Here's a fun(?) thing to do on a Wednesday evening - compare the US Embassy versus the Canadian High Commission to London.

The Canadian is this beautiful grand Neo-Grecian building directly on Trafalgar Square and is shining and beautiful and look at all those maple leaves...

Then the US meanwhile has been punted to south of the river (gasp! the only one south of the river ohoho aren't you special) and it... Well.

All hail the cube.

Deadly Class Vol. 1

Deadly Class vol 1 collects issues 1 through 6 of the ongoing comic series, written by Rick Remender and drawn by Wes Craig. The series follows Marcus, a 14 (?) year old boy who is living on the streets, after his parents are murdered right in front of him. One day he accidentally ends up crashing a police stick-up and gets invited to join the King’s Dominion School for the Deadly Arts; a school that trains professional assassins. I don’t even know where to begin with this series; I guess the best way to go about it, would be to talk about vol 1. Vol 1 introduces us to Marcus, as well as a handful of supporting characters, most of which are other students in the school. The school itself is centuries old; the people who go there are all children or relatives of gangs, cartels, yakuza, FBI/CIA/KGB agents, mafia or just serial killers. Marcus himself is the son of a Nicaraguan double agent, but having spent the past 2 years living alone, his reputation is not one that brings him a lot of friends, and Marcus himself is a difficult character to like. I think that’s a good way to talk about this series too; it’s not easy to like. I usually reserve judgement for the end of my reviews, but I do have to warn you; this is an R rated comic. Don’t let the age of the protagonists fool you; this is a series full of blood, gore, drug abuse, murder, rape, pedophilia, animal cruelty and basically any other trigger you can think of. It’s a series that operates on shock value, in the sense that all the characters are thoroughly unlikable, they have horrible things happen to them and do horrible things to each other, and most of them are rather pretentious, annoying, and act very much like teenagers would, if they were stuck in that kind of situation. The series is set in the 80’s, during Ronald Reagan’s presidency. This is an important detail, because Marcus’ motivation for joining the school (other than romance) has to do with Reagan specifically, as he is indirectly implicated in his parents’ death. The whole plot point about Marcus’ parents’ death is so crazy that even if I told it to you, you wouldn’t believe me, so I’ll just let you read it. The 80’s setting is honestly one of the best parts of the series; there’s a lot of talk about politics, homelessness caused by the Reagan administration, veteran rights, and of course, lots and lots of drugs. The entirety of issues 5 and 6 have to do with Marcus tripping on acid, and the way Craig draws and captures the feeling of being on acid is probably one of the best depictions I’ve seen in media, save perhaps Enter the Void. I am so curious to see how they do that in the show. There’s also a lot of talk about music; of course special snowflake Marcus listens to the Smiths (look I can say it, I too love the Smiths), but obviously there’s also talk of some early rap like LL Cool J and Public Enemy (wow I’m old). That whole conversation between Willie and Marcus is actually really interesting, because it serves as a bigger discussion rather than just music; it’s about the ways in which you want to be perceived, about bravery vs posing, and what is and isn’t allowed for ‘tough men’ to like. I could have definitely lived without the word ‘fag’ and “pussy” being thrown around all over the place, but I suppose that too is authentic to the time period and the way teenage boys talk. Actually, the only thing I can say about the setting that didn’t mesh, is the dialogue. Marcus and the others talk like teenagers talk today; if I just read their lines, and had no idea this series was a period piece, I’m not sure I would’ve known it is set in the 80’s. What helps, is that all the characters sound authentic; they are written like teenagers, both in the way they speak and in the actions they take; they want to be cool, and mature, and smart, and Remender has a good grasp on all of their voices. The plot of vol 1 is fast, action packed, and entirely batshit. There were several scenes which I found very effective; the scene with Marcus and the homeless man in issue 2, will probably haunt my nightmares; it’s such a good scene, and it makes Marcus probably the most unlikable and yet sympathetic lead character I’ve ever read. The fight between Marcus and Chico was also great, though I think it goes on for too long, and by the end of it, I was genuinely shocked that Marcus was able to survive, much less move after that much bodily harm. There are chase sequences that are amazing, the art helps make everything so much more engaging and fast paced; I was flipping pages, on the edge of my seat wondering what would happen next. The actual story, is a bit muddled and unfocused; issue 1 is Marcus’ life before the school and how he got there, issue 2 is him making friends with some of the other students, issue 3 has him and Willie try and complete an assignment that goes wrong, and issues 4, 5, and 6, have the gang go to Vegas to kill someone, while also tripping on acid and getting chased by Chico. There isn’t really enough time to take in everything, and while I think the book actually does a great job at balancing the action with the character stuff the ending of issue 6 does leave a lot to be desired. Let’s talk about the characters. First we have the two girls, Saya and Maria. Saya is the typical cold, (dare I say tsundere) love interest; she’s a yakuza, has a troubled past and is the reason Marcus decides to join the school. I don’t have much to say about her; I found her pretty bland. Maria was a bit better, in that she has more of a personality. I didn’t like that she was shown to be both manipulative and kind of air-headed, and that her friendship with Saya was that superficial (though again, I suppose that is authentic to how some teenage girls are like). Her confrontation with Chico did illuminate at least a bit of why she’s acting the way she is, but I am really not looking forward to Marcus-Maria-Saya love triangle.  Chico was… a mess. He’s part of a cartel family, is jealous, violent, constantly angry and more than a little crazy. I kind of hated that he got settled with that role, mostly because he’s completely irredeemable. On the one hand I understand why he was angry at Maria and why he tried to kill Marcus, but he kills more people in a single issue than any of the other characters in all the rest of the issues combined, and shows no nuance or remorse.  Billy’s a punk, who I actually liked; he has a subplot about his father that was interesting, though like most things in this series, it’s very over the top graphic, and very on the nose with the storytelling. Billy being a crass character was fine, but the conclusion between him and his dad would have worked better if it wasn’t so dramatic.   Willie I liked the most. Unlike Chico who is just a stereotype of the angry, Mexican kid in a gang, Willie is a subversion of the stereotype about a black kid in a gang. He puts a lot of stock in appearance and reputation, because he has to maintain it, since he’s not actually capable of doing the things everyone thinks he can. I liked his friendship with Marcus, and I’m curious to see what Remender does with him in later volumes. I have to mention “Marcus’ Mortal Enemy”; he was just such an insane character that I couldn’t believe what I was reading. The fact that he goes around calling himself Marcus’ Mortal Enemy, and ‘a sadistic redneck who fucks sheep’ is on a whole other level of tell don’t show (on second thought, please don’t show us this Craig, I beg you). He comes out of nowhere, even though he’s teased here and there throughout the volume, and I’m just so confused as to why he bothered to go to Las Vegas, to then NOT confront Marcus. Speaking of, let’s talk about Marcus. Rarely do I come across such a well-developed and interesting, while at the same time completely unlikable character. Marcus has had a hard life; it’s clear that he’s been through hell by the time he gets to the school, and he has a whole host of problems. He overthinks, he’s anxious, he doesn’t know how to communicate with people, but he’s also incredibly pretentious, and is one of those teens who think they are the smartest and have the whole world figured out. Lot’s of his dialogue reminded me of the dialogue in Trainspotting; fitting since tonally, both are very similar and deal with similar themes. Marcus wants to be liked, is afraid of being left alone, and so he compensates with ridiculous and bad decisions. I hated his ‘romance’ with Saya, though it is in line with his character, and throughout volume 1 he does some genuinely reprehensible and irredeemable shit. I want to know where his character will go from here; even if I don’t necessarily like it. If you don’t mind over the top violence, drug abuse and just the most horrible things humans do to each other, than this is the series for you. It’s brutal, it’s fast paced, the plot is ridiculous, and it has some very interesting things to say about a lot of topics. You just have to get through a lot of trash to get to the good stuff.

