Now That That's Over

I'll be getting back to some regular and more frequent updating very soon, with a closing post on the CYOA coming first. If you still read this "blog" thank you very much for believing in me, and your loyalty will start to be rewarded again, I promise.

Until next time,

The 901 Blogger

CYOA: Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind (Volume 1, Chapter 7)

Last Week’s Winning Choice:

Kill Fitzgerald

Chapter 7

    Asby swallowed his pity for Fitzgerald and extended his arms. For the third time in fifteen minutes he began to strangle the unconscious dwarf, but this time the dwarf did not immediately fight back. When he finally woke up in anguish his eyes widened in fear; he stretched out his small arms but this time could not reach Asby’s face. As they waved pathetically, Asby felt a twinge of pathos and broke eye contact with Fitzgerald. He felt the body go weak in his hands and Fitzgerald’s arms fell to rest on Asby’s. Asby looked back into Fitzgerald’s wide, lifeless eyes and let go of the dwarf instantly. He scrambled out from under the canopy of the parachute and vomited for the first time in ten years. When the heaves had passed he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket and returned to Fitzgerald’s side. After crouching alongside the body for a few more minutes, taking in the murder he had just committed, he passed a hand over Fitzgerald’s eyes and closed them.

    Asby reemerged from under the parachute and shielded his eyes from the Kansas sun as he pulled out his cell phone, which had miraculously survived numerous beatings and the collision with the ground. He dialed the number of the B.I.A. and put the phone up to his ear.

    “Basic Intelligence Agency, Harold speaking,” came the voice from the other end.

    “Hey Harold, it’s Thomas. Put me through to Doe.”

    Asby heard movements, there was a brief pause, and then he heard a whisper on the other end: “Sir, it’s Thomas.”

    “Oh, thank you. Hello Thomas!” came John Doe’s voice from the other end.

    “Hi, sir. I elimin– I killed Fitzgerald.”

    “Did you really?” Doe’s excitement was apparent over the phone. “Well done, Thomas!”

    “Thank you, sir.”

    “I’ll let the government know immediately! This is very good for our branch, Thomas, very good. You’ve done an outstanding service for our country as well.”

    “Thank you, sir.”

    “I’ll have Harold pinpoint your location and I’m sure the government will send out a team to pick you up.”

    “Thank you, sir.”

    “Once again, well done.”

    Asby didn’t answer and soon heard the line go dead. He closed the phone and returned it to his pocket, then turned to look at the parachute canopy. He ducked back down underneath the awning and returned to Fitzgerald’s body’s side, where he would sit until a government helicopter landed nearby a half-hour later.

THE END

This marks the successful conclusion of Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind

CYOA: Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind (Volume 1, Chapter 6)

Last Week’s Winning Choice:

Jump from the plane

Chapter 6

     Asby staggered to his feet, spit a wad of blood from his mouth, and hurled himself like a jackrabbit through the plane’s open door.
     What was he doing? That was the first thing to cross his mind as he was whipped away from the aircraft, his whole world spinning violently around him. He settled on the notion that he had gone insane, his mind warped from more than a decade of cat-and-mouse games with nefarious criminals. Was there any other way he could justify jumping out of an airplane? Well, people do it for fun all the time, he reassured himself. But six miles above the ground? Of course! Without a parachute? Nope, he had gone insane. The only comforting thought was that he would die in the line of duty, and in his mind there was no finer way to go.
     He eventually righted himself the best he could, and looked in the direction of his terminus to find fellow fallee Fitzgerald. He spotted the falling mass only a couple hundred feet beneath him. It was this man Asby could blame for his skydiving shenanigans, with his tuft of orange hair, dastardly desire to kill, and four-foot tall stature. Asby streamlined his body, focused on the shiny dome of the crook, and shot down toward his target.
     His attempts to catch up were almost for naught, as Fitzgerald was a very tiny man without having to fold himself into the shape of a pencil. The dwarf did not look to have a parachute either, not having put one on the plane, yet Asby figured that a man of such intelligence would probably figure out some way to survive a six-mile freefall.
     As Asby drew within fifty feet he reached for the gun strapped into his shoulder holster, only to find the space it usually occupied. He slapped himself on the forehead as he remembered Fitzgerald kicking it away during the in-flight struggle.
     It’s quite amazing how much time a man has to think about things during a six-mile drop, when your only objective is to fall faster than the man you are chasing. It was because of this that Asby’s mind flitted to all sorts of miscellaneous subjects at the moment of head-slapping, such as why he had signed up for the typically bungling and inept Basic Intelligence Agency, how he ended up in a doomed breakneck skydiving chase of a yard-high man, and if the Red Sox would start Josh Beckett on three days rest tonight against the Indians.
     When he refocused his thoughts on his current predicament, he found himself in amazingly close proximity to Fitzgerald, though Asby in all seriousness cared more about the remaining mile between him and the ground. Asby reached out with both hands and for the second time in five minutes throttled the midget about the neck, easily wrapping his fingers around its entire circumference. Fitzgerald’s head twisted in agony, the small mouth snarling at the sight of the secret agent he had probably figured he’d seen the last of when he was whipped parachuteless from an airplane at cruising altitude.
     PFFFFOOOT.
     The simultaneous discharges of parachutes wrenched the two enemies apart, and in that millisecond Asby saw that Fitzgerald looked as surprised to find himself with a parachute as Asby did to find that he had one. Their progress through the sky impeded, though sadly not entirely, Asby closed his eyes as the ground rushed up to him with horrible speed.
     WHAM!
     He was in extraordinary pain, feeling as if he were smashed into millions of agonizing pieces. Even if he could he dared not open his eyes lest he see a large pool of blood flooding the expanse around him. Many minutes may have passed, possibly even hours, before he felt the impulse to draw his eyelids apart.
     The light, even though there was not much, was at once blinding and Asby shielded his eyes as he lifted his battered head off the ground. He rotated his head painfully on his neck, able to only see blurry green and brown shapes in his immediate area. Shaking his head painfully, it wasn’t long before he rightly deduced that he had landed in the middle of a Kansas cornfield.
     He staggered to his feet, stabs of pain shooting through his spindly legs, and emerged up into the vastness of his parachute. He collected the parachute around him and dropped it onto the ground in a huddled heap. All the while he was visibly seething; no one had ever told him that his tuxedo had contained a self-deploying parachute, though in all fairness he realized it was just like the B.I.A. to forget to do so.
     His eyes roved the top of the cornfield and he soon spotted the small chute that was sure to hold Fitzgerald. Pain continued to shoot through his maligned body as he stumbled down the rows of unpicked corn, all the while his common sense trying to convince him that this would be a great time to give up and move to Zimbabwe. When he reached the edge of the chute, he collapsed, lifted the flap, and began to crawl underneath.
     Fitzgerald was indeed there, lying unconscious near the center of the shadowy area, one small arm hooked around a stalk of corn. He’s not that bad, Asby had to admit. He really looked like a cuddly little toddler holding his teddy bear. Sympathy for the little man flooded over the throbbing pain he felt, and Asby even managed a weak smile. But hard reality beat back the tide of empathy and he realized he had to complete his mission, and now was the perfect time. Fitzgerald was there for him to kill. Should he spare Fitzgerald, or kill him?

