District 9: 30 Second Review

Here there be spoilers, tread ye carefully.

D9: is shot in a pseudo-documentary style.

The Blaire Witch Project: We did that first.

Captain Jack Sparrow: Cleans up real nice.

Batman: Is kind of annoying in this one. And named “Melvin.”

Three Piece Suits, Fedoras, and Tommy Guns: Are awesome.

A Bank Gets robbed.

A Dame: Gets picked up.

This Movie: Goes on and on and on and on and oh sweet God please just make it stop.

God: Ignores my pleas.

This Movie: Is like fourteen hours long, and nothing happens.

The Credits: Roll.

Thomas: Thanks God that it’s finally over.

Shut up.

I don’t care that your boyfriend is dating a skank. It doesn’t matter to me - or anyone else in the theater, I dare assume - home many babies she’s had, or by how many different men. If I was interested in that little drama, I’d turn on Springer. But I didn’t. I came here to watch Hulk smash.

Also, for the love of all things Holy, close your mouth when you chew.

The Incredible Hulk - 30 Second Review

Ed Norton: learns how to meditate.

William Hurt: is a jerk.

Liv Tyler: can’t act.

Tim Roth: mutates.

Abomination: angers Banner.

Hulk: smash.

The Incredible Hulk - Slightly More Than 30 Second Review

Spoilers abound, tread ye carefully.

Nostalgia drops by for another visit.

Terminator 3 did not happen.

Thomas is pleased with this.

The War with the Machines is raging. Finally.

John Connor is a post-apocolyptic prophet. Or is he? (Of course he is. Spoiler!)

Marcus is a poor man’s Arnold.

Moon Bloodgood is an awesome name.

The Post Apocalyptic Rape Gang is pretty much mandatory, I guess.

Marcus SMASH!</hulk>

Thomas had to think about the HTML code for that </hulk>.

Kyle Reese is a punk teenager.

Loud Mechanical Groaning Screeches are bloody terrifying.

An Off Switch That Can Be Triggered By Broadcasting Anything on a Certain Frequency is a really stupid idea.

An Off Switch That Can Be Triggered By Broadcasting Anything on a Certain Frequency is a really cunning ploy.

Digital Arnold is back!

Thomas kermitflail!

SkyNet has some nice digs.

Thomas thinks he’s been in that building…

Thomas adds new software requirement: “don’t accidentally create SkyNet.”

The Future is not set.

Spoilers abound, tread ye carefully.

James T. Kirk is a troubled youth prone to emotional outbursts and acts of rebellion.

Spock is a troubled youth prone to emotional outbursts and acts of rebellion.

Thomas senses an Epic Bromance in the looming.

Uhura is fly.

Thomas really did just write that.

Bones, Scotty, Sulu, and Checkov are spot on.

Sulu has a freaking expandable sword in his backpack.

Thomas wants a freaking expandable sword.

When Your Only Tool is a hammer.

Every Problem looks like a nail.

Nero’s Only Tool is a planetary-scale strip mining machine.

Nero’s Every Problem looks like a geological disaster of unprecedented proportions.

Transporters, Phasers, and Communicators are still awesome.

The USS Enterprise still makes me want to be an astronaut when I grow up.

Time Travel allows J.J. Abrams to make a sequel, a prequel, and a reboot, all in one movie. And it makes sense. And it’s awesome.

Leonard Nimoy does the greatest voiceovers ever.

Space is still the Final Frontier.

Wolverine and Sabertooth: fight in literally every American war ever. Despite being Canadian.

Deadpool: is an uber-sarcastic mercenary with katanas. This is going to be awesome.

Deadpool: disappears for the next 85 minutes.

Sabertooth: likes the killing a bit too much.

Wolverine: peaces out.

Many Many People: get stabbed.

Wolverine’s Girlfriend: also gets stabbed.

Wolverine: So, about that metal skeleton…

Wolverine: OW OW OW OW OW WHY GOD OH WHY OW

Many Many Other People: get stabbed.

