Tuesday, April 7, 2015


Wanted. Warrented. Wearied by wear, year by year, I only strive to live without fear.
For fear, that which is unseen ahead or which creeps up from the rear
Is what will steer my brain into the abyss of anti-bliss.

At forty-three, the total being seven, I still compel myself forward, through this macros, gianted time and space, to find my place, my stillness, beyond my karmic illness, for without and within, I take each new moment to begin, with or without the gin.

I am the tonic. I am the cure. I am the moxibustion, the healing element which derives the alchemy of this and that thought, word, and deed. This and that, miscontriviation, intervened between what is and what it seems. To be in being and to begin again and again. With or without a grin.

I feel for there are feelings, but what towards and beginning that is near is the end of what was. Balding, bloated, my guts floated, in tow of my mistakes, haphazard, unintentional, or intentional. Make it mentionable in my life's work, for the time has come to reckon, count the chips, and to release myself of human sin.

I am. I am. I am. Loved or forgot. Loving or begot. Dead dreams haunt me for a chance to vessel and to wrestle with what isn't yet still wants to be.

Alone in a winter lodge. The Black Hole. Not the Black Hole during summer. Yet the snow falls.  I see the trajectory of my life. Attempts to be social, failed. Fueled and filled by alcohol and weed, but deeper than that, filled, fueled, and failed by my attempts to change nature. Better off alone. Do what I please alone. Judged and harmed not alone. Exposed by my desire to look inside the workings of the world outside myself. My self-mastery is a isolated process for the better, to be better off within a social circle. Let this go. Be myself, by myself. Music. Writing. Prose. Thought. Only my isolation feeds this. A feast of friends has left me starving. Don't be sad lonely wanderer. You have your dreams to keep you satisfied. Don't accept the promise of an easier way, protected and fueled by others. My path is mine alone. Walk it alone. With dignity. Leave the despairing wantoness to nothingness. Be bold and behold. Watch your movies. Write your stories. Play your songs. Live your fantasy, humbly. Watch and wonder no longer. It doesn't suit you. Be the snowflake and keep it to yourself, lest others eat your head and your dreams. Hit your body. Protect yourself. Believe and live. Be relieved of your woe. Only you can make you free.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

The Movie (A Novel). Book Three of the Dark Pryamid Trilogy - The Present.

Elijah King B. B.

As we are all finding ourselves recorded by all, as a waterman, I can see the difference between underwater and outta water haole!!

Enough brain scans through my renta, I am sick of it!

My name is Alias and I am a goner, but not right now.

They are recording this as I type it via video, key trackers, sound decoders, infrared, you name it. They have already tried to kill me more than once for what I know. Yet the story must be told, mustn't it?

Who are 'they'? What are 'us'? I will point the way, but you may be either or just another numb skull so only you will know (or not know).

I don't know how long the story will be, it's a prelude to a great shift and that shift has yet to happen. So I will document what has happened already and continue to do so until I am either assassinated or I get bored with this iteration.

I was at the Pit, a beach in Santa Barbara and some kid I knew invited me to hang out with them at their bonfire. I was sitting on the picnic table, late at night, burning a Santa Guadalupe candle and making flash light to ships that were passing in the Channel. It was a foggy night. I am a volunteer.

Before Esteban had a chance to invite though, his friend pissed right in front of me like some drunken dog.

"Hey, this is a family beach," I said. "Kids walk here. I want to piss like an animal too, right on you tree," and I walked over to the tree,"but I restrain myself. How about it!"

They were in their twenties and I'm twice that, I get annoyed, that's probably why I don't have any. Of course, some people have manners and others don't.

I closed up my memorial, put stuff back in the van I live in, checked on my wandering cat "Gato" and put my Santa Guadalupe by my heart under my Mexican blanket and took about an hour to get to the bonfire, as I kept praying to Mother Ocean and wetting my feet.  We sang songs, the girls danced naked, they gave me some drugs and I stayed by the fire into the night and skinny-dipped.

I move down to the other end of the beach and sat with some kids there by the fire. One leaves and the other pulls a knife on me. I ignore him. Things are changing.

I didn't sleep all night and went back to my van and drove to get some coffee. I was living in my van and the constant moving around in the city and midnight harassments from the local law gave me a great sense of fatigue. I graduated two military boot camps and was familiar with lack of sleep and stress. I washed out of SEAL training, but finished the Marine Corps officer training at Quantico, VA. My environment started to emulate what I know as combat fatigue. And I couldn't quit. I was told to never quit. Even when I was thrown out, washed up, I still had the fight in me. But I forgot. Civilian life had made me soft. Fru-fru peace and all that. It's good, it's right, but there comes a time when it's time for someone, somewhere, to fight for right.

So I went to get coffee. Actually,  a quadruple Americano. I've been getting this coffee-like beverage for months now. It may have some secret ingredient or code in just saying it that brings about a whole new perspective on shit. You see, after this day of my iced (today was hot) quad Americano, I have known that I have been programmed as a spy. It was couple of days until I knew that I had been framed.

I loved this life.

The Fateful Day at the Coffee Shop

I ordered my Americano and went to the back table where I always sit and smoke spliffs and look at the sun and think about the day and mumble and prayusually in solitude or with my girlfriend. Today, an old man named "DJ" was there. He was sobbing and drinking and sighing and having trouble breathing. I asked him what was wrong.

"My wife was just murdered," he said and broke into another sobbing fit. "I don't want to live any longer."

He shared some of his vodka with me and I listened.

"I was a CHP Officer and a Medic," he continued. "Now I just wanna die." I could smell it on him.

DJ stood up and stumbled back down on the ground. I heard ribs cracking.

"What's wrong with you, son?" I inquired, concerned.

He showed me his chest. Sucking chest wound from a shank and several misplaced ribs and bruises. He tried to cover the hole with a little circle Band-Aid, the kind you might see with "Hello Kitty" on it.

"You need to go to the hospital, son," I said. "You need to go be with your brothers. They'll take good care of you. Give you some morphine."

"I don't..." he mumbled and started to walk off, slipping on his feet I heard the sound of his ribs cracking. "I need to get another drink."

"You stay right fucking here," I protested. "I'll be right back!"

I went quickly to the corner liquor store and bought a small plastic bottle of whiskey.

I returned and he was there. We sipped a little, but mostly I did.

"Now listen here buddy," I explained patiently. "You're fucked up and I'm going to call 911 and bring you out of this mess. You got it?"

He nods, but then says "Hang on, I need vodka."

I let him go. He walked away again a block or so, I guess to his house and then came back.

"I just want to die in jail," he said.

Now at this point, I wanted nothing to do with calling 911 myself, so I spoke to the manager of the coffee joint, Craig, and told him the lowdown.

"This guys all broken up inside and out. Call them now."

After worrying and calculating whatever risks he was regarding the authorities coming in, Craig said "Okay".

I went into my van and waited while the medics came. Shortly, there was a fire chief and an ambulance.

I briefly stepped out and let them know that he was inebriated, had a sucking chest wound, and broken ribs and probably shouldn't ask him to stand. I sit in the van and watch as for twenty minutes he refuses care. Finally, the Sheriffs arrived and took him away to jail, which is where I think he is going to die.

Now I'm all fucked up inside. Something awoke, something that hadn't been there for years, maybe not even in this life as I remember it. But it's there now.

Suddenly, the air is quiet. No one is at the shop. They are closing it. There is a bike parade coming through and the liquor store and the whole street is shutting down. I sit there at the table, alone, reeling from what is happening to me. There is a deep shift, a return to something...horrible. An old vato rolls up on his bike and sits down across from me.

"So what just happened," he says.

"I'm not sure. He was shanked. Said he wanted to die."

"Hmmm....who did it?"

"He didn't say."

"Hmmm...what's your name?"

"Alias," I said.

"Hey Alias. Oscar," he said. We shook.

"Guess there's a bike race coming through," he said.

"Yep. Guess so," I said.

I walk to the shop, past the Sheriff's car, buy some smokes and papers. They are rushing to close. There is a still in the air, a cold vacuum.

"I'm in space," I thought.