What should Thomas Asby do next?

- Spare Fitzgerald

- Kill him

Vote for your choice in the poll on the right, and check in next Monday for the next installment of Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind!

CYOA: Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind (Volume 1, Chapter 5)

Last Week’s Winning Choice:

Attack Fitzgerald now

Chapter 5

     Asby opened the hatch slowly and turned his gaze toward the rear of the aircraft. Fitzgerald was sitting down, headphones on and a sleep mask covering his eyes. Two of his bodyguards stood on his left, tirelessly scrubbing what appeared to be an expansive splatter of blood off the wall of the plane. Asby raised an eyebrow and began looking for the third bodyguard. Soon though he was able to put two and two together, connecting the conspicuous absence of the bodyguard with the conspicuous bloodstain on the wall.

     “The boss is sure good with a bat,” one of the men was saying as he dipped a fluffy sponge into a bucket of suds.

     “Apparently too good,” the other man said exasperatedly.

     “I wish we coulda given Joe a proper funeral, though.”

     “Eh, he’s lucky he even got buried. True it coulda been in a nicer part of the country but whatever.”

     Trusting that the two bodyguards were properly engrossed in their menial task and conversation, Asby edged out of the armory and toward the bathroom on his right. He slid through the partly open door and closed it behind him. He hauled himself up onto the tiny counter and squeezed himself against the mirror, making his presence as unnoticeable as possible, and began to wait.

     About fifteen minutes later he heard a muffled voice from just beyond the bathroom door and it opened. One of the bodyguards backed into the lavatory and shut the door. As he turned toward the toilet Asby flung one foot out, connecting squarely with the bottom of his jaw. The bodyguard’s head snapped back and collided with a metal plate on the wall; his eyes rolled and he crumpled silently to the floor of the bathroom. Asby lowered himself into the spaces allowed by the bodyguard’s collapsed mass and crouched ready by the door, surreptitiously unlocking it as he waited. Another ten or fifteen minutes passed before someone knocked on the door.

     “Vinny are you okay?” came the voice of the other bodyguard. “That’s weird, boss, it’s unlocked. Vinny?”

     The door opened a sliver and Asby burst through it, colliding with the third bodyguard and tumbling with him into the far wall.

     BOOM.

     The sound of the gun firing was magnified in the small interior of the aircraft, the sound waves ricocheting off the walls and amplifying on top of each other. Asby staggered to his feet with the bodyguard in a stranglehold and faced down Fitzgerald, who had a handgun leveled in the pair’s direction; his first shot had missed and blown a hole in the wall of the cockpit.

     “Drop the gun, Fitzgerald!” Asby shouted. “There’s no point in bringing down the whole plane.”

     “If you intend to kill me, secret agent man,” Fitzgerald said maliciously, “I intend to kill you as well.”

     “So be–”

     The cockpit door behind Asby was flung open; the secret agent turned in alarm to see the co-pilot standing in the doorway with a wild look about him. Fitzgerald’s next shot whizzed by Asby’s turning face, and Asby saw the co-pilot’s head snap back before falling to the ground. Before Asby’s eyes could swivel back to Fitzgerald he felt the struggling bodyguard buck and then go limp in his arms. He looked down to see a gaping hole where the bodyguard’s left eye used to be, looked up to see Fitzgerald raising the barrel of the gun, and began charging toward the dwarf with his human shield held in front of him.

     With a heave he threw the body at Fitzgerald, who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough and was bowled over by a mass twice that of him. Asby leapt over the lifeless body and grabbed Fitzgerald by the neck; with a triumphant roar he lifted him into the air and began strangling him. Fitzgerald began to turn purple, a color that clashed horribly with his orange puff of hair, before he extended a tiny arm and jabbed a finger into Asby’s left eye.

     “ARGH!” Asby dropped the dwarf and grasped his face in agony.

     Fitzgerald began kicking Asby’s shins, sending the secret agent to the ground with his eye and legs throbbing. He pulled his gun from its shoulder holster but with one kick Fitzgerald sent it hurtling under a row of seats. Asby reached up and grabbed Fitzgerald by the waist; struggling to his knees he launched the dwarf through the air. Fitzgerald smacked headlong into the plane’s door, wrapping himself around the giant handle to avoid falling to the ground. However little Fitzgerald weighed though, he apparently weighed just enough to open airplane doors with the entirety of his weight. Like the hand of a clock the handle went from three to six, and the door swung out into the open expanse of the sky.

     The small aircraft shuddered violently as cabin pressure was lost, Fitzgerald was whipped free from the door and out into the wild blue yonder, and Asby was swept toward the deadly opening. As he slid across the floor the armory door swung open in front of him, and in a last ditch attempt he grabbed wildly at the handle. He made contact and held on for dear life as the blue ocean of the sky tried to rip him from his last lifeline. 

     A few moments later the pressure had stabilized and Asby lay gasping for air. All was not well though, as the plane was tilting treacherously back and forth; Asby was pretty sure the pilot was dead. He had to abandon ship fast, but he needed a parachute first. But he might not have time. Should he get a parachute, or just jump?

What should Thomas Asby do next?

- Try to find a parachute before jumping from the plane

- Jump from the plane without a parachute

Vote for your choice in the poll on the right, and check in next Monday for the next installment of Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind!