goodreads

Greetings mortal! Are you ready to buy?

Seeing there's been interest in some lore behind the Guncaster,  and I released the update lately, I might as well bother to exercise my writing skills again (if there are any) and explain some fun tidbits behind the new shopkeeper and perhaps his background, being older than GC itself, cause why not~

Art by Cage - DOCTOR, MY EYES APPEAR TO BE SWOLLEN!... WHAT?! TOO MUCH PORN? IMPOSSIBLE!

Hereby I present you Nithor Flaynithere - dragon deity of endless snarkitude!... Okay, patron of fury and courage actually, but that includes endless snarkitude. Formerly keeper of the eternal flame. Starter of a bloodline of dragons with anger management issues. As you know me, obscenely powerful cause I am sucha funny overkill guy, but he has his flaws and drawbacks to overcome.  Cygnis is obviously his direct descendant somewhere down the line; don’t wanna tie my hands with an exact generation.

Cyg's Ancestor job at first was being a sort of head of security in the Dominion - think like where Olympus was an HQ for Greek gods, it was such place for the gods of Vernazij (Can just read it as Vernazi - I also have a thing for silent H’s in names, just in case), his homeworld. His top priority was tending to the aforementioned flame. He didn’t question things the way they were, as much as he started to grow bored... and suspicious. A branch of fellow, godly brethren, he could tell for sure, was plotting something. There was an ages long conflict going between them and the rest of the mostly-content deities and the inhabitants of the mortal coil ever since the whole universe was a thing.

Whaddaya starin’ at? I swear on me mum I’ll punch ya in the gabber, ya spineless tosser~

Oh yea, speaking of the universe!... The legend goes like this: An almighty deity had left their two descendants into an empty void, with a well of matter, energy and space to shape their own universe in a way they deemed fit, both as a test and as a testament to what he thaught them. But of course, being siblings with different concepts on what their world should be, it led to an obvious conflict of interests. They both ended up in the well after typical argument with just a bit more cosmic power involved. It caused a big bang of sort and they got absorbed into their own creation. Once things settled in a little after the initial blast, first deities and supreme beings got formed, forged to carry out their will. Yes, they were still waging petty conflict between themselves even after they got evaporated, go figure. They went onto forming massive armies to fight and prevail with their concepts of forming the universe. From the ashes of broken matter and the corpses of destroyed creatures - the universe kept on forming itself on its own whereas the first inhabitants didn't even notice that miracle even going. They were too busy killing each other.