I walk back to the table and two couples on bikes ride up and start drinking beer. They leave quickly. The owner comes over.

"You got to get out of here, Alias!" he said. "The police are here because of you!"

"Ok," I say and start walking, to where I don't yet know. I look and sure enough the street is totally closed, but there are no bikes coming through. I walk across the deserted, frantic street to the Brookside Inn. I pass the the double standard flagpole, order a beer, and walk to the back court yard to have a smoke. My heart is racing and my head is taking in every detail.

I look around me. Three clean cut men playing horseshoes, a couple of middle-aged women by the tables. Something starts to ring in my head about the way they move and jeer at one another. I look up and notice the Marine Corps flag. I am flooded with emotions. I start to cry silently, shaking. I want to vomit. My emotions hide back into their hold again and I find myself jeering along at the made and missed shots. They see me with some misgivings, but mostly compassionate glances. Two women approach. One is familiar, but does not recognize me. She says:
"Hey, why don't you put your T-shirt back on and take your flip flops and march right out of here!"

I stand up, grab my shirt and beer and begin to leave my table.

"I am sure you are being kind, but I don't think so."

I walk past the horseshoe game and sit at an removed table and sit in silence.

A tall, older man -- an officer -- comes over.

"I am going to have to ask you to leave," he says.

"Yes sir," I say and quickly put my shirt on and begin to leave.

"I remember you from Quantico," I say to the woman. She was a female Drill Instructor during my class. The others look at her and she is abashed. I walk past them and depart. I gaze passingly at the flag on the way out.

With the street closed for the bike race, there are no buses. I cross the street and begin walking towards the beach, a long ways. I change my mind and hold out my thumb. Within five minutes a car pulls out of the bar and a surfer picks me up in his Japanese hot rod. There is quiet. Some primal message is being spoken. He drops me off at the beach, the one that near the posh neighborhood where someone had been stabbed to death.

I sat at the beach, still buzzing, smoked a few spliffs, but couldn't stay long. Someone was watching me there.  A tall man in black, he looked like a Ukranian was taking pictures of me from the rail over the beach. I couldn't stay there. I went to the bar at the beach and ordered a tall beer. I sat silently and stared at the ocean. I went back to the beach and saw Tom Merk, an old eccentric queer who always offered me vodka. I drank the vodka and smoke another spliff. Things were heating up, I could tell.

"I gotta split", I say.

"Ok Alias!" says Tom. "Take her easy!"

I start walking up the hill, towards the Mesa, towards the Cliff Room.  I am bound for getting shit faced-er.

"He's dead. Buddy's dead. Someone killed him. Mother Fuckers!"

I felt a rage that I hadn't felt since the Marines.

Everyone I see is looking at me. There are bad guys and half-wits all around. There are a few allies. I losing my mind. I walk into the bar and sit at the end, near the jukebox. I get some dollars and play Black Sabbath. Some revenge music. Revenge against who. They killed his wife. They shanked Buddy. Buddy's dead. The bad guys did it. They killed us. They killed Buddy. They are trying to kill me too.

I kept drinking, I don't know for how long, I guess until they stopped serving me. When I left it was dark. I walked down the other hill, towards the other beach. It was a warm, summer eve. When I got to the beach, I found a sheet and crawled into it. I shit myself in the middle of the night. It was death shit. The smell of death. The smell of murder. It was the first time I'd smelt it in a long, long time. I thought I had forgotten it. Got it out of my life. They killed Buddy. They killed me. They're trying to kill the rest of us. What's left. I couldn't get the thought out of my head until I pass out. This violent, deadly world. It's back.

I awoke the next morning, having soiled all night in the stinking, filthy dank of death to the shining sun and beautiful Leds beach. Small waves crashing assured me that the Lord's love was on me today. I shed my reused sheet and with my shorts on, stepped into the cool, ocean water and stayed under water as long as I could, staring up at the sun dancing through the water. I felt baptized by the ocean, cleaned on the surface, but inside my soul I could still smell death. It was in me and no amount of swimming and sand scrubbing would get it off.

I sat on the sand and meditated for a bit to try and collect my spirit. I felt broken, angry, confused, lied to, betrayed. I wanted revenge, but couldn't place it on anyone. Fuck the world! I wanted to be back in the Marines where I could be ordered to hurt someone.

I walked over to the first picnic table. Some local Mexicans were hanging out there. I sat and smoked a spliff while they asked me how I was.

"Not good," I said. "Things are not looking so good."

I tried to look at the bright side of things, the clouds in the sky, the ocean, the girls. There must be a bright side somewhere. Is life going to be dead now? Death in my arms? Dead Buddy? Dead me?

Everywhere I looked, people were spying on me. Talking on their phones, looking at me. Beyond paranoia. I noticed a young woman, Mexican, long, black hair, sitting against the palm tree across from me. Her stretchy shorts showed the countours of her open thighs. She smiles.  I am always shy about talking to strange young women. I pass by on the way to the bathroom.

"Hi," I say. "What's your name?"

"Dianne," she says.

"I'm Alias."

"Hello Alias, pleased to meet you."


We shake. We make small talk about the weather.

"I live in Oxnard."

A flag goes up. Not from here. She must be a spy.



"Hang on," I say.

 I'm marked. I think back on Oscar, the vato I met the day before after Buddy went to go die. Then I think of the gangs. Oxnard. Ventura. Santa Barbara. The East Side. The West Side. Spies. Lies. Alternate interests.

"See you later," I said.

Dianne smiles again as I walk back towards the Mexican table.

They all jeer, naturally. Mexicans are the honestest people sometimes.

"Good for you!" says the Maestro Pollo.

"Yeah," says I, but nothing has changed my mood really. It's Sunday so I stay on the beach all day. Melancholia is taking over. I want to explode, but don't know how or where.

I go to work, a part-time computer programmer position with a small, local firm. The hours are flexible, but it's not to last long. A good distraction.  I tell the guys at work that things are acting up for me inside. I saw something and it's triggered a response, primal and uncontrollable.

"Ok," say the geek, martial artists. "Keep us updated."

There is no interest, support, or love in anyone's words these days for a man. A warrior must stand alone. Not even the god's will lend their support. Apathy.

I call a cab to bring me to collect my van back at the coffee shop.

The cabbie is an older Syrian, Itialian, or Mexican. Hard to tell since he feigns accents. It's a Yellow Cab. He starts fishing for info after he turns the phone recorder on. More reason to believe I'm being watched.

"So when  did you leave your van there?"



"The streets were closed."

"Ah yes, the bike race," he says.

"Yes," I reply dryly.

"What happened?"


"Someone got hurt?" he asks.

"What the fuck?" I think. "Did I say something?"

"Yes," I reply.

"What happened?" he presses.

"Someone got stabbed."

We are on the 101 freeway now. Near Carillo exit. Ventura Highway.

"Oh, your friend," says the cabbie.

"I just met him."

"Your buddy."

"Yes," I say. "He was my buddy."

"Who did it?" asked the cabbie and looks at his phone. Totally fishing.

"He didn't say," I said.

"But you were there," he asked.

"No," I say, trying to stop the conversation.

I'm growing paranoid. Doinrapa. I start looking around outside the cab. I don't want to talk any longer. Somebody hurt Buddy. Somebody hurt me. They are trying to trick me. How the fuck is life supposed to go on when I know around the corner somebody is trying to fuck me over. When I close my eyes I am seeing visions of peace signs upside down and burning. Crosses. Demons. I want to get revenge. I want to numb these feelings. I want to get fucked up and forget this world. I'm in a hole. Fuck this shit. It's the fucking Islamics, I know it. Kill 'em all, I say. Let Jesus sort 'em out. I was doing so well as a Buddhist, pacifist. Things came to me. Women liked me and came to me. Now...I'm attracting danger, death, destruction. This is no bueno.

"But he was your friend," said the cabbie. "Did you have some argument."

"I just met him! I was not there!" I said.

I can see he is recording this. Who is trying to lay this on me?

We arrive at the coffee shop. I give him money.

"Good work," I say.

A well-dressed man in his fifties is typing on his laptop and smiles at me as I exit the cab. He appears to me to be another script writer. I shake my head. What the fuck is going on?