CYOA: Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind (Volume 1, Chapter 4)

Last Week’s Winning Choice:

Board the plane

Chapter 4

     Once the last bodyguard disappeared into the body of the aircraft, Asby took a deep breath and scuttled across the hangar toward the stairway. He scaled the steps swiftly on all fours, pausing at the uppermost tier to flash his head into the plane’s interior. The pilot and co-pilot were in the cockpit to the left, tinkering with numerous knobs in preparation for take-off, while Fitzgerald and his minions stood around a table to the right. Fitzgerald was pointing something out on a blueprint; he slammed a tiny, balled-up fist on the table, causing his poof of orange hair to wobble dangerously.

     “I just want to make sure there’s no chance of a trap,” he was reiterating to his cohorts.

     Asby looked furtively around for a place to store himself for the time being. There was a cabinet sized door directly opposite him; not expecting much of a hiding place he reached across the aisle and opened it anyway. Lo and behold he had not opened the door of a miniscule food cabinet but a well-sized walk-in armory with a miniscule door, probably designed for a miniscule villain. The walls were loaded with all assortments of weapons ranging from handguns to rifles, mines to frag grenades.

     “Are we ready for take-off yet?” Fitzgerald called to the pilots.

     Asby jumped in surprise and crawled hastily through the small portal, shutting the door quietly behind him.

     “Yes, sir!” he heard one of the pilots reply.

     “Good, then let’s get out of here.”

     A few minutes later the plane began to move with a jolt, Asby bracing himself in the confines of the armory. The acceleration associated with take-off manifested itself in the forces on Asby’s body, throwing him against a back wall and holding him firm to it. When the wheels finally lifted off the runway the whole aircraft vibrated, jarring loose several items in the room. Asby looked up and too late saw a hefty box of ammunition hurtling for his head; his eyes widened, there was a brief stab of pain, and his world went black.

***

     Sometime later he groggily opened his eyes to find himself still sprawled in the armory. His head was throbbing, and when he put his hand to the spot of impact he could feel dry blood encrusted on the wound. Remembering why he was there he anxiously checked his watch. Eight-thirty! They must have landed in New York by now; he cursed himself, hoping Fitzgerald wasn’t already in the meeting.

     He crawled around the box of mines and opened the small door of the armory slowly. The nearest window showed clear, blue–

     “Ahhhhh!” Asby ducked back into the armory quickly as Fitzgerald exited the bathroom on his right with a satisfied sigh. “Where are we now?”

     “Over Kansas, sir,” Asby heard one of his bodyguards say.

     Asby couldn’t fathom how it could take seven-and-a-half hours to get from Las Vegas to Kansas but he was fortunate for it all the same; he had come perilously close to failing the mission completely. Could he afford to wait until New York to eliminate Fitzgerald? He was dealing with reasonable odds on the plane and could pick off the bodyguards on their way to the bathroom. Once they landed he might not have time to get Fitzgerald before he met up with all the other criminals. But then again they were a few miles up in the air, something could always go wrong.

What should Thomas Asby do next?

- Try to eliminate Fitzgerald en route, where the odds are in his favor, instead of in New York, where he would be safely on the ground

- Wait until arriving in New York to attack Fitzgerald, having stable ground to fight on but also coming dangerously close to missing Asby’s deadline of eliminating Fitzgerald before the meeting.

Vote for your choice in the poll on the right, and check in next Monday for the next installment of Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind!

CYOA: Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind (Volume 1, Chapter 3)

Last Week’s Winning Choice:

Convince Derblint to betray Fitzgerald

Chapter 3

       After a few minutes of back-and-forth slaps to Deacon Derblint’s already battered face, Thomas Asby finally aroused his senseless captive. Derblint’s eyes flittered across every imaginable axis before Asby snapped his fingers and stabilized them. Derblint showed fear for a split-second before his brow furrowed in anger and he spit in Asby’s face; Asby sighed, wiped the saliva from the bridge of his nose and began rubbing it all over Derblint’s face.

       “Argh you asshole!” Derblint choked as his face became the cake and the spittle the icing.

      “Shut up, Derblint,” Asby said. He disgustedly shook off his hand as he grabbed another chair, pulling it next to the one that Derblint was tied to.

       “I won’t tell you anything,” Derblint said between deep breaths.

       “Well we both know that’s a lie,” Asby said, and as he did so he looked straight into Derblint’s mud-brown eyes.

       “Wh-what makes you say that?” Derblint stammered.

       “Well I’ve read your file, Derblint, and I don’t think you’re as bad a cat as you make yourself out to be.”

       “Nice try, doc. Not working on–”

       “You grew up in a small town: Minnetonka, Minnesota,” Asby cut him off. “You lived quite happily with both of your parents, no divorce or separation to speak of. At Minnesota State you studied to be a veterinarian with a minor in dentistry. You came home after college and lived there for a few years, at least until your father and mother died.” Derblint’s upper lip began to quiver. “This led you to attempt suicide. When you didn’t succeed you hitchhiked to California, where you met Fitz–”

       “Shut up,” Derblint interjected, but it was more feeble than vitriolic.

       Asby raised his eyebrows. “Don’t like hearing his name? What happened to that small-town kid who dreamed of being a veterinarian? Who came home after college to spend more time with his close-knit family? Who loved his parents so much that he couldn’t imagine living in this world without them?”

       “Stop.” Derblint had his eyes squeezed shut and was shaking his head. “Please stop.”

       “You’re a good person, Deacon.” The mention of his first name caused Derblint to open his eyes and look into Asby’s. “Your parents wouldn’t like the person you’ve become. You can leave all of this behind you, the government can protect you. You can become the vet – nay, the person – you always wanted to be. I’m not lying to you,” Asby emphasized.

* * *

       Asby pulled into long-term parking at McCarran International Airport later that night. He had left Los Angeles and begun driving to Las Vegas at 7:30 PM; four-and-a-half hours later – the clock in his Camry read two minutes past midnight – he had arrived. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper on which he had scribbled the information that Derblint provided:

       “McCarran Int: Priv. Hangar X, 1 AM”

       Asby folded up the paper, slid it into the breast pocket of his tuxedo, and stepped out of his car. He strode quickly from the parking lot in the direction of the hangars set apart from the main terminal. A fence topped with barbed wire soon blocked Asby from continuing onto the runway. Asby reached for the B.I.A.-issued belt strapped around his waist and unsheathed his wire cutters. He snipped himself out a man-sized hole, threw the residue to the side, and crawled his way onto the airport’s runways.

