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The elegantly nicknamed Sir Charles Thompson was one of the few musicians associated with swing who was able to make a graceful, wholehearted transition to bop at the time the revolution was happening. His piano style is light-fingered and spare in a witty, inventive, Basie-descended bop manner, and he was able to adapt it effectively to the organ. Thompson's first instrument was the violin, but the piano beckoned when he was a teenager, and he started working with territory bands in the midwest in the late 1930s. He briefly joined Lionel Hampton in 1940, but left in order to work with small groups and contribute arrangements to Basie, Hampton, Fletcher Henderson, Jimmy Dorsey, and other bands. While working in New York's 52nd St. clubs during World War II, he began to pick up on the beginnings of bop. In 1944-1945, Thompson played in the Coleman Hawkins/Howard McGhee band, journeying to Hollywood with them to record several terrific swing/bop sides for Capitol (now on Hollywood Stampede) and also his lively tune "Ladies' Lullaby" for Asch. So thoroughly had Thompson absorbed the language and ethos of bop that he was able to write one of the quintessential classics of the idiom, "Robbins' Nest," which became a hit for Sir Charles' next employer, Illinois Jacquet, and inspired a haunting, pathbreaking Gil Evans arrangement for Claude Thornhill in 1947. Thompson recorded a number of small group albums for Vanguard in the '50s, and two more for Columbia in 1959 and 1960, and appeared as a sideman for Buck Clayton and Jimmy Rushing, but spent much of the '50s freelancing as an organist. He toured the U.S., Canada, and Puerto Rico in the '60s leading small groups, as well as Europe with Clayton. Following a bout of ill health, he returned to action in 1975. His early bop sides for Apollo, including some with Hawkins and Charlie Parker, are available on the Delmark reissue Takin' Off. ~ Richard S. Ginell
1 - Cow Cow Boogie
2 - Sentimental Journey
3 - Heartaches
4 - Rockin' Chair
5 - Undecided
6 - Rhumboogie
7 - Boogie Woogie
8 - I'll Never Smile Again
9 - C'est Si Bon
10 - Baby, Won't You Please Come Home
11 - Mr. Boogie
12 - Pretty-Eyed Baby
Organ – Sir Charles Thompson
Label: Columbia – CS 8463
Released: 1961
Genre: Jazz
Style: Bop
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Inscription on upper face of argha, Jhirna
Photographer: Garrick, Henry Baily Wade
Medium: Photographic print
Date: 1881
This photograph of an inscription carved in a rock slab at Piawan, Rewa district was taken by Henry Baily Wade Garrick c.1881-82 and forms part of the Archaeological Survey of India Collections (Indian Museum Series); "Piawan...means simply the 'drinking place'. The spot is a small valley about 800 feet wide and half a mile in length, with precipitous rocks on both sides, about 200 feet high. At the western end a small stream falls over the cliff, and the rock below, on which the water falls, has been formed into an argha for the reception of a lingam, or phallic symbol of Siva. A view of this argha has been given by my assistant, Mr Garrick, who first discovered the place. He has described it under the name of Jhirna, or the 'water-fall'..." A. Cunningham, Reports of a tour in Bundelkhand and Rewa in 1883-84... (A.S.I. vol XXI part I, Calcutta, 1885), pp. 112-113

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Sourcing Resumes from Job Boards
Budget $10-30 USD
As a Sourcer at Right Hires Ltd, you'll be working with some of the industry's brightest minds to identify hiring needs and source for top talent. Basically, you'll ensure that hiring teams have a strong candidate pipeline.
Basic Qualifications:
- B.A. or B.S degree, or equivalent work experience
- 1+ years of sourcing experience and/or full-cycle recruitment in a fast-paced environment
We are looking for someone who has access to paid job boards to source resumes for us. We need quality and active resumes. You will be assigned specific jobs to source for and ideally deliver resumes to us asap. You will not be contacting the candidates just provide us with quality candidates and your job is done.
Ideal job board access would be:
Note: Must have access to USA job boards.
16 freelance hanno fatto un'offerta media di $25 per questo lavoro
I am hardworking, dedicated and focus individual who believes in taking a challenge and completing it and would be the best candidate for this job. I am a mechanical engineer with a year of work experience in manufact Più
Multiple years of Human Resources identifying skill sets and qualifying individuals for world wide company assignments
I have access to US sites and have experienced posting as well like Learn4Good job site and craigslist. I also have my own FB webpage and website where I can create a specific recruitment area for that. I am also activ Più
Experienced recruiter within the whole lifecycle of recruitment. Sourcing candidates through several social media channels and websites. Experienced in job advertisement and shortlisting candidates.
Dear Concern, Greetings!!! I wish that you receive this mail in BEST of your Health. This mail is in regards to associating with your company for recruitment and staffing solutions. I am into NON-IT hiring Più
I am having Sound knowledge on End to End recruitment and would love to take up this opportunity. I am interested to take up this project that gives me exposure to various job portals
Self-confident person with full sense of responsibility. Flexible and open to new ideas and innovations. Developed communication and language skills. Able and prepared to work in a team as well as individu Più


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When it comes to surprising collaborations new wave polymath David Byrne has previous form. Just take his hook up with Fatboy Slim on the Imelda Marcos musical Here Lies Love. Seriously...it happened. Google it. So joining forces with ex Polyphonic Spree disciple turned quirky solo artist in her own right St Vincent shouldn't really have come as much of a shock. Listen carefully and you might even pick up some shared lyrical and vocal traits too, it really doesn't take much imagination to hear Byrne coming up with St Vincent's 2009 track Laughing With a Mouth Of Blood for instance.
It's 30 years since Talking Heads' big commercial breakthrough courtesy of Speaking In Tongues (coincidently St Vincent - aka Annie Clark - was making a bit of a breakthrough of her own around the same time...being born), but despite being over twice her age Byrne (61 years young) looks impressively spritely and fresh up on stage tonight, almost as if the whole collaboration's breathed new life into him.
After 15 minutes of ambient rainforest sounds (which send a fair few of the predominantly middle aged audience scurrying off to the loo) he and St Vincent come on stage accompanied by an 8 piece brass band. With Byrne's silver grey locks and St Vincent's dyed blonde hair they make a cute couple (there's nothing 'going on' as far as I know but clearly there's a lot of affection and mutual admiration between the pair), kicking off the set with Who, the curiously catchy first single from their album together Love This Giant. An oddball mix of funk and vaguely Middle Eastern sounding vocal breaks from St Vincent it's a fine example of Byrne's ability to come up with something that's undeniably arty and yet winningly...er...charty (see also pretty much all of Talking Heads' singles) all at the same time. Like pretty much every track that followed it featured some simple but effective choreography too. Byrne's always jigged around a bit onstage, perfecting an oddly cool looking form of dad dancing that few white men can pull off. St Vincent's a nifty mover too, employing a slightly scary tottering backwards and forwards motion that makes her look like a doll on a travellator. Add to this a plain backdrop with some stark but effective lighting casting giant shadows and the show's got plenty for the eyes as well as the ears to revel in.
Let's get one thing straight, tonight isn't the David Byrne show. The set's a perfectly balanced mix of his solo stuff, Talking Heads numbers, his collaboration with St Vincent and her own (new to most of the audience I'm guessing) material. In fact Byrne often seems to shun the limelight, happy to act as St Vincent's backing dancer on her tracks, just adding the odd distinctive vocal embellishment here and there. It's a generous move in some ways but St Vincent deserves the respect.
From the domestic angst ridden anthem Save Me From What I Want through to the more visceral Marrow, transformed this evening into a bombastic brassathon (so much more powerful than its original synth based version), she's a revelation. Surrounded by the band lying prostrate on the floor she came across as both vulnerable and powerful (something she does particularly well...like a kitten with a Kalashnikov) at the same time on another of her solo numbers, Cheerleader. That's a neat trick if you can pull it off. She's a pretty impressive guitarist too, seemingly as comfortably laying down some fret melting funk as she is playing the gentler, more intricate stuff.
Whilst St Vincent may be new to most Byrne's output is hard wired into the brains of anyone with ears. Wild Wild Life, Lazy (which sounds particularly good in its brassed up form and gives each member of the 8 piece band the chance to sing a line...bless 'em), Burning Down The House and show closer Road To Nowhere predictably all (double cliché alert) go down a storm (that's cliché number one...tick) with St Vincent's voice the proverbial cherry on the cake (boom...two clichés in one sentence...I'm on fire today).