I walk over to my van and get in and drive to the Pit. The ocean is my saving grace these days. It's all I can do to keep from going nuts. I sit there at the beach for hours, smoking spliffs. I stopped drinking for the day, long enough to start to grieve. The weight of Buddy's death weighs on me and I cry, shaking convulsively, the pain of unrequited revenge. My jaw opens uncontrollably. I look at people and have to bury my head. I get sick and dry heave. A giant of a man and his woman walk by and then pause once they are past me. He bows his head, starts to cry and nods. She consoles him, embracing the sweet, beat down warrior. Every one knows Buddy was killed. They lost him too. Inside, I am furious, I am raging, I am alone, I am dead, I am next, I am a killer. I let him down. Now I am suffering the guilt. It's only beginning.

I am saluting people and they are saluting back. It's the war. The war did it to us all. Now I am in for it too. This goes on all day. Total strangers look at me and I see Buddy and so do they. I dry heave. We all cry inside. It's because he's dead and we are grieving him. I see them lining the beach. Firemen. Cops. Soldiers. Marines. SEALS. Medics. They have all seen death. They are all grieving in a silent, beach bum parade. The end of the earth is here. Here we can touch the end, but still they are gone. Buddy's gone. Not just this once. It's my fault. I lost him. That's what makes me sick. I lost them all. . No, I realized. I let him get killed. I killed him. And then I remember. I killed others. I killed them. I didn't kill the others quick enough to save Buddy. To save me. I got killed. Now I'm back. I get sick. I need to be numb. I go drink beer in the bar by the beach until it is dark. I go to the van and get cans of beer and my Santa Guadalupe candle and light it. She glows in the night.

I wander down the beach in a chanting vigil and seek a holy place to sit and smoke tobacco and ganja, mixed together. My favorite. I go to the tree. A giant tree fell of the cliff and hangs upside down, pointing west to the end of the world. I look in the night and see the rock memorials. Stacks and stacks of carefully placed rocks. Flat ones. Small under large and large under small. Three feet high, some shorter, some taller. I carefully place Santa Guadalupe in between the rock obelisks. Her light shimmers on them, dancing shadows on the cliff. I am chanting and smoking and drinking beers and tears flow. First I think the stacks were built for Buddy. I count them. Twenty-four. But they are all ghosts. They are surrounding me. They have been here ever since I killed them. Count them. Twenty-four I killed. Plus Buddy is dead. I didn't save him. Plus me. I didn't save me. I remember when I died. The War. Twenty-six. XX6. 9XX. Nine-twenty. My birthday. The two dead eyes of 911. Mine and yours, Buddy. We are both dead now. The killer and the killed. Twenty-four obelisks stand as ghosts to haunt and remind the two of us. Here we sit together. There is no difference. In this life or the last. How can I forget? How can I laugh again? I flash lights all night at boats at sea. That I can believe in. The ghost ships.

In the morning, I drive my van to the coffee shop and start to go inside, but pause to look at the table where Buddy was. Next to it, there are four massive bottles of alcohol. Huge ones, the kind you see in fancy houses or novelty stores. All filled.  A three foot high bottle of vodka, a huge, round bottle of whiskey, something else, and a big bottle of Patron, Silver Tequila. Is this gratitude or an apology from someone? A gift from the gods? This is getting really fucking weird. Either way, I don't want to offend and I'm a practicing alcoholic so I drink. I grab at the Patron and take a swig. I take another pull on the whiskey. I'm about to get fucked up and I know it. Do you believe in miracles? I do. For an alchy, this is a miracle. Doesn't mean it's good, but it's fucking real. Somebody understands. I even wonder if it's that BAM (Broad Assed Marine) who did this. Fuck it.

I sit at the back table, mixing my Americana with Tequila. Mexican coffee. The comrades arrive. First, it's Jimmy. He's the old shaman from the mountain, sporting a scarlet and gold robe and beads. And Colby. They are together. And then Tommy, also a former Marine. All bearded like me. It's as if they came to celebrate or mourn with me. It's eerie. I go to Jimmy and he smiles.

"Yeah," he says. "It's us."

I look at the two old guys who keep guard at the coffee shop all day, sitting, staring at the flag across the street and watching everyone who comes by. They are both nodding.

"Yep," says Jimmy. "Them too."

Really fucking eerie.

"Come here," I say to Jimmy. "Let me show you something."

"Oh, okay," says sweet Jimmy, so amicably and through his broken mouth.

I show him the stash.

"Ya," he says, without surprise.

I'm feeling like a new recruit into an unfamiliar, magic world.

"What's up, brother?" says Tommy and we embrace.

"I need to get out of here," I say. "Can you help?"

"Uh, ya, I got some shit in my truck and need to get going," he says.

I know he is transporting weed so I know I better get a move on. I go and grab my surfboard from the van and toss it in the back. I say my goodbyes to the boys, grab the tequila, and hop in the cab. It's an old, teal Chevy, a '67 or so. Just the kind you want to make a smooth getaway in.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Not really."

"Ok, where are we going?"

"The pit." It's the closest beach and I need to get in the water.

"You got it."

He drops me off at the beach parking lot, along with the board I got from Woody. It's a real classic. A glassed rocket fish from Max MacDonald. I am shitake mushroomed. Mid ranged between hammered and shit faced. I don't make it far. I sit in the dirt by the creek and drink tequila and mumble to passersby about my hand being broken. In reality, my bottle of tequila is stuck under my jacket sleeve and I can't figure out how to get my hand free so I keep drinking. It's like my hand has become a gods' gift of Patron. Some people chuckle. Others are freaking out. I don't care. They killed Buddy. This is for Buddy. They are coming for me.

After a few minutes - I think - my girlfriend shows up with two toddlers she is babysitting. 

"We saw your board!" She's always sweet when she sees me, even when she's pissed.

"I love you," I say. "But you need to go. It's not safe here. There's people watching. Bad people are after me. I need you to be safe."

"Okay honey," she says. "I love you. Will I see you soon?"

"Yes," I say, though I don't know. "I love you too."

I wait a little longer and then I walk to cliff by the beach. I drink tequila, smoke a spliff or two and walk closer to the water and get ready to go surfing. I 

Before I get in, the Park Ranger and a chink police officer are standing over me. 

"Elijah," says Aaron, the Ranger.

I look up at him. 

"You need to go. People are making calls about you. Is that going to be a problem?"

Fuck. I look at the pig. He's only twenty something. No idea the kind of shit that I've been through, trying to protect Buddy, Buddy who has not been killed yet, Buddy who is me. I don't give a fuck. His battle is not mine. I am at war. I have been at war. I forgot, but now I am back.

"No, sir. I'm outta here. No problem at all."

"Ok," says Aaron. "Are you gonna need a ride?"

"No, sir. I'm walking"

I get up and slowly, patiently walk away, trying not to betray myself. I leave my jacket and my bottle by the cliff. No use in prolonging this.

I'm furious inside. Raging. This shit is fucked.

I walk past the parking lot, totally silent, fuming inside. I get to the bridge over the creek and proceed to slam the fuck out of my dear surfboard on the wood railing. Destruction. Rage. Unrequited anger. I toss it into the creek. 


I compose myself, restore my bearing. I turn slowly away and proceed to walk up the hill towards the Cliff Room. I am silent. I am deadly. I am in a funeral parade. Eyes front. I am striding  along the precipice of murder. Of who, I have not yet identified. The one's who killed Buddy. The one's who killed all my buddies. The one's who killed me. The one's who are trying to kill me. I will not relent. I am cold. I must calculate. I look at no cars, no pedestrians, no animals, no clouds. There are deadly fumes exuding off of my person. My eyes shoot lasers. Don't look at me, it will catch you if you do not already understand. I will not look at you for your protection. I am death. Do you smell it? 

This angel has fallen. A devil bodhisattva. Will he recover? Ever? The point of no return. Another one bites the dust. 