Wolverine’s Girlfriend: Surprise! I’m not dead! But I was lying about being in love with you! Except I really wasn’t!

Wolverine: buys that.

Deadpool: is back. His mouth is sewn shut. The Merc with the Mouth’s mouth was sewn shut. Because:

The Script Writer: is an idiot.

Many Many Other Other People: also get stabbed.

The Movie: mercifully ends.

No one that follows my blog - nor anyone that’s gotten spammed with a couple of hundred Thomas Posted a New Note messaged on FaceBook - will be surprised to hear that I write a lot.

Communication is kind of an interesting thing for me. I’m really not good at small talk; I don’t have the conversational skills, or sometimes the patience, to fill a whole lot of dead air, so if you want to talk with me, you’re probably going to have to do a lot of the lifting. But when I do have something to say, and when I can control the conversation, I excel.

That’s why I like giving speeches and writing; it lets me craft my message, to frame things just so, to set the tone and the temp. Everything works together when you’re writing. It’s usually much more elegant.

So, I write a lot, and I post a lot of what I write. But there’s a lot more that I don’t publish. I’ve got quite a few blog entries sitting around waiting for the right occasion, and a few ideas sitting around, waiting for the right motivation.

I also have a few longer pieces. I have one novel that’s essentially finished, and that I’m in the process of revising. I have notes and plot sketches - some fairly extensive, some fairly brief - for at least seven more. I really don’t know what I’m going to do with all of that, but at the very least its served as good finger exercise.

I’ve tried following the suggestions of various professional writers, tried to mimic the process that they say they use when they write, but I’ve learned that my brain just doesn’t work that way. When I write, even when I’m writing something that will stretch across two hundred pages or more, I do a lot of daydreaming, and have a lot of plot points and arcs in my head, and I’ll write myself little notes as inspiration strikes me, but sitting down and actually hammering out a complete outline is just about impossible for me.

I’ve recently changed the way I write my long-form fiction. I generally like to use the third person when I write, because there’s usually not one single character that sees everything I want my readers to know. The problem with that is that all of the sections, and therefore all of my characters, end up having the same voice - mine. Here’s Thomas describing how Sarah feels about her boyfriend. Here’s Thomas describing how Michael prepares to meet his enemy. And so on.

While first-person writing is excellent for developing a character’ voice, and also excellent for pulling the reader into the story, it’s just too limited for what I want to do. So what I’ve been doing - and this is sort of an experiment, so I’m not sure how well it’s going to work - is writing a draft from multiple first person perspectives. Each section, or chapter, is from a particular character’s point of view, which gives the reader access to their voice, their thoughts, their emotions, et cetera. But the next section might be from a totally different character’s point of view. Then, when I revise it, I’ll re-write all of those sections as third person narratives, but keep all of the internal dialog and such. The technical term for that is deep third person. It might end up sucking, but so far, I like what I’ve seen.

Joss Whedon, who does character-driven fiction better than pretty much anybody, once said (something along the lines of) “the key to writing good fiction is to hate your characters.” Drama arises from conflict. There won’t be any conflict if you’re too nice to your characters. So, if you want to write good stories, figure out worst thing you can do to your heroes, and then do it.

It can be hard to view your own writing objectively. There have been times when I’ve been sitting at the keyboard, staring at the words on the screen, and calling myself the worst hack on the planet. A few days later, though, I’ll go back and be pleasantly surprised by how those words turned out. There have been other times when I thought I was writing gold, but later realized that I was too tired, too drunk, or both, to have been at the computer at that moment, and should have just gone to bed.

Taking a few days, or even a few weeks, away from your work is essential. When you step away from your work, when you forget what you’ve written and why, you can look at it more objectively, like you’re reading it for the first time. When you’re looking at something you wrote a long time ago, and it makes you gasp, or want to weep, or pump your fist in the air, you can be pretty sure that what you’ve put down is worth reading.