       A quick trot across the airfield later and Asby was creaking open a backdoor to Hangar X. Once inside he ducked behind a jumbled stack of airplane food boxes and peeked his head out to watch the proceedings in the hangar.

       A glossy private jet was sitting in the middle of the expanse, a blue-carpeted stairway extended to begin accepting passengers onboard. There were four men visible to Asby: one bodyguard standing at the top of the stairwell; two bodyguards standing by the wheels of the plane; and between them standing Fitzgerald, all four feet of him. Fitzgerald was visibly distressed and shouting angrily at his accomplices.

       “I DON’T CARE WHY! HE SHOULD BE HERE!”

       “Deacon’s never on time, sir,” one bodyguard was pleading.

       Fitzgerald stopped hopping around in anguish, took a few breaths, and smoothed out his miniature suit.

       “It’s okay. Breatheeeee. It’s okay. I was done with that fool anyway. I’ll just make sure to dispose of him when I return.” He motioned to his bodyguards. “Let’s get on the plane.”

       Asby stiffened as the three men ascended the stairwell into the body of the aircraft; he hadn’t come up with any sort of plan yet. He could risk being spotted and board the flight as well – the stairs had not been lifted yet – or try something more hands-off. Blowing up the plane could work, seeing as he had done explosives work before. Yet his knowledge wasn’t extensive and had not been used for quite a while. There was a chance he could blow all of them up, himself included, or nobody at all.

What should Thomas Asby do next?

- Board the plane, risking exposure but getting Asby up close and personal with Fitzgerald.

- Rig an explosive, though Asby could blow himself up or nobody at all

Vote for your choice in the poll on the right, and check in next Monday for the next installment of Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind!

Paul Rudd

Who doesn't love this man?

CYOA: Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind (Volume 1, Chapter 2)

Last Week's Winning Choice:

Head for Fitzgerald's right-hand man in Los Angeles

Chapter 2

Thomas Asby lowered the binoculars from his eyes and placed them on the passenger side seat. He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the steering wheel, grimacing and sighing deeply. The clock on the dashboard of his ’96 Toyota Camry read 4:37, meaning he had been sitting there for precisely two hours and twenty-three minutes.

He reached into the back seat for the manila file folder, flipped past the picture of Frederico Fitzgerald, and scanned the information about his right-hand man. His name was Deacon Derblint, and when not by Fitzgerald’s side he resided in Los Angeles. Asby intended to intercept Derblint and find out Fitzgerald’s location, sooner rather than later.

Asby’s car was currently parked at the intersection of 28th and Orchard, south of downtown Los Angeles, giving him a clear view of Derblint’s two-story shack a block away. Asby hoped Derblint would return soon; less than a day remained until Fitzgerald’s meeting with his fellow criminals.

Bored senseless, Asby stepped out of his car and walked a couple laps around it to stretch his legs. While his rundown vehicle fit the aesthetic of the squalid neighborhood, he himself did not, adorned as he was in a stylish tuxedo. He stopped to brush sand off the sole of his right loafer and then reentered his car.

Just as he became settled again a black sedan pulled up to Derblint’s residence and Fitzgerald’s second-hand man emerged from it with grocery bags in hand. Asby slowly exited his vehicle and crouched low, watching while Derblint crossed the sidewalk to his porch. Once he had mounted the patio Asby broke into a quick run. He turned up the walkway to the house as the door was being opened, and Derblint looked around to see the secret agent flying towards him, right leg outstretched.

Asby’s foot collided with Derblint’s nose, breaking it instantly. Blood as well as Derblint’s groceries went flying in all directions, and the man collapsed while Asby landed spryly on his feet. The secret agent grabbed Derblint by the ankles and dragged his struggling form across the living room floor into the kitchen area. He propped him up on a chair and set about finding material with which to bind his arms and legs. He rummaged through all the drawers in the kitchen, sifting through various culinary instruments before finding a spool of fishing line tucked away in one compartment. He turned back toward Derblint only to find that the man was gone from his seat.

BOOM.

A slug ripped past Asby’s ear and blew a six-inch hole in the wall behind him. Ears ringing, Asby ducked and hid behind a counter, pulling his own gun from a shoulder holster at the same time. Another shot tore overhead, and Asby leaned out quickly to see where Derblint was. He caught a glimpse of the man’s bloodstained persona and a massive Colt revolver before withdrawing to avoid Derblint’s third shot.

There was silence for a short while, each man waiting for the other to make the next move. Finally Asby took action and rolled across the opening between the kitchen and the living room, firing as he went. Derblint fired two shots in retaliation, one of which grazed Asby’s left shoulder as he tumbled by. Asby pulled up behind cover, touching the wound and wincing. If he calculated right, Derblint would have one shot left before reloading, so now was the perfect time to act.

He grabbed the fishing line and popped his head out for a split-second before withdrawing it. His plan worked perfectly, as Derblint fired off his last bullet in vain and began to reload. Asby emerged and flung himself across the living room, tackling Derblint to the floor and sending his revolver clattering into a corner. Asby began wailing on his victim, knocking him unconscious, and then set about tying his hands and feet together.

When he finished he stood up short of breath and began pondering his next move. Maybe he could convince Derblint to turn on Fitzgerald, but maybe not. His eyes began wandering about the room, landing on sets of pliers, a knife rack, and uneaten hot dogs. He had never tortured anybody before but maybe this would be a good time to start. He didn’t have much time.

What should Thomas Asby do next?

- Convince Derblint to betray Fitzgerald, appealing to the bad guy’s morality and sense of righteousness by saying “it’s the right thing to do.”

- Torture Derblint to get information on Fitzgerald’s whereabouts even though Asby has never tortured anybody before.

Vote for your choice in the poll on the right, and check in next Monday for the next installment of Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind!

CYOA: Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind (Volume 1, Chapter 1)

“Good evening.”

“Hello there.”

“What is your name, question mark.”

“Thomas Asby.”

“Door unlocked. You may enter, dot dot.”