As the fight had progressed, some planets did form their own life!... But didn't quite make it due to the whole conflict of cosmic proportions. They became the victims of collateral damage. Still, as the shaping force kept going and the destructive forces kept on dwindling, only inhabitants of few planets across zillions of them were able to survive, step back and come into conclusion that their conflict at this point was undesirable and pointless. They realized everything was already formed out of chaos, without much of their involvement. They were too busy fighting over missed opportunity. Now it was just a battle of who would take control over the results of said uninvolvement. The deities of one of such cases came into agreement. They decided to sit back and see how things will go on from here, as much as that was an uneasy peace. They named their home - Vernazij. (It supposed to mean something metaphorical for all the forming that world went through, but again, couldn't think of anything clever enough yet. I AM SUCHA GREAT STORYTELLER HOLY SHIT~)

You have a ‘what’, napping in your living room?

Over the course of years, things have stabilized - respective roles that were fitting given gods’ particular set of skills were given, treaties were made, tasks were completed... suddenly, Mortals! Local gods went “They look so familiar! And adorable~”. Powerless, fragile creatures that often resembled the deities, they were another byproduct of the self-sustained world creation. The gods didn't have much ideas on what to do with them, seeing they were pretty weak. so they had let them be. That was until some of them helped their mini-me’s, or did quite the opposite. Their fear or reverence resulted in worship. Worship gave them power, so gods started unhealthy competition over the mortal souls in their respective fields, forming alliances, breaking them, stabbing themselves in the back, or protecting themselves from the others - generally, you know, your favorite part that divides or brings everyone together - politics. Every god could store their worship as some kind of power, as much as one spot wasn't decidedly taken over. The irony of no one being courageous or dedicated enough to become the patron of courage. All brave acts sparked as an eternal flame instead. Nithor was denied to become its patron by old gods, saying he was “not ready”, whatever that meant. So he was just protecting the flame and the whole Dominion instead.

Sir, we are late for burning time!

As the time passed without any relatively bigger conflicts, some of the older caste of gods, still having in mind “the great plan” and the responsibility behind it, feared the day when the Great God will visit their plane. They predicted it might end up with a total disaster, seeing how they seemingly failed to carry out the will of his children. As they were scheming about taking the universe's fate into their own hands, the mortals were rather unhappy with how the old gods were ignoring them and grew to be a force to be reckoned with. They somehow breached into Dominion, which technically was impossible for mortals to do so. Nithor tried his best to fend off the angry mob off (despite his obvious disdain towards old gods, duty was a duty). But that was too much for him, even for years of staying valiant. He tried his best to keep the mortals off the premise of the eternal flame without killing anyone (no word about work-related harm, though), the flame got dispersed and tainted, and looked for a nearest, suitable vessel to claim, which happened to be him - being the best, viable candidate.

I should probably make some pics depicting the story instead, but laziness. Look at that thicc boi lazy it out~

As the things calmed down, he begrudingly resigned from his job as a keeper, considering that the flame was no more and he failed to keep the place secured. The old gods got banished from Dominion onto Vernazij’s plane. Being unaware of his state as a wielder of the slowly self-corrupting flame, he took on a life of a demigod and an adventurer as his longed form of a vacation, seeing how he was done with the godhood. He went onto numerous adventures, met a lot of folk, got married, had kids, stabilized his life... All was good and dandy, despite the more and more obvious problem of the flame rearing out, but nothing that he couldn't manage - he just blamed it on some magic diarrhea of sorts, being as oblivious to his status as ever... Well, that was until huge accident happened. Or more like, an incident. A one that had changed the world forever, which got named in the legends as the Deadmaker's March.

That whole mess was orchestrated by his old god workmates - starting from leaving a breach in the Dominion’s defenses for mortals to enter, then letting the eternal flame to be disturbed. Their exodus was also obviously predicted part. They knew what the flame was capable of and wanted to weaponize it, but it needed a vessel... which Nithor was an obvious candidate for, but they needed both him and the flame to be unstable. After getting him on the edge by destroying his family and everything he valued from behind the scenes - Nithor went onto a rampage Vernazij has never seen before and thereafter. Only by combined forces of all mortals and all the gods they were able to seal him away, as defeating nor controlling him was impossible - every single act of force against him was only making him stronger and even more furious. The old gods initial plan had failed, they wanted to rebuild the world from its ashes as it should be in their eyes. Still, they got their much-sought retribution after having a hand in the process of capturing him. Their scheming continued.

Mona Lisa as fuck.

And what about Nithor? As much as they tried to fool him, speak into his senses to become their ally in their quest for the control over the universe “for the greater good”... He saw through their intentions of destroying anything that doesn’t want to abide to their will or worldview, which made him hate them with all his guts - he valued his own and the universe’s freedom of choice above all. After spending three millenias in fury-blinded seclusion, he breaks out from his prison, dead-set on murdering them all and anything that dares to stand in his path. As a last act of the prison's purpose, it used all the energy it stored by draining his unrelenting fury to get him back into senses, and seal it away. Unphazed by that event, he sets forth on a mission to kick the old gods' butts into oblivion (or whatever constitutes for them as butts) by retrieving his old gear as a keeper, getting control over his horrid power and single-handedly dealing with all of them. However, as three millenias worth of time was more than enough for them to prepare a whole plethora of nasty surprises, such as painting him as an evil villain in the eyes of the whole world and themselves as icons of pure intentions (imagine that whole narrative in history for past millenias is painting you as a Sauron of the universe) - his mission became harder and more complicated than ever. They hid the truth under unparalleled amounts of lies, and destroyed any evidence they could find that could prove otherwise. The fact that Nithor had all the looks and wits of a supreme asshole didn’t help on his case, either.

I am a tallyman of your mistakes. I am the executioner for your sins. Now face what you have poured into me, for what I’ll pour into you.