You can also learn a lot about yourself by the things you write. Your sense of humor, your romantic streak, your hopes and dreams and fears, all have a way of coming out on the page. There have been a couple of times when I’ve looked back at some of the things I’ve written and said “Damn, that was cool,” followed almost immediately by “you know what? I think I need help.”

If there is one question that I get more than any other, it’s “what is wrong with you, you bleeding psycho?” But if there’s a second question I get asked more than any other, it’s “what happened to your hand?” Unfortunately, due to amnesia, Statutes of Limitations, and matters of national security, I have never been able to give anyone a straight answer.

Until now.

It has taken a great deal of soul searching to get to this point. Many demons, personal and infernal, had to be defeated before I was free to share this tale. The regime of a despotic… despot, had to be toppled before this information could be released to the public, and even then, it took a Freedom of Information Act request before the records were made available.

But now, finally, my story can be told. And so, without further ado, the Galvin Institute for Higher Sarcasm proudly presents the Somewhat True Stories of How Thomas Lost His Fingers.

• Part One - The Beginning
• Part Two - The Glorious Hack
• Part Three - The Demon Hand From Hell
• Part Four - The Mountain Missionary Rescue
• Part Five - The Korean Interrogator of Doom
• Part Six - Epilogue

Just a quick note: in this series, I’ve managed to cram an Author Avatar into a Frame Story that is designed to devolve into an epic Mary Sue Fan Fic. Of myself. Because I’m just that good.

Thomas stood there, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at the suddenly nervous men.

“Mister, we didn’t mean no disrespect,” Larry started.

“No offense was intended,” Old Man Quin said diplomatically. “But I’m sure you can understand that you’re… a person of interest, in this community.”

Thomas was quiet a moment, and the air was electric, thick with tension. Finally, he spoke. “Wanting to know the truth is no crime. And those are interesting stories. There’s a bit of truth in all of them. But there’s a whole lot of lies, too.” He turned, and began to walk away.

“But, Thomas…” Terry said.

Thomas turned back, surprised at the sound of his own name. “Yes?”

“If none of those stories are the truth… what is?”

Again, Thomas was quiet, contemplative. “The truth, son, is that I haven’t always been as careful as I should be. And sometimes, that carelessness has cost me a great deal.” He turned, apparently done with the conversation, and walked away.

But when he reached the door, he turned back, and fixed Terry with a hard stare. “But you should see the other guy,” he said, and then he was gone.

Terry stood to his feet. “Leave it be, boy,” Old Man Quin said, but Terry ignored him, and followed the stranger out the door.

“Thomas, wait!” he cried. The big man stopped, and it was a long moment before he turned around.

“Thomas, really, what happened?”

Thomas looked at him for several long seconds, and Terry felt an overwhelming urge to turn away, to hide himself from the piercing blue eyes. But when Thomas saw that the younger man wasn’t going to run, he relented.

“From what I gather, the umbilical cord wrapped around my hand while I was being delivered, cut off the circulation. Took two of my fingers. Almost took a third.” He glanced down at his wrist. “Almost took the whole thing. That would have sucked. Be awful hard to type with one hand.”

“That’s… that’s it? No malfunctioning robots? No secret agents? Nothing?”

Thomas chuckled, but there was little humor in the sound. “No, son. There isn’t always some grand story, some greater reason. Sometimes things just happen, because they happen.”

“So why all the mystery? Why all the secrets?”

The big man was quiet for a moment, contemplating. “I live my life, son. It’s been more interesting than some, more boring than others. I do what I have to do. And they,” he raised his chin in the general direction of the bar, “tell their stories. I don’t know why. Maybe they’re bored. Maybe they really believe them. But it’s not my place to take their stories away.”

“Besides,” he said as he walked into the sunset, “I’m sort of a drama queen.”

“Did you know,” Quin asked, “that Kim Jong-il was a robot?”

“Shut up,” Terry said.