Asby strode through the opening door and found his way blocked by a workplace that had been crudely constructed smack-dab in the center of the claustrophobic hallway. A Dell computer and a ream of scattered printer paper lay on the office desk, which had been jammed lengthwise across the passageway. Asby nodded to the technician working on the computer – he wasn’t sure if his name was Henry or Harry – as he set himself to the uncomfortable task of shimmying past the construct. After he had squeezed out the other side, he looked back and saw that the technician had Dell’s text-to-speech open and had last typed “You may enter…” into the program.

“Effing budget cuts,” Asby muttered to himself as he crossed the dimly lit hallway to the door at the other end. The plaque on the door had “John Doe – Head of B.I.A.” scribbled on it in mechanical pencil, and was strung up crookedly to a thumbtack jammed in the door. Asby raised his right hand, rapped on the door, and the plaque caromed off of its mount and clattered pathetically to the ground.

“Come in!” came a voice from the other side.

Asby turned the knob while violently jiggling the door on its frame and the contraption creaked open. His boss John Doe came into view, sitting behind a table at the far end of the square room. A fixed-pane window shielded by iron bars let in light on the left side of the room; the daylight, already smothered by the Los Angeles smog, waged a holy war against the grime on the pane to enter the room. Doe had set up a small desk lamp to compensate for the lack of natural light, but besides that, the table it was resting on, and two rickety chairs there was nothing else in the room whatsoever.

“Have a seat, Thomas,” Doe said, gesturing to the seat opposite him.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you like the lamp?”

“Very much so,” Asby said as he seated himself. “It much improves the room’s aesthetic.”

“Good! I’m glad you like it.” Doe coughed into his hand and wiped it on the breast of his tweed jacket. He looked up at Asby, his eyes magnified by the convex lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. “I wish we could continue the pleasantries, Thomas, but we must get down to brass tacks. The Basic Intelligence Agency is on its last legs. You and your brother are the only agents we have left, and I’m quite close to letting our technician Harold go. Our chances to prove our worth to the U.S. Government are fast dwindling.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Good! Well then you’ll understand that the mission I’m about to give you is of utmost importance. I know I say that about every mission but now it really means something. If we fail, we may very well be shutdown permanently.”

“I see, sir.”

“Good!” This exclamation he tended to repeat frequently and always seemed to clash with the tone of whatever conversation he and Asby were having. The word was always accompanied by an ear-to-ear smile, his already magnified eyes expanding to dragonfly proportions, and the placement of both his hands palm down on the table in front of him. “Here is the file, then.”

He stuck a hand into his jacket and then withdrew it. It took Asby a moment to realize that Doe had actually presented something; the manila file folder had blended deceptively well with the color of the tweed. Doe dramatically slid the pitiful folder – “FOR YOUR EYES ONLY” was not stamped on but instead written in red Sharpie – across the table. Asby picked it up, putting his right leg over the other and leaning back as he opened it. A grainy photo of a man, one with an unusually large forehead and scarcity of hair, stared cunningly back at him. A single tuft of orange bristles spouted from the center of his scalp, giving his head the semblance of an erupting volcano.

“A ginger,” Asby intoned.

“And a dwarf.”

“Hmm?”

“He’s a dwarf.”

“A ginger dwarf?”

“Yes.”

“Hmph.”

“His name is Frederico Fitzgerald. Occupation: criminal mastermind. He serves as a consultant to other criminals. When someone wants to know what to do or how to do it, they ask Fitzgerald. His stature may be small but his wisdom is vast.” Doe was prone to such juxtaposition.

“So what’s the situation, sir?”

“Fitzgerald is meeting with criminal kingpins from all over the world in New York a day from now. The government tells us that what they are discussing is important but not that important, which is probably why they’re letting us handle it. We must eliminate Fitzgerald before he reaches that meeting. Chop the head off of the snake before the head can tell the snake what to do!” Doe’s majestic finish led to a coughing spree. Asby waited patiently for the sputtering to cease.

“I have to kill a dwarf?”

“Yes. But don’t think of him like a dwarf, more like a very evil child, if that helps.”

It didn’t, but Asby played along: “It does, sir. Thank you.”

“Good! Well there are two possibilities as to your first move. I asked the higher-ups where Fitzgerald would be today, and they said ‘probably in Las Vegas somewhere.’ If that is not specific enough, they also gave us the address of his right-hand man currently here in Los Angeles. You might be able to squeeze him for information to get to Fitzgerald.”

What should Thomas Asby do next?

- Depart for Sin City, saving time but also gambling his job and the wellbeing of the nation on the government’s vague intelligence.

- Ambush Frederico’s right-hand man in the City of Angels, wasting precious time but ensuring accurate information if Asby is successful.

Vote for your choice in the poll on the right, and check in next Monday for the next installment of Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind!

American Public Favors "Ant" Pronunciation of "Aunt," Tommy Pickles Forced to Speak Out in Protest: "Human Race Doomed to Repeat My Mistakes"

The 901 Blog and Grill today settled the debate over "Aunt" and "Ant" with a blog-record-setting high of 33 votes. The amount of votes lends further credence to the results of the Blog's issue-settling polls and speaks to the desire of its readers to establish stability in their hectic lives.

I personally have said "aunt" instead of "ant" for my entire life, choosing to honor the way George Merriam, Charles Merriam, and Noah Webster intended the English language to be. I surmised that since words such as "gaunt" and "haunt" and "flaunt" were not pronounced "gant," "hant," and "flant" that keeping the U in "Aunt" was the proper thing to do. But now that I am forced to acknowledge the pronunciation of "aunt" as "ant," I feel two changes must be put in place so as to adhere to the new phonetic rules.

1. Words with "au" combos such as the aforementioned "gaunt" and "haunt" must now be pronounced without the U. "Gaunt and "haunt" will henceforth become "gant" and "hant." This also applies to every other word that combines the letters A and U in that order.

2. The word "ant" will now be pronounced "aunt" so that there is no confusion over what a person may be referring to. Little children like Tommy Pickles - in addition to older, sensible people - should never be confused again.

Well I hope this has settled this longstanding debate, and that you know you can always count on the 901 Blog and Grill to answer the important questions in life. 