Despite these obvious crowd pleasers the Love This Giant tracks more than held their own though, with the vocal harmonies of I Am An Ape, the naggingly catchy chorus of Weekend In Dust (damn that's some funky shit) and the oddball melting pot of Who in particular all lodging themselves firmly in your brain and refusing to leave. What strikes you most is that they really do seem to bring the best out of each other, 1 + 1 = 3 as it were, add the brass (an odd concept on paper perhaps but it just works so well) and it's a grin inducingly irresistible combination. On more than one occasion St Vincent seemingly can't believe she's up there and, towards the end of the show, she mused about how her 5 year old self (the first time she can remember hearing Byrne's music) would have reacted to finding herself on stage with possibly her first and perhaps most significant musical hero. She wasn't the only one who counted herself lucky to be there, as the standing ovation at the end of the main set ably demonstrated.
Where do they go from here? Will this be one of Byrne's 'roads to nowhere' one offs or is this the start of something really special? Who the hell knows, on previous form I'm guessing it'll sadly be the former though which makes these shows even more unmissable. Love This Giant? You betcha.
Setlist: Who/Weekend in the Dust/Save Me From What I Want/ Strange Overtones/I Am An Ape/Marrow/This Must Be The Place/The Forest Awakes/Ice Age/Lightning/Wild Wild Life/Cheerleader/Lazy/I Should Watch TV/Northern Lights/The One Who Broke Your Heart/Outside Of Space and Time
Encore 1: Cruel/Burning Down The House
Encore 2: The Party/Road To Nowhere
Photos courtesy of the lovely Wayne Fox
Photos courtesy of the lovely Wayne Fox


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True enough that we can't choose the things that we are born with, therefore life is about making use of what you have got... maximizing it for your full potential and I am here to just give you some few helpful tips on how to achieve it. There are different factors that we should consider but I will be focusing on the things that I am knowledgeable of which are Personality, Style and Grooming.
STEP 1: Practice Good Posture
Being in the medical field and having a sister who is practicing physical therapy, I know for a fact the benefits of maintaining a good posture. It can not only prevent osteoporosis and other bone and muscle problems but it will also give other people the impression that you are confident, educated and in control so keep those shoulders squared, your spine straight and try to center your hips over your feet and walk confidently without dragging your feet nor shuffling.
STEP 2: Smile
In this case the alike attracts, having a positive outlook in life will attract positivity in your life. Develop in yourselves a sense of joy and find laughter in the simplest ridiculous aspects of life. Develop a sense of humor but try to keep your jokes free of references to bodily functions and features, sex acts, or disparaging other groups of people, in short be sensitive on these issues and keep it clean.
Also if you smile, smile with your teeth it ALWAYS looks more authentic.
STEP 3: Make Eye Contact
They say the eyes are the windows to our souls, that it reflects more than to what our voices conceive verbally and I for one can attest to that. When you are talking to someone, do demonstrate interest to what they say by simply making a consistent eye contact.
A tip for flirting: try to give a few glances on someone you like but you barely know yet and when she catches you, smile at her and look away before she does as this will give her a feeling of curiosity that will provoke her interest. But beware! Make sure you won't look at her maliciously, always be a gentleman.
STEP 4: Be A Gentleman
As a Filipino, I know for a fact that we are raised vigilantly with courtesy. Our parents taught us to say po, opo and "pagmamano" which are basic acts that we should give to the elderly, now this as foundation it would be a lot easier for us to keep up the words "please", "excuse me" and "thank you".
Courtesy should not be exclusive to just few groups of people, I have noticed some who wouldn't say these to local vendors or even to mall salespeople and I think even though we are paying them with good money, still they are people who deserve respect from us.
Always have the initiative to help other people regardless of there sex and age. A guy helping another guy will certainly not make him gay although pay priority of course to kids, elderly, women and the physically challenged persons.
STEP 5: Know How To Carry a Conversation
Being a competent conversationalist can open you up to a lot of opportunities as good and proper communication nowadays can bring you to greater possibilities. Learn the art of speaking, try to stay away to one-end questions which are answerable by a simple yes or no (example: instead of "do you like watching movies?" try asking something like "what movies do like watching?"). Avoid sensitive topics like religion and politics unless you feel that both of you are vying on the same team. The secret to this is just to find a common interest.
Tip: practice how well you are doing with your communication skills by rendering a random conversation with a stranger maybe while waiting from a long line on your local grocery store or when it's traffic while you're on a bus commuting. When you receive a genuine smile and/or a few sensible lines of conversation from the other end, means you are doing well.
STEP 6: Speak Clearly and Carefully
A tactless guy is more annoying than a tactless woman, at least it is somehow tolerable in our norms if it is a woman. You don't need to be talkative just to keep up a conversation you just have to be sensible, remember that "empty cans sound the loudest" so please stay careful and think properly what you should say because once those words come out, it would be very hard for you to swallow them.
Practice proper words to say every now and then, having good reading materials (please not the gossip ones) will help you with it. Please avoid mumbling and rushing with your words.
STEP 7: Have a Proper Lifestyle
Eat well, because when you have a good diet the chemicals that works throughout your body will be at ease thus balancing proper amounts of hormones that will help you have a good mood to achieve the earlier steps and the next steps to follow.
It is advisable to eat six small amounts of food daily as what I learned from THIS POST. You do not need to buy those expensive organic refreshments, learn how to prepare and cook simple dishes and just consider more on vegetables and fruits on your selections, this will help you save money and impress your girl as well. (Face it girls! You have a pathway from your stomachs to your hearts as much as we do).
Stay hydrated, I know that it seems to be like a broken record player when you get to hear this but a lot of people still doesn't seem to get the importance of it but I'm pretty sure you guys have an idea, no need for me to jot those things down.
Make sure that your urine is almost always clear (except first morning urine), if not drink more.
Exercise. Not only will it make your body look good but it is another factor for your hormones to keep an uplifting mood. Just try to think how much food you have eaten for the week and think more on how you can help your body to break them out by finding at least two days every week to do something physically.
Above all these maybe find two days for the month to stand as your cheat days, preferably your pay-day so it will truly act as your reward for yourself for working hard to earn money and maintaining a good physique.
STEP 1: Wear Clothing that Fits
I know that there are a lot of fads that come every now and then that give rise to oversize shirts, muscle shirts and etc. and of course I respect your choice of clothing because it is your way of art and identity although I am recommending to have your clothes as neat as possible, which generally means be aware of your body type in choosing the right cut of pants, the bottom of your pants should hit or cover your ankles, long-sleeved shirts should cover the wrist properly, and the bottom of your shirts should cover your hip just right.
Tons of heavier men tends to wear something overly sized than theirs just trying to cover those unwanted bumps choosing something baggy that honestly making it nothing but worse.
It is important for us to find a boutique that caters something that is just right for us, not just the sizes but the styles as well, now if you find something you really really like but doesn't fit right I suggest you get a larger size and find an inexpensive seamstress or tailor to alter it for you, only if you really feel like it's the right thing to do.
Tip of advice: I know some of us can be ultimately sentimental but that shirt given by your grandmother or your favorite shirt from high school doesn't fit anymore, DONATE THEM! Let's be practical, you can always remember how great they are, wouldn't it be nice if they will be of good use to another person who needs it more? At times like this we can't deny that it is the better choice. Let's help more people.
STEP 2: Know How to Highlight Your Best Features
Always remember and put into note that "light colors highlight, and dark colors obscure". Like for example you like your upper torso than the lower then wear something light toned shirt then a dark pair of denims, although be confident of what you have and just in case you don't like a part of your body, I suggest find ways to improve it rather than just concealing it.
STEP 3: Figure Out Which Colors Look Good on You
Find time what colors would highlight your features more but do not stay in that color especially if you're young, make use of your youth by loving 'em. Choosing the right color isn't really about colors but hues. admit it, there may be shades of red that suits you and doesn't and that rule applies to every color. If your skin looks brighter and glowing then that is a good indication that you have chosen the appropriate hue.
STEP 4: Stock Your Wardrobe with Timeless Basics
These are pieces that you can wear anytime and anywhere which will still be wearable as you age so bare in mind that it should be something of quality too. Plain-colored shirts, polo shirts and button-downs are must-haves just as much as solid-colored denims, pants, shorts, jackets, blazers and dress-shoes are. You can always mix and match them together and still be looking classy.
STEP 5: Do Laundry Regularly
Jeans and Jackets and some shoes can stand to go through several wears before they're dirty but don't wait until they are very dirty though. But for shirts, socks and especially underwear please have them on a one wear only then have a scheduled laundry so you wouldn't be cramming to find something clean to wear.
The very least and basic thing you can do to present yourself is to appeal a good practice of hygiene. Looking clean and smelling good and fresh subconsciously attracts people.