...Hot damn, that actually sounded pretty intimidating, go me, bwa-ha ha!

Most of his allies are either gone in the sands of time, or still mad at him, if they didn’t bite the dust yet. He scored couple millions of deaths during his grudge-filled killing spree, so you can imagine how many souls are willingful out there to get near or even think about hearing him out... Quite the contrary, with a little exception that are the depths of Taumthegos - the local equivalent of Hell. He is being revered there for obvious reasons.

A cynical jerk by trade, Nithor’s temptation to do the easy thing and go ballistic is strong. But he is not without a heart, even after everything he went through and people hating his guts, he refuses to do so. He felt partially responsible for all the mess he got involved in and wanted to prove everyone wrong and show who’s the real enemy here. He kept finding clues about old gods’ mischief during his time of absence. The problem was, with all due respect for his pure intentions, his rather abrasive nature. More often than not, he screwed up his opportunities on coming out as a good guy. He was hellbent on getting shit done and ignorant about anything that wasn’t helpful towards his quest, rather than approaching the people who were interested in hearing him out and finding a common goal. He still had plenty of humor and determination (and lack of common sense) to go against the whole world which hated him so much for sins of days long past. And a whole journey to go through to learn again how to be a decent being. The truth is the ultimate value, no matter how painful or regretful it might be - he will bring it out.

So lemme tell you Victor, the story of the great!... Meeee!... Crap, that sounded better in my head. I should have just used my name or something. Should I start over?

Considering that Cygnis and his descendants are a thing and I am writing this whole ordeal in retrospect, you can safely assume that he had succeeded in getting his good name and life (to a degree) back. But what constitutes of his adventures, how he knows about Earth and its fineness of culinary such as the casserole and how he got in touch with his late grandson?

...Those are stories for another time!

Tl;dr yada yada that’s a lot of bullshit. Kerist, that was stressful to pull off. Hoping that at least it’s somewhat enjoyable, to a degree.

Welcome (back) to Among Us, FLEUR! EDEN REED ( with the faceclaim of REECE KING ) has found shelter in NEW ATHENS, where we hope HE will fit in nicely. Please make sure to check the “after applying” section of our navigation here!

We got such a good feel for his personality on the surface in the first few answers of the inteview; it’s fascinating to see his whole narcissistic side, and how he really doesn’t care if people want him to shut up: he’ll just talk about himself as much as he wants. Then when we move on to the general background, there is the information that yes, in fact, Eden does care. He just hides it well. He’s a very complex character with obviously much thought behind him.

AND YOU ARE…?

What is your full name, and when were you born?

The man cocked his head, smile on the tip of his lips. “That’s cute, how you’re acting like you don’t know.” He had done his best to ensure that kind of information, his name at least, wouldn’t be lost on those campers. But he was registering for a job hunt, these questions must be mandatory. Sighing, he fell back against his chair, mentally bemoaning how uncomfortable it was. Someone descended from royalty deserved better. “Eden Reed, November first. I’m currently twenty-two — I guess you can do a little math?”

Have you been claimed, or do you belong to a legacy? If yes, state your godly parent / heritage.

“This is the good part, isn’t it?” To him it always was. He had repeated his tale so often he could focus on the other person’s expressions as he talked, delighting in the effect his origin story had on them. “My mother is Angelos, and I know, you haven’t heard of her, don’t hurt your pretty little mouth with those words. She’s a daughter of Zeus and Hera and that, my little bug, makes me royalty.” Even as the interviewer rolled her eyes, Eden wasn’t deterred. “Would you say it doesn’t? Anyway, you’re the ignorant one here, so I’d keep that in mind if I were you. Truth be told, a lot of scholars now seem to think Angelos is another name for Artemis or Hecate — it’s not. I mean, I’d know who my mother is, don’t you think?” he scoffs, head shaking slowly. Mortals and their big mouths. “She’s a chthonic goddess, meaning she resides in and has dominion over the Underworld. Her job mostly has to do with birth and infancy, whether people die through it or because of it. Fun job, huh?”

Where are you currently based? Are you attending a Camp (Half-Blood / Jupiter), or are you living full-time in New Athens / New Rome? Is it a combination of both?

Now it was Eden’s turn to roll his eyes. He truly thought this would be funnier, although why that thought had stuck with him until now, he couldn’t really explain. How come some people had taken so long in there when all these questions could be so easily answered? Perhaps they had been as talkative as he, but even then, the interest level of their pursued conversation wasn’t all that high. “New Athens. Where else? I’m too old for camp, obviously, and since I’m here with you to look for jobs, I’m not from San Fran, am I?” He leaned in, elbows atop his knees, hands clasped together like he would start begging any minute now. “Listen, I know you’re not the one who thought up those questions, and you have to ask them for the file you’re gonna have on me and all — but how dumb can you stand to sound? Can’t you fill that shit in and simply ask us to check? You’ll have your answer anyway but at least it would make me trust your abilities more, you know?”

Can you tell us a little bit about yourself? ( If you’re applying for a canon character, are you diverging from book-canon? If so, how?)