“It’s true. Same model that they tried to set up in those Steel Mills in Iowa. Turns out they’re great at running Communist nations, too. Now, I don’t know for sure that it was Thomas that took him out, but I don’t know of any other Secret American Agents that were in Korea at the time.”

“Secret Agent?” Terry said, incredulous.

“Yes sir,” Quin said. “You see, his… little adventure in the Dominican caught the attention of certain US agencies. They’d been trying to take out Jose El Papi Jose’s Bandoleros for the better part of a decade, and Thomas brought the whole organization to its knees with one home made knife, in one night. When he came back state side, they recruited him, and his first mission was in a certain Communist Dictatorship…”

Thomas was strapped to a dentist’s chair. A pipe was leaking water onto the floor behind him, and the only light came from a dim, bare bulb overhead. He reflected on the life that had brought him to this place…

His skill set was, admittedly, unique. Software, religion, foreign cultures. He had the heart of a warrior, tempered in a forge of loss and pain. And, perhaps most importantly of all, he had no close friends, no family.

No one to miss him if he didn’t come home.

“Son, we’re asking a great deal of you…”

“Think nothing of it, Mister President,” Thomas said humbly. “A simple investigation into the Korean Nuclear Weapons program, and the assassination of an international terrorist? I’ll be home by the end of the week.”

“I hope so,” the President said, extending his hand. “Your country thanks you.” The President saluted, and Thomas returned the gesture, turned smartly, and boarded the waiting helicopter.

That had been five days ago. He wasn’t sure how he had been discovered - perhaps the presence of a six foot tall white man in a nation that forbade foreign visitors had given him away, but it was also possible that he spoke Korean with a slight Mandarin accent. It didn’t really matter. It had been foolish to accept a drink from that mysterious beauty at the bar, but he had let his guard down…

Done in by roofies. What a sad epitaph.

And so, here he sat, tied up and awaiting interrogation. He had been briefed in Korean torture techniques. In fact, he had a plan…

“Good day, Mister… Thomas.” Thomas looked up. He had been joined by the infamous Korean interrogator, Doctor Painhurter. “And how are you doing today?”

“I’ll be doing better once I make the world safe for democracy,” Thomas said defiantly.

“Perhaps,” mad Korean doctor said. “We shall see. Why don’t we begin by explaining what agency you work for, and what your mission is in our glorious nation?”

The interrogation lasted several hours. The mad Doctor Painhurter tried the best tools in his arsenal, all to no avail. He blasted New Kids on the Block music non-stop. He held Thomas’ eyes open with toothpicks, and set a television playing the latest reality shows in front of him. He doused him with cold water, and turned on a fan. But Thomas refused to crack.

“Fine,” Doctor Painhurter said, “you leave me no choice. You will answer my questions, Mister Thomas. You will.” He picked up a pain of pinking shears from his tray of medical equipment, and grabbed Thomas’ hand. He studied it for a moment, then grabbed the pinky finger. “Let us start small, shall we?”

Thomas gritted his teeth.

“He never did tell them anything,” Old Man Quin said. “Even though they took his fingers, one knuckle at a time.” He touched the corner of his eye casually, and no sir, he was not crying.

“What a terrible story,” Terry said. “How did he escape?”

“That’s the thing,” Quin said. “Thomas knew how the Koreans tortured people. In fact, he counted on it. He knew that Doctor Painhurter would start with the smallest, weakest fingers… leaving him the biggest, strongest, deadliest fingers. And when that second finger was gone… his hand was small enough, and slick from all the blood, to slip right out of his restraints. He grabbed those pinking shears, dropped Doctor Painhurter on the spot, and made his escape. Now, I don’t know for sure that he used those pinking shears to take out Kim Jong-il… but like I said, I don’t know of anybody else that was over there just then.”

Terry let out a low whistle. “Man. That’s some story.”

“Yes, they are,” said a calm, chill voice. “Very interesting stories, indeed.”

The men looked up and gasped: Thomas was standing there, listening to their every word.

Tune in tomorrow for the Anticlimactic Conclusion to The Legend of the Half Handed Man!