STEP 1: Shower At least Twice a Day
I fully recommend this because men has higher risk of smelling bad because our sweat glands are more active than with women. Shower once in the morning before interacting with people and shower in the evening before going to bed as the outside world is very dirty and you do not want to keep those dirt intact to your pores, it's true! try wiping your face with a tissue upon arriving home and you'll see how dark it will get plus bathing before you sleep can give you a more pleasant rest.
Men are more at risk too with acne, counteract this by keeping your face clean with facial wash. Personally I have been using Nivea for Men Extra Whitening Facial Foam Pore Minimiser matched with Nivea for Men Extra Whitening Moisturiser Pore Minimiser and after that I give my whole body a good moisturizing action with Nivea for Men Whitening Lotion. That is my secret in maintaining the glow and moisture of my skin which costs me less than 500php for at least a month in buying those three great products all in all.
Men has different skin types too:
Sensitive/dry skin - If your skin gets flaky and dry or gets irritated and red easily have something very gentle facial wash, skip toning and use a light moisturizer.
Combination/T-zone skin - If your forehead, nose and chin tend to get oily and your cheeks dry this is your skin type which is mostly the skin type of men, have a gentle toner and finish it off with a moisturizer.
Oily Skin - If your skin is uniformly oily, have something clay-based or drying cleanser, use toner everywhere on your face and finish it with a light moisturizer. Have an oil blotter on your pocket ready from time to time just in case you'll get your skin oily in the middle of the day.
Luckily Nivea for Men has something for each of the different skin types, check them out at your local grocery stores!
By the way, The lotion I use from Nivea for Men helps repair my skin as it usually takes about 3 days for me to have a scratch heal but with it, it could heal for as fast as a day or two plus it takes off my worry of getting darker and dull skin. I have a very sensitive skin and it is a blessing for me to have Nivea products for they entirely suffice my hygiene needs.
Oh and do you know that vitamin C is very essential for tissue rejuvenation? Nivea for Men use whitenat instead because it is 10x more effective than vitamin C. I tell you, they got only the best for men skincare needs.
Oh and do you know that vitamin C is very essential for tissue rejuvenation? Nivea for Men use whitenat instead because it is 10x more effective than vitamin C. I tell you, they got only the best for men skincare needs.
STEP 2: Wear Deodorant
After taking a bath, make it a habit to have it apply first. Always bring it with you just in case. Again, as for me, I am using Nivea for Men deodorant as of the moment and so far it is doing good for me, even my armpits are sensitive and they get irritated and red with other brands I resent to name. :)
STEP 3: Wear Cologne or Body Spray
It is proven that scents can make it or break it. Do it right and you'll have people captivated on you, do it wrong and you'll be repelling them from you.
Match your cologne with the types of soap and washes you use and make sure that it blends well with your body chemistry (yes, each of us has different reactions even to the same perfume because we have different body chemistry). Once you get to find the right scent just spray over two or three times over your body specifically the parts where blood flows closer to the surface like the neck and the pulse because it makes it last longer and will save you more perfume for the days to come saving you more money.
STEP 4: Get Rid of Unwanted Hair
Which includes facial hair, uni-brow, nose hair, ear hair, back hair, chest hair (if desired), leg hair (if desired) and more, these hairs act as filters from dirt but if they prevent you from looking presentable, trimming some of them wouldn't be a bad idea.
STEP 5: Clean and Trim Your Nails
Both in hands and feet! I know a lot of guys out there who are very stubborn in trimming your toe nails and please they are as unhygienic as your nails in your hands and they could be a medium as breeding sites of parasites (I should know, I studied Medtech). Actually this is one of the most critical areas that I personally observe, If I can see that both nails in the hands and feet are clean and trimmed I am very much at ease that he/she is entirely clean in his/her whole body. Do not take it for granted!
You may put transparent nail polish to strengthen it but please do not put other designs and colors.
STEP 6: Brush and Floss Your Teeth
How can you do Step 2 and Step 5 in personality if you can't do this properly right? So be mindful of your oral hygiene because I know there are a lot of tight HR personnel who judges your employability in the mere appearance of your teeth.
Update your toothbrush every 3 months or after you recovered from a sickness. floss every night as stuck food doesn't only prevent cavities but also heart disease. Do not forget the tongue as it contributes greatly in having bad breath and lastly, perform mouthwash for 20 seconds then spit entirely.
And those are the basic facts and help that I can give to you for you guys out there to achieve a better look on yourselves and be #LikeaPogi
For more details catch Ramon Bautista as he gives you more on being #LikeaPogi.
Catch this video and get entertained!
For more details follow @NIVEAFORMENPH on Twitter and join their giveaway by just answering the question:
What is the #NIVEAlikeapogi to you? End the answer by mentioning @NIVEAFORMENPH and the link of the video above www.bit.ly/RRunFm
Example: "#NIVEAlikeapogi is someone who is confident but not arrogant @NIVEAFORMENPH www.bit.ly/RRunFm".
Join now and get a chance to win (for yourself or for your boyfriend/dad/brother/etc...) NIVEA FOR MEN Philippines gift packs!
Photos used are not the property of RIGHT ON THE VERGE.


text:
Every week, I'll excerpt a handful of stories — old and new, sports and otherwise, relevant and merely sublime — that I urge you to read for one reason or another. Send any suggestions to email@example.com.
"J.D. Salinger: The Man in the Glass House," by Ron Rosenbaum (from Esquire, 1997)
Suggested readers: Phonies
Just as I'd hoped, one of the Nieman Fellows approached me after my talk with a fascinating story about S. He had a friend, he said, who, as a youth, had made the Pilgrimage to Salinger's House, a journey that is the closest thing a secular literary culture has to a religious ritual, a rite of passage. It is a pilgrimage S. — much to his regret, one must suppose — seemed to encourage with a famous passage in Catcher in the Rye in which Holden Caulfield describes the powerful connection he feels with writers whose work he loves and how that kind of connection makes him want to call the writer up. He doesn't say look the writer up, but few pilgrims make that distinction because few have his phone number anyway. (I have a number for him. I just haven't used it.)
The Pilgrimage to S.'s House, to the shadow of his Wall, has itself become part of American literary myth, most prominently in W.P. Kinsella's Shoeless Joe, in which an Iowa farmer sets off for New Hampshire with a plan to kidnap J.D. Salinger and take him to a baseball game because a Voice has given him the mission to "ease his pain." The Fake Wounds Story turned out to be a kind of inadvertently parodic inversion of the ease-his-pain injunction. That night in my hotel room in Cambridge, I was able to track down the guy that the Nieman Fellow had told me about, the one who'd made the fake-wounds pilgrimage.
The way he told it, back in the sixties, when they were teenagers, he and a couple of similarly Salinger-obsessed buddies had hatched what they thought was a fiendishly clever plan to lure Salinger out from behind his Wall. The plan was to drive to Cornish and locate the Salinger house, at which point he planned to tear up his clothes and cover his head and body with ketchup to simulate blood — to make it look as if he'd been badly beaten up. They'd screech up the driveway to the walls of S.'s house, toss the "victim" out of the car, roar off, and leave him there moaning. The idea was that S. would then have to emerge — he couldn't resist the cry for help of a man who might be bleeding to death on his doorstep. That S. would have to come out from behind his Wall, take the fellow in, and ease his pain.
In a slapdash way, it was a plan to try the patience of a saint, because embedded in it was an ethical/spiritual dilemma: The ketchup-smeared kid would not be just another feckless adolescent fan or a doorstepping journalist but a suffering human being in need of help. Could S. refuse?
And so they did it — smeared the ketchup, dumped the body out right in front of the wall. The kid began moaning in pain from his fake wounds and waiting to see whether S. would appear to help heal them.
Let us return again to the Fake Wounds Story, in which a possibly wounded S. inside his wall is confronted by a fraudulently wounded seeker moaning outside the wall. What happened, the somewhat chagrined fake-wounds victim told me, was that soon after he was dumped off, ketchup-smeared, moaning, the lights came on in the house behind the wall "as if someone was watching." And then, after a while, the lights went off. Then nothing. Silence. No one came out. Eventually, his friends returned, and they all slunk off. They didn't come away from it thinking S. was cruel or heartless. Rather, they got the feeling that the fake-wounds thing had been tried before: that it had become a regular routine for seekers to bear wounds, both real and false, to the wall. That S. had somehow developed the ability to diagnose the difference between blood and ketchup, between real pain and its simulation. This jibes somewhat with the story Jonathan Schwartz, the writer and radio personality, told me about a woman he knew who'd made the pilgrimage with her five-year-old child. She'd gone as far as knocking on S.'s door, and he wouldn't let her in, she told him she had a tired, ailing child in her car. At that point, S. become enormously solicitous, invited them both in, and fed and played with the child for hours while they all watched the Marx Brothers' Monkey Business and an episode of I Love Lucy.