Until another debate arises,

The 901 Blogger

"Choose Your Own Adventure" Coming to the 901

So what am I so excited about that I'll be introducing on Monday? A quasi-Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tale that will allow you to decide the fate of the story's protagonist, a secret agent named Thomas Asby. I will describe the process with a quick timeline of events:

Monday 3/9: Part 1 of "Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind" is published on the 901 Blog and Grill at 12:00 AM on Monday. Meaning that one minute after 11:59 PM on Sunday, the story goes up. The story will end with two choices as to what Asby could do next, and these choices will appear in the poll on the right side of the page.

Monday 3/9 - Wednesday 3/11: Voting is open and you vote for the path you want Asby to take. Whichever choice has the most votes by Wednesday at 11:59 PM (so 3 full days of voting) will be the consensus path that Asby will embark on.

Thursday 3/12 - Sunday 3/15: I will pen the next chapter in the Asby story based on your, the reader's, choice. I will not determine what will happen only after the voting ends, but have already laid out the complete web of plot and different possibilities for the entire run of the story. If your choices are leading to Asby's failure, or death, I will not waver and will stick to the plot.

Monday 3/16: Part 2 of "Thomas Asby and the Minimal Mastermind" is posted on the 901 Blog and Grill, and the cycle repeats itself.

Quick Facts: 

- The three possibilities for the final story outcome are SUCCESS (4 endings), FAILURE (3 endings), and DEATH (4 endings). 

- The shortest that this story can be is 4 parts long, with the end of the story taking place in that 4th part, while the longest story is 9 parts long. The longest story may not necessarily be a successful one, and the shortest may not necessarily be death or failure.

- Unless feedback is 100 percent negative, I will be doing more CYOA stories in the future. If Asby dies in this volume though, he's dead and will not come back. The story will take place in the same world and relate in some manner to the first volume, but will feature a different protagonist.

- Whether one choice is "better" than the other could be random or derived from clues in the story, meaning that sometimes you will be able to make an educated guess and sometimes you won't. I have the outcomes planned out, so a choice will definitely result in a certain event, but that choice will never be easy to make. I want you to find the clues yourself when they are present so I will not lay out the pros and cons of each choice when I present it to you.

Well I believe that's the long and short of it, but if you have any questions please post them in the comments of this post and I will answer them. The story should be funny and exciting, but don't let the lighthearted nature convince you that Asby cannot die. It would not be a real Choose-Your-Own-Adventure without that possibility. 

Until next time,

The 901 Blogger

P.S. After the story finishes I will scan the the web for the story, so you can see what would have happened if a certain path had been taken.

Awesome New Feature, Coming Next Monday

Hey all ye faithful.

You might be utterly bewildered as to the meaning of the post right below this one but DON'T WORRY because you should be bewildered. I wrote that in a stage of delirium but it is going somewhere, just not right now. After writing it I had an entirely new idea that I think will be much cooler and fun for you readers, so anything having to do with Theo Poxley has been indefinitely postponed. I will not mention the exact details of what I am planning to do for next Monday, but it will need contribution from you the reader - an extremely small and easy contribution, don't worry - thereafter to keep going. I know that I am going to enjoy the hell out of it, and hopefully you will too. It will become a weekly thing until its conclusion - something that, again, will be entirely up to you - and if it is a success I will repeat it in the future.

Apologizing for being so cryptic,

The 901 Blogger

Theo Poxley

Theo is 41, Indian descent, lives in Los Angeles. He smokes cigarettes, quite frequently, has lung cancer. Walks around with his nose up, hand in pocket, hand swinging at side, hand at mouth, smoking cigarette. Straight-backed, legs kick. No friends, no family. Has family, no contact. Judgmental, cynical, ambitious, proud, egotistical. Wants to be a doctor, wants to be famous, wants to be young, too late. Walks around, gets coffee, goes to class, walks around, looks at people, smokes, goes home, looks at pornography, watches CourtTV, goes to sleep alone.

What I Watched This Week (Vol. 2)

Don't Pick Up That Gun, You Won't Get to Use It

- By THE 901 BLOGGER

Believe it or not there was a time when the American public liked Tom Cruise. There was a time when he was considered an actor first and a Scientologist second. There was a time when he would jump onto something and it would be a hover car, not a couch. When was this forgotten time? 2002. Seven years ago and three years before Katie Holmes, Matt Lauer, Oprah, her couches, and South Park. It was the year of Minority Report, one of the last and best movies Mr. Cruise made before he lost all our respect.

It is quite tragic that Mr. Cruise has become a Scientology punch line, because he once was a bona fide movie star. A Tom Cruise movie was an event, maybe not a religious one but still quite capable of drawing the masses – human or otherwise – to the movie theaters. Whether it was action Cruise in the Mission Impossible franchise or Oscar Cruise in Jerry Maguire, the man was always capable of bringing “it” to the big screen.

Minority Report features action Cruise, but Oscar Cruise hovers in the background: he spends the majority of the movie on the run, yet rests every so often to discuss important plot points and emphatically layer in the dimensions of the tormented John Anderton. It would be a shame to let his annoying off-screen persona warp your opinion of his onscreen ability, because Mr. Cruise has that indefinable X-factor that makes acting look so much easier than it actually is.

All praise aside though, even Mr. Cruise couldn’t make the greenlighting of Vanilla Sky seem like a good idea, and so a substantial amount of credit has to be given to the movie itself and not just its A-list protagonist. Minority Report is a thrilling and intelligent sci-fi crime drama, borrowing as much from L.A. Confidential as it does from genre-buddy Blade Runner. It has its share of cliché moments as well as those too jokey for their own good, but no one can deny that the movie keeps you engrossed through every twist and turn until its satisfying conclusion.

You may take said satisfying conclusion for granted, but this is a Steven Spielberg film we’re talking about, and however great he is he has flubbed a few endings here and there – I don’t think anyone needs reminding of the egregious finale of War of the Worlds. Mr. Spielberg wraps up Minority Report properly though, succeeding in not tainting the polished product that he has created.

And this is quite the polished product. Mr. Spielberg has always gone above and beyond at defying average moviegoers’ scope of imagination, dropping their jaws while also forcing them to multitask and think at the same time. He puts this indelible stamp on Minority Report, creating a futuristic universe where crime can be predicted before it occurs. When the tables are turned on police chief and Pre-Cog – short for Pre-Cognition – champion Anderton, the morality and logistics of the system are called into question. If a perpetrator has not committed the crime yet, is he or she guilty? To what lengths would one go to completely eliminate crime?