Thank you. No Escape

Shark Dreams 

I walk up to a wire fence and a sign that say's "KEEP OUT! Danger!". It stands at the entrance of the mountain highway that I used to live on. Behind the fence, I see only blackness. I walk closer to the fence and peer into the blackness. Huge teeth and gaping red jaws appear. A white shark.  I am chilled to the bone and terrified. I instinctively and quickly step back.  The vision fades.

I am walking down the road. A red convertible with a young woman speed by. A white shark leaps over the iceplant divider and onto the road, thrashing about. I avoid it.

One night, whilst on patrol undercover, I came across a Middle Eastern party in a prominent courtyard venue at De La Guerra. I was allowed to stay and ordered a hooka. I was stared at and spoken of in Arabic. Afterwards, I went to a bar around the corner. I was sat next to by several army officers in plainclothes. Their captain thanked me for my work. I was taken notice of by two Marines that strolled in wearing The Few, The Proud-type t-shirts. The shortest army guy challenged me by taking my red lighter, my buddy from me. I stepped outside and he followed me. He bewailed my obstinance until I challenged him to box, wherefore, he declined and returned to his mates.

I returned to the bar later in the week, only to have my retna scanned by the television, which then flashed a bar code at me in a scrambled message. Several weeks later the bar closed. It was only a front.

For the next few months, things started to go drastically downhill on a daily basis, spiralling, seemingly beyond my control. I was getting into street fights almost every week, most of the time being jumped and sucker punched. I was always bruised in the face either from being beaten up or from falling off of my bike drunk. I was run off the road while in a taxi by a black range rover, which became of theme. These episodes left me a rambling mess, I was always paranoid.

"They are after me," I constantly thought. Finding peace in peaceful Santa Barbara became more or less impossible for me. I began sleeping on the beach. I was being robbed of everything that I had, my van ran off the road in Ventura and I was arrested for a DUI, I lost my van and most of my belongings that were still dear to me. When the police asked me why I was sitting in the car, I replied that someone was trying to kill me and that I went into shock and was waiting for them -- the good guys. I believed that I was being tracked, men with cameras were following me in cars and on foot. I also believed I was someone fulfilling my training and leading towards my life as a spy, for what agency and for whom I was working for was less clear.

Ultimately, I returned to Utah to live with my parents after having my jaw broken in three by a sucker punch by a kid named David Schraeder at Ledbetter, while sitting on bench, rolling a spliff, after boxing with said man. My life has become most uneventful. I have extensive medical bills from multiple ER visits that the VA would not cover and dealing with the legal aspects of my DUI. I am sober and do not smoke as that was the condition for living at home again. I have a job at a ski area and ski regularly, at least while the season in still on. I have a distant and dwindling, ultimately unsatisfying communication with the girl I was seeing back in Santa Barbara. The last I spoke to her, she was on her way to a party, telling me that she wouldn't be very good company for me. I feel very alone and uncertain, but am daring to maintain some hope that there is a purpose to all of this madness and chaos and some sort of turn around or clarity will arrive. At the least, I am grateful for another day, not just the way alcoholics mean it, but how we all mean it. At the greatest, I have some glimmer that I may live a fulfilling life after all. I know that each of us, in our hearts, longs to feel special, loved and to know that we count. Perhaps asking this much is only the ego, for we each have ideals of what that all means, what fame and talent add up to. For me, having been humbled greatly, I would be happy to matter enough to this world, to this time, to live out my days with some sort of stability, dignity, and surrounded by family and friends that I can laugh with and share a life that is truly fearless, noble, and somehow inspiring. At least for Buddy and I.


The Knights of the Band of Peace. Book Two of the Dark Pryamid Trilogy - The Past.

Elijah King B. B.

The old story of the Fwrmads, that mystery to man, is one unto you I shall unfold indeed.  The Gods spake und I and my kin answered the calling to the Great Fwrmad, Geezer. I Awyan, a Knight of the Band of Peace, an ancient Aegytian order entrusted by the Gods to tale the ancient battle of twenty-five mellenium bepast and the Nine Signs that were built in honor of the Etlants, the Twolls, the Alfar, the Gwiants, the Wizards, the Men, the Trogs, the Valkr, and the Sen that is behest of this oltime.  And the secret for which they died to keep alive. Owlways.

I come from the nomadic tribe of Isuls, an integrated band of Oldmen from Midgard and Alfan from Isengard. We lived in the land of Aesir, after the war of my mother’s people and their ancestrial Etlans. But that is another story.  My father, Isahl, was Isa, a short breed, strong as beasts, mighty hunters and wizards. My mother’s people, the Van, were said to be descendent of Alfan, with their king, Freyr, who in turn were children of the Etlants, said to come from a Isengard-Western sanctuary, not Azgard, and had powerful magic. Together, while the wars in Azgard and Midgard, between the hordes of Trogs and Newmen rose in fury, our two peoples, following the joining of Isahl and Kyerta, became one, the Senmen, the Isol.

The joining of my parents’ two bloods was good. The Isa knew many secrets of the old ways of the world, plants, and beasts, were better adapted to hunt the massive beasts they fed upon in the cold regions of Icey Midgard, and were patient and kind and doting to the Van, as if the Isa’s very survival depended upon the success of the Van. The Van were agile, tall, fast warriors, artistic, ritualistic, and youthfully ambitious to fulfill their forefathers predictions. I was the first of this union, tall, strong and possessing both people’s magic.  I have persevered through this short life to share the story of both my kinfolk and their struggle when the world turned over.

The world was changing very rapidly in these days, signalling what the elder Etlants predicted as The Coming Down. The Trogs of the south, for millenium a simple and peaceful race, were driven to a frenzy due to the increase of the Newmen and their over predaciousness to breed with the Trogs, spelling an imminent demise for tilling nesshell, the formerly thriving race of what most call Neanderthals. Rising en force the Trogs warred against the Newmen of the south for resources and ultimately survival of their species. What neither race knew was that a horrible and sinister mutual enemy, another of the billions of alien races was coming to descend upon the world and the course of their battle would weaken Newman’s own chance for survival.

The Eltlans

The Etlants, said to be descendants of the Gods and born from the stars, were a magical and ancient race. My mother told tales of an old, frozen kingdom, made of crystalized sun houses, who fed from the sea, and how that world melted into the sea when the time of The Coming Down came. They journeyed to the inner sea of the mainland of Midgard and with the ability to fly in chariots and to move stones with song, they were considered Gods. When convienenced, peaceful, when opposed, invincibly warrish.  After several millienium they became the natural nobles of the Isa. The Isa in turn became a close ally of the Vans until many of their kind could be interbreeded, which is, of course, why I am here. The Etlants and the Vans, in their knowledge of magic, created stonemen in their likeness that could walk and breathed icy stone breath, who were quite jovial, boistrous and playful. They could move and shape mountains with their hands. These were the Twolls. They would critical for the survival of The Knights of the Band of Peace and the telling of the secrets of the Etlants, the continuation of our race and the horrible war of the dark alien enemy of your not too distant future’s world. They wood west upon the showers of the Far West.

Two  Million Years Ago From Five Minutes From Now.

The steppes were covered in ice and to the North sacred Isengard, the wall of ice radiated the lights of unseen Sen, Giver and Taker of Life. Far, a Bjar Trog, surveyed the stretch of mountains and sought any black specks, indicative of Mammoth herds. Further to the West, Far scanned the planes for sign of his burly cousin beast. While the day was young he would kill a Mammoth grazing in the trees or on the prairies. He would then call his people to help him with his offering. Far was known to hunt alone and was admired for his ability to do so. The Bjar Trog saw many moons of meat, warmth and fire from the Mammoth kills from Far alone. He thought it the only true way to kill.

Far, Son of Bear, was squat and strong and fearless. A long torso and powerful hinds gave him the strength to hurl his body and spear into the Gwiant, thick coated Mammoths. Long and thick fair hair covered nearly his entire head except around his eyes of ice like the frozen land he had gazed upon since birth. His skin was leathered and bronzed from the snowy reflection of Sen. Such were his peoples’ traits two million years ago when the Trog roamed Midgard.