So that was why some people had taken their sweet time. Grinning, Eden sat back, triumphant. “Oh, you’re gonna love this.” The interviewer’s wrinkled nose and scrunched eyebrows showed her disagreement plain as day, but the young man hardly noticed. People always made a face before they got a taste of their new favourite food. “I was born and raised in the Underworld. Not too common, huh? Good thing we had fucking torches there and all ‘cause I’m telling you, the day I got out of there, I thought I would burst from all the visual information. So imagine if I had lived in the dark all my life! You could think, hey, your momma could have left you with your dad, right? That’s what you’re thinking.” She wasn’t. All the poor woman wanted was for this narcissist to stop talking – this question was always her least favourite part. Eden could have noticed all this in a glance, but of course he was too immersed in himself to care. “Thing is, she wasn’t too sure who he was anymore, he hadn’t really mattered. She had had some time for herself for once, made the best of it, and voilà! Then what, you think she’d give me to social services? A lot of ghosts told her not to, they’re great advisers, so she listened. That’s how I grew up with her, something I found out is pretty rare. I’m sorry to say my godly parent loved me more than all of yours combined. Loved me too much, actually: even though the ghostly company I had was fun, they kept talking about the outside world, and I was dying to go. Little Mermaid kind of situation, yeah? For years and years I bugged my mother, but she wouldn’t let me go. She was afraid I wouldn’t come back or get hurt. And I’m her only child, so I can’t be mad at her for being extra careful, you know?”

Even as he says so, he recalls the impression of not being heard, of being branded as too fragile to live his own life. And it’s true he has no ill feelings against Angelos, how could he? Still, the situation had been so tense, he had had to make his escape one way or another. “I was able to leave the Underworld using a disruption. The whole Gaea business was just beginning, there were just some weird problems here and there but we had yet to see them as anything more than that. Now, you know there are several ways to reach Hades, right? Not the guy, I mean the place.” He waited for a nod, started again. “Some kid went there, fucking wild as hell. Didn’t even know what was going on. My mom could tell where I was because it’s easy to spot someone who’s alive in a place where no one’s supposed to be, you know? But that kid was so close to the outside world, she mustn’t have noticed him yet, so I thought ‘hey, Eden, now’s your chance! If you keep the kid here and leave, it’ll be a while before anyone notices!’ Hey, don’t look at me like that!” Alright, he was effectively discussing locking someone in Hades just so he could have his fun. But weren’t the gods and mortals all selfish anyway? Why did people have to act like some sort of saint when they truly weren’t? Tsk, fakers. “He needed something anyway, and I’m not here for charity. Trade is what makes the world go round, so I help him he helps me, right? I just, maybe I forgot to tell him that before ripping his spirit from his body. Wow, okay, I can see you don’t believe me. Or you’re angry? You can’t be angry if you don’t believe. It’s not something I generally do, you know? It was only the disruption that allowed me to do that. I had gotten this ritual dagger from my mom, I never knew what to use it for but suddenly everything made sense! So I used it, hid the kid’s body, and left.” He made it sound easy because it had been; so stupidly simple because even he didn’t fully understand how that had been possible. It was all in the past now, why care about it?

“He’s back to basics now, the kid. Maxwell. My mom found out and I got a serious talking to, but the Underworld was getting even weirder and what do you do with a body? They keep spirits down there, not bodies! Some food of the gods, and he was good to go. Honestly, try any of this shit now and everybody ends up dead, we really got lucky. Besides, you could say it did me good to have a conscience for a while, although I didn’t really notice at first. That earned me some trouble, but overall I spent the best few months of my life up in Camp Half Blood. Made friends, had sleepovers, ate popcorn, got girlfriends… One of them’s still sticking with me, and I’m glad she does because I don’t think I could ever love someone else as much. That’s who I’m living in New Athens with, by the way. Gianna. Our place is below ground, because it doesn’t bother us, as she’s a daughter of Nyx.” He scratched the back of his head, sheepish for the first time. “Should have told you that underground home business after your currently-based question, huh?”

What were you doing prior to The Recall?

Moving on to the next topic brought the chthonic demigod back to himself. He was giddy as a child now, tapping his feet against the ground. His lips were something between a grin and a smirk, and he was positively buzzing with energy again. “I was, get this: a ghostbuster. For real! I put up some ads in the mortal world, and next thing I knew people were really requesting my help. And when I saw the charlatans in that business, the kind of money they asked and all, I also started to ghostbust their ass and give people a list of who not to call if there was something strange in their neighbourhood. And it’s weird, doing something for others, it makes them all happy and grateful and next thing I knew I got even more clients, more money, and I hadn’t even lied to get it! Amazing, right?” Once again, the interviewer didn’t seem to share his excitement. Instead she scribbled something down on her sheet that mustn’t have been very flattering or valuable for potential employers.

“I think we’re done here,” she said finally.

“What, really? What about me then? You’ll get back when you’ve found something, how does this work?”

“You already know what you’re supposed to do. I have no idea why you’re here.” She looked stern with good reason. When Eden, after a pregnant pause, burst out laughing, she had her answer. “What was that all about? Boredom, I suppose?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry — I almost am. Okay, you sort of wasted your time — but did you really? Dare say I wasn’t your most interesting customer today, go on, I’ll wait.”

Rising from her chair, the interviewer walked to the door, nearly unhinging it as she wrenched the door open. “I think we’re done here. Have fun scouting the labyrinth.”

