening, and as much as I’d like to believe that he didn’t do what he was accused of, there was no way I’d have left my kids in his care. I just ignored it, content to reside in my memories and pretend that HE DIDN’T JUST DANGLE THAT POOR BABY OUT OF A WINDOW.

He had his issues, and sure, he was out of his damn mind, but none of that diminished what he brought to the table as an entertainer. He had this indomitable energy that I honestly believed stemmed from a desire to see the world set aside it’s differences and make peace with itself. He paved the way for Usher and a host of other musicians to step forward, but we’ll never see anyone else do what Michael Jackson did for the entertainment industry, and the world as a whole.

Thanks, Michael, for everything. If the whole world has to answer right now, we know who’s Bad.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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So we’re on lunch break today. Somehow we start talking about my past, and I make a transparent attempt to stop talking about it by saying; “You don’t want to know.” But of course, if they wanted to know so badly, I recommend they google my name. I make it public that I’m a writer, and publicity is publicity.

The two pages of game design and writer profiles isn’t enough to satisfy curiosity, so an intensive search begins to dig up my more notorious days. The most they’re able to turn up for free is that I’ve been in more than half the country in a very short amount of time. When they come to the state of Michigan, they learn that they cannot look at full court cases without paying for them. Apparently, this is the case when you’ve done something really, really wrong. This prompts one of my friends to look at me wide-eyed and say, “Avery, what did you do?”

Of course, I tell a little of the story. I like telling my stories. I enjoy telling of battles in which I thought I’d be killed, and racist cops who bit off more than they could chew when they unjustly tried to put me in handcuffs. I also love that despite it all, I went straight, and I haven’t been arrested in more than two years. Even better, I haven’t given the cops a reason to arrest me. That hasn’t stopped them from trying, of course…but I’ve only had one problem since I’ve been here, and a good friend of mine happens to be a cop. I get by.

The wolf’s coming full circle seemed to reach it’s zenith today when I was among half of my class “drafted” out of training. I was given my official workspace, to decorate as I see fit. I almost immediately put on the new green t-shirt, signifying me as a member of the “Green Team”.

I know this might not seem like a big deal to everyone else, but to me, it’s a symbol; I made a conscious effort to devote my energy to something positive and succeeded.

Later on, I was invited out to grab a beer with some friends (still feels weird to say, I’m so used to being a loner). We grabbed a forty-ounce of our choice, sat out on his jeep, and shotgunned our drinks as we celebrated the upcoming three-day weekend and time off of the phones.

Since I started writing this blog, I’ve had an hourlong conversation with my parents. After all the rage and hatred between me and my father, I told him something I’ve never said before.

“I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry for the way I acted as a child. I know I pushed him to his wits end. I may not have deserved everything I went through as a child, but I brought some of it on myself. We could butt heads from here until the end of time, but in the end, he was still my father, and I was still his son.

I still feel as though I could battle anyone, anytime, anywhere, and still at least put up a good fight. I have the energy to go fifteen rounds with anyone. I’ll always have the mentality–if not the body–of a fighter. I’ll never quit chasing my dreams, not ever. I’ll never stop fighting for the things I believe in, I will never stop rebelling against those who abuse their authority, and I will never change who I am simply to please someone else (not that I’m being asked to).

At the same time, I’m in my thirties, blessedly, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am completely self-sufficient with what appears to be a brilliant literary career ahead of me.

Busterwolf no longer has nothing to prove. I’m no longer angry with my father, and I no longer want to be on the street.

My name is Avery K. Tingle. And it’s time I said my farewells to Neverland.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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