A long rumble made Far’s senses excited and he turned to see a herd of Gwiant Moose treading across the prairie to the East. They were coming his way. Far nimbled down the wooded, rocky slopes and toward the approaching herd. He came to the flatland and could see the huge antlers of the lead moose, hairy, snortyng, charging in a fury.

They are running from something,” thought Far.

He would use their panic to cut one of the bulls off from the herd. Far began a slow gait towards the flank of the beasts. There were over a hundred of them and their thunder was great. Raising his spear over his head he gave a loud battle cry. “Arrgghhh”. He stepped solidly into the snow and thrust his spear at the first passing bull, catching the horns. Holding tightly Far was pulled off his feet as he leapt up onto the back of the huge bull. Wresting his spear between the horns, he used his powerful arms to turn the head of the bull; towards the woods. Growling and snorting the stubborn beast reluncantly turned it’s body to follow it’s gaze and away from the herd they went. Had it been a cow, there would likely have been  a bull on his heals. Darting and crashing through the woods, Far ducking, steering, and his own wooly frock protecting his skin from the thrashes of the branches. Turning with his great strength, Far led the bull, now approaching exhaustion and panting from t he weight, the struggle, the break from the herd, and the previous flight from whatever predator had startled the herd, towards two tightly grown trees. Leading the bull towards the two trees, he fell off the moose and guided it’s head between the trunks in a sideways spin, trapping the bull. Panting, snorting, trapped, but still with fight. Far was weary as he skirted the Gwiant Moose to avoid it’s tthrusting kicks and twisting head with the horns longer than his stout body.

The wind howled and a chill fell through the air causing both Far and the bull to shiver, though the bull continued to shake uncontrollably in fear. Far’s blonded, ape-long, hairy-burly arms fell full of blood to his twelve inch hands, and tingling hunger for the Gwiant Muse’s meat; oh how he did hunger for the bull’s flesh, to slaughter him now and eat his flanks, trip, liver, heart, all raw he would! Were it not for his care for his kin, he would, yes, Far slaughtered Kow, for I, for Hi-kin, for Ourn-follkt, and for Sen to see, but right now ‘twas only the Gwiant Moose bull and I, well, wouldn’t he prefer to eat my flanks.

Harharhar,” Far laughed.                           

Klear for launch,” said Kaptain Krin.

Kooper,” said Korporal Kom.

Far stared the bull in the eye. He picked up the biggest rock he could lift. The bull watching intently, the dark grey sky, the black trees, the distant roar of the reproaching herd, the frigid air, the hunger of both prey and hunter.  Hefting the bolder over his head Far cried out and crashed the skull of the moose between the two antlers. The Gwiant Moose let out a loose sigh, it’s body sagged to the ground, snapping it’s neck as the antlers stuck between the two trees. Blood poured from the dead Moose’s crushed skull.

Far stared at the Gwiant Moose and breathed heavily. A stirring built in his chest. He looked around the forest and saw nothing. Far let out a high-pitched wail, repeating it three times. He listened, then heard the responding cry from one of his brothers. He repeated the process until he heard a responding cry, this time from another. They would be tracking the moose tracks into the forrest and arrive to help carry the huge carcass to their kin.

Something swelled electrically on Far’s neck and he turned and sniffed at the air. Drawing his spear, he crouched low. It appeared he had found what the herd was running from. A Cave Lion. Spotting one another, the Cave Lion let out a hollow, rumbling  growl, revealing it’s massive fanged jaws. Far let out his own snarl.

This is my kill, Lion,” said Far. “Be gone or die.”

A loud, vicious roar was the huge lion’s response, stalking around to try and find an opening to the moose. The Twog and the Lion circled round the dead moose. Staying between his kill and his opponent, Far stared fixedly at the big kat and creapt on his haunches, clutching his sharpened stone spear. The kat growled and made high pitched hisses.

A thrashing through the woods caught both of their attentions, the lion suddenly on guard towards the sound. Three of Far’s brothers, Tro, Bjr, and Gar, booted and covered in wooly, quickly formed an angle and edged around the lion, but left it an open out. The Cave Lion let out a threating roar, which the four Twogs responded to in unison, shaking their spears and hurling insults at the lion.

Your mother is a minx and your father is a panther,” shouted Gar, the shortest.mexico

Harharhar, and your other father is a cougar,” piped-out with oh a high-ninnying, neighing-throated vibrator -- Bjr, the skinny.

Tro, the nextbiggest next to Far, picked up a big rock and with a cry struck the lion in the jaw, cracking one of it’s protruding fangs. The lion roared, but being outnumbered, decided to trot away after Gar, Bjr, and Far began chucking large, strongly propelled stones at the kat. The four brothers roared after the kat and continued throwing stones and insults and laughter upon him until they were sure he was out of fight.


This is a land of clarity, simplicity, and without taint. The people are filled with a natural knowledge of goodness. The women are strong hearted, loving creatures full of  kindness for their men and their children. The men are honest, fun loving, and generous. A walk through the dwellings around and in the caves yields a feeling of well-being, that this people is my people, my brothers, my sisters. The sun is hidden behind the veil of white and grey clouds, but the sun of our warms hearts is never chilled by these times. These are times like no other, before the Fall and after the gift of the Life Fire from the Gods. This is the land of my awakening and of my origin. This is Midgard.


The Bjar Trog brothers sledded their kill back to the cave and the wifmen immediately set about building a spit and fire while the hunters relayed their story of the herd, the moose, and the lion to the Bjar Trog, with the especial attention of the children who stared wide eyed, wondering what they would do had they encountered a Cave Lion alone. Some of them envisioned themselves as brave and as strong as Gar, Tro, Bjr and Far as they relayed their feats while the tribe feasted.

No one loved telling stories, nor had as many as Far. Even the old Eddas gleed from his feats, especially when Far danced out the tail and his eyes got wide and his fist pounded on his heart showing the speed and ferocity at which it beat.

This Lion, not giving, only taking. A taker!” Far shout outed and extended his arms to the fyre. “This is my kill. For Trogs, not Lions. Get your own moose! Haaor, haaor, haaor!” Far gleemed brightly and his huge teeth protruded and with his laugh the Bjar laughed for their bellies were full and it was Far who killed the moose, not Cave Lion. Let the lion get it’s own kill. Haaor, haaor, haaor.

Pfa,” said Arn Farsen. “Was the bull taller than yourn?”

Yes, Arn,” said Far. “Like this.” Far raised his broad, hairy arm up to the heavens. “Tall. And big!” Far hefted Arn to his head and nuzzled the young boy.
Moder would have been proud,” said Arn.

She is proud,” said Far. “She lives in the God’s Hall and is skinning the Gwiant Moose’s spirit hide and telling jokes with the wifmen.” Far imitated the banter and tickled Arn’s ribs to the child’s glee.

Gw’on now,” said Far. “Hear the Eddas.”

Nye Pfader,” said Arn. “I want to stay here with you and hear your stories.”

Far nodded his head and mussed the boys rascally head. A wifman came to Far’s side, beside Bjr and his wifman, Fiya.

Far, a good kill, I thank yourn,” said Kara putting her hand on his chest.

What is good for me is good for yourn,” said Far, returning the gesture.

Kara smiled. Her broad fair head, high cheeks, and toothy smile gave Far the Fire and he laughed heartily.

The Gods made the Bjar Trognen strong,” said Far to the Bjar at his fire.

And brave,” Tro.

Arrggh,” said Bjr.

And hairy,” said Tro’s wifmen, Isa, shaking the hearty, golden beard of Tro and drawing laughter.

Arrggh,” said Tro, laughing.
But were it not for the Trogvin,” said Far. “A Trog would have only a warm Moose hide and his brothers to keep him warm.”

He would lose Lifefire,” said laithe and tallest Gar, “and wonder like a lost bear.”
And die alone in the snow,” said Bjr, “for their would be no prye to the Gods.”

Better to die in battle than alone in the snow,” said Tro.

Arggh, better to live in bed than to die in it,” said Isola.

Oh, I’d say it’s the Trogvin who gets beaten in bed,” said Tro.