From Mao II: A Novel, by Don DeLillo (1991)
Suggested readers: Recluses
"There's something about writers. I don't know why but I feel I ought to know the person as well as the work and so ordinarily I try to schedule a walk beforehand, just to chat with the person, talk about books, family, anything at all. But I understand you'd rather not go on and on with this, so we'll work quickly."
"We can talk."
"Are you interested in cameras? This is an eighty-five-millimeter lens."
"I used to take pictures. I don't know why I stopped. One day it just ended forever."
"I guess it's true to say that something else is ending forever."
"You mean the writer comes out of hiding."
"Am I right that it's thirty years since your picture has appeared anywhere?"
"Scott would know."
"And together you decided the time has come."
"Well it's a weariness really, to know that people make so much of this. When a writer doesn't show his face, he becomes a local symptom of God's famous reluctance to appear."
"But this is intriguing to so many people."
"It's also taken as an awful sort of arrogance."
"But we're all drawn to the idea of remoteness. A hard-to-reach place is necessarily beautiful, I think. Beautiful and a little sacred maybe. And a person who becomes inaccessible has a grace and a wholeness the rest of us envy."
"The image world is corrupt, here is a man who hides his face."
"Yes," she said.
"People may be intrigued by this figure but they also resent him and mock him and want to dirty him up and watch his face distort in shock and fear when the concealed photographer leaps out of the trees. In a mosque, no images. In our world we sleep and eat the image and pray to it and wear it too. the writer who won't show his face is encroaching on holy turf. He's playing God's own trick."
"Maybe he's just shy, Bill."
"Pissing and Moaning," by Roy Blount (from Crackers, 1977)
Suggested reader: Peanut Butter Kid
A person who is from Georgia, if he ever gets anywhere very far out of Georgia, is forever saying or thinking, "Well yeah, I'm from Georgia, but ..." or "Sure, I'm from Georgia, what's so cute about that?" or "I'm from Georgia and I feel just as good as a pig in shit about it," or "I'm from Georgia, and if you were from Georgia you'd realize what kind of fool you are, but you aren't and don't, so I guess I'll just have to operate on two different levels at once," or "I'm from Georgia, and I guess I better leave my mind open to the possibility that I am missing something here or at least that people will assume I am — and now I've got to decide whether it'll be more worthwhile to go out of my way to determine that I'm not missing anything, or to go out of my way (casually) to indicate that I'm not missing anything, or to just let those who assume I am missing something go ahead and assume it and thereby miss something themselves, which will tickle me to death," or "That's right, I'm from Georgia, but (and) I have a sense of irony about it. But not for your benefit."
"The Steaming Bouillabaisse," by Richard Ben Cramer (chapter 26 of What It Takes: The Way to the White House, 1992)
Suggested readers: John Edwards and the press corps preening on top of his political grave
The climax had to wait for the last breathy column, where [Gary] Hart was asked about his marriage ... now that Lee was back in Denver, and Gary was alone. Quinn wrote:
"He will only say of his marriage, 'I have almost no personal life at all. I lead a completely political existence. If one party doesn't share the same interests you've got a problem. Let's just say I believe in reform marriage.'"
From the Monday morning when he saw the paper, Hart could not believe what she'd done to him ... what he'd done to himself. He meant to be candid, charming, at ease. (At one point he was quoted: the best thing was "not just winning, but winning, and making it look easy.") But you don't learn ease on the job with Sally Quinn, no.
He was horrified at the hurt he'd done to Lee ... and himself! It was so irresponsible ... clumsy ... bush league. He never would have said those things, if she hadn't been, you know, attractive ... but even so ... damn! Lee had gone and left him here ... he barely saw his own kids. That part about no personal life — he meant it, but even so ... why did he say it?
Well, he learned a lesson — the hard way. It didn't matter what he saw around him, the marriages on paper, the people in the campaign, on the press plane, in the field offices, all running away from hearth and homes, living for the day (and the night!) ... you still couldn't say it! Well, he never would again. He'd never discuss his personal life — not with reporters — hell, no!
But then, too, never would that quote go away. It would come back with him, to Washington, when he took his seat in the Senate. It would surface in files in 1984. It was alive and swimming in the stinking bouillabaisse in '88 — oh, very much alive!
And a strange, rotten bit of fish it seemed to this new pack, though they, too, had been young in '72. They were in schools, or coming out to first jobs. They, too, had long hair, and tight pants over slender legs ... and if sex were money, they all would have been rich.
But here's what the wooers of this generation missed ... Biden, Caddell, and all the trackers of this bulge in the bell curve: the salient fact about this boom generation had nothing to do with its love-and-drug-addled idealism, when it — when they — were the hope and heritors of the world.
By 1987, they still felt the world was theirs; the nation, the society (and everyone in it) ought, by all rights, to march to their tune. But the tune was changed, the times transformed. They'd done their own thing, they'd been the Me Generation, they'd sung "We Are the World" (and they meant it) ... but the salient fact, at this point in their lives was ... they were turning forty.
They were worried about their gums.
They were experts on soy formula.
They were working seriously on their (late, or second) marriages.
They were livid about saturated fats in airline food. What, no fiber?
They did not drink, they did not smoke, drugs were a sniggering memory. They worked all the time, except when they were calling home.
And they certainly, God knows, did not mess around!
Sex! ... It was tacky. It was dangerous. It was (sniff!) ... not serious.
And being ... (They Are the World) ... this generation, no one else was going to get away with sex, either.
Or drugs.
Or ill health.
Or fouling their air with noxious smoke.
Or music so loud they couldn't hear their cellular phones!
Or driving without a seat belt, and a baby seat ... like they had ... so they could navigate the mortal dangers of the world, to get home, where there was some decent (i.e., French) springwater.
They had become the Thank-You-For-Not (smoking, eating, drinking, fornicating ... or anything else I don't do) Generation. In their self-referential certainties, they were:
The ⃠ Generation.
Their mortality, their middle age, their growing and overweening fear must now become their world's fear.
And here was Hart — so dedicated (still!) to undermining the safe security of convention — even their conventions. Jesus, this guy just reeked of danger!
Here was Hart — (still!) unconvinced of their God-given bulge-driven right to decided what was right for him ... or sane for the rest of the world. Well, if that wasn't arrogance!
Here was Hart (reform marriage, indeed!) — who everybody knew was (still!) getting laid ...
Well, the sonofabitch was prima facie crazy!


text:
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text:
|The Bauers, Isabel Mendez, Emilio Suarez, I-Ping Soong
and Tham Kriengchayapruk belong to me. Jason Auspach
technically belongs to Marvel, but I supplied the surname.
All other characters belong to Marvel. I'm not profiting by
Some language, graphic violence and mature topics in various places.
Comments go to email@example.com Flames will be blithely ignored.
Minute Change
Part 15
People were talking far away, voices carried by a humid wind. Sunlit squares of beige rice paper cast light on her where she lay on a strange bed with linen sheets. The ceiling swept high overhead and wooden engravings decorated the room. She frowned and felt her skull twist in pain so she held still. There was a quality to the voices that should mean something to her but they died away, leaving other sounds: an airplane flying overhead, cars, birds, footsteps pattering inside. We must be at a safe house. I guess the fallout was worse than I thought. If she had caught Suarez on the first pass, they would not be in this mess now.
She tried to swallow, which brought up another few points. She was horribly thirsty and her back was stiff. More importantly, her arm did not work. It was wrapped in a cast that extended from her wrist to her shoulder. It also itched, which meant that she had been here for at least a few days, probably not too long with this climate. Hope Momma lets me borrow her powers and fix it, else it's going to drive me stir crazy.
The voices drifted back and now she was able to identify them as Chinese. For a few minutes, she lay there not thinking anything at all, unable to work up the interest in the hows and whys of being in China. A safe house was one thing, but half the world from home was another. Home's family, not a place. Not thinking about it made her remember the hows and whys.
A fight. Falling. Bone cracking. Clinging to the rope ladder, collapsing when Destiny pulled her into the jet, shoving her down in one of the basket-like seats. The shocking pain-- was a broken bone supposed to hurt that much? A brief moment of chaos and a needle. Why hadn't Mystique let her absorb her shape-shifting ability then? Because she was piloting the jet. I must have broken down like a baby. She bit her lip in consternation. Maybe her Momma leaving her arm broken was a punishment. She hoped not.
She did not know what Irené had shot her up with. Something powerful. Morphine? The last she remembered was the needle being withdrawn. Now, it was morning. It should have worn off, but her head swam with each small movement with dislocation reminiscent of her power. Maybe I'm in shock, or something. A loud sigh escaped as she leaned back into the pillows. Irené would know she was awake and tell Momma to come up.