IT GETS LOCKED UP IN YOUR CHEST: MICHAEL BRANDON IN HAITI... Things get locked in your chest. Your chest-corporeal, I mean. You can be as stalwart as you wish, but things……get locked…. in your chest. Part One:   “What The Hell - Where Am I?” Forget that there was no ceiling over the majority of the house, yes, that is correct, no roofing. The impact was particularly “lofty," in that huge, arena-esque space ; a baby bird’s mouth at spit-feed time, indeed, the "living room.” We had mango trees where most homes had bookcases. They rose up and up, practically touching the stars, in my ripe, 11-year old imagination. Forget the (massive) mosquito nets , compulsory to sleep under (you best believe: Malaria and "This-or That”, killer fever). Forget the adult-male-hand-sized tarantulas, and how they’d drop on my fucking head, in that "Uniball Signo-207-level,” inky-blackness... of the country’s foul, microwave nights. Forget the omnipresent, after-dark-bats, or the violent chickens (yes) that would “entertain”, on random, possessed evenings. All of the unwanted guests, they had an oceanic entrance, and then some, through aforementioned, ‘negative-roofing.” I recall my mother, with broom-as-rapier, beating back those truculent, pecking , rabid-assed chickens. They behaved like They were, but I’ve never heard of rabies-infected fowl. WTF =  indeed. WTF was in the feed? Forget it all. Forget that I’m in Port-au-Prince, and it is 1977. From Park Avenue to Haiti ; I can envision the Off-Broadway, musical tragicomedy. “Why Mommy, Whhhhhy?” would  be the opening number. The Backdrop of glimmering, rubbish-free Park Avenue  sidewalks would be crumpled by a drop sheet festooning over the previous one ; the new background, blaring sunshine, highlighting makeshift huts, skeletal dogs and cats, and a woman encumbered or emboldened…via eight, weaved baskets (of varying size and weight) atop the crown of her head. “Ha," indeed. All traces of levity now-removed, as I type the name:  “Baby" Doc Duvalier. Forget the sight of him. The sight of a pinguid, nasty, ever-smirking menace, as he pierced the open sunroof of a too-long limousine ; all that was missing was a hood decal of the reaper. Forget that feculent beast, hurling coins to armless / legless children. I’m talking about kids that were my age and (much) younger. The sight of the children, literally tearing each other apart for a meagre allotment of coins... Let’s forget it. These were the same children, I’d consistently gift my sneakers, shirts, pants( everything) to. I’d walk home through those  seemingly endless, sugar cane fields, “home”….back to the haunted house, only to be greeted by mother-irate. To be fair, my mom was "half-irate.” It only pissed her off that she’d have to order me more clothes from the U.S.A . An overtly-charitable nature , innate. I’m serious. Was this a somatic mutation, only, in behavioral format? I was this way from birth. It can be grotesque, the kill-with-kindness shtick. I assure you, I have no freaking idea - why. WhyI’ve been this way. I do not choose this bizarre, saintly shit , do I? You will pay the price for kindness. Oh man, will you pay ; you'll even be despised for it. “You’d feed a starving dog and let yourself die.” My mother used to say that to me, and often. Would I? Hell if I know the answer to that question. I hope the answer is: “no way." I’d defend my recurring actions. "They were missing limbs!” t’was my clarion wail. My plea for the: "amputated-for-god-knows-why…” kids. I still do not know why so many were limbless. I’m assuming, petty transgressions (food theft?) ; these beautiful, still-smiling children, ever-clamouring for my clothing and shoes. Damn. Now I’m reminded to forget my truancy. The headmistress of the (country’s best) “Creole / American” school, admonishing my mother: “your child is  too intelligent to attend. Our school is shit. I advise you to stay away." OH! Let us also forget the omnipresent heat,it’s own universe of hatred and scorn…. a heat so pernicious, it incinerated my (American) comic books, literally, to ash. Forget that we’re in Haiti before the term ‘“Sweatshop” was fashionable. In all fairness….My mother has always, always treated anyone, anyone who has worked for her, like bordeline-royalty. She took care of every last person, and still does today. There is no one quite like her…for all the …Wait. Let me not lose focus (snicker!) Mike Brandon, lose focus? Remember. I am trying to forget. Forget my cat showing up at the doorstep with half his brains removed. What ungodly beast did that? I’ve forgotten it. Forget the rank, gamey pigeons we ate. I might not be able to forget... affable Destan. Destan. The ever-smiling, perpetually, (infectiously!) happy houseboy. My mother offered Destan a proper room, but he opted out. Destan preferred the dank, dark, "bird- basement", covered in turkey, dove, pigeon…. you-name-it / “ it’s what’s for dinner!” bird shit. I’m talking about spackle. I”m attempting to verbalize... shit-as-caulk. I’m talking about tenfold layers and layers  of bird crap. I’ll never be able to find the words for the density of that avian, "shit-splosion." The stench alone? OH, dear g….. Forget it. Forget “Hank" - was it? The turkey I loved.You are actually reading this. It’s not a dream. I loved a damn turkey. Wow. What else ya gonna DO in Haiti, ah? Forget that he was served for dinner one night, as Bruno, my mom’s drunkard boyfriend (who I adored, BTW) darted a nefarious grin my way, indeed he did. I called “exemption" on Hank, but, my plea, clearly it meant jack-all. The turkey I claimed as a pet, yep, he was now on my dinner plate. Ahhhh forget the minuscule shit. It only “mattered” to a wussy child, anyway. Let’s get to one “experience,” shall we? One Haiti experience that is probably worth remembering, just for the sheer culture shock and spectacle. A "Cirque Du Wha-HEY!”   that I doubt… any other spoiled, Park Avenue bitch boys got to see. I was a lucky bitch boy, it could be said. Let’s not forget that tidbit. I’d like to forget that Serge, one of the gents who brought me to the “experience,” was (quite a few years later) found tied to a tree, throat slit, ear-to-ear. OK. The experience. Yes. "The Experience." Part Two: “The first time I fainted." Voodoo rituals, to say the least? they are myriad.   