Beaten, aye,” said Isola, “and such a pounding and bloodly slaughter that it’s all a Trog can’t do to shut it’s ears from the piercing cries throughout the night. Oh, but in truth, it’s the Trogman who dies at the end of the Great Battle.” Isola stuck her index finger up and then watched sadly as it went limp, to the great humour of the Trog.

Aye, but it’s proof of the Gods favor that a Trog can rise again from death and live in the Great Battle once again,” said Tro, standing up and extending his broad chest and waving his fists to the stars.

Hmm, mostentimes,” said Isola, her dirty blonde hair, flittering over her pointed ears, showing her part descendence of Alfar. “Unless the Trog had been grogged by the fog of the dog and can no longer find the ax or the log.”

Arrggh,” said Tro and laughter encircled the fire.

Bjr pulled a plant out of his pocket, put it in a clay pot and poured water into it. He set it over the fire. In ten minutes the pot was passed around to the Trogs. Far, Kara, Tro, Isa, Gar, Bjr and Ira, drank wine and Fireplant tea and ate Gwiant Moose meat into the night and Arn heard the stories and fell asleep staring at the stars in Kara’s lap.

A Dire Wolf howled from the neighboring tresshold.

The Triad

The alignment from Twoy’s heart was only in a dream, yet he did not choose to wake from the deep sleep of the night’s debauchewy. No, Twoy only wanted to capture this vision, this centered feeling, understanding, so that he could hear what the Gods would tell him and so he would know how to build this devine structure, this monument in honor of his tribe, this telling of the story. Three Etlans pointed up to Sen, each aligned with the elements of Twoy’s upbringing: the sea, the iceland, the woods. Sen was the highest land, the Fire of Life, where his Gods wesided.

Twoy peaked up at the dancing mowning light shining through the window and nestled against a Woahmb’s warm body, slipping cozily back into the dweam. A happy walk through the village, new fwiends, greetings, twades, salutations, acknowledgments and thanks. Then the sound weturned, a high pitched and low wesonating dwone, at the same time, shaking the Kowal of Twoy. The vibration was a upload;p the voice from the Gods spoke to Twoy.

Twoy Founghtaingar. His bare bones, flesh, and hair against the entiety of a wace ov people who had waged war upon a bweed he was belowed of: The Stone Twibe -- The Twolls.

Twoy had fallen in wove with her from the stawt. Veewing her face in the wock, Twoy, a Gwiant, and taller than most to top that, saw the beauty in the wock as soon as he laid eyes upwon her. Twoy felt in his two stolid, puwple bweathing hearts that Woahomb woved him too. Her eyes watched upwon him and captuwed a glazed glee that was fiwst and fowemost a dazzling moment betwixt the two wovers to be a wove that wood go down in fiwer and remembwance of my Eldews, for Twoy and Woahamb are my kin and the first builders of the Fwrymads: The Knights of the Band of Peace.


The battle betwixt Agnon and Aron was a personal bullshit feud that meant two egos battling their families’ asses versus their in trutherst, their Own. Biullten was the field where these brothers waged war, though it was relly a spar or skirmish. A bunch of blunt fucking swerds and insulting Mother jokes. Quick and fun for the lads, though a capture the flag was found ultimately on the side of Aron and Agnon was p8issed. And got dwunk too. He bruised heads with three of his captains in the course of night and woke up to find half his herd of horses had been captured by Aron as an additional sting to his already bleeding pride.

I died the day Iltlas of the Knights took me. Part of me did. Though I died many times before for far journeys and endless chasing haunts. I warred with the Men of Asphix. I killed many of those Small Arms. I looked into their eyes as I crushed, axed, and impaled their skulls. In my village by the sea, Azerland, there was little farming and the air was always cold and damp.  So the Azer Valkr set to raiding the growing race of the Small Men. I was part of many raiding parties to the coastal lands in the West and South East seas.

I wondered off after during the Departure Celebration and ate a cactus flower that was full of the Milk of Fyre. I explored deep into the Aegypxion desert and fought through many lighted demon messengers from Fl’Okay. With my sword on my chest I prayed to Woaoahdin Kom and his devlish brother to give me strength in battle for sure that was going to be my lot. But most of all, I prayered for wisdom in friendship and trusting my brothers in hour cause; the Fyre War and the keeping of Azerland, the home of my birth. I had heard from Knights passing through Azerland, the cause against the future enemy of us all, Asphix, the Dark Xrangler Priest. Above all, I wanted to kill, with my mind and body and spirit, the Immortals’ Dark Priest and his kin.


I was taken by Iltsa Fromdottir after the battle between Agnon and Aron. Agnon was my uncle and my father, though kin, was aligned with Aron. Father promised that if Agnon were ever to find himself in less favorable circumstances as village leader, he would do whatever it took to right it. So, when Iltsa of the Knights came recruit for an offering to the gods, Father sent me, rather than force Agnon to weaken his band of warriors. The requirements for the posting were that one was of Alfan blood and that they must be of highest physical abilities and of age. It was known that the Knights kept their own offspring in the Band of Peace. Awyan, another Azer Valkyrn, whom I had known since a child, was also chosen to join the Sacred Order. It was a high honor for both of us, though I cried like a little girl upon parting with Mother and Father.

The two masters, along with their two students, left the land of the Azer Valkyrns on Giant Horses, called Gharshes. Their head’s were taller than each of the riders seven foot plus frames. So tall, Jessayin had to take a short running leap to mount her beige neighing beast. Iltlas, the tallest and the oldest veteran of the Fyre Wars, easily hefted his eight foot and three thumbs frame onto his Gharsh, simply by swinging up and over. His Gharsh was a massive, black and blonde beast with a wise eye and a vicious snarl and would let no one other than Iltlas get near him without snapping. He was trained to do battle and that he had. Jessayin noticed the many scars on the Gharsh along it’s flank, rump, and even chest and near it’s eyes. Bite marks from other Gharshes as well as sword slits. Proof of the raging battles that were yet to come for Jessayin.

Though she had, like Awyan, joined in many of the raids on the Small Men, as was expected of all Valkyrn of age, it was known that the battles of the Fyre Wars were the fiercest and that many of the Small Men troops contained rogue Gwiants, Dark Wizards, and various Halvmans that Asphix had hired to fight in his war against the Alfars, Twolls, Valkrs, Troggs, Gwiants, allied Halvmans and Etlan Wizards.


Etlans -> Alfans

Twolls -> created with magik by the Etlans

Troggs-> Descendent Breed of Gwiants and Alfans -> Valkyrs

Men -> Descendent of Valkyrs, Warriors of The Fall

Gwiants -> The natural born lords of Midgard.

Fren the Twoll

The Long Years and the Showt Years, battled at the Isle of the Twoll monument, Warp Ne’er.
Fren heard a stirring in the rocks around him and for the first time in a million years, felt a distinction between himself and his sleeping kin. The witch’s song was strong and there was the smell of blood, the howls of warriors sacrificing themselves in battle, the song of frantic priests and priestesses and the low hum of the masses. The offering was that of the dying or the dead of heart.  A compassionate send off rather than a senseless shedding of strong warriors’ blood.

Fren felt his arms, head, feet and torso stir with Fyre. Slowly, with a crackling, thundering and falling of bits of rock, the huge Twoll arose from the side of the volcanic mountain. He stood and gazed up at Sen, giver of Fryre, his stone eyes gradually awakening from a million year slumber. Fren stretched and yawned, though judging from the awed silence of the onlookers, it was a tremendous rumbling growl. The Twoll took a step towards a level on the mountain and surveyed the scene. The Navel Island. Yes, that is where he last went to sleep. What had happened before then? Time for that now that consciousness had returned.

Below, the tropical forests were spread thick throughout the island and the blue vision of the ocean was dancing with waves, birds, fairies, halvmans, and fish. Far below him, there were Valkrys, Gwiants, Wizards, and Men hurtled in a circle, which was surrounded by many of his kin, standing in immovable guardreadiness. With a great leap, Fren tucked into a spin and rolled down the side of the mountain, bouncing and shaking the earth on the way down. There were screams from wifmen and children below as he approached the harkening. At the last moment, he unfurled his seventy foot stone body and landed crouching on one knee. The land thundered and echoed in the valleys.