Mr. Spielberg never gives definitive answers on the moral questions he raises, prompting viewers to form their own opinions about the issues he presents. This is what makes Mr. Spielberg one of the greatest directors of all time, as he is adept at entertaining us while also challenging us; without a doubt his movies are popcorn flicks, but smart ones all the same. It is a legacy that many directors – e.g. Michael Bay – aspire to but can never achieve.

Assisting Mr. Cruise and Mr. Spielberg in their goal here is a supporting cast of quality actors, all of who do their job effectively; in the movie’s merciless hands this entails serving as a means to an end. This is also to say that none of their performances are particularly groundbreaking, preventing Minority Report from transcending its standing as really good into excellence. Besides Mr. Cruise, the only other person with angst to express is the Pre-Cog Agatha, brought effectively to life by Samantha Morton. She shivers, screams, and predicts the future a lot, and Ms. Morton brings an appropriate amount of emotional depth to a potentially two-dimensional role. As Danny Witwer, Colin Farrell represents the public conscience as well as Anderton’s antagonist, raising questions about the morality of the Pre-Cog system and seeking to unseat Anderton. Mr. Farrell is satisfactory in the role, though it is solely on his natural charisma and not from real acting work that he gets by. Lamar Burgess (Max von Sydow) serves as Anderton’s confidant and mentor, and Mr. von Sydow is appropriately sympathetic. Like his fellow actors though, he does not prove capable of stealing any scenes from Mr. Cruise.

When watching Minority Report, forget everything you know about Tom Cruise the person and focus your attention entirely on Tom Cruise the actor. This is an intelligent and entertaining movie if given the chance, so do not hold Mr. Cruise’s recent antics against it. If the Pre-Cogs could have predicted his eventual insanity, maybe Mr. Spielberg would have chosen a different actor. However there is no such thing as pre-cognition and Mr. Cruise proves a fine choice anyway. This movie is the result of the marriage of a movie star and star director, and what a fine baby they have produced.

Minority Report is rated PG-13 (if you’re not yet 13 you shouldn’t be reading this blog) for disturbing eyeball imagery, multiple firearm discharges, and projectile vomit.

Poll Proves Without a Doubt That Sanity Still Exists

Going off to college is always an eye-opening experience for young adults, as meeting people from other parts of the country leads to inevitable conflict over geographical differences. Here are a few transcripts of real events as recorded by MTV:

Example 1:

(Southern Man enters dorm room to find Northern Dudes playing a game. Northern Dudes spot Southern Man)

Northern Dudes: Hey Southern Man, how are you?

Southern Man: I'm great! What are y'all Northern Dudes up to?

Northern Dudes: Y'all? Do you mean: you all?

Southern Man: Yee-haw, partner! Y'all!

Northern Dudes: Wow, the Confederacy sucks.

Southern Man: Secession!

(Southern Man secedes)

Example 2:

(It is the first week of college at USC. Florida Guy and his roommate Maryland Boy are debating where they should buy supplies. California Bro observes)

Florida Guy: Hey Maryland Boy. Let's go to Publix and buy some food.

Maryland Boy: What's Publics? I think we should go to Giant.

Florida Guy: Nah that shit's weak.

Maryland Boy: Guy, your mom's shit's weak.

California Bro (interrupting): What are you brahs getting all out of whack for? SoCal ain't got either Publix or Giant. We gotta hit up Superior.

Florida Guy and Maryland Boy: Ok, let's go.

California Bro: Shred the gnar!

(All three walk to Superior, buy nothing because there's nothing to buy, and get robbed at gunpoint on the way back. They call DPS and become nothing more than a statistic)

Example 3:

(Johnny Eastharbor, Cletus Southplantation, and Billy Bob Midwestfarm go to a restaurant. The waiter comes and asks what they want to drink)

Billy Bob Midwestfarm: What type of pop do y'all have?

Johnny Eastharbor: Billy Bob, don't you mean "soda"?

Billy Bob Midwestfarm: No , I mean pop. Waiter, I think I'll have a Coke.

Cletus Southplantation: You're gonna have to be more specific than that, Billy Bob.

Billy Bob Midwestfarm: No, I want a Coca-Cola, Cletus. It's specific enough.

Cletus Southplantation: Well then say Coca-Cola, because coke applies to all types of coke.

Johnny Eastharbor: But 6 out of 10 people on the 901 Blog and Grill said that soda was the proper term to represent all types of fizzy drinks, so I think that's the term we should use.

Billy Bob Midwestfarm and Cletus Southplantation: Agreed.

Waiter: Fuck my life.

As you can see from these telling examples, geographical differences run rampant throughout our country. The most divisive may be the debate over soda, pop, and coke, as the map above demonstrates. Blue represents areas that tend to say "soda," green represents "pop," and red represents "coke."

Now, being a Floridan myself, I cannot understand for the life of me why Florida is generally red. I have never heard anyone there say "coke" as referring to the larger group of fizzy drinks, only ever in reference to the most popular type of soda. And though I knew already that people from the Midwest area called it pop, I had never ever heard of anyone anywhere calling it coke.

So to settle this debate I put it to a poll, for all you loyal readers to decide once and for all which was the correct term. With such a large sample size and winning margin (4 votes more than both pop and coke!) I can say without a doubt that "soda" is the correct term and "pop" and "coke" are clearly wrong. If you will never read this blog again because of my fizzy drink bigotry, begone! We didn't want you here in the first place.

Until there is another debate to be settled definitively,

The 901 Blogger

Blog Malfunction

Sorry about the jumble of words below it appears Blogger is malfunctioning on me. This post may also be just as bad, I won't know until I post it. And when I post it, it'll stay up forever. So just know that this is no fault of mine. I meant "Academy," not "Acade my."

Not the Post the Oscars Deserve, But the One It Needs

Alright well I really have to do some work but I'm gonna do a quick-hits post about the telecast, what I liked, didn't like, etc. I may write more later, but no guarantees.