I believe the one I endured ; I believe it was a: “Repel Demonic Spirits Ritual." Memories are brutal things, eh? Who  knows what the template for a memory... truly is. Fiction pales. This is, in my opinion? a “level two" (out of ten) true-life shocker. My age played the largest role, as did the country, itself. What a wake-up call. It is unique, and for this reason, and this reason alone, it is possibly worth revisiting. My mother was in her early 30’s. She always worked her ass off, and she partied just as hard. Prime period, Bardot-level beauty (beyond) who took advantage of "nature’s temporary gift.” Fuck you, nature…BTW. My mom was a hardcore player. Some nights I was passed around like an American football. This was one of those nights. “Want to see something endemic to Port-au-Prince?” - something to this effect, but in "layman-ese” ; obviously, he did not use the 50 cent word I supplied. I was with Serge (I forget…I really do forget! )and two others. I was taken to the ceremony by three men who worked for my mother’s sportswear company. Factory employees, oh yes, turned makeshift babysitters. Hoo-rah! My mom was (likely) at the Royal Haitian Casino and Hotel. High-end for Port-au-Prince, this joint was, indeed. Stepping into the Air Conditioned “Royal Haitian,” was akin to attending Epcot Center’s best attraction…if it had one, I mean. My mother was doing  “her thing…” (* never “caved" to self-deprivation, is all I will say) Me, I was in a filthy van. I recall being in that van, for what seemed like ages ; myself and three cackling adults, clearly amped that I was about to be “de-flowered"….erm...in some fashion. “Tonight, we are going to show you the real Haiti!”   Indeed, they were about to show me something, and boy, had I been giddily rapacious. “Authentic  Voodoo Show? Hell yes!” was at the forefront of my already-twisted, little skull. Let’s be honest. This was well before I went crazy. That happened at age 12 and beyond. This was unique, especially for a Park Avenue-born kid. Forget the amorphous mind of the over-zealous, ignorant child ;  good decisions , like batteries….never included. When I wrote: " these rituals were myriad,”or something to this effect, I was imagining a color spectrum. I was told (in 1977) Voodoo Ceremonials took place, for just about any occasion. I cannot verify this, nor have I ever cared to research it, via the web. This was a:  “you’re in over your head”  occasion, because it was: "pre-everything.” I retained innocence, I did,  in 1977. I know that I still had innocence, even when Haiti tried to rend it from me. “Pre-Hell-Dipped-Mikey, and His First Voodoo Ceremony.”   Honestly, this was akin to watching a Shirley Temple film ; I  simply had no comparisons - not yet. I  have to assume, however,   that this was one of the more “epic"(?)  voodoo ceremonies. I mean, if not, then what am I missing? Let us also forge...t that it took place in the middle of freaking nowhere, and in a perfectly grim setting. Central casting and location scout teams? Hell, they’d piss over this package, in it’s entirety. It’s 1977, babe! Woooooooo! I know nothing! Mikey knows nada! I have not even met my dick, yet! Shit, where was I….. The van pulled up where roads terminated, and tangled, foreboding woods claimed dominion, 360 degrees, everywhere you canted your head. So dark, those nights, all of them, in Port-au-Prince. Crickets, oddball,insect noises ;  not much else. We had to foot it to the makeshift “arena”. I recall those bleak woods… The flashlight… “Hold onto my arm” etc. Eventually, I could see the gleam ; the flicker of flames. As we drew near, upright pole-torches guided us past the narrow, dirt pathway, widening until we hit it. I remember thinking: "earth-arena.” I knew it was man-made, but it appeared jungle-birthed,  this stage…OH yeah. A stage forged in dark, dark soil. Serge made sure we got primo seats, as in: a huge-assed log, right in front of “Kaiju Circle" A damp, mossy log, one o...f maybe ten? They served as seats. Primo on the Primitiv-O. Our log. Our front row, ass-pain-delivery-conceyance log. She only required a few handkerchief thwacks , ending or hurling away, maybe a dozen, pesky, fire ants. A soil / dirt circle. A circle large enough to accommodate 20 people. Ornate the concentric designs were, beautiful, to be honest. Detailed, alien-scripture-ephemeral,  as the street paintings that are doomed by foot traffic. The drawings and writing (by stick, I assume) etched inwards from the outer ring, all the way to the center, where the “MC” would eventually take position. The ceremony was mostly comprised of locals, as I’m pretty certain tourists were:  in-absentia. the rumps on those stumps, the bums on that bark. I’m guessing, now... 30 people were in the audience? It was no... "Radiohead gig." Before I was carried to the van, and later briefed about the “finale” I missed… I can relay this much. The “MC” was a young(ish) woman, adorned with feathers and bones. Bone. Bones. Bone through her nose. Small prey. Mammalian = another guess. “Bone Gear.” Wherever her face and naked body ("mondo-regalia,” aside) was not tattooed or pierced by small scraps of metal, there was bone. Rat skulls?  