A stair creaked, and shortly, someone gave the door a perfunctory knock before entering her room.
Handing Rogue a glass of water, Mystique declared cheerfully, "Good morning."
Rogue slurped at the water, in retrospect wondering if it was drugged. That would not be a bad thing, but it would thwart her curiosity.
Her foster-mother sat down on the bed and reached over to brush some hair out of Rogue's face. "You've been asleep for three days. I never thought you would be that sensitive to opiates, although I should have considered it. Most of us have strange intolerances." She smiled, but watched carefully for a response. "Irené realized what would happen halfway through the injection. I guess she decided you needed the sleep."
"Ah feel like Ah'm goin' t'throw up. Where are we?"
"You're not going to vomit. You need to eat. And we're in Hong Kong."
Her stomach turned with a growl of agreement. She rubbed her eyes, trying to disguise her worry. "My arm's broke."
"Why, so it is. In two places, no less." Mystique settled into disapproval with a sigh and quiet voice. "How could you? How could you miss a guard in that close a space? What did you do? Ignore him?" She managed to frown without frowning, meaning she looked liked she'd bitten into an especially sour lemon. "What have I told you about leaving witnesses? You never leave something like that to chance. Never. When are you going to learn that you can't be so...so forgiving?"
She felt sick and her Momma was berating her. It was not fair. She was never good enough, never fast enough, never mean enough. It was always 'do it again', 'fix it', 'make sure it improves'. She sniffled and turned her head away, knowing Mystique would get even more angry at the self-pity. I'm tired. I don't care.
"Oh for God's sake," Mystique bit out in exasperation. "Look at me. And stop crying. I'm not mad at you, I'm just...worried. You gave me quite a scare. Are you listening?"
She rubbed her eyes to get rid of the tears and warping images. "Yeah." She looked at Mystique, who no longer appeared angry and wished she could have a hug. Of course, she could not. There was the cast in the way and she only wore a loose t-shirt under the covers. At least that was a normal hurt.
Mystique caught her hand, pulling it away from her face. "What's wrong with your eyes?"
Rogue squinted and shook her head. "E'rythin' looks funny, like with my power."
"You were almost comatose, if there are any residual effects...."
"Naw, 's'alright. Kinda weird 's'all." That did not begin to describe it. She ducked her head, mumbling about morphine and powers.
Mystique's lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "I see," she drawled. "Remind me never to let you shoot heroin. You might decide it feels too good to wake up and I'd be out an operative."
"Quit laughin'. An' anyway, it ain' that kinda feelin'."
"If you say so. Although...." She gave a crooked smile.
"What ?"
"Normally," she pointed, "I would make you figure it out for yourself, but since your brain is addled.... You've told me a dozen times how your power feels, why you're troubled by it, but I never understood. But, I do know what an opium high feels like." She opened her mouth and took a deep breath.
Oh no, not a lecture on responsibility. Rogue did not care if Mystique saw her visibly cringe and shrug away.
"Stop trying to ignore me. I firmly believe that mutant should use their abilities, but from now on, I want you to be careful. Even more careful. The last thing either of us wants is for you to become addicted to your power."
"It ain' like a drug. It's okay," she tried to reassure. "Most times, Ah don' feel nothin'." Except when she did, when she actively thought about crushing her victims mind, subjugating their will until they were nothing, a pathetic, mewling worm. When she did that, she could feel the person collapse under her will, like solid mud turned into flowing silt by a rushing river. And it was a rush, better than any drug or sex, although she was not supposed to know that. It was kind of hard not to know those things when her power was absorbing minds. All those dirty things and beautiful things folks do to each other.... Some bit of common sense, the same bit that warned her that people did not want to know their own secrets, warned her not to mention this to her Momma.
"That's not the point."
"Ah know, Ah know. Jus' sayin' 's'all."
Mystique lifted Rogue into a steeper sitting position and hooked a sling around her cast. "In that case, I want you awake and dressed. We have a guest in our new home. I want you to watch and learn. Do a good job and we'll take care of that arm. After that, homework. Now," she motioned towards the open door at an oriental man lounging on the jamb. "That's I-Ping. Or rather, that's what you're supposed to call him. Since I will be traveling a great deal in the next few months, he'll be your body-guard. And I'm serious. Don't run off without him."
Rogue, unwisely, rolled her eyes.
Her foster-mother cuffed the air in front of her face. "I'm dead serious. Get ready. I'll be downstairs. He'll show you the way."
Practice kept her face expressionless, but that did not stop the pain she felt inside at the leverage her Momma was using. Whatever the guest was all about, she would not like it. Instead, she eyed the stranger in the house. As soon as Mystique was out of sight, he gave her a brief smirk and Rogue wondered why Irené had not mentioned to someone that he was a grade-A creep. Perv. You just wait 'til I get better. I'll show you the meaning of the word.
Every few minutes, the wind would moan hollowly through naked trees and blowing snow into banks and piles. Ice encrusted branches tapped against each other. Otherwise, a peaceful silence reigned over the two story house. Windows were liquid dark, shadowed by curtains. One car sat in the driveway behind which a pair of tire tracks ran away in an arc. Rogue crouched against a pine tree, half-dozing, but alert. Once upon a time, she would have brimmed with excitement, a drug-like buzz invading her senses until all she could think about was hunting down the threat. This wait would have become an obsession to the point where the who and why were irrelevant. Today, closest she felt to excitement was anxiety.
Tori had taken Clive out to dinner, in her own car. The sentence alone meant little unless the listener was one who built their life around terror. She could still think that way. The house was empty, his car was in the driveway. She had a large window of opportunity to set a trap. What would be easiest? A timer triggered by the car battery, set to go off in fifteen minutes. She laughed nervously, pulling her thoughts back from that avenue. Five years ago, I might have done exactly that. Tori's obviously not kept track of me. She found out, what, a couple of days ago and suddenly it's blow him to kingdom come? She had not stopped to think about that until Mystique had asked if she was sure Tori was on their side. To her embarrassment, she had been fully prepared to trust Victoria.
If Tori had that kind of agenda, she would've turned me in by now. At least, that was what made sense. But what if she was setting up a sting? Then who's watching me? Victoria would have safely assumed that she did not need to earn her trust. So let's assume that she's in with Clive and they're both setting me up. He went to meet someone and came back talking about mutants. He hates mutants. He wants to catch Mystique through me. The disk's the bait. Sentinels? FoH? S.H.I.E.L.D.? It could not be Nick Fury and his gang. We've encountered each other a few times now. Nick knows and he's too good a badge to let things go without a good reason. Bastion would do this; recruit someone to his cause. Pressing a shoulder to the tree trunk, she chewed on her lip trying to figure out what Victoria's angle was. Hell, if she's been caught that means those folks are already in jeopardy. She gave it up with a rueful smile. Sinister plots had never been her forté.
At least I know what Clive's agenda is. He's got a friend with muscle, maybe Bastion, at the price of some information on the underground but he won't pay until his new-found buddy fulfills his end. If he already had what he wanted, the others were in danger. If capturing Rogue or Mystique was part of the payment plan, then the list of names had not yet been released. It was a gamble. Either way, if this was a setup, she would not need to kill him. There it was again, that death thought. Only kill in self-defense. Why do I keep coming back to that if? There is no if. I can't kill. Heroes don't kill. Bark scraped across her shoulder as she shifted once again, doing her best to ignore the cold weight of the firearm belted under her bomber jacket.
A chill was creeping along the back of her neck causing a shudder. At first, she thought it was the bizarre side-effect of her power running amuck, but then realized it was her seventh sense. Someone is watching me. She fought off the urge to freeze or turn. If that someone was triggering her sense, then they were a threatening someone. The fact that she had no immediate desire to take flight suggested a passive threat. Shutting her eyes, relaxing, she tried to cut off as much outside stimuli as possible. The sensation became less general and more concentrated to her right and back. Surreptitiously, she removed her gloves, then darted in that direction.
It was gone.
Hovering along the canopy, she searched the ground futilely trying to recover the feeling, but her elusive sense had vanished. Whoever, or whatever, could still be present but no longer a threat. Listening, she heard wind, shattering ice, and the distant whine of a car engine. A faint residue of ozone reached her nose. Strangely, there were no tracks in the snow. Perhaps her guest was a flyer. She removed a mini-cerebro from her belt and swung it in a slow arc. It picked up static directly in front, less on the sides, nothing more.
Rolling in mid air and keeping a low profile, she headed back towards the Bauer's house thinking that Clive would have to be blind not to see her.