What Worked:

- The innovative presentation of just about everything, from Hugh Jackman's opening number to the various set designs to how the awards were presented. In a year where I wasn't truly invested in any award besides Supporting Actor, it gave me something to watch for

- Hugh Jackman and how he was used. Congrats to the Academy for not trying to make him a stand-up comic, and letting him do what Hugh Jackman does best: entertain. The opening number was an awesome low-budget spectacle, perfect for the state of our economy, and shined because of the showman in Jackman.

- Presenters: from duos (Steve Martin-Tina Fey, Ben Stiller-Natalie Portman, Seth Rogen-James Franco) to Cuba Gooding, Jr., it was a nice night at the podium for them as well as the winners

What Did Not:

- The innovative presentation. From what I heard, our dearly departed got screwed during In Memoriam due to the focus on Queen Latifah, and that is entirely unacceptable. As a whole it was good, but there were problems.

- Best Picture. Slumdog was good, I'm not saying it's not, but I think Wall-E or The Dark Knight deserved to have been nominated for Best Picture and I liked both more than Slumdog.

Thoughts, arguments? What do you think worked and didn't? Who would you have liked to win?

What I Watched This Week (Vol. 1)

In Bruges, You've Never Been Closer to Hell

By THE 901 BLOGGER

Have you ever laughed at a midget before? Probably, but if you’re like me you refuse to admit it. I know it doesn’t do oneself good to ruminate on past mistakes, but let your tiny-person-humor moral faux pas sink in for a second. Feeling guilty? You’re never going to be so close-minded again, are you? Well I would wait until In Bruges finishes before making such a resolution, as you’ll probably eat those words. If you feel afterwards that your indiscretions have placed you right next to gay marriage on the Sin-O-Meter*, don’t worry about it, it was well worth it.

Now, that lengthy preamble isn’t to say that In Bruges is a movie solely about midgets or damnation, and it’s completely my fault if you got that impression. There is a prominent midget presence in In Bruges and much discussion concerning their kind – apparently they would rather be called dwarves – as well as damnation, but there are also fat jokes and discourses on a war between whites and blacks, and to say that the movie is about either of those would also be sadly untrue.

So you may be asking, what is In Bruges about and is it worth going to hell over?

On the surface it is a movie about the relationship between two hitmen: the young, hotheaded Ray (Colin Farrell) and his wiser partner Ken (Brendan Gleeson). The two are currently tucked away in the Belgian city of Bruges, awaiting orders from their boss Harry (Ralph Fiennes). While they wait there is much sightseeing, cursing, and drinking to be had, as well as a colorful supporting cast of midg— excuse me, dwarves – drug dealers and prostitutes to be met. More about the duo’s backstory is revealed as time goes on, and when instructions are finally received the movie lifts off and soars to its glorious, bloody climax.

There is much darker subject matter to be found here than the sad state of people-dwarf relations – I shan’t reveal it here – but it must be said that In Bruges and its actors pull off the performance with exceptional verve, preventing the viewer from ever being too offended or taking the movie too seriously or too lightly.

This can be credited substantially to the characters and the performers behind them. The movie’s lone dwarf Jimmy (Jordan Prentice) may spout his share of hilarious lines and serve as the butt of numerous sight gags, but he proves by the end that he serves a purpose beyond puerile comic relief. Ray is often a foul-mouthed prick and played by anyone else could be utterly detestable; with Mr. Farrell’s natural touch of charm though he is never anything but exceedingly endearing. Though he pulls off the comedic parts dandily with a combination of perfect timing and demonstrative eyebrows, he also manages to convey the darker sides of Ray’s psyche and troubled past quite effectively. Mr. Gleeson’s Ken is the perfect counterbalance to Ray, and the actor’s low-key, fatherly performance makes him as undeniably likable as Mr. Farrell. Though Mr. Farrell won the Best Actor Golden Globe for his role, Mr. Gleeson’s respective nomination was no less deserved. And when the ever-reliable Mr. Fiennes ultimately appears on screen he far and away steals what’s left of the movie, which is as furiously tragic and mind-blowing in its final act as it is offensively hilarious in the first.

But all this praise is by no means to say that the movie is perfect. Its faults are few, but its most egregious is a sub-par, quite unnecessary romance plot between Ray and an undistressed (tressed?) damsel named Chloe (Clemence Poesy). While the dwarf at least has a purpose in the movie, the same cannot be said about Chloe’s two-dimensional character. Blame probably lies less in the performance of Ms. Poesy, though, than it does on natural bias. The only relationship that we care about here is between Ray and Ken, a point emphasized by the undeniable chemistry between Mr. Gleeson and Mr. Farrell and the deniable chemistry between Mr. Farrell and Ms. Poesy. Everyone knows that in Pulp Fiction all that Samuel Jackson and John Travolta ever needed was each other, and the same rule applies here. This is the relationship that matters and no other.

So what type of movie is In Bruges? It’s quite hilarious and has its fair share of shoot-em-up sequences, but is also exceedingly grim from start to finish. There is dark matter here worth thinking about and a lot of it. Dark comedy thus seems the most fitting genre, but that category doesn’t exactly convey the strange equilibrium that In Bruges manages to achieve. You may feel guilty after watching it and be doomed to damnation, but eternal suffering was never so worth it.

In Bruges is rated R (if not 17, sneak in or bring your parents) for 1.18 f-words per minute – courtesy of IMDB.com – and no lack of gory demises.

* I support gay marriage

Peanut Butterflies

Peanut butter on my window sill.
I bought you last August
and used you 1nce
for PB + J.

Where did that sandwich go?

           the Bread, white, is gone.

            the Jam, strawberry, is gone.

           the Knife, plastic, is gone.

           Yet you, creamy, are still here. 

            28 ounces.

Your jar says you expire 06/25/09.

I should have 04/07/00 to eat you.

Om nom nom.

But 

       Salmonella 

could poison 

your sanctuary of pleasurable delight

                                                irrevocably.

Om nom nom nomore.

Some people have no security:

financial, physical, emotional.

I have no peanut butter security.

I want to solve that crisis,

I want to solve this crisis.

When will I learn

just to watch the butterflies?

                                                       

                               - The 901 Blogger (1990-)

Happy Valentine's Day, Plebes!

Delight in the warmth of your lover's embrace, the effervescent scent of delicious chocolate, or the steamy love messages emblazoned on candy hearts. And if you have none of those, there's almost always probably someone somewhere out there who loves you.

Until next time,

The 901 Blogger