I remember bone. Mucho Hueso. Suddenly came the drums. Loud as hell, this percussion. Man, there was a small army of drummers, banging these upright….tree-stump-type objects. If ever a time was right for earplugs, this was it. The jungle did not absorb that pummeling. I felt it in my body, like a recent, audiophile demo, at Soho's “Stereo Exchange." A beverage was passed around to the spectators, and my “handlers” ensured, and fairly aggressively, that I did not drink from that clay bowl. Four men. Four men Flanked the Priestess (I think this was what they called her), two on her left side, and two on her right side. A (very) young girl scurried forward, carrying some "Tim Burton-looking” cage, comprised of dead palm fronds and mossy bark, set it near the priestess’ feet, then darted back. Her entrance alacrity perfectly paced with her exit speed. Doves. Doves were crammed-tight! Doves! Doves , like concentration camp train victims….crammed in the most repulsive manner.i Thacrap-looking cage. Doves, super-stuffed, like ten marshmallows in a baby Raccoon’s fist. Trust me, I’ve seen it .Same visual. More drums. “When will they start?” The waiting. The endless, percussion-as-punishment. I wanted to bail. Then. Then, it just began. The squeeze. Why? to push the heart upwards - WTF? Then the bite. Surgical, her “bird-headings” were, Yeah. This gal was biting, then spitefully! It was ( a guess?) pre-PETA, but it felt...mega-pear-shaped. What am I even saying?  It was Haiti. 1977! Spitefully, she spat those dove heads, and in random directions. Bite…spit-quick-bubble-mouth. What the…? Ohhhhh! White morphs non-stop-red. Her “trick" was to make arterial spray, post-head-eject, rapidly retain dove blood in her mouth, then turn, to the drum beats…. Grand Guignol? I think this was a form of it. To the beat…. Bite, suck, hold, turn…spit… Spit the blood. SO much, the blood. Too much. Magic speed. Winter-squirrel. Puffy cheeks.  She spat the blood left, then right, spray-painting the faces of the four  men. I was having a rough time. I saw a grid. Black splotches, then a green, “electrified” grid, right tin front of my face. Still, I held on. I was definitely not happy. Then came those powders. I cannot tell you what was in them, nor what they were, no way. No tengo idea. I’d say 4-5 doves were given the "feral cat on PCP” treatment, then she blew various powders! Yes. Those mad powders, like sugar bombs exploding in the male faces. I was utterly amazed that the "dove-splosions" did not fell me. Amazed. I think my adult cohorts felt the same ; “Ballsy kid. Ballsy, for a spoiled, yankee bitch boy.” What did me in? It was that somnambulism “trick?” Was it a trick? Was it real? This was where I began to board the “Wooze Cruise.” One of the powders blown , obscured the male faces for a few seconds, then….THEN. Next, the powwders, and I’ll hazard another guesstimate:  2-minute absorption time. Those white powders. They made the dudes “Danse Macabre” . I am talking: some scary-assed, David-Lynch-type action. I was now in Batshit Town. Population: MIkeyboy, Grunts and howls. Pain. Ugly , animalistic sounds of agony, emitted from all four men. Freakish, gross, naked men, falling backwards, yet still-standing. Utterly insectoid. The unedited version of “The Exorcist.”   Regan doing the spider-walk. Four naked, full-body-paint-adorned , synchronized wig-outs. Jacob’s Ladder.. Esther Williams on shards of glass and bath salts. When the men's eyes rolled back, fiendishly displaying… I mean: "pop-out-level,”  hyper-bulging, white orbs ; yes indeed, I was getting my baaaaaaaaad freak-on, finally. The priestess summoned the men to do dog-like tricks. An arm was cut. She sucked from it…I barely recall my backflip off that fat-assed, wet log (eventually, I’d be doing that move endlessly, as a scuba diver, only, a tad more gracefully) I awoke in the grimy van that brought me to this netherworld. Ostensibly, I missed the highlight ie. “the finale.” I missed the part where the priestess and her charges were “resistant.” Example: They downed 4 bottles of Jack Daniels (apiece!) and  remained “sober.". The alcohol was inspected by the audience to prove it’s veracity etc. I missed this bit, and the wound-proof bit. I cannot tell you what I missed, as it was verbally detailed “at" me, I still had  (intermittent) ink splashes in my eyes. I was in and out of brief fainting spells. I did not have any interest, none,  in hearing more about the finale. I blew it. I never saw :The FULL Enchilada." Maybe? Someone cut one of the “performers” and there was no blood. Honestly, My 11-year old brain was knackered for the evening. I felt nauseated in a way that I never experienced (again), save for a night in Coney Island where my stripper girlfriend was performing at the sideshow, and her pal ( a writer, of course!) was retelling me his testicle injury horror story. OH, this is one that needs to be heard. That was faint number two. The only other times I have  “hit asphalt?” You don’t want to know. I am sure, rituals modern and old,  can be found online. I have no idea if there are or were(ever)  “rules or regulations,” in regards to said rituals. I saw what I saw, and it was unique, especially for Mikey, the 11-year old / previous dweller on “The Gold Coast of Manhattan." Haiti has beauty. There were amazing sights and indigent, yet upbeat people, but…. It’s a shit-show, by and large. It was awful then. and it’s worse , I believe, yes, worse now. I will not get political. I just forget. That’s what I do. I try to forget. It’s all locked up in my chest. I try to forget. It’s all locked up in my chest.