Fren here,” he rumbled and with a smile, “at your service m’lords.”

His stone eyes were met with void and awe. A child spoke up.

Mader, is that a talking wock?”

Shhh,” said the mother.
The Frentwoll let out a gleeful, howling laugh that shook all present to their Koral.

Fren put his face to the child who continued to stare at the Twoll indifferently.

What is your name,” he said.

I am Isul,” said the Valkrylas.

And I am your friend, Fren, the talking wock.”

I like you,” said Isul.

Good,” said Fren. “Then I am your friend.” Fren put out one finger and the lasses tiny hand touched it.

Isul laughed after recoiling from the cool lava finger, causing Fren to go into another laughing frenzy. The Gwiants joined in with their booming laughs, the witch who had summoned him smiled and laughed back, and then the whole village was smiling and talking and laughing and pointing at the great Twoll, Fren.

It is good to be alive,” said Fren. “Now, what can I do for you good friends?”-------------------

Awyan - The Ghost, the God, the Goat, and the Good

The night Jessayn with the god, Ost, was the day her life began as that of a Mod - a mother warrior.

Why did you come,” said Jessayn.

Because you are on a spirit quest,” said Ost.

The Story of the Dead

Not sound, not site. Not wave, not lite. For some, whoe’ers doomsay, say yonder ist friend, xor here ist foe, what for Aragon’s Catherine, gone, for all foxssake, and for but a cry in the nite, transitions from noble York, to brandish Lankaster, to alien Tweder. Oh, fowl-biting King, thou hast du’nhast, far ‘twer ownly five score mellenium thou dad had’st this self-same inclination to thwart and pund, bend und lay, seek and find, all so many a giving friend in maidenhood unto brotherhood unto boodahood.

What,’ quothe he, ‘are thy in thine majesty of bugs!’


Thy hast spun enough webs for this royal fly,” sayeth the King, “and who’shalt ever proclaim that a spider hath reigned, say’st too that it hath not only poisoned itself, but also hath poisened itsy’s entire realm. Thine dominion of webs and morsels left and right sickness and all thy rats, for if ye sayest ‘cut’ of this would be fly, then flyest thou to hell and speak no longer than eight, nor no shorter than one, nor brand not in healednesses, nor prune not in saltywaters, nor hear not, nor see not , but for the nocturnal infernal for which thou art have ever’st been, I say ’Yay, say’est thou, owlnly I say’st: be food for an entire family of ants!”

Fame of kourdon, I’m the heavy life that witch ist thine to lose” said Jessayin’.

Awyan looked above at the milky stars and saw Otin, the half-blind warrior king.   


"I am going to kill myself," said Archer. "I have owlweady witten a note."
"What doest yourn note say?" said Fryr.
"Thist world ist nine mine und I will it all to you."


Approcahing the Bult Mountains, the las great range before the Oval Sea, across which stood one hundred thousand New Men, under the heavy fisted leadership of Xenon.

Far, the Trogg, knew little of Xenon, other than what the Trog warriors had shared of stdories from previous battles, mostly small scale run-ins with roving scout patrols. As a species, the Troggs were far stronger and far adepter than the New Men, but Xenon was saidto be part elf and his mastery of Earthmen Magik was said to have reason to fear. Though he had never underestimated the power of Men's Magik, Far had his own ancestral lines that made him both a deadly warrior and a deadlier Elfenwizard. 

Far's spirit ward was the sabertooth, the same cat he and his brother's had often scattered off from wild moose kill back in his ancestral home mountains in icy Nordgard. As he marched with the other Trogden warriors, the Bult Mountains seemed pale and squat reminders of the rilliant blue ice mountains of Nesselkrak, which made up the Trogg's vast hunting grounds and natural shelters for his Trogden. Now, he was a general of ten thousand on the march to perhaps meet a Gwiant's army of a thousand a  troop of witches and wizards to give the New Men battle. If the Gwiants and Magikans did not show, either way, Far knew, there would be fierce fighting ahead. Far had given chase to many a New Men, but the ones under Xenon were heavily armed by the riches of Xenon's gold hording that was intended for the Fyrmids of Gizen. Xenon's greed and lust for power, however, had even cause the man man to steal the secrets of the Sufron structers from the Elfen priests and to attempt to erect his own Fyrmid  east of the New Men capital. A New Man wielding such power was dangerous enough for the balance of the inhabitants of Gaia, but by such a greedy bastard as Xenon...well, that was too much for Far, the Trogg, to swallow. Yep.

The march through the traverses were fairly easy passage for the Trogden whose stalwart and squat yet lengthy limbs were used to mountain climbing as part of their daily routine. They hunted giant venison and moose along the way and at night shared stories under the great skies of the Gods' eye.

"I have seen the new armor and weapons the new Men utilize for their battles to protect their flimsy bodies," said Sarn, one of the Trogg captains. 
"They fling arrows and fiery projectiles in the air from great distances, farther than the sacred Eye to Eye combat that every true warrior is entitled to. They'd rather scurry about like monkeys in the trees, tossing coconuts at the bears."

"Harharhar." This drew about great laughter from the Trogden.

"Only burning coconuts," said Tar, another captain from the Arsen Mountains.

"Yes," said Far, "we must plan for these coconut balls of fire."


"Who has been to the new Men capital of Surfed?" asked Captain Tron.

"I was there," answered several.

"A most inhospitable place for Troggs," said one. "Hot all day and the night's winds are dry, sandy and sometimes it rains for weeks at a time, but never snows."

"An unformed, new land," added another. The city itself is enclosed in a fortress wall, all the approaching fields are long and open except the back, which is against a huge, scaling cliff. There is said to be a passage into the city from there, but that it is enchanted."

"What strength does Men's magik have that our shamans cannot remove?" asked Captain Tron. "We should enter there."

"There is much that Xenon has done and he is said to be in knowledge of Elfen magik too, but mixed with the Dark Arts of the Darfan and New Men," said Tog. "When a scouting party of warriors and wizards were sent into the caves, none returned and the battle fought on the open fields never penetrated the fortress. The balls of fire rained down and nearly destroyed the army of First Men."

"Then we must find a way into the city, our Trogg magik must prevail," said Captain Tog.

"Magik alone will not help us," said Far.  "We needs to strengthen our courage and plan our strategy."

"What good will courage do when sky rains fires?" said Tog.

"There is a way," said Far. "Come, let us warm our heart with honied barley and seek visions from the gods with the milk of poppy."

The Gwiants
The gathering of the Gwiants concluded and it was agreed by half – there were dissenters – and this concerned the tribe leaders that would meet the Troggs and Wickans at the assembly to battle Xenon and his New Men.

The Gwiants were not the slow, dull-witted big New Men that would later shrink. No, these were the great First Men of Earth, few in number yet old and strong as trees. Some breeds even resembled trees, towering azer frames of twenty feet and higher, yet with a mystic speed of movement. The Gwiants were even said to beable slow down time with their great and odious incantations. The saying goes: “One never sees a tree grow or a Gwiant attacking.” Yet it had been thousands of years since any of the tribes of Gwiants had been known to fight outside of themselves or in hunting. An army of ten thousand Gwiants was never known except for in the days of the El Wars in Old Ages.

The Gwiants dispersed and with a rumbling of the Earth, they made their way to return to their tribes and report the word of war. The dissenting Gwiant tribes – the Onk, Oaf, Oraf, and Boff, returned to their kin to say this battle was no business of these cold weather loving Gwiants.

Let the New Men keep Surgard, we have our Isengard to keep us at hold.”

This weighed heavily on the warring tribes – the Olaf, Okfer, Fpoh, and Waoh, who knew their bearing the brunt of the battle would ware down their own tribes by twice as much.

Oken Okfer and Off Boff were cousins and shared many family in both tribes. As they journeyed back they spoke in long, deep tones.