Heat waves rose from the hood and metal ticked as it cooled. Inside, a woman smiled at something the man said or did, then turned. Two doors opened in succession, with Clive coming around to stand in front the passenger side before Victoria exited. The doors shut like gunshots. He smiled and motioned at Tori.
Turning on heel, he lifted an oblong black shape. "I want you to come out into the open, hands up." His face was calm. "Do anything, anything at all, and I'll shoot and for your own safety, this is not a projectile weapon."
Rogue mumbled and stepped out onto the lawn in accordance. Gamely, she placed her hands on her head, trying to remember the last time she had been in that position. Cops and robbers with Cody? Or does the time we nearly walked into a sting count? "Hon', am Ah the only one who realizes how stupid this is? C'mon, Clive, you know Ah'm no hotshot terrorist. Heck, Ah'd probably turn myself in if Ah did anything to you. How about we give talkin' a chance?"
He ignored her and added, "Where I can see them."
She raised her hands, palms facing him. That's right, I have a death ray hidden in the back of my head. She watched curiously as Victoria started to get up, seemingly without regard to the apparent danger. They're in this together.
"Tori, stay in the car, behind me." He approached steadily, keeping the gun level. His face, lined with a decade of determination, remained composed with a friendly smile in place. Clear blue eyes, open and guileless, looked at her patiently, missing nothing. "Rogue, Mystique's foster daughter." It was a cataloguing statement. "I'm surprised she'd send an amateur to do her dirty work."
"Ah'm not here to kill you. Unlike my mother, Ah'm not paranoid." Even if Tori thinks I am and she didn't send me. She tried to remember why she hated this man, if she had ever hated him. Had he merely been quarry? A name to hate? He was probably a good man, essentially speaking, but he was an enemy. He'll put me away if he can, for no good reason, for something I can't explain why I did.
Strength and energy still poured through her, but he was a good sixty feet away. There was no telling what would happen when he closed in.
Clive kept walking. He fired.
She was not worried until the energy beam hit her full center. It melted the material of her uniform before she had the sense to move. Looking down at the smoking hole, she cocked her head in familiar amusement. The tension that had gripped her shoulders melted away to be replaced by a strangely disembodied ease. The battle euphoria had set in. She lowered one hand to hold the flaps of cloth together letting them do their magic trick and reseal at the seam. Unstable molecules were great. She grinned, not feeling at all like an X-Man. "Don't Ah have t'do something hostile t'warrant shootin' me?"
"You're a wanted felon." He reholstered his weapon. "Worth a try." None of his hate showed. He readjusted the lapels of his dress jacket.
She shrugged through the wash of old guilt and pain. Those emotions had long since lost the ability to shatter her ability to smile. Her crimes were in the past. "Nah, if Ah was a wanted felon Ah'd be a hunted woman. Can't prove anythin' 'bout that now, can you?" It was a weak ploy to discover if her tracks had been covered. It was not that she did not have faith in Mystique but, rather, healthy suspicion.
"Well, what?"
"Aren't you going to kill me now, little miss X-Man? Maybe shoot me, slit my throat, poison gas, a good old fashioned beating? It's what you do best, isn't it?" His hands hooked in his overcoat pockets and he smiled faintly. "Or is it possible you actually feel remorse, repentance?" His eyes gentled and his smile became concerned. The proffered sympathy reminded her of a preacher. One of those showmen on television. He snapped his fingers. "That's right, you're one of the good guys now. What was I thinking?"
Her armor slipped and guilt returned but only long enough to be banished again. The cliché of knowledge being power was true. She had the power to keep five people alive. Clive did not want to talk or compromise, not judging by his sarcastic attack. Mostly likely, he only meant well, but a mutant in captivity usually did not last long. But, she needed to know if she could take the minimal approach. She would need to use her power on him and hope her energy signature was not traced. "Yeah, Ah've changed. Ah only wan' talk an' make sure no one gets hurt."
He made a sound that could have been assent or disbelief. "It's a free country, for its law-abiding citizens. So should we go inside and have tea and crumpets or would you like to talk to me the same way you talked to Carey?" He paced casually but his smile bared the bottom edges of his teeth. "You remember him don't you?"
"Ah'm sorry, no." Unease made her frown. Neither of them had mentioned the disk yet and he was making small talk. Small talk. He was stalling. Balancing her weight on one hip, she kept an eye out for his backup. He was too confident despite knowing she was nigh invulnerable. That meant he had heavy firepower somewhere. She avoided looking at Tori altogether while everyone maintained the charade for the next act.
"Not even that much respect for the dead? I thought you might at least remember him. He held a most interesting conversation with you, if his remains were any indication. You were there weren't you? Mommy's little girl?"
"Ah don' know what you're talkin' 'bout." He must be referring to the Suarez incident; it was the only one he would know for sure in which she had actively participated. She had killed a straggling witness, but swiftly. Clive's words indicated prolonged violence. Therefore, it could not be the two guards with Suarez, or the esteemed scientist himself. He's bluffing. He suspects something but has no evidence.
Folding his hands behind his back, he closed the distance between them and leaned close. "It involved an electrode and a blade. The box was shipped from Hong Kong. Have I jogged your memory?"
She shuffled through memories, some hers, some that might be and others that were not. After a tense search, she sucked in her breath and looked away from him.
Rogue looked at a gagged man sitting in a chair. Doesn't have much choice being all tied up like that. He looked kind of ill and his blue and gray clothing was torn in several places. She heard Destiny arguing with Momma, really arguing out loud as close to yelling as she ever got.
"Yes, I know, but it's been too long as it is. Three days!"
She switched her attention to Mystique.
"I see you're listening."
"Uh huh."
"Close your mouth. You look like a fish."
She closed her mouth and glanced back at the strange man.
"That is one of the Federal agents who tried to ambush you earlier." Mystique crossed her arms. "Do you remember that?"
"Uh huh."
"Good. I'm going to ask this man questions. All you have to do is pay attention." She removed the man's gag but he did not make a sound. His eyes cursed for him. Mystique ignored that and tugged a white metal box on wheels out beside him. The box was unremarkable except for several dials and a pronged cord leading from it. The man watched as she flipped a switch and picked up the prong.
A piercing whine filled the room. Rogue stepped back and grimaced. The disorientation that followed was nauseating. I should tell her it's getting worse, but I can't interrupt now. The whine cut off with a deep hum. Irené poked her in the back with her cane and pushed her closer. Even though she was within touching distance, the man never took his eyes off Mystique.
"You recognize this?" She waved it in his face and his eyes narrowed. "They teach you something in Quantico, after all. Shall we begin?"
The man turned so that he stared straight ahead. His hands tightened on the armrests.
"Tell me," she paused, "under whose orders were you acting?" She brought the prong down so that one tine touched the back of his right hand. "You have to the count of five, in seconds."
She's not going to hit him or anything. Rogue tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear in growing agitation. The man was sweating, and so was she. I could just use my powers and get this over with but she told me to watch and if I don't, she won't fix my arm. But why? It's not fair. She avoided thinking too long about that coercion.
The other tine touched on his skin and his entire body leapt. He made a sound preliminary to a scream but moaned instead. His hand was shaking violently, curled up, fingers gnarled. He sucked his cheeks in and a white line appeared around the edge of his upper lip. Mystique lifted the electrode away. He sagged in the chair.
Rogue staggered back in equal shock, her jaw working but no sounds emerging. She shot a glance between Mystique and Destiny, searching for explanation. The man's hand was now a slightly broiled maroon.
Mystique raised an eyebrow, inclining her head at her, then leaned down at the agent with a grin. "You're not going to tell me his name are you?"
The chords of his throat worked and he swallowed. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he only stared her in the eye.
"Damn," she gibed in mock dismay. "Then we continue."
After the too many unanswered questions, Rogue tried to edge away, gasping raggedly. This was making her sick. It seemed she could feel the man's pain, which was impossible nonsense. Yet, for his every struggle, she imagined an electric sweep across her nerves, jingling like a nervous twitch in a spider web. It made her skin crawl and she shuddered. A frail authoritative hand dropped on her shoulder. She could shake it off with little effort, but she stayed put. The man was screaming now. Bowing her head, she squeezed her eyes shut so hard that spots danced in the darkness.
"Open your eyes, child."
"Ah can't see."
Destiny squeezed her shoulder in support. "I know child, but though Raven's views differ from mine, and perhaps yours, you must do as she says."
She did so, but kept her gaze fixed on the chair legs. "Why can't Ah jus' use my power? It'd be quicker."
"One must not solely rely on their metahuman abilities." Irené let go.
Rogue tried to read an expression behind Destiny's shades and placid words. Don't depend on your powers. Learn to do things the hard way but take pride in being a mutant and use them. We're better than humans. All her lessons put together made no sense. Why could I use my power on Suarez but not on this man? Nothing made sense through the haze. "Ah don' un'erstan'."
"We are not better than humans. We merely possess certain advantages over them. There will come a day when that advantage will no longer be an assurance."
The man had stopped screaming. Thinking he might have died, Rogue looked up. His chest rose and fell in weak, shallow breaths. His head hung, hair matted to forehead, mouth lax. His eyes made a disinterested sweep of the room. He was not dead. He was not capable of screaming, that was all. The visible sites of electrocution were red, purple with twin white spots that marked dead tissue. She had read about this type of injury. Within forty-eight hours, the burnt tissues would slough off the bone. Untreated, they would become gangrenous. He would die from infection, fever and dehydration.
The smell of half-cooked meat permeated the room.
As she catalogued the details, the anger and pain swept through her again with fierce intensity. She staggered and for the first time, she noticed that his eyes were brown and the small detail was overwhelmed by the larger fact that this man would die. It did not matter how and it did no good feeling sorry about it. I wish I could make him stop hurting. She understood the point of this exercise, as her Momma would call it. This is all for show; he doesn't know anything. That thought succeeded in turning her stomach. She hated lessons. How dare she? Damn mutant bitch.
Both Rogue and Mystique faced Irené in askance.
"I was speaking to Rogue."
Mystique nodded but turned off the machine regardless. She looped and tucked the cord against the side of the machine and pushed it away.
Rogue blinked in bewilderment. "Ah di'n' do anythin'."
"You were and would have suffered greatly for it."
The dull sickness in her stomach churned into anger. "He was hurtin' for no good reason." Knowing she was throwing a tantrum and not caring, "This was some type of stupid lesson! Ah could fin' out the answers real quick. Ain' nothin' wrong with that!"
She lunged too quickly and jarred her shoulder. "Fuck, arh...." She suppressed further outcry, holding her elbow to her stomach and tried not to heave on the combined pains and smell. "He don' know nothin'. Ah ain' stupid."
"Well, you certainly speak as if you are."
The irrelevance spiked through her temples. "I know how to speak properly," she gritted out, "Ah'm jus' sayin' y'don' have to do this. Ah get the point already so y'don' need to...." She swallowed, and turned away. You don't have to beat me with it.
"I did not refer to punishment. I spoke of suffering." Irené placed her cane between them and sighed. "You sought to remove his pain. You would have succeeded only in harboring it within yourself. It is not wise for you to absorb those in pain or those who would cause you pain by causing great physical change. It would...set your mind against itself."
But I really wasn't doing anything. Perplexed, she frowned and opened her mouth to argue.
"A resolution will come with time." She nodded towards the dying man and Rogue reluctantly returned her attention to her foster-mother.
Mystique presented her with a clone of her lost dagger, handle first. "Go on. Finish him off. End his suffering." She smiled faintly, more like a cat baring the tips of its teeth. "If it bothers you that much."
"Raven," beseeched Irené. "This is not necessary. The child understands."
"Don't, Irené. She may understand intellectually but she needs to cultivate a little less pity for her enemies if she wants to survive." She lifted the knife fractionally.
Rogue eyed it like a cottonmouth.
"Think, girl. You feel sorrow for him now, but this man is a Federal agent. He would gladly and willingly kill you in your place. If you don't, I'll release him and we'll count the hours to your arrest. Believe me, if that's what it takes to make you understand the consequences of misplaced pity, I will do it."
She looked, in shock, between the knife, her Momma and the man. This was different. He was not chasing or trying to kill her. He was helpless. How could she know that this man would seek revenge. How could the Feds reach them here in the safe house? Would she really do such a thing? She was shaking her head, slowly. "Why?"
"Because I gave you an order."
Disobedience would lead to punishment and Mystique could very creative, and very brutal, without lifting a finger. She never hit, but there were so many things worse than a beating. When it came down to it, her Momma and Destiny were more important to her than a nameless government agent. She would do it and that awareness sent a stabbing pain through her chest.
The man, no, the agent -- she had to think of him as an agent, a human -- was staring resolutely ahead his face set in grim lines.
People would grieve for him.
"I understand imprisonment can be an...enlightening experience."
The thought of bars, a small room shared with a hostile stranger, terrified her. And my power. What would they do about it? Destiny was saying that maybe powers can't always protect a mutant. She had the horrible suspicion that hers would not protect her for very long against a determined enemy. I can't go to jail. People get hurt in jail. She reached for the dagger. People get raped in jail.
Her arm hurt so much, a throbbing twisting pain. And they were so loud. Why were they so loud? It was making her head hurt. It was like a dream when sounds echoed in a mental cave. Their words made no sense. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. This is really annoying.
She wiped her hand across her forehead, skimming her fingers through her hair. Her scalp was plastered with sweat though the room was air conditioned. She looked at the agent through the crook of her elbow. He was watching her watch him with dismissive condemnation. That was okay. It was the same type of look any of her victims gave her: 'How could you? You stole my soul? How could you?' She was used to it. She was used to feeling it first hand.
Too bad I can't really victimize him. She smiled at her turn of thoughts. Here she was, working up the nerve to execute a man, and her mind chose to wander towards sex. It was a safe direction of thought, safe because it was completely unfeasible. Momma would probably think that was funny. Rogue did not. As a normal human, he was unworthy of attention, but still.... Sometimes she got so lonely. Surely Mystique, of all people, would not mind her using him. Granted, the definition of "use" differed.
Irené rapped her cane on the floor in sharp disapproval.
Rogue gave her a sullen look. "Hypocrite," she muttered.
"Mind your manners, young lady."
And from the recesses, something fragile unraveled. As if a string were pulled, Rogue twitched and through gritted teeth, reminded them, "Ah ain' no youn' lady."
Mystique smiled sweetly. "Would you like me to call you names instead? Variations on 'rogue' perhaps?" She jerked her chin at the maimed man. "I can think of a few apt ones."
Rogue felt the blood drain from her face in shock and hunched her shoulders in learned shame. Her eyes stung but she fought that. "That's not fair," she whispered.
"Oh, that's not fair," Mystique mockingly intoned. "Grow up. Are you going to finish the job or do I have to do it for you?" She tapped her foot. "You take care of this, we'll mend your injuries, and you can off into the city and have as much fun as you like... so long as you're back by two."
"But-" Murder and a party. Party to murder. She realized she was staring at Mystique, a blue and white shape that wavered like a fun house mirror for a second. There was nothing funny about this mirror.
"Stop sniveling."
Rogue balled her fist around the knife, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Her pulse leapt, blood rushing in her ears. A cold fury seized her and she realized she was shaking with rage. She did not want to do this. It was not fair. It was not. This was another stupid test that Momma had started, not her. Not me. It's not my fault. So why do I have to be the one that finishes it?!
Lowering her head, she took a step towards Mystique.
Her foster-mother backed up.
"Both of you! Stop this instant! I will not have discord over trivialities." Irené leaned on her cane, frowning ferociously. Her veined hand squeezed the handle so hard that her knuckles showed white. "You," she pointed, "Raven, are indeed a hypocrite, as am I, in my own ways."
The woman in question appeared as if she had been physically struck.
"But you, my child, you are also in the wrong. First of all, you should not threaten your mother. Second, regardless of my raven's behavior or misbehavior, she acts with my allowance and of her own free will, paradoxical as that may sound. She is correct in charging you with a need for self-control, as tactlessly as it was done, for I fear you are confusing one thing with quite another."
So rarely did Irené lecture that Rogue quietly accepted her words, reminded that it was not her place to question those to whom she was beholden. Of course, none of this made her head spin less or her arm feel better, but now she looked, really looked, at the uniformed agent. There was no way she could kill in cold blood. She never had been able to do that. There needed to be a foundation of rage or fear for her to do that, but there were ways to trick herself into feeling those things.
Under the burns was a handsome face.
She ran a fingertip over the curve of his jawbone and cheek, traced the ridge of his nose. The corner of his eye twitched and he turned his head away slightly. A sneer lifted her lip. Of course he turned away. They never wanted to be close, to touch. Never. She closed her hand tightly on the hilt and cracked her fist across that cheek. Her knuckles hurt. Good. It obliterated the warmth lingering on her fingertip.
Keeping her jaw clenched to prevent her heart from thudding right out, she squeezed her eyes shut and convinced herself. That bastard. He was older than her, but no more than ten years. She could imagine his life. He was handsome. He probably had a girl or a wife. He probably had a house, a car, a life, a family. A real family. His own family. Relations. She rocked on her toes and lifted her fist. That fucking bastard. She couldn't even touch. No one wanted to touch something, someone, they could not have.