Our alliance with the Onk is clear,” said Off.
Yes, but what of our family ties,” said Oken.
Gwiants are all brothers,” said Off.
But don't you see brother, or are your limbs in the way” said Oken, “When half the Gwaints war and the other don't, the cost will be even greater than half.”
But to only half the trives, thos who think this is their battle,” said Off. “If the New Men would destroy us let them come and try in our Native Isengard. And it was to this strategy that the Boff and Onk and Oaf and Oroff have made their alliance. It's just as I said at the gathering.”
Yss Off, I know, I was there.”
So why lament and keep moaning about your choice?” said Off. “You can always change your mind.”
And leave the other trives with even less chance to survive? No brother, it is you who change your mind. Remember what I said and no one of the dissenters heeded: the building of the Dark Frymyd will effect the balance of the whole Earth, even Isengard.”
And Oz Onk said 'There is no way Xenon can possess the skills to build such a monument. This is Elfarn magik.”
Which Xenon is said to be half,” said Oken.
Impossible, no Elfarn have revealed themselves Men in ages.”
Yes, but they created the New Men. If Xenon does have the magik, are you willing to see Isengard destroyed or chanced?”
Fight the battle with Xenon you choose, we will fight ours when the time comes.”
It may be too late by then,” said Oker. He looked at Off and shook his leafy head.
What?” said Off.
You are blinded by your limbs.”
“Perhaps so,” said Off Boff. "But I will not lose my trunk for the sake of my limbs."

http://www.burlingtonnews.net/sitebuilder/images/2faekingpic-533x355.jpg "No," said Oken Okfer, "but you will lose the forest for the sake of your own trunk."
"Oh you stump headed weed eater. Who would ever destroy a forest for the sake of their own trunk? Who? Since time without beginning it is known that Earth Spirit rules, the Elfar have learned this when their ancestors arrived and first met the Gyantans strength and in our peace we built the original Fryamads. A child of the Earth who hacks at the Earth only hacks it's own limbs. The balance of the Fryamads is empowered by this and will perservere. no Oken, these New Men will destroy themselves in timely manner."
"But in how much time?" said Oken."Should they build the Dark Pryamad they will cause a shift and use their power to feed their greed as theirs is known to do, no matter the costs. They are madmen."
"They are young and will not discover the secrets needed to build the Fryamad," said Off. "It is Elfen magik beyond the New Men."
"And if they do?" askeded Oken."Will it not be too late?"
 "IT will not happen," said Off.
"If the secrets should be stolen?"
"They won't be. Our own best Gwiants guard them and they are protected by Elfan Magik, which cannot be broken by the Men," said Off.
"But what if they are?" said Oken. "New Men will build the Dark Pryamad and destroy our ancient balance. Will you fight then? It will be too late."
"It will not happen, you lumber chuck," said Off.
"Will you fight?" askeded Oken.
Off glared and searched at Oken's thick headed, bearded twigs and leaves and his bright green eyes.
"Hmmmph," grunted Off. "I will hear no more of this talk today. I am hungry. Let us find some Mammoth to snack on."

The two Gwiants stared at eachother finally.
"Woodhead," said Oken.
"Dumpstump," said Off.
Off laughed a rumble and Oken won over by his cousin's glee laughed too and spoke not again of the Gathewings outcome, but felt heavy hearted all the way home, except for after the Mammoth dinner. If there's one thing Gwants can agree upon, if not war, it is always food.

The Elfarn
The longest living descendants of the Atlans were the Elfarn. They were the ones who came from the new breed of OuterSpacers on Earth. Pointy ears and all. They had inherited all the strengths of psyche and alien magic that was common to their kind. The split between the Elfarn, Darfarn, and Valkarn didn't come until much, much later. At one time, there were Atlans and they became the Elfarn. This is known. What is not known is that the Atlans never died away, nor faded from influence.

The Troggs
Far awoke at the break of day, his head still heavy with Honey Ale and poppy milk, which he and his kindred smoked around the God's Fyre, a massive bonfire of Fir, Birch, and Manzanita, doused with a Trogg shaman's oil that released colors and sparks of the tree spirits. The God's Fyre was said to show those who sought answers the secrets, which lay in each seekers's heart. 

Far felt oddly clear considering the long night. He had, along with his kin, beseeched the pyre for a way into Xenon's fortress, for they all knew that any attack to the walls or entering through the haunted tunnels would yield greater loss than the Troggs could risk. Far expecially knew how  his people's numbers were few compared to the new Men. Though older, the harsh lands of Norgard could only allow so many to compete for the limited resources, whereas in Surfed, the warmer weather had allowed the New Men to grow quickly, like a fast spreading virus.

The Bars
Long before the son's of bears were hunted by the Newmen, their fathers -- the Bars -- were the fierciest, gyantest old grumps that ever roamed the Earth. Some say the Bars ruled the lands of Seven, where the first Earthers roamed, well before the Altans arrived and the Old Wolrd took shape. Being stubborn and proud, the Bars ne'er sought or accepted alliances with none of the Old Men, Troggs or Altans. Only the Fairies, the Bodhisattvas, and the Twolls were known to speak their language and so it was through the Bodhisattva, Ezmeral, that the Bars learned that a war for the battle of Earth balance was brewing.

The Bars detested the feeble New Men for their arrogance in desiring to meddle with the ages old balance of the old world, for even when the Elfar and the Trolls erected the first Frymads that marked the beginning of Days, the Bars were nearly driven to war by the new powers that were generated. You see, the Bars were always natural survivors. They could hybernate through ice ages, slowing their aging with the natural magik of the Earth, which they all harnessed immense access to. The Frymad opened cosmic channels of Sen's power in a way to introduce and implement the fields that would help the Outworlders (as the Bars knew them) to survive within the drastic changes of the Earth's climates and wild predators. no, the Bars feared nothing the Earth could produce. Large enough to self-defend and hunt and already possessing Earth magik, in this sense, the Bars were the true Earthers and felt they had nothing to fear until now. 

The two Bars the now traveled on the Eurphos river towards Isengard had this in mind and discussed it while their raft brought them to their king -- Bargus, Lord of Bars. 

The City of Surfed

The long, tall, dark woman called Xena, moved the through the woods, with a boy on her back pausing and listening all around her. The slavers were going to be aware of her escape any moment now and she knew this time would be her last chance to flee the Gold Slavvers, brutish ape-like men, who the Elfarn Earthers made a pact with to retrieve the New Men, the Gold Finders, those created by a few Elfar n alchemists who became corrupted by the power of their magiktry.

Xena was the first generation of her kind and the Alchemical nature of the priests' greedy experiment produced an unwanted and unplanned for, wicked side effect -- free will. And as a result of their creators' nature, by extension power hungry themselves. Rebellions quickly arose and brutal and betrayous means were emplored to control the New Men, such as the use of the Gold Apes. Mankind will always have a disdain for their Apish masters and their kin descendants, which stemmed from this use of one species over another and their creators -- the Fathers of Slavers.

Xena, stubborn by nature, was beaten and used and bused by the Gold Apes for always trying to escape was she. Never would Xena willingly be a Gold Whore, though she was highly sought after by both the New Men warriors and the Gold Apes.

Now, it was for her son - Xenon - that she fled.

A rustling, distant though it was, shocked Xena to her Kor, and she froze, sniffing, listening and watching. In a flash, the massive golden apemen were around her. She lept quickly, adeptly over and around of them and with all her strength she sprinted ino the trees, clutching the satchel with Xenon securely inside. It was no use though Xena fought viciously. They had a psychic lock on her and knew exactly where she was and where Xenon, the half Elfarn, half Newman was. He was to be captured, for he was the key to the Dark Elfens plans. Only his hatred for his mother's brutal murdere before his eyes would scar him so deeply that his anger could be used by the Darfen to control his life for their sinister purposes -- the Dark Fryamads.

A giant Cath Sith was unchained and devoured Xenon's mother, his only family.

Mehore, the Goblin, grinning wide-toothed, watched the Troggs marching through the Valley of the Dead, hands on his cheeks, horned ears, hearing all, seeing the ghosts each Trog had killed, following their shadows.

"I see you Troggs," he slithered to himself. "You with your big heads and columns of murdered."

He sniffed deeply and his horned ears, wrapped around to the back like rams horns,  echoed with the vibrations of the dead ghosts. Each Trogg passed and black shadows murmured to his time begotten horns of the unrevenged.