The blade struck his face so hard it ricocheted off bone. The force jarred her arm, upset her balance. A thin white line appeared across his cheek, winding to a stop at his nose. Blood welled up. She listened, fascinated as he began to choke, almost like a baby. She had cut his nose in half. He could not breath. She grinned. It was not enough. One cut was not enough, ever. The grin turned into a snarl as she cut him a new mouth. Slashing at any exposed part. Slashing until her arm ached. How dare he?! He would choke to death first. It did not matter. It never mattered. Tomorrow would be the same, again and again and again. None of it mattered
Until hands grabbed, shaking her until the pain from her broken bone caught her attention. She glared with submerged hatred at yellow eyes and ignored the voice telling her to get in control, to channel her anger, to show some common sense, to do as she was told but hating her life more than any of those things.
"Ah'm sorry." So much apologizing I've been doing lately. Doesn't matter. Doesn't make it better and never has.
"You're sorry?! He had a fiancee!" His face snarled up flushing red and causing his eyes too seem all the more blue. They seemed to glow with hatred. "He was twenty-three! He was going to get married and you butchered him! You cut him apart! What? Using your power," he sneered that word, "wasn't good enough? What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Her powers remained active, yet she retreated from his justified fury. His honest questions to which she could not give a satisfactory answer. "Ah di'n'-"
"Didn't what? Didn't know? Didn't do it on purpose? Didn't have a choice? Didn't have as much fun doing it the hard way? It doesn't matter! You," he slashed a finger at her, pointing in accusation, "you did it and it wasn't the first time you murdered in cold blood, was it?" He bared his teeth, "Monster."
"No!" Fun had been the last thing on her mind while listening to that man, Carey, scream. It was the one thing under Mystique's tutelage that had turned her stomach. She had refused to do it again. She swallowed in shock. But not until afterwards. "It wasn' fun," she insisted.
"I don't want to hear excuses. You were there. What you didn't do, you saw and condoned."
"Ah was fifteen. My family was criminals. Ah di'n' have no say in it."
"You were too young to make moral judgments?" A vein pulsed in his forehead. "What about Ong? Tranquada? Kotovsky? Bendt? Oh, that's right, you don't remember who they were. Let me refresh your memory." He seemed to have calmed into ice. "The first two were the escort guards for Suarez. Bendt needed a closed coffin. Kotovsky was a cripple, you executed him!" Clive formed his hand into gun and pointed at the side of his head. "Executed! And that's not counting the poor schmucks in the genetics lab. Who set the bombs? You?"
"No." She had not known how to set up a series that complex. Pyro had taught her that in a later...exercise.
"But you know who did, don't you?"
"Ah don' have t'answer that question," she whispered.
"Murdering bitch." He laughed, softly, to himself. "I'd prosecute, except you're right. I don't have any evidence. And you know that, you lousy fucking piece of shit." He shrugged good-naturedly. "Guess I'll have to find a way around that."
"Why're y'tellin' me that? Ah know y'settin' me up. Ah jus' wanted t'talk to you."
He made scolding noises. "I thought you were one of the good guys. One of those costumed super heroes out to save the world. What are you going to do if this is a sting? Back to killing so soon?"
Guilty panic began to eat at her from the inside but she squelched it swiftly. She was a hero. She had people to save. I guess that's what Momma liked best. I couldn't dwell on guilt. "No."
"Good little hero, huh?" He put a hand to his brow, theatrically waving the other in the air. "I will martyr myself for the cause." Letting his arms drop, he caught her eyes again. "You know what? I don't believe you. People change. They don't change that much. Whatever made you the perfect little pet is still there."
"Ah'm sorry. Ah can't change the past."
"No, but you can pay for it, or kill me first. That's how the rules go, don't they? "
"Ah...." She was going to say she would not kill him, but that promise was not hers to make anymore. Clive was right. Everything he said was right but her capture would not keep her old friends alive.
"Thought so." He stopped talking or moving. A ripple passed across his face and he was calm once more. His smile was relaxed.
She waited but nothing happened. Neither of them moved. Victoria remained in the car, as instructed. The sun was setting, wind picking up speed. The light made Clive's teeth glint pink. His eyes picked up orange highlights, contrasting sharply with their native blue. She curled her hands tighter, still in the air. It was getting cold. The air bit into her lungs in passage. It was cold. Shit.
Not thinking further than that, she dropped and rolled. There was no sound. A spot of mud marked where she had been standing. Field inhibitors. Killer death rays. A compact army. Sentinels. Thank lord my instincts were right. There were only two of them, hovering silently, awaiting commands.
The gun in her hands was a pea shooter against these monsters. She ran, zigzagging towards the forest, ridiculing her own foolishness. Think! Think! Heat flashed dangerously close to her arm. Don't think! Nothing to hide behind, no cover, no back-up, no powers. She only had her rusty skills to count on and, now that she needed them, she realized they were all but gone.
Lunging to the side, she almost twisted her knee. Drop. Roll. Turn. The gun leapt in her hands. The kick threw her of balance.
The sentinels turned in unison.
She fired again, reflexively. One of them squawked at her but she did not check it out before running again. She did not need anyone to tell her she was depending too much on reflexes and training she had not practiced in years. Mystique would be laughing her head off.
Thirty seconds later, she sucked in her breath and clawed at her back. It was numb with fire. She could feel the heat of the injury. The pain would strike soon. The gun was still in her hand but slipping, the metal sliding off her glove. The cry froze before it began. She tightened her grip on the piece and refused to look back at the Sentinel. Stupid, stupid me. She fell heavily to her knees, collapsing on her side, the rough surface of the grip obstinately pressed into her palm. I wonder if she knew this would happen?
The numbness crawled into her mind and she stopped thinking. She stopped wondering, if maybe she had kept up practice these past years, this might have ended differently. Maybe this was only right. She stopped thinking because it hurt and the last thing she saw was a pair of blue double-booted feet.


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text: Seedy newspaper reporter Carl Kolchak (Darren McGavin) is assigned the Las Vegas police beat by his boss Tony Vincenzo (Simon Oakland). A series of murders has been plaguing the Glitter Capital; the victims, all beautiful showgirls, have had the blood drained from their bodies. Kolchak can't understand why the authorities are so uncooperative as he probes the case. Nor can he believe the evidence he's gleaned on his own: There can't possibly be a Dracula-like vampire stalking Las Vegas, or can there? Adapted by Richard Matheson from a novel by Jeff Rice, The Night Stalker debuted January 11, 1972 - -and on that fateful evening, this thriller became the highest-rated TV movie up to its time, as well as an instant cult classic. The film spawned a popular sequel, The Night Strangler (1972), and a 1974 TV series. Hal Erickson, Rovi


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A new cool eprint has appeared:
J. Veness, et al. A Monte Carlo AIXI Approximation. eprint: 0909.0801
The question that defines the context for this article is: How should probabilities be assigned? One way, with much to recommend itself, is take them to be algorithmic probabilities or universal priors. Suppose one has observed the first N values of a discrete time series, maybe a byte stream, and wishes to predict or make a bet about the next value. Is there a general probability measure appropriate for all cases that fit this abstract setting and, if so, which one? Read the rest of this entry »


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Kristian Levring's large-scale western drama "The Salvation" with Mads Mikkelsen is among the Official Selection of the 67th Cannes Film Festival.
The Cannes Film Festival announced today the 2014 Official Selection, and among the films to venture to Cannes 14-25 May is Kristian Levring's "The Salvation", which is selected for an out-of-competition Gala screening.
"The Salvation" is a large-scale western drama rooted in Scandinavia – a tale of revenge, blood feud, lost love and greed.
The story takes place in America in the 1870s. When settler John kills his family's murderer, he unleashes the fury of the notorious gang leader Delarue. Betrayed by his corrupt and cowardly community, the peaceful pioneer must turn vengeful hunter, slay the outlaws, and cleanse the town's black heart.
Mads Mikkelsen plays the Danish settler John, and the international cast also includes Eva Green, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Mikael Persbrandt and Jonathan Pryce.
Kristian Levring was one of the four original Dogme brothers. His Dogme film "The King Is Alive" premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in 2000 in Un Certain Regard, while his latest film "Fear Me Not" (2009) played at a string of festivals including San Sebastian and Toronto.
"The Salvation" is written by Anders Thomas Jensen and Kristian Levring. Anders Thomas Jensen was also co-writer on Levring's "Fear Me Not" and "The King Is Alive." Cinematographer on "The Salvation" is Jens Schlosser, and Pernille Bech Christensen edited the film. Sisse Graum Jørgensen has produced for Zentropa with support from the Danish Film Institute.
via the Danish